The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel by Deborah Moggach Read Free Book Online

tenderness toward them, sitting side by side like aunties, their handbags on the floor. For he knew, when Norman spoke again, that his plan had worked.
    “Can I have another dekko at that brochure, old chap?”

 
Speak or act with an impure mind
And trouble will follow you
As the wheel follows the ox that draws the cart …
Speak or act with a pure mind
And happiness will follow you
As your shadow, unshakable.
S AYINGS OF THE B UDDHA
     
     
    E velyn Greenslade was a dear, one of the favorites at Leaside. She was a little vague, of course, and inclined to live in the past, but that was hardly unusual. The past was palpable to the Leaside residents—memories of their youth so close they could feel the breath on their faces. Those far-off years remained inviolate; golden afternoons revisited as the elderly inhabitants sat in the lounge or watched TV in their rooms, their hands clasped around a cooling cup of tea. Evelyn drifted there, rudderless—why should she resist? The undertow pulled her back. They waited, her brothers and her school friends; they waited like fairground figures, needing her only to throw the switch and set them in motion. Moments of her childhood returned to her, crystal clear as if they had happened yesterday.
    Evelyn had always been a docile, dreamy woman, no trouble to anyone. That was why the staff liked her. That was why she had come to live at Leaside, agreeing to her children’s suggestion that she could no longer cope on her own. “I don’t want to be a burden,” she said.
    Her son and daughter had their own lives to lead. Besides, they were far away. Christopher was installed with his wife in New York; he had an incomprehensible job and a young family. On his last visit he had bought Evelyn a computer so they could exchange emails, but there had only been half an hour to learn how to use it. She had pretended to understand—she knew how fussed he became—but for the past six months it had sat there, reproaching her for her ineptitude. At first it sat on her dressing table, taking up valuable space, but then she demoted it to the floor.
    It was her son’s idea that she should sell the house. Christopher was right, of course. Since Hugh’s death she simply couldn’t manage; everything seemed to break down at the same time, all the things her husband had normally fixed. How feeble she had become! It seemed to have happened overnight, that the stairs became too steep and bottle tops too stiff; suddenly, for no reason, she would burst into tears. And the countryside felt threatening now she was alone in it. She would wake at night, her heart pounding. Had she bolted the door? Sometimes she woke still groggy. For a moment everything was all right; Hugh was down in the kitchen, checking the corks on his disgusting homemade wine. A strange time to check, but still … And then she would realize.
    When Christopher told her how much the house was worth, Evelyn was staggered. In her part of Sussex, apparently, property prices had soared. To think what she and Hugh had paid for it! This, combined with breaking her hip, made the whole thing inevitable. She put herself in her son’s hands. It was such a relief, to let a man take care of things again, and Christopher was a lot more efficient with money than his father. He suggested a place where she would be looked after but still retain, as he put it, a measure of independence—her own furniture around her, maybe a section of garden. Proceeds from the house sale should pay for this, he said, adding ominously, “Until, as may be, more comprehensive care might be needed.”
    Even after this transaction a substantial amount of money remained. This, Evelyn insisted on giving to her children. They had, of course, protested, but she reasoned that they had better enjoy it when they really needed it. Finally, they agreed. After all, better to use it now before the government clobbered them. Death duties were iniquitous. What right had the Treasury to