Father Ryan and Father Malachy were sitting either side of a small enamel stove. Outside, the rain fell steadily and had done for several days. Two large black umbrellas stood in the corner of the room, dripping into a tray kept there solely for that purpose. They had both lived in India for many years, Father Ryan the longest. His colleague, Father Malachy, had come out to India to help for a few years, intending to then return to Ireland. In the end he’d stayed, finding the place both interesting and challenging. They also enjoyed each other’s company and had made many friends, which further bound them to both each other, and India.
Father Malachy leaned forward to open the small door of the stove, quickly throwing in a few pieces of wood. He usually bought sacks of the stuff from a firm of furniture makers about a quarter of a mile up the street. The offcuts were sold cheaply, they burned well, and it saved them the bother of having to source wood from elsewhere. They were also delivered which was a bonus, and after so many years their needs were well known and the transaction easy.
‘Rani has been talking about going to Wishanger Hall at the end of August. Harish wants us both to come, of course. Well, we knew he would,’ said Father Ryan. ‘I can hardly wait…’
‘I’ve been looking forward to it too. It’s like we’ve known the place for so long. You in particular must feel that way I suppose. You’ve been researching it all for years! I’m certainly looking forward to meeting this Uncle Charles fella. He and Harish seem to have hit it off, but it all seems rather convenient to me. We’ll see what surfaces in the future, I suppose. Maybe nothing will?’
‘Yes,’ replied Father Ryan. ‘I’ve wondered about that too, but all seems to be going so well. We should be pleased about it and not look for problems, but I understand what you’re saying. Harish is still so young. There’s a chapel in the old place, you know? He told me about it last night. It’s underground, so there are no windows, and it was hidden away for years. Stone blocks covered the entrance then, and of course it was where they used to hide priests and anyone else who needed it during the reformation and other dangerous times. It’s quite large from what he says, and I’m touched that he loves the place. He goes in there every day.’
‘Father Ryan, have you ever wondered if Harish might become a priest, or even a monk?’ asked Father Malachy. The truth was that he had wondered this for himself. Harish showed little interest in girls, or boys for that matter, and was a regular visitor to the small church by the side of the house. He too had spoken to Harish last night, had been told about the chapel, and that one of the earls had declined his earldom in favour of becoming a monk – Brother John. The man had come back home to die though, which Father Malachy found interesting. Why didn’t he die in his monastery like all the other monks? What was his need to go back to the stately home? Maybe he’d never quite got over leaving the place? He would ask Harish if he had any more details…
Father Ryan was surprised to hear his friend of many years ask this question. He’d certainly considered it himself but had never said anything to anyone. He didn’t want to plant the seed that might take Harish’s life on a different course entirely. ‘Well,’ he replied. ‘I suppose he was raised by two Catholic priests. Maybe we should have expected something like that. We didn’t overly influence him, did we? If so, it was never my intention and that’s the gospel truth. Quite the opposite in fact. It isn’t the sort of life I would wish for him.’
‘Neither would I,’ said Father Malachy firmly, ‘although there’s nothing wrong with our lives. I love being a priest and it’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. I’ve no complaints, but I think his life has been difficult enough… Oh, I know he had us and the others too, but something was missing for the boy; his father I guess, and Rani too. She is his mother after all. I think if she’d been there, things might have been very different.’
‘He’s certainly like her, that’s for sure. He’s no pushover, and will do what he wants, but going back to Wishanger and claiming the family title has been on the cards for him since the day he was born. I don’t know if it’s right or wrong but he’s there now. He can leave if he wants to, I suppose. We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘Agreed, and that’s enough heart wringing for the evening. We did the best we could. What did we know about raising children? We just learned as we went along! I think we should give ourselves a pat on the back and not question whether what we did was right or wrong. He was very lucky to have us! He was also very lucky to learn about one of the finest Irish dishes that could ever be made, egg and chips, and that’s what I suggest we have for our dinner tonight. I’ll cook, so stay there, no worries, although it’s your turn tomorrow!’ He laughed. ‘I wonder what we’ll eat at Wishanger Hall? Fresh trout from the moat? Is there a moat?’ He laughed again, and Father Ryan joined in.
‘You’re right, Father Malachy. We did our best, our very best, and he speaks English with an Irish accent. What more could the boy ask for?’
