East of Wimbledon Page 5

  ‘Any what?’ said Robert’s mother, with a little sniff of disapproval as she rose from the table and started to clear away the plates.

  ‘Any of the tall things Muslims shout from in the mornings,’ said Mr Wilson. ‘I doubt they have any of them in Wimbledon.’

  ‘There are masses of Muslims in Wimbledon,’ said Robert’s mother, ‘but I’ve never seen them shouting from high buildings. At any time of the day. There were hundreds of them at Cranborne, and they were all very well behaved.’

  She looked, darkly, at Robert. ‘They did very well in exams,’ she said, as she stacked the plates on the sideboard. Then she turned to the group at the table, and, putting a hand, rather theatrically, to her close-cropped hair, said, ‘Shall we have coffee on the terrasse and look at the garden?’

  She was always saying things like this. She was never happier than when moving guests around her house in the interests of gentility. No sooner had you got comfortable than she was urging you to take digestifs in the conservatory, or biscuits on the lawn, or gâteaux on the roof. She pirouetted, briefly, in the middle of the wooden floor and waved a hand towards the upper part of the house. ‘En route, mes braves!’ she said.

  Mrs Wilson would have been happier in Versailles than in Wimbledon Park Road. But she was making the best of it.

  ‘Ça sera superbe, Chérie!’ said Mr Wilson, rising bravely to the challenge of her French. ‘That was absolutely delicious!’

  Her food was always delicious. Her judgements always sound. Her dress sense always impeccable.

  How did people manage to be happily married? thought Robert, as they trooped up the stairs. What was the trick of it? A dedicated cultivation of a certain kind of insensitivity, presumably. Years and years and years of managing not to notice things that might annoy you.

  The Wilsons’ terrasse was a wrought-iron balcony, jutting out from the back of their corner house. It afforded a view not only of the garden but also of a large group of communal dustbins belonging to the flats that overlooked their house. It also, as Robert’s father was fond of saying, offered an unlimited chance to enjoy the advantages of a burnt-out car, a large concrete shed with the words CHELSEA WANKERS written on it and the street that led away from all this, up the hill to a part of Wimbledon the Wilsons had never been able to afford. Not that it had stopped them dreaming – Mr Wilson had expected promotion right up until the moment he had been made redundant.

  They had only just sat down when a car screeched round the corner, climbed on to the pavement, and stopped a matter of inches from a neighbour’s garden wall. It was a silver Mercedes, about the size of a small swimming-pool, but its bodywork was badly rusted, and the engine sounded as if it was trying to absorb a few kilos of iron filings. It roared ambitiously, then died. The driver’s door opened to reveal the headmaster of the Wimbledon Islamic Independent Day School (Boys).

  He looked anxious. He almost ran towards the Wilsons’ house, then stopped, with a theatrical flourish, just short of it and, shading his eyes with his hand, looked up at the balcony.

  ‘Wilson!’ he said, in deep, urgent tones. ‘Wilson! You must come! You must come now, Wilson! Urgent school business! Wilson!’

  Robert found he was getting to his feet. Maisie, for some reason, was doing the same. She moved to the iron railing at the edge of the balcony and peered down at Mr Malik like a keen student of aquatic life who has just spotted a new species of tropical fish.

  ‘Bring your wife, Wilson,’ said Mr Malik, ‘and also your children if necessary. But come! I beseech you! I beg and implore you! Come!’

  Mr Malik was stretching out his arms. He looked like a man about to fish out a small guitar and continue this conversation to musical accompaniment.

  Robert’s father and mother were both, in different ways, narrowing the distance between chin and neck, a gesture that, like tortoises, they often used when threatened. His father was making rapid, worried clicking noises at the back of his throat as he too rose and moved – in a racially tolerant manner – towards the edge of the balcony.

  ‘Is he . . . one of . . . them?’ whispered Mrs Wilson, with the kind of clarity actors affect when playing a deathbed scene to a large theatre.

  Robert, as he made his way down to Mr Malik’s car, followed by Maisie, did not attempt to answer the question. He would have described Mr Malik, to almost anyone, without being quite sure why he was doing so, as ‘one of us’.

  5

  Mr Malik beamed at Maisie, and rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘You have a beautiful wife, Wilson!’ he said.

