Harish Hope and the Earls of Wishanger Hall Read online

  A. K. Karla is a pseudonym of B. A. Cibulskas. Harish Hope and the Earls of Wishanger Hall is the third novel in her world fiction series, and her sixth novel overall. Born in England to refugee and economic migrants, she studied at the University of Bristol where she was awarded a doctorate in Narrative and Life Story Research. Her working life is split between writing and as a clinical psychotherapist in the mental health sector.

  She also writes European fiction under her own name and psychological fiction under the pseudonym Jack Duval.

  Other books by the author

  In this series…

  Mr Gupta’s Hardware Store

  The House of Rani Kapur

  The Man from Carcassonne

  (Jack Duval)

  The Interloper

  (B. A. Cibulskas)

  Copyright © 2022 A. K. Karla

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  Unit E2 Airfield Business Park,

  Harrison Road, Market Harborough,

  Leicestershire. LE16 7UL

  Tel: 0116 2792299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1803139 968

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Tom…

  A. K. Karla has an obsession with difference, the meaning of belonging, and the incessant, often unconscious search for a homeland that can no longer be found. Through richly woven ‘world’ stories A. K. continues to journey, guiding the reader and writing with words that are never far from the heart.

  The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

  But I have promises to keep…

  Robert Frost

  Contents

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  author’s note

  prologue

  Delhi, India

  1974-5

  Harish had been asked by his mother to take Delilah, her friend’s niece, on a tour of the garden, whilst the pair talked about matters that the younger people were not supposed to hear. The tour ended quickly, and they now sat opposite each other in the pergola, legs crossed, and piles of brightly coloured cushions scattered around them. A vivid blue sky could be seen through gaps in the roof, and here and there the sunshine filtered through to fill the shady space with random strips of bright light.

  In this position, the direct gaze of each was able to take in aspects of the other that so far had remained unseen, and seemingly happy with what they saw, both smiled. They had never met before, in fact knew nothing of each other’s existence at all until that afternoon, yet within minutes were engaged in deep conversation, both eager to share the intimacies and important details of their young and hopeful lives.

  ‘I am going to be an archaeologist,’ Delilah stated firmly, in answer to Harish’s question. ‘It is all I have ever wanted to be. My mother thinks I will change my mind and marry instead, but she is mistaken.’

  ‘I believe that she is,’ Harish replied, hearing the determination in her voice that her mother did not. ‘I’m not quite sure what I want to do yet. I’ve a few other things to sort out first, so there’s no hurry to decide, but most likely I’ll take a degree in history here.’ He spoke in perfect English, far more used to this language when he was growing up than his native Hindi, although of course spoke that too.

  ‘What are the things you must sort out?’ she asked, noting a lilt to his accent that she had never heard before. ‘Please tell me.’

  Harish became animated, his unusual silver eyes twinkling with excitement as he explained about his English grandfather and Indian grandmother, and the title that had been denied both them and their son, Harish’s father, Harish Snr, all now dead. Neither had found the courage to take up the inevitable fight that would have ensued, laced with racism and disapproval, which tainted the possibility further.

  This left Harish Jnr to pick up the reins, or not… It was up to him to decide, and decide he did, the very first time he was told the story at the age of four about his forebears and the manor in England that was his by right. He certainly had the courage to stake his claim, and when the time was right, intended to do just that!

  A desire for justice coursed through his veins, as did the responsibility he felt to appease the two men he had never met. His father had died before even knowing of his son’s existence, and his grandfather, some years before that. The stories continued throughout his childhood, told mostly by his father’s partner, George, and then Father Ryan, a close family friend, whose considerable research both added to and enhanced his young listener’s sense of duty, as well as his accent and the Irish lilt that Delilah had heard.

  ‘I’ll go there and talk to them first, and if they don’t see sense and do what’s right, then it might have to go to court. Father Ryan has been looking into things for me. They don’t have a leg to stand on as far as I can tell, because everything is above board and properly documented. Who knows? Maybe when they see that this time they will have a fight on their hands, and with the public exposure that would come with it, they might give in?’

  ‘Hmmm, this is very interesting. I would like to see their faces when you arrive at the door. My father should hear this story. He is with this Father Ryan now. He too has many contacts in England.’ Delilah was intrigued and decided she would tell him about it on the way home. Maybe she could go to London with Harish when he was ready? She would be older then, and no one could stop her if she chose to do so. She sighed.

