‘I see, dear,’ came her mother’s uncertain reply.
Marcus got up and recharged the glasses.
‘Don’t you drink?’ asked the major.
‘No, sir,’ replied Rafi. The major looked at him and hesitated before saying, ‘Do please call me Percy; it will make things less formal.’
Rafi sensed that uttering those few words had broken the ice.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The major continued. ‘Where do you come from?’
‘It’s not a very interesting story,’ Rafi replied, hoping to avoid the subject, but he was encouraged to continue.
Rafi took a mouthful of the orange juice and then began. ‘My father owned a bakery in the East End of London. I was educated at Haileybury and then studied for my Bachelors and Masters degrees in London.’
The major nodded, hoping for more.
‘Up to a week ago, I was a senior fund manager in the City of London. The rest, as they say, is history.’
Kate skilfully switched the conversation to Leverthorne Hall and its vineyards. It transpired that Marcus had studied through the Open University Business School and had specialised on the marketing and product development side of Business Studies.
In the words of his mother, Marcus had turned the estate around. ‘There is now a small rural business park with a growing number of successful cottage industries and he has found an excellent farm manager to run the 3,500-acre farm.’
‘How big is 3,500 acres?’ Rafi enquired.
Kate looked at Rafi as if acres to square miles was a ratio he should have known, and replied, ‘Five and a half square miles.’
‘Oh, really!’ exclaimed Rafi. There was laughter. He sensed that the tide had turned.
‘Lunch is ready,’ echoed through from the dining room, where Rafi soon found himself sitting next to Lady Yvonne, and opposite the major and Kate.
Given the circumstances, lunch was a relatively jolly affair. There were a few hesitant pauses in the conversation, but the sheer joy of Kate and her brother being back together again, under the roof of the family home, was plain for all to see. They sat next to each other and chatted away at ten to the dozen.
After lunch, the small talk continued over coffee and Rafi found himself the centre of the conversation. It seemed her parents found it simpler to talk to him rather than to Kate, lest they unintentionally reopened hidden wounds.
Rafi’s background, his education, hobbies, work and involvement in uncovering the terrorist plots were all discussed.
Kate looked across at her parents. ‘Did I tell you that I have also met Rafi’s sister, Saara? When I saw the two of them together, it reminded me how much fun we had when we were living in Kenya… all the grief of the last decade seemed irrelevant; I just wish we could be that happy again,’ she paused and fell silent.
Her parents, who were sitting comfortably on the sofa, seemed overcome by emotions. The major looked at Kate and then his wife. ‘Kate, I agree; we did have a good time in Kenya. I am sorry that moving here caused such friction and hardship. Yes, we should strive to find that happiness again.’
‘But with a few more coats and jumpers,’ added Marcus with a laugh.
Coffee had long been finished. There was a brief lull in the conversation. Kate looked at her watch, time had flown by, it was coming up to 3.30 p.m. She explained that they had a second visit to make on their way back to London, as a teacherfriend of Rafi’s had invited them for afternoon tea.
They said their goodbyes and promised to be back soon.
Back in the car, Kate looked radiant. ‘Thank you for being so patient and courteous through all the interrogations.’
Rafi looked into her warm eyes. ‘My pleasure. It was fun, and I am hugely relieved it all worked out.’
‘Yes; after a shaky start – I can’t believe how well it went,’ said Kate.
They had an uneventful journey and in what seemed like no time at all they were pulling into Gypsy Lane. They stopped in front of a red brick house. Great Amwell was only a couple of miles from Haileybury College.
The major’s front garden was well-kept. They walked up to the front door, rang the bell and stood there, holding hands.
A stooping silver-haired man answered the door. Rafi instantly recognised him – he had aged well, but was looking a little unsteady on his pins.
They were greeted by a jovial, ‘Come on in, come on in, it must be cold standing out there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rafi and went on to introduce Kate.
They entered the modest-sized home and headed for the sitting room, where they were greeted by a roaring open fire.
Charlie beckoned Rafi to sit on the sofa next to the fire.
‘Your timing is excellent – the kettle has just boiled. Let me look at you first though, young Rafi, it’s been too long since I last laid eyes on you.’ He stood there gazing at him. ‘Thank you for your phone call. It’s a shame that you got caught up in this terrorist mess. I wondered whether you might make contact after I’d had that visit from MI5.’ He paused, as if uncertain what to say next. ‘Why don’t you have a look at some photos whilst Kate and I put the kettle on?’
Charlie picked up an old leather-bound photo album from the sideboard and handed it to Rafi, then disappeared with Kate into the kitchen.
Rafi opened it. It contained pictures of the major’s life. There were a couple of photos of him in his early school days at Haileybury: one of him playing cricket, which rekindled memories of Rafi standing in almost the same spot, bowling right arm off breaks. The chapel and the large central courtyard looked just the same.
He moved on a few pages to see a very handsome, young man dressed in army uniform with a dark brown moustache and closely cropped wavy brown hair. The sparse text under the photos showed that he’d been posted to Palestine and had initially served under Allenby, before being posted to India.
He turned the page and there was a picture of a beautiful Indian woman in a nurse’s uniform standing in front of a large hospital. This was followed by a series of casual snaps of him and her taken during their outings. Rafi looked carefully at the photos; 1945-46 seemed to have been a very special and happy time for them. Then there was a sun-bleached photo showing the nurse and her family, all dressed up in their finest; looking very splendid in palatial surroundings. In the centre was the person he assumed to be the head of the family; he looked intimidating. A couple of photos of a kindly looking servant carrying a tray laden with glasses, cups and saucers followed.
‘What?’ Rafi exclaimed. He recognised the servant. He was his grandpa, Mansur Khan. His gaze fell upon the nurse in the picture. It couldn’t be! He couldn’t believe it – it was Lateefa, his grandmother, in her early twenties. He was confused. Why was Charlie holding hands with his grandmother in many of the pictures? The last photo showed them standing formally next to each other. There was a look of sadness in their faces.
Rafi turned the page. It contained a short press cutting on the death of Mansur. This was followed by another cutting which showed the mangled car in which his parents had died a few months later. The next page was blank; there were no more pictures, except for the penultimate page, on which there was a photo of Charlie standing next to a young lad, with his arm around his shoulder, a beaming smile across his face. Rafi remembered the occasion. It was taken in the summer near the end of his third year at Haileybury. He had taken four or five wickets in an inter-house cricket match. Charlie, who had been watching, insisted that a photo be taken for posterity. Rafi hadn’t seen the photo until now. He sat deep in thought, and was interrupted by the clattering of a trolley on which the afternoon tea had been placed. Charlie and Kate sat down and passed around the tea.
Charlie looked carefully at Rafi’s face. ‘I was distraught,’ he said. ‘I really wanted to marry your grandmother. Sadly for both of us, it wasn’t to be. In those days, family honour ranked above individual feelings and sensibilities.’