  ‘Oh, we’re not married,’ said Maisie, swiftly. ‘I’m just a very, very old friend of his. Are you Robert’s spiritual mentor? You see Robert needs help, because he’s—’

  Before she had the chance to say anything more about their sex life, Robert grabbed her arm and steered her towards the car.

  ‘What’s the problem, Headmaster?’

  ‘We are going to collect a pupil!’ said Malik.

  This, Robert felt, was somewhat alarming news. It was, after all, the middle of August. He had assumed, from the deserted look of the school, that, like every other educational establishment in England, they were on holiday. Perhaps, he thought, as he and Maisie got into the back seat, the Islamic school year was different.

  ‘We have to go to them if they won’t come to us, Wilson,’ said Mr Malik, who was watching Maisie with some interest. ‘We have to get out there and pitch!’

  Robert felt nervous. For some reason he did not like the idea of Mr Malik being so close to his territory. And he liked even less the fact that his employer seemed prepared to adopt Maisie. He found himself wondering where the headmaster might live. Did he, perhaps, live above the school? He gave the impression of a man who had simply appeared in the middle of Wimbledon, like a djinn in a fairy story.

  ‘Who is he?’ hissed Maisie. ‘Is he a mullah?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ whispered Robert, in reply – ‘or if he is he keeps very quiet about it!’

  It was also, thought Robert, a bit late in the day to be starting lessons. Perhaps the Islamic Wimbledon Boys’ Day Independent School was going to be working a night shift.

  Maisie turned to Robert. ‘I think he’s sweet!’ she shrieked quietly.

  Malik ignored the remark, but put one large, well-manicured hand up to his hair. The back of his tropical suit, Robert noted, was powdered with dandruff.

  ‘Are we going to pick all the children up ourselves,’ said Robert, ‘or will some of them get to school by public transport?’

  ‘A school,’ said the headmaster, giving him a curious glance, ‘can develop in various ways. The majority of the boys will obviously arrive under their own steam – although, Wilson, I have to say that at this particular point in time we do not have any boys!’

  He gave a rather mad laugh as they drove, at some speed, up Wimbledon Park Road towards the Village. To their right was the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. As they passed its steel gates Robert felt the usual surprise that such a monument should be there at all. Although its windows caught the sun, and behind the barbed-wire-crested wall you could see the military green of its oval stands, it had the air of some sinister scientific research establishment – a place designed for something darker than tennis.

  ‘Although the school is not fully operational,’ said Mr Malik, ‘we will collect this boy now.’

  He turned round and looked Maisie full in the face, as he accelerated towards an oncoming lorry.

  ‘His parents wish us to “hang on” to him until we are ready to go. He has fallen under harmful influences and needs the support of a typically stable “UK” background. He can stay with you, Wilson!’

  This seemed a slightly unusual way of proceeding. Robert had never heard of a school in which pupils were acquired on a door-to-door basis. But, of course, education, like so much else these days, was a business.

  ‘He is a very intelligent boy,’ said the headmaster, as if in answer
to Robert’s unvoiced doubts, ‘which is why I want to get my hands on him at double-quick speed. I think I am going to give him a scholarship.’

  ‘Oooh!’ said Maisie, who seemed to have no problems adapting to the curious pace of life in the Boys’ Wimbledon Independent Day Islamic School. ‘What in?’

  They had somehow survived the lorry. They were now headed, at about fifty miles an hour, for someone’s front garden. Malik bashed the horn two or three times, took his hands off the wheel, and waved his arms expressively. He braked hard, and the car hit the kerb and bucked across the road like an angry horse.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘physics, Greek, Latin, French. That sort of thing. A general scholarship. He is a first-class boy.’

  ‘How did you find him?’ said Robert. ‘Did you advertise?’

  Malik laughed in an open, friendly manner. He rapped on the horn as if to emphasize his good humour.

  ‘Precisely, Wilson!’ he said. ‘I advertised. I put an advert in Exchange and Mart!’

  He seemed to find this thought very amusing. When he had reasserted control over the Mercedes, he said, in a suddenly sober voice, ‘Actually, Wilson, that is not at all a bad idea.’

  He paused, as if considering something.