‘What more indeed?’ replied his friend of many years. ‘Except egg and chips! He may well want that after his fancy earl’s food at the hall; grouse and deer, and a whole host of other things that should be loose and running about the fields if you ask me…’
***
Raj had spent the evening with Rani. They’d eaten dinner with George, who had been at Saint Monica’s for much of the day. Leila had been there too, going through their mostly successful requests for funding of the project. Sister Monica, from the Abbey where Rani had lived for many years in London, and the namesake of the new home for unmarried mothers, had promised to help with raising funds in her locality. So far, the efforts made had been very successful.
Later that evening, after George had retired to his own quarters, Rani and Raj drank their coffee on the covered balcony whilst the rain fell, the sound soothing and soporific after a particularly hectic day.
‘You must be really looking forward to seeing Harish,’ Raj said. ‘I wonder if the whole experience will have changed him, even in the few weeks that he has been there?’
‘Yes, I find myself wondering this too,’ she replied. ‘How is it possible to go from one to the other and not be changed? It is true he was burdened with the expectations of others, but who is not? Tell me this?’
Raj thought she sounded rather defensive and wondered if she felt some guilt about her part in Harish’s trip to England to claim his title. She could hardly have not told him about it, and given what he knew about the young man, having spent the best part of the last four years in the house with him, he rather thought he would have gone anyway. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Most of us are, it’s true. I was gifted a great sack of them when I was born. I would be a lawyer, marry the right girl who would be chosen for me, and turn into my father.’ He shook his head. ‘You too, but only to achieve. You felt burdened by that expectation?’
She thought for a moment. ‘No, not by that, but by the restrictions placed upon me by being a woman. Only this has held me back. Little has changed, which saddens me greatly. Look at the girls in St Monica’s…’
They sat in silence for a while, considering the unpleasant truth of the statement. The girls at St Monica’s were all victims of an intolerant society, where even though most of them were victims of rape or abuse, were cast off and discarded like rubbish, often quite literally onto the street, and by their own families too!
‘Harish and I, we must discuss other things. Nothing is simple.’ She reached out to hold his hand. ‘The next trip, perhaps in the spring, you will be with me.’ She watched him carefully, expecting an objection and a complaint that he was being left out, as well as a request that she tell him what the discussion with her son would be about. Instead, he smiled, and leaned over to kiss her cheek.
‘I shall look forward to that very much. I intend going to see my old friends from university, and perhaps take a walk down memory lane. That’s how the English describe it, and very well, I think.’ He made no mention of her discussion, nor the fact that she was withholding information. He felt better for not doing so. Life was easier this way, he could see that, without constant angst and wanting what he couldn’t have. He’d been pulled along in Rani’s wake forever it seemed, although had to admit it had been of his own will. She had asked for nothing, although now seemed to expect much, certainly in his behaviour, at least. He took a deep breath.
‘I love the rain,’ he continued, ‘Even when it’s still hot, the sense of all things being washed clean is so refreshing.’
‘Yes, very true. I also love it,’ Rani agreed, then paused for a moment before speaking again. ‘You seem different tonight. Has something changed? Please tell me.’
‘No, nothing has changed at all. What’s different?’ he asked, struggling to suppress a smile as the fortune teller popped into his mind, dressed in white and humbly sitting crosslegged on his rush mat, with a small sack of discs in front of him. He also remembered the large and very expensive limousine that the man rode home in; his uniformed driver sitting proudly at the front as people moved to the sides of the road to get out of the way.
‘Why are you smiling?’ asked Rani. ‘Is something amusing you? Please tell me… I am feeling rather low this evening, and to hear a joke would be a good thing.’ She studied his face keenly for any further changes only to see him smiling again. His eyes crinkled up at the corners which enhanced his good looks, irrespective of the lines.
‘Oh, I was just remembering something from last night. It was nothing.’
‘You met with Gopal, is that not so, and Manju too? Three men together. It is good that you have these friends.’
‘Yes, I value their friendship greatly.’ Turning to face her, she did look rather sombre. Even her usually sparkling eyes looked rather lack-lustre. Thinking she could do with a few more friends of her own, and most certainly more trips out, he leaned forward to kiss her soft cheek.
‘Alright then. I can see you are desperate to know what happened, and being so very kind and thoughtful, I shall tell you.’
Rani smiled then returned the kiss, although not on his cheek but the palm of his hand, which she held in her own. Her eyes lit up a little, and she settled back in her chair in preparation for the story.
‘Gopal and I were walking towards Sagar’s cake and coffee shop where we had agreed to meet Manju. Do you know the one I mean, in the square?’
‘I rarely go that way,’ replied Rani. The truth was she rarely went anywhere, although knew that Raj didn’t approve of this. He had repeatedly encouraged her to go out. She could take Leila with her, he said, and they could go shopping… Looking at him now, she could see that these thoughts were once again on his mind, and she felt lacking somehow, and quite possibly a disappointment to him. This upset her, but not enough to make her change her ways. Maybe she should try though, even if only to please him?