  ‘A big sigh. Why?’ Harish asked. He had immediately taken to the attractive girl beside him, and although she was a few years younger, just fifteen to his seventeen, was more mature than many of his own age, and spoke with genuine frankness which he admired.

  ‘Oh, because I feel there are so many things that I wish to do, and I am held back.’

  ‘Not for long, Delilah. Be patient. You’ll go far, in every sense of the word. I just know it!’

  ‘Thank you, Harish Hope. This is my intention, and you will become the English lord that your father wished you to be. I just know it!’

  They looked at each other and smiled, both self-assured by their youth and the endless opportunities that lay ahead.

  ‘I like you, Harish Hope. I am glad my aunt brought me here.’

  ‘I like you too,’ he replied. ‘I’m glad that she did!’

  ***

  A year had passed, and Harish and Delilah were sitting in the library, papers and documents spread across the polished wooden floor. Behind them stood a gilt statue of Ganesh the Hindu elephant god on a tall mahogany stand, bought by Harish’s grandfather more than sixty years earlier. His emerald eyes glinted as he surveyed the scene before him, of two excited teenagers full of hope, their futures bright and stretching out before them, seemingly without end.

  ‘Father Ryan got quite a bit of this information for me through a friend of his. I’ve been putting together the various certificates of birth and marriage, and things like that. This is where the house is. Look.’ Harish picked up the large map in front of him, and between them they spread it out carefully, getting onto their knees to examine it more closely.

  ‘It’s really old and was built on the site of an even older abbey. I’ll show you the photo in the sitting room later. A cousin took the title that should have gone to my father.’

  ‘That is a terrible thing to do!’ responded Delilah, indignantly. ‘Auntie Meera should be sent to see him. Soon he would be crying like a child and would hand over what he stole from your family.’

  Harish laughed. ‘I must remember that if I get into trouble.’

  ‘Please tell me again… Why did your father not go to claim what was his?’

  Harish shook his head. ‘My mother says he just couldn’t do it. He wanted me to
do it for him, and I will. I won’t let him down, or her. The title is hers too. By rights, she should be Lady Rani Hope.’

  They were quiet for a moment, both drifting across the ocean to the house deep in the English countryside that they had only seen in films and books, or in the classroom at school. The air was fresh and cool, and the cows in the fields around the house tugged at the sparkling, dew-covered grass, then stood and watched whilst the day slowly began. Here and there the windows of the old house slowly opened, and smoke curled upwards from the tall chimney pots. The lord and master of everything that the eye could see, galloped across the landscape on a fine black stallion who tossed his head proudly, then ran faster until they disappeared over the hill and into the woods beyond.

  Delilah was the first to break from her reverie, and turned to Harish Hope, Earl of Wishanger Hall and all the land around it.

  ‘When you go to claim what is yours, I will be there with you,’ she said – not a question, but a statement, a given, a fact.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the earl. ‘I do believe you will.’

  chapter

  one

  London

  1978

  Delilah stood at the barrier of the busy airport, waiting for the passengers from the newly arrived Delhi flight to begin walking past. She was surrounded by dozens of others all doing the same thing, mostly Indian like her, all jostling and pushing to be at the front, as excited as she was to catch a glimpse of their friends and relatives.

  Harish Hope was certainly not a relative. Was he a loved one? She pondered on this for a moment… She had certainly spent much of the past year in England thinking about him, and planning for his arrival almost immediately after finishing his history degree in India. For the past year she had lived with her Aunt Meera and Uncle Vasu at their house in a London suburb, close to ‘Mr Gupta’s Hardware Store,’ the shop they’d owned for some time. She had, however, just moved into a small bedsit closer to the city, much to her aunt’s horror.

  ‘Delilah, I cannot understand why you are doing this,’ she stated, repeatedly. ‘Is this home not a good one? What would your father say? In India…’ As always when she was upset her accent became stronger, and her eyes flashed with passion.

  ‘But Auntie,’ cut in Delilah, her own accent now more pronounced, her voice very similar to that of her aunt’s in both tone and volume, wanting to stem the flow having heard the argument dozens of times before. ‘You know very well that Daddyji approves fully of my independence. He trusts me… You, Auntie Meera, do not. Please can you tell me why this is so? I thought you were brought up to be emancipated. Grandfather certainly believed in this, and yet you try to keep me like a prisoner!’

  Meera said no more. The truth was that she would miss her lively niece. She had got used to having her about the place, cooking and caring for her, and generally fussing around like a mother hen. She enjoyed hearing stories from her day, meeting her niece’s many friends, and having the house filled with their constant chatter. Without all that, what would she do?