  ‘I must tell you something, my dear Wilson,’ he went on, ‘about the extraordinary history and traditions of our Wimbledon Dharjees. I am sure you have seen them about the place.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Robert, ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘They are a very fine bunch of chaps,’ said Mr Malik thoughtfully – ‘not unlike the Bombay Khojas. But of course based in Wimbledon as opposed to Bombay. They are distantly connected to the Nizari Ismailis, of whom I am sure you have heard.’

  Robert tried to look as if he had heard of at least some of the people Malik had mentioned.

  ‘But,’ went on the headmaster, ‘there are bad eggs amongst them, as there are everywhere. Strange secrets and stories from the dawn of the Islamic era!’

  Robert nodded.

  ‘That,’ said Malik, ‘is all you really need to know. Some of the Dharjees are first-class chaps and others are really awful ticks. I will tell you which ones are which.’

  When they reached Wimbledon Village Malik drove north, towards the large houses that face the Common. About half a mile further on, he turned right through a pair of huge iron gates. As they came in to the front drive, the gates closed, silently, behind them. Something made Robert look up at the window above the front door.

  A young man was wagging his finger at an elderly woman in a white headscarf. He looked as if he was telling her off about something. She cowered away from him as if he was about to strike her.

  ‘That’s the bloody woman!’ said Mr Malik. ‘Been filling the boy’s head with a lot of absolute rot!’

  These were obviously Dharjees to be avoided. Assuming they were Dharjees and not Khojas or Ismailis. Whatever any of these things might be.

  ‘Do you know the parents?’ said Robert.

  ‘Very well,’ said Malik. ‘They are professional acquaintances. We play golf together when we can get the chance.’

  The front door of the house opened and two men in dark-grey suits came out. One of them looked more like a well-tanned version of the Duke of Edinburgh than a man from the Indian subcontinent; in profile, Robert decided, he would look well on a postage stamp. He half expected him to call for polo ponies. His companion was a small, round, jolly-looking character. The taller of the two called, in aristocratic English tones, ‘My dear Malik! This is so kind!’

  They walked towards him, in almost perfect step.

  ‘This is frightfully good of you, Malik,’ went on the tall man, ‘and I am so sorry to bother you with our troubles!’

  ‘There are lunatics, my dear Shah,’ said Malik darkly, ‘everywhere.’

  ‘My dear, there are,’ said the tall man. ‘And the sooner we can get the boy lodged away from our people the sooner it will die down.’

  He beamed at Robert. ‘We are delighted to have an Oxford man on board,’ he said. ‘You must have been up at the same time as the Crown Prince of Dhaypur!’

  ‘I think I remember him,’ said Robert cautiously. He was aware that this must be Mr Shah, the school’s principal backer. It was important to make a good impression.

  ‘We always called him “Lunchtime Porker”!’ said Mr Shah.

  Mr Malik laughed, and it seemed wise to do the same.

  ‘There were quite a lot of us Muslims up at Oxford,’ said Robert, ‘and we all used to hang out together. Go to the same clubs and . . . er . . . listen to the same sort of music.’

  They were looking at him oddly. Why had he opened his mouth?

  The tall man’s demeanour would not have been out of place at Greyfriars Public School. There was a peculiarly English reserve about it. But Mr Shah’s friend was obviously more in touch with his emotions. In the manner of a man who had been waiting to do this for some time, he suddenly seized the headmaster, lifted him clear of the ground, and rocked him backwards and forwards. Robert could see Malik’s neatly shod feet pedalling wildly as his new friend hoisted him up higher and higher. Perhaps he was going to put him over his shoulder and burp him.

  ‘Wilson,’ said the headmaster, ‘this is Mr Shah, our benefactor, and another member of the Wimbledon Dharjee community, Mr Khan. Mr Khan is here on business.’

  The second man put the headmaster down and grinned. ‘I am a vastly inferior variety of Dharjee,’ he said, ‘and I am honoured to meet you, Wilson! Mr Shah, I fear, will have nothing to do with my proposals! You are welcome at my restaurant at any time of the day or night. Except on Wednesdays.’ Mr Shah was looking vaguely discomforted. Mr Khan, right arm forward, marched towards Robert.