‘I have not been there, Raj,’ she said, ‘but remember Gopal once telling me of this shop many years ago. His grandmother liked the sweets and cakes, and he went there often to buy them for her.’
‘That’s the place! Well, we were walking through the square and a voice called out to Gopal. It was the fortune teller, the same one who had told him about Leila and their imminent meeting, and other things, too. He was much taken with it at the time, I believe. He also called to me.’ He still felt rather uncomfortable about it and shifted in his seat.
‘Please continue…’ Rani coaxed, seeing his discomfort and eager to hear what happened next. ‘I enjoy your stories very much.’
‘He only calls to those he has information for, that’s what he says. We sat. At first I wasn’t sure…’
‘So, tell me Raj, what is your fortune to be? Now I am very interested.’
Rajinder shrugged his shoulders in a display of nonchalance that did nothing to hide his unease, not with the fortune teller, but the sharp and observant woman opposite him.
‘Well, Gopal had his fortune told first. I had no idea what I should expect, but I must say I was surprised. Initially I felt the need to mock, I suppose because much of what was said could have been said to anyone. However, my mind is now changed!’
‘Yes, but what did he say?’ Rani prompted again, this time more impatiently.
‘Alright, alright… He told Gopal that in some way his grandmother would rise again and that there would be a great surprise, that he would journey across the ocean, and that his life would begin for a second time. As I say it now it sounds rather less convincing than when the fortune teller said it, but he was convinced, as was I.’
‘And yourself Raj, what did he say to you?’
Rajinder took another sip of his cold coffee and continued to watch the rain as it fell in great sheets onto the garden below. The huge old cedar tree that spread its branches over the courtyard as though to protect it, seemed to be raining itself, drenching the plants and flowers below and flattening them with the deluge. No matter. Perhaps like Gopal’s grandmother they would rise again soon enough when the sun shone? It was the way of things, he supposed. He took a quick look at Rani from under his eyelashes, then away again, suddenly uncomfortable about sharing what had been said the previous evening. He didn’t think she would mock him, that was highly unlikely, it was more that it felt so personal, and he didn’t want to share it so soon afterwards or dilute its potential meaning. He still hadn’t fully digested it himself, and telling someone else, even her, might compromise him somehow.
‘He said that I was in love with a beautiful woman whose hair was the longest in Delhi, with silver eyes and a tongue like a knife.’ He laughed and Rani punched his arm.
‘Please do not tease or mock me, Rajinder Desai,’ came the expected sharp retort, accompanied by a look that could have turned flesh to stone. ‘You have been given information and do not wish to share it. Is this not the case?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Rajinder. ‘As always, my dear, you have seen right through me. I will tell you this much though. He said I had suffered much. I can admit that this was hard to hear because it struck at the very core of me.’
His eyes filled with tears, and instead of raising his hand to wipe them away, he let them fall. He had cried many times since he’d known the woman by his side, on reflection, too many times. He had willingly given many years of his life to waiting and wondering when she would be back, and if her love would be the same for him as his was for her. Despite seeking reassurance, he had never doubted that she would come back, and the moment he’d looked into her eyes again, a few weeks after her return from England, he knew that the love was still there. Thinking about this now, he felt a great loss twisting inside him, desperate to get out and be free from its bonds of torment.
‘There is more, Rajinder?’ Rani persisted. Even in the low light she could see his eyes glistening with tears, knowing instinctively that the root cause of these would be herself. However, she could not and would not take all the blame for the choices he’d made in his life. It had been hard enough to make choices for herself, let alone take responsibility for a grown man.
‘Yes, there is more,’ replied Rajinder. ‘He said that a man would come into my life and that I must not push him away. I have no idea what or who he meant, but we shall see.’
Rani reached out to put her hand on his knee. ‘You omit the most important things that he said. I understand and will push you no further. If there is any reassurance that I can give, it is to say that I love you, so please be in no doubt. Time has not been on our side, Rajinder Desai, nor I suppose is it for anyone else. It is the enemy of humanity, but I could not stay. Surely you understand this?’ she asked, now tearful herself, keeping them back with a will of iron, fearful that if she allowed them to fall, they might never stop.
