Uncle Innocent and Prayma, Auntie Angel-Face and the girls. Sarath and Mabel, Anthony and Coco with their own little bevy of children. There were others too, from Toronto and Perth, from Calcutta and Lahore, and Grace’s old childhood friend from Glasgow. There were the Sisters of St Peter and St Paul who had come all the way from Stratford-upon-Avon, and there were the old white planters on their way to a World Trade Fair in Melbourne, stopping off to have a bit of light entertainment at Aloysius’s daughter’s wedding. ‘Becoming something of a pianist!’ they said. ‘Quite famous, I hear.’ ‘How did the old boy manage it?’ ‘Healthy neglect. Or, more probably, it was the doing of that stunning wife of his, what’s her name?’ It was worth a detour, they said, pleased to be asked. Aloysius always knew how to throw a party. There were other less colourful, more predictable guests, who came. Local people, neighbours, people who came to settle old scores, wanting to see how the de Silvas were faring.
