The sun had barely begun to rise when Harish crept from his room, then paused in front of Parvati, the golden goddess of love, who had been bestowing her blessings upon all those who passed by for decades. Her wrists were still adorned with silver bangles, although yesterday’s strings of jasmine had now withered. Within the hour they would be replaced by more, brought in by Sunni who would wind them around her head and neck, where they would fragrance the air around her for the rest of the day.
Harish then silently slipped down the staircase, as stealthily as George or his father might have done in times past. Knowing George, he was probably spying on him from somewhere at this very moment. As he thought this, he smiled, and hoping that he was, gave a quick wave. His cases were already lined up by the door, packed last night in preparation for an early departure to the airport. He had insisted that no one got up, saying his goodbyes the previous evening thereby avoiding any tears before he left, most likely his own.
It would be ten minutes before the cab arrived, and he walked over to the sitting room and carefully opened the door. It had been tidied since the previous evening, the cushions plumped up and not a speck of dust to be seen. In the half-light, he could make out the photographs on the mantelpiece, another added since his return for Christmas. It was one of them all standing in front of Wishanger Hall: he and his mother, George, Gopal and Leila, Fathers Ryan and Malachy, and Charles. At his insistence, Benson and Jessie were sitting on chairs in front of them, with Charles’ dogs at their feet.
A replica was on the mantelpiece in the sitting room in England, alongside the one from his grandfather’s time, where the servants were at the back. The faces were undoubtedly different, but from a distance, little had changed. He supposed that was so often the case, the minutiae and small things in life often causing the most trouble, despite being least visible. He rather liked Father Ryan’s description of the older photograph as a portal from one house to the other, and hoped that this was indeed the case. Now there were two, which could only make the connection stronger.
Back out in the hall, he hurried across to the study. It was the room that he and Delilah favoured the most, lined with books and with a large statue of Ganesh, his emerald eyes glinting as they caught the first rays of sun slipping through the slatted blinds. It was a replica of the one in the library at Wishanger Hall, separated by thousands of miles, yet joined all the same. He stood there for some minutes, then watched as the shadow of an almost silent car drove past the window, pulling up outside the front door.
Gathering his cases, he turned back to see if anyone was on the landing to watch him leave. Partly relieved, partly disappointed, he saw no one, and within minutes was in the back of the cab, peering out of the rear window as it pulled away.
Unbeknown to him, Rani had watched from behind the prayer room curtain as her son left, tears streaming down her face. Harish had just closed the door when George came around the corner, and she fell into his strong arms.
‘What shall I do George?’ she wept. ‘What shall I do?’
‘You will carry on,’ he replied. ‘Meanwhile, we will drink tea in the garden and watch the sunrise. Kuku is up and it is waiting for us…’
‘The sun is waiting, or the tea?’ she asked, wryly. ‘If it is the sun, then we will witness a miracle.’
‘Both, perhaps?’ he replied, raising one of his bushy black eyebrows, now sprinkled with silver, relieved that her usual dry humour had made an appearance at such a distressing time. ‘Anything is possible, Rani Kapur, the English teacher’s daughter. You of all people should know that…’
***
Harish watched as the cab pulled away, then turned to face Wishanger Hall. The whole place was in darkness, apart from the sliver of a new moon and a lantern that hung over the huge front door, which he knew remained on for the whole night. He hadn’t told anyone when he would be back, intending to let himself in as quietly as possible, then announce his arrival the following morning. Unlocking the door, he slowly pushed it open, then reached for the light switch, fumbling around in the dark for a few seconds before flicking it on. As he did this, he caught sight of Benson coming out of the library, formally dressed, and clearly waiting for him.
Standing at the back of the hallway was an enormous Christmas tree, shimmering with silver and gold beading, and hung everywhere with glass baubles which caught the light beautifully.
‘How did you know I was on my way?’ Harish asked, distracted for a moment by a flash of black cloth and a rustling from behind the tree.
‘I have my ways, M’Lord,’ Benson replied, smiling. ‘The fire’s lit in your room, and there’s tea in the study if you want it.’
Harish nodded. ‘I might as well hang these up now then…’ He quickly opened a small case, pulling out a cardboard box that held baubles taken from the tree at Hope House. A few minutes later, both men stood back to admire the additions from India, now well and truly integrated with the others.
‘Welcome home, M’Lord,’ said Benson, giving a small bow.
‘Thank you, Benson,’ replied Harish. ‘It’s good to be back…’