  Observant as ever, Delilah had seen her aunt’s face drop. ‘Please Auntie, do not worry. I will be back, like a bad penny. This what they say in England. The bad penny will come back…’

  ‘There you are,’ came a familiar voice, bringing her back from her musing with a jolt, her heart instantly pounding in her chest with panic, or excitement, or both.

  ‘I was thinking you’d forgotten to meet me and had left your old friend to fend for himself!’

  ‘It is true that you were forgotten,’ Delilah replied, ‘for a moment, at least….’ She studied the young man in front of her. It had been six months since she’d last seen him, when she flew home during the Christmas break. Just six months, yet he looked different somehow, older and more polished, if that was possible in such a short time. Dressed in jeans and a white shirt, with a linen jacket slung casually over his shoulder, he looked self-assured, a man with a purpose, and that was the truth of it. His eyes were the same though, liquid silver pools that saw through everything.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, giving her a big hug. ‘I’ve missed you, but here I am at last… It feels like I’ve been waiting for this moment forever!’

  ‘Is this not so?’ she asked. ‘Your father and grandfather also?’ Tears sprung into her eyes, and she buried her glossy head in his shoulder, not wanting him to see any emotion that might undermine her in some way. At least not now, with so much at stake.

  He grabbed the thick plait of hair that fell down her back, tied at the bottom with a torn piece of red silk. ‘Still got this, then? I did wonder if you’d chop it off once you were here.’

  She took a deep breath then pulled away, now in control and smiling happily. ‘I have decided to keep it. Am I not an Indian girl, after all?’

  ‘Indeed, you are, and I’m glad to hear it. Your English has improved dramatically! I hope you’re not going to lose your accent entirely though?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Right then. Take this exhausted Indian boy home, wherever home is.’

  ‘No, the accent will stay. I have decided this too, but better grammar, perhaps? Your Irish accent has not changed. An Indian boy with an Irish accent. This is very unusual in London.’ She laughed, then tucked her arm in his. ‘Come Harish, soon to be Lord Hope. Your subjects await your arrival.’

  Within minutes of the taxi pulling away Harish fell asleep, exhausted by the long flight and his eagerness to begin a journey that was so long overdue. Delilah was glad. It gave her time to gather herself and become accustomed to his presence. As he slept she examined his face, so familiar, yet somehow changed. She then turned to stare out of the window and watch as the streets passed by, the people in them anonymous and oblivious to their fleeting observer. Half an hour later they pulled up in a busy suburban street and were soon on the pavement, Harish’s large suitcase between them and people hurrying by; all ignoring their arrival and absorbing them into the scene as though they had always been there.

  ‘Here we are at last!’ Harish declared. ‘The shop that is the apple of your uncle’s eye, Mr Gupta’s Hardware Store. I can’t believe I’m actually here! Pinch me, Delilah. Pinch me so that I know it’s not a dream.’

  She punched him on the arm, and he yelped.

  ‘I said pinch, not punch! Well, do we stand outside for the rest of the afternoon, or shall we go in?’ Without waiting for her he pushed open the door, the bells jangling wildly to announce their arrival. He paused in the doorway and looked around, keen to take in every detail of the store his friend had described so many times that he felt like he knew it already. He saw the polished counter and rows of paint and brushes, tools, boxes of screws and hinges, and many other things that had formed such a startlingly accurate picture in his mind. Then it hit him, the almost undefinable smell of paint, turps, and polish. The floor had just been washed too, giving off the fragrance of the courtyard behind his home in India, drying in the intense heat after heavy rain. Now it was his eyes that pricked with tears, the emotive power of both smell and sight combined overwhelming him for a moment. Unlike Delilah, he made no attempt to hide this.

  ‘Wow! Wow, it’s just like you said, and is so familiar that I feel like I’ve come home!’ He dropped the suitcase and rubbed his eyes. ‘Now I understand. Mr Gupta’s Hardware Store. Once seen never forgotten.’ Behind the counter was a slight Indian man in his forties, he supposed, and smiling at him like an old friend. Harish hurried towards him and held out his hand. ‘Chandu? Chandu, who else? Oh my God. I’m so pleased to meet you at last. Delilah has told me all about you.’

  Chandu smiled, then moved his head from side to side, so very Indian, so very him. ‘So, you are Delilah’s friend. I have waited such a long time to meet you. You are very welcome.’

  ‘Uncle Chandu, Harish is here at last! Where are the others?’