Nigel Williams is the author of sixteen novels, including the bestselling Wimbledon Trilogy. His stage plays include Class Enemy and a dramatization of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. He wrote the screenplay for the Emmy and Golden Globe award-winning Elizabeth I, starring Helen Mirren. His BBC Radio 4 comedy series HR (featuring Jonathan Pryce and Nicholas le Prevost) is now in its fourth series. He has lived in Putney for thirty years.
Also by Nigel Williams
Novels
My Life Closed Twice
Jack Be Nimble
Johnny Jarvis
Charlie
Star Turn
Witchcraft
Black Magic
Charlie (based on his teleplay)
The Wimbledon Poisoner
They Came from SW19
East of Wimbledon
Scenes from a Poisoner’s Life (short stories)
Stalking Fiona
Fortysomething
Hatchett & Lycett
Unfaithfully Yours
Plays
Marbles
Double Talk
Class Enemy
Easy Street
Line ’em
Sugar and Spice
Trial Run
The Adventures of Jasper Ridley
W.C.P.C.
My Brother’s Keeper
Country Dancing
As it Was
Consequences
Breaking Up
Nativity
Lord of the Flies (adapted from the novel by William Golding)
The Last Romantics
Harry and Me
MyFace
HR (radio series, currently in its fourth season on BBC Radio 4)
Non-fiction
Two and a Half Men in a Boat
From Wimbledon to Waco
East of Wimbledon
Nigel Williams
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Faber and Faber Limited 1993
This edition published in the UK by Corsair,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2013
Copyright © Nigel Williams, 1993
The right of Nigel Williams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-47210-677-3 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-47210-686-5 (ebook)
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound in the UK
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Illustration by Tom Gauld; Design by Chris Callard
For Suzan
PART ONE
1
‘We teach here,’ said Mr Malik, ‘Islamic mathematics, Islamic physics and of course Islamic games—’
‘What,’ said Robert, feeling it was time for an intelligent question, ‘are Islamic games?’
Mr Malik gave a broad wink. ‘Islamic games,’ he said, ‘are when Pakistan wins the Test Match.’
He spread his hands generously. ‘You, of course, among your other duties, will be teaching Islamic English literature.’
Robert nodded keenly. His floppy, blond hair fell forward over his eyes, and he raked it back with what he hoped was boyish eagerness. He should really have had a haircut. ‘In that context,’ he said, ‘do you see Islamic English literature as being literature by English, or Welsh or Scottish Muslims?’
They both looked at each other in consternation. Perhaps, like him, Mr Malik was unable to think of a single Muslim writer who fitted that description.
‘Or,’ went on Robert, struggling somewhat, ‘do you see it as work that has a Muslim dimension? Such as . . . Paradise Lost for example.’
What was the Muslim dimension in Paradise Lost? Robert became aware that the room had suddenly become very hot.
‘Or,’ he went on swiftly, ‘simply English literature viewed from a Muslim perspective?’
‘You will view English literature from a Muslim perspective,’ said Malik with a broad, affable grin, ‘because you are a Muslim!’
‘I am,’ said Robert – ‘I am indeed!’
He kept forgetting he was a Muslim. If he was going to last any time at all at the Islamic Independent Boys’ Day School Wimbledon, he was going to have to keep a pretty close grip on that fact.
He had decided to pass himself off as a Muslim shortly before his twenty-fourth birthday. His father had waved a copy of the Wimbledon Guardian at him as Robert was being dragged out of the front door by the dog. ‘Could be something worthy of you in there,’ he had said, prodding at the Situations Vacant column. And, out there on the Common, on a bench facing a murky pond, Robert had read:
Are you a broadminded teacher of the Muslim faith? Are you young, thrusting and keen to get ahead, with good interpersonal skills? Are you under fifty-five with a clean driving licence? We want you for a new and exciting all-Muslim venture in the Wimbledon area.
It was the word ‘broadminded’ that had caught his eye. It suggested, for some reason, that the job might lead to encounters with naked women. There was certainly something breezily sensual about the man now facing him across the desk.
He seemed pleased to see Robert too. There was no hint of prejudice in his eyes. Robert had feared the headmaster might be a sinister character of the type given to chaining people to radiators in down-town Beirut. He had stopped watching the news shortly after the hostage crisis. In fact, these days he found that, by lying on his bed with the curtains closed and deliberately emptying his mind, he was able to forget most of the unpleasant world events that had troubled him for the first twenty-four years of his life. He was no longer quite sure, for instance, who was the current leader of the Labour Party. With serious mental effort he was hoping to achieve the same state with respect to the president of the United States, the names of the countries of central Europe and almost every geopolitical incident not located within a five-mile radius of Wimbledon Park Road.
Mr Malik grinned, got up from his desk and crossed to a large map of the world on the wall next to the window. Ruffik or Raffik, or whatever his name was, had been taping it to the wall when Robert came in for the interview. Already one corner had come adrift. North-West Canada lolled crazily out into the room. Timber forests brushed lazily against the deserts of Saudi Arabia, as the August breeze sidled in from Wimbledon Village.
