Shona inspected the untidy boxes of books in the middle of the living room. She recognized some of her father’s favourite volumes and cherished first editions. ‘Goodness, Papa! What are all these doing here? Won’t you miss having them at home?’ When she lived at home, she remembered how her father would shut himself away in the cheerful untidiness of his office, his little haven to which her mother, Nanu, uncle and the servants never sought entry; and away from the disconcerting hubbub of the household, he would sit with just his books for company. His books were his comfort in Dhaka - they were his best friends, his companions.

Ricky wished his daughter was as unobservant as her mother. He shrugged his shoulders casually. ‘Well, you know what your Nanu is like. I asked for a few books, and she had Musharaf bundle up the whole lot of them and send them over. I was just sorting them out.’

‘Are you going to send them back, then?’ asked Shona, nodding with understanding. Her grandmother had no interest in her son’s books, and would be very likely to ask her old retainer to send them all, rather than go to the trouble of picking out a selected few.

‘Well, I thought about it, but it’s such a needless expense. I may as well keep them here and take them back as I need them. And besides, it’s nice to have them here in the evenings. And I read a lot on the plane,’ Ricky added uncomfortably, before again attempting to distract Shona from his discomfort. ‘Would you like some tea, Jaan?’

‘I’d love some, thank you,’ replied Shona, wondering why her father seemed so ill at ease. Seating herself on the sofa, she picked up his favourite leather-bound collection of Shakespeare’s tragedies, and looked searchingly towards Ricky who was busying himself in the kitchen, with dawning comprehension. If her father had decided to keep his books here, he must really have started to think of London as home. But if this was where he was living, where did that leave his relationship with her mother? She wondered if her father had heard what some gossips were saying about her mother and uncle, and had decided to stay away on purpose. Her poor father. Chased away from his own family home by the unkind, unfounded words of busybodies; no wonder he had sought refuge in England, the place of his happy bachelor days. But this flat was no refuge, it was certainly no home from home; grand though it was in dimensions, it was severely lacking in character and comforts - the only personal feature was the photo of her and Amma on the mantelpiece, and even this had a somewhat wistful air, as though harking back to a past life.