‘Yes, of course I understand, and I did back then which was why I waited. Despite this, I find myself mourning the years that I lost, but what can I do? Like you said, what can any of us do?’ He sighed and ran his fingers through his thick hair. ‘I shall waste no more time though,’ he continued. ‘I have determined that much at least, and if that is the outcome of the fortune teller’s tale, then I shall be happy. Enjoy your trip my dear, and soon we shall make the journey together. My old friends will be waiting, and once again I will walk the streets of Oxford, just for a moment becoming the young man I once was, full of hope, and with never ending possibilities in front of me.’
Despite the heat, Rani shivered. She felt uncomfortable and ill at ease, wanting the conversation to stop. Somehow, a line had been drawn, one that she was unable to cross. Once, she might have done so with ease, but no more. ‘The young are ignorant of time, is that not so?’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘How very foolish…’
Not long after, holding hands, they went to their bed. They clung to each other the whole night, neither wanting to waste any more time, nor allow its thief to slip between them, robbing them of what was rightfully theirs, both through promises made, and time served.
As Rani lay in Rajinder’s arms, she too was aware of what had been lost, not just since knowing Rajinder, but before then, and wept silent tears that soaked the pillow beneath her head. She thought about her parents, such dear people who had loved her so much. Then she thought about Harish Snr, her son’s father, who had pulled her from the ditch and a certain death. Without doubt, she had paid her dues, yet despite it she had once again become the winner and he the loser, dying before he knew anything of his son at all.
George said that one way or another he would know, and for several years she had hoped for a sign that this was the case, and he could see the son that he’d wanted so much. Now though, she remained unconvinced. She felt anxious, ill at ease, and as out of control of her life as she had ever been. She was also no longer able to hold Raj at arm’s length, always calling the shots and being the one in charge. Her growing fear was that she might at some point lose him, and despite her calm exterior, this filled her with terror. Still asleep, his response to her body stiffening with fear, was to hold her tighter.
She eventually fell asleep, and in a dream found herself at the foot of her son’s bed, now an earl sleeping in the earl’s bedroom, in the earl’s house, Wishanger Hall, in Oxfordshire. She watched as he slept, only to find herself surrounded by others’ dreams, or reality, she couldn’t tell which. Beside her, the other earls from centuries past watched too, guarding and pondering upon their descendant, the trials and tribulations he would no doubt face, and how he might turn out.
Standing by his head was a monk in a long black gown. He had a thick rope around his waist and long chain around his neck, the crucifix fixed to it glinting in the bright moonlight. His head was shaved, and his kindly face showed benevolence and love to his sleeping charge. Just as he reached out to touch the young man in front of him, the scene slowly began to disintegrate, then disappeared and was no more.
The following morning before Rajinder left to go to his office, Rani promised to visit that evening and spend the night at his apartment in the city. Maybe they could take a walk through the streets to see the fortune teller at work in the square, if he was there? He might even call out to her to say he had been waiting for a long time, and ask that she sit on the mat to hear her fate? He certainly had been waiting a long time, and would continue to wait, if she had anything to do with it. Maybe she should sit on the rush mat in front of him and pull wooden discs from a bag, so that he could tell her she would cross an ocean to visit her beloved son in England? Or perhaps he would he tell her that her very soul was so broken that it could never be repaired again? That would be far more accurate, because it was what she had always felt.
After Rajinder left, she hurried up the stairs and behind the statue of Parvati. Pulling back the velvet curtain she opened the door it covered, entered the prayer room, and within seconds was kneeling at the feet of Jesus. She prayed for the man who had given his life to her, losing so much time that he could have spent with another woman who might have made him happy. He would soon be in his office with his son, Adi, attending to his legal duties. Reminded of this, she prayed for him too, knowing that he loved his father deeply, and also regretted the years his father had wasted on the woman with the silver eyes, who barely left the house.
She prayed for George, Gopal, Leila and Indi, who worked tirelessly at St Monica’s just a few doors away. She prayed for the girls that lived there, for Sister Monica in England, and the other nuns that she’d lived with for fifteen years. She prayed for the man found dead under the bridge all those years ago, that she had never forgotten. She prayed that Harish Snr might know his son was in England and, as he had wished, had claimed back the title at last. She prayed for her son, his dear companion, Delilah, and for the continuation of their endless supply of courage, then for her friend, Meera, who had courage in plenty when it came to the protection of others, but little for herself. For the first time ever, she then prayed for herself, begging for mercy and the freedom of heart and spirit to let herself love and be loved without conditions or restraint.
George found her there several hours later. Still on her knees below the wooden cross, its occupant gazing down in perpetuity, he carefully placed an arm around her shoulders and helped her up.
‘Oh George,’ she cried. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘This you will never need to know,’ he replied. ‘Never.’