‘All of the world,’ said Mr Malik, jabbing his finger in the vague direction of America, ‘will soon be Muslim.’
‘I hope so,’ said Robert, knitting his brows with what he hoped was a typical convert’s expression, ‘I hope so!’
Mr Malik stepped smartly to his left and looked down at the green lawn that stretched between the Islamic Independent Boys’ Day School and the High Street. Beyond the wrought-iron gates, flanked by two dwarf cypresses, girls in summer dresses, their legs and shoulders bare, walked homewards, calling and laughing to each other. Mr Malik gave them a tolerant smile.
‘Muslim ideas and Muslim thinking are making great strides everywhere. Even in Wimbledon. Look at yourself, for example!’
‘Indeed!’ said Robert.
He hoped they weren’t going to get into a detailed discussion of how he had seen the light,
or whatever it was you saw when you converted to Islam. If the headmaster asked him which mosque he went to, he had already decided to say that he always visited the nearest one to hand. What does one need, he heard himself say, except a prayer mat and a compass?
‘Were your parents Muslim?’ said Malik.
Robert blinked rapidly and said, ‘Our family has been Muslim for as long as any of us can remember.’
‘Since the Crusades!’ said Malik.
They both laughed a lot at this. But the headmaster of the Islamic Independent Boys’ Day School then leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and gave Robert a slow, shrewd glance.
‘My grandfather converted during the Second World War,’ said Robert. ‘He served in the desert, and I think that had a profound effect on him. He was involved with the Camel Corps, I believe.’
Malik was nodding slowly. He had a big, well-sculptured nose. Tucked under it was an elegant moustache. But his eyes were his most notable feature. They flickered on and off in his face like dark lanterns, expressing now amusement, now scepticism, but mostly a resigned acceptance of human weakness.
‘You were brought up as a Muslim?’
‘No, no,’ said Robert hastily, ‘My . . . er, father was a . . .’
Malik was looking at him steadily.
‘A Hindu!’
If the headmaster was surprised at the volatile nature of the Wilson family’s religious convictions, he showed no sign of it. He got up and started to pace the threadbare carpet around his desk. ‘Our boys,’ he said, ‘are sent to us because their parents wish them to become part of British society and yet to retain their Muslim identity.’
‘I must say,’ said Robert, with the unusual conviction that he was speaking the truth, ‘that I don’t really feel part of British society!’
Malik ignored this remark. He gave the impression of a man speaking to a large and potentially hostile crowd.
‘Their parents,’ he said, ‘want them to be lawyers, accountants, businessmen, doctors. But they also want them to be brought up in a Muslim environment. By Muslims.’ He gave Robert another shrewd, appraising glance. ‘Such as yourself, for example!’
He should not have worn the sports jacket, thought Robert. Or the grey flannel trousers. He should probably not have come at all.
‘Are you keen on games?’ went on the headmaster in his fruitily accented English.
‘Mustard!’ said Robert. ‘Keen as mustard!’
Mr Malik savoured this out-of-date colloquialism like a world-class wine-taster. He nodded slightly and then, backing towards the window, placed his left hand, knuckles outwards, over his ribs, and his right hand, palm up, to about head height. At first Robert thought he was going to be made to swear some Islamic oath. Then he realized he was supposed to get up from his chair. He did so.
‘Let’s look over the facilities,’ said Mr Malik, rubbing his hands, briskly. ‘As the brochure is not yet printed we can’t look at the brochure, can we, old boy?’
Robert found he was laughing immoderately at this remark.
Malik opened the door and waved his hand, expansively, over to the right. ‘Chemistry labs!’ he said.
This sounded like something out of the Arabian Nights – a command for the chemistry labs to appear. It certainly bore no relation to the rather shabby stretch of corridor, leading to a narrow, circular staircase, towards which the headmaster was pointing.
‘Impressive!’ said Robert.
Malik’s eyes narrowed. Robert wondered whether this might be taken for a satirical remark. Then he realized that the headmaster was doing something natural to politicians or actors – putting on a face to match some titanic thought that probably did not exist.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Malik, looking off into the distance. ‘Yes, it will be. I can see it. It will be! It will be . . .’ He paused and allowed himself a smile ‘. . . mustard!’ Then he was off.
They walked, at some speed, towards the other end of the corridor. From there, a more impressive staircase – square, wooden, vaguely Jacobean in appearance – led down to a hall decorated with hanging carpets and peculiar bronze objects that looked a bit like cooking-utensils. It reminded Robert of an Afghan restaurant he had once visited.
Mr Malik did have something of the maître d’ about him. As they clattered down the stairs, he waved his hand at the far wall. ‘Praying area!’ he said.
Robert had read something about this. Wasn’t the general idea to line up against the wall and bang your head against it? Or was that Jews?