  To Robert’s relief, the man did not look as if he was about to give him anything less formal than a handshake.

  ‘Should I cover my head with something?’ hissed Maisie.

  ‘Why?’ said Robert. ‘I think you look very nice.’

  Maisie looked impatient. ‘I’m a woman,’ she said, ‘and I’ve got bare arms and a bare head!’

  She said this as if trying to excite him in some way. Before he had the chance to find out any more about this, she had backed away towards the car, opened the back door, and started to grovel around on the seat.

  If she was looking for something to cover her head, she was out of luck. As far as Robert could remember, all there was on the back seat was a damp chamois leather. The thought of Maisie appearing with this perched on her head made him twitch uncontrollably.

  Neither Malik nor Mr Shah nor Mr Khan seemed very bothered about this. Mr Khan, the restaurant owner, seemed to have decided that a handshake wasn’t enough. He was clearly anxous to get stuck into Robert in a more serious way.

  ‘Oh, Wilson, my dear chap!’ he was saying, in a tone of voice that made Robert feel like a jelly at a children’s tea party – ‘Oh, Wilson, Wilson, Wilson! You will be friends with a poor restaurateur, won’t you?’

  He leaped into Robert’s arms and got to work on his hindquarters, watched with some embarrassment by the Duke of Edinburgh look-alike.

  ‘Are you . . . er . . . Dharjees?’ said Robert through a mouthful of Mr Khan’s jacket. Both men laughed uproariously at this. Robert made a mental note to find out more about this particular Islamic sect. It was hard to connect the two men in the pub with these two rather jolly creatures.

  ‘Where is my teacher?’ came a small voice down to Robert’s left.

  Robert looked down and saw a boy of about ten years old. He had neatly brushed black hair, a dark-blue jersey and baggy grey shorts of the kind worn by boys at an English public school. He was standing very straight and very still.

  There was something strikingly familiar about him. Robert felt sure he had seen him somewhere before. That, surely, wasn’t possible. He knew very few adults and hardly any children. Had he, perhaps, seen this boy on television? Perhaps he was a prince of some kind. What had Malik said: ‘fallen
under harmful influences’?

  ‘Hello there!’ said Robert, in a jolly, yet formal, voice. He was trying to sound like a schoolmaster (on his application he had claimed four years’ service at a fictional prep school called The Grove) but he had not yet managed to acquire the manner. He sounded, he thought, like a paedophile. To make things worse, he discovered he had put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘Are we going to have all Dharjees, or will there be any normal Muslims?’ he asked, to fill the awkward silence.

  Mr Malik and Mr Shah gave him tolerant, slightly weary, smiles.

  ‘Normal Muslims!’ said the school’s benefactor, in an amused tone. ‘I think we are fairly normal Muslims, don’t you, Malik? I think it is you that is the “weirdo”!’

  ‘Wilson,’ said his headmaster, ‘is a comparatively recent recruit.’

  Mr Shah nodded in a kindly manner. ‘What made you convert to Islam?’ he said, in the studied, neutral tones of someone asking someone else about their children.

  ‘Er . . .’ Robert looked wildly about him. ‘I was desperate!’ he said eventually.

  Mr Shah took his hand. ‘These are desperate times, Wilson,’ he said – ‘desperate, desperate times. A spirit walks the land, and it is an ugly, intolerant spirit, and many of us are frightened – frightened unto death!’

  ‘I am desperate,’ said Robert, looking over towards the Common. (Had he seen a glimpse of one of the men in the pub, there, among the birch trees about a hundred yards away from them?) ‘I am absolutely desperate. I am thinking of going to Mecca.’

  All three men nodded slowly. They seemed sympathetic to the idea. Robert tried to remember where Mecca was. He was going to have to bone up on this kind of fact if he was going to be able to hold his own in this section of the Wimbledon beau monde.

  ‘We are talking fifty a week for the boy,’ said the restaurant owner. ‘He eats anything apart from cheese.’

  Robert nodded and tried not to look confused. He had not thought that the school fees would be so reasonable. Perhaps there was a special offer on. Perhaps they were going to wait for the school to become fashionable and then treble the prices. Anything was possible at the Independent Islamic Wimbledon Boys’ Day School.