Why was he so appallingly ill-informed about the religion to which he was supposed to belong? How long would it be before Mr Malik rumbled him? Why had he even bothered to read the damned advertisement? He should have gone back to the video shop in Raynes Park. Maybe not. He thought of Mrs Jackson’s face as she returned one of the staff’s bootleg copies of Let’s Get Laid in LA. He had given it to her in good faith. It had said Fantasia on the box. And by all accounts the children at Barney Jackson’s eighth birthday party had enjoyed it a lot. He could go back to the Putney Leisure Centre for God’s sake! Some people had spoken highly of his skills as a lifeguard. No one had actually died in the accident. Or the Wimbledon Odeon!
He shuddered as he thought of the Wimbledon Odeon.
Malik walked along the hall, opening doors and flinging them back against the wall of hanging carpets. He barked back over his shoulder at Robert. ‘Large airy classrooms for the senior boys,’ he said. ‘Slightly smaller rooms for the slightly smaller boys. And here –‘ He came to the last door in the hall – ‘a very, very small area that will be used to accommodate the very, very small boys during their early weeks at the Islamic Boys’ Day Independent School, Wimbledon.’
He didn’t seem entirely clear about the title. Was it the Islamic Boys’ Day Independent School Wimbledon, or was it the Islamic Day Boys’ Independent School Wimbledon? They would need to have made their minds up by the time they got the notepaper.
So far, Robert had seen no sign of notepaper.
He peered in at the last room. It was the size of a generously proportioned cupboard, with a narrow skylight in the top left-hand corner of the far wall.
‘This,’ said Malik in the tones of a man who was about to lock him in and leave him there, ‘will be your room.’
‘It’s lovely,’ said Robert.
‘That which Allah has in store is far better than any merchandise or muniment. Allah is the most Munificent Giver!’
This was obviously a quotation of some kind. Whatever Allah was dishing out, he clearly wasn’t sending a fortune in the direction of the Islamic Day Boys’ Independent Wimbledon School.
Even so, the place was clearly not without funds. The school occupied a fairly large eighteenth-century house which, although its walls bulged crazily and its ceilings were pregnant with age, had a grandeur about it that suggested some old-established colonial concern. How many pupils would there be?
Robert bowed his head and tried to look like a Muslim. Mr Malik looked at him with concerned curiosity. ‘Do you wish to use the facilities?’ he said.
‘I’m fine, thank you, Headmaster,’ said Robert. Should he, he wondered, have worn a hat? A turban of some kind?
‘Over there,’ said Malik, gesturing towards a door on the other side of the hall, ‘are the kitchens.’ All Robert could see was a large porcelain sink, lying upside down in the corner of the room. It did not seem to be connected to anything.
Mr Malik waved airily at the front door. ‘Language laboratories,’ he said. ‘Information technology – or “IT” as it is known. This is the 1990s for God’s sake, Wilson!’
He said this in tones that suggested that Robert had just proposed some alternative date. Am I looking too combative? thought Robert as he followed the headmaster out into the rear gardens of the Wimbledon Islamic Day Boys’ . . . He really must try and remember the correct word order. Did he want this job or not? The Boys’ Islamic Day . . .
‘Playing-fields!’ boom
ed Mr Malik. He threw both his arms wide and closed his eyes. He was obviously seeing playing-fields. Robert saw a large, shabby lawn, bounded by a high wall. There was an apple tree in the far left-hand corner, and, next to it, a dilapidated climbing-frame.
‘We have put the gymnasium in the orchard,’ said Malik, ‘and hope our boys will acquire healthy bodies in healthy minds. Tell the truth, Wilson, and shame the Devil!’
Robert tried to stop himself from twitching. He did not succeed.
‘As for you sinners who deny the truth,’ said the headmaster, peering closely at his prospective employee, ‘you shall eat the fruit of the Zaqqum tree and fill your bellies with it. You shall drink boiling water; yet you shall drink it as the thirsty camel drinks!’
‘Indeed,’ said Robert.
It was time, he felt, to ask a few keen and thrusting questions. Interview them, old lad, he heard his father’s voice say. Make the terms yourself. Be tough, Bobbo. You’re too soft on people!
‘Where,’ he heard himself saying in slightly querulous tones, ‘is the staffroom?’
Malik gestured to a battered wooden shed about halfway down the garden. ‘The staffroom,’ he said smoothly, ‘is located in the Additional Science Block Complex. Science and technology are vital, Wilson. Crucial!’
The door to the Additional Science Block Complex opened, and a small, wizened man in dungarees appeared. Robert recognized him as the man who had been taping the map of the world to the wall earlier. He addressed Malik in a language that could have been Arabic, Punjabi or, indeed, Swahili. He sounded annoyed about something. Malik shrugged, grinned, and, as they turned to go back into the house, said, ‘Talk English, for God’s sake! We are in bloody England. Don’t come on like an illiterate wog! Please!’
The man in the dungarees narrowed his eyes. He did not look as if he knew any English. What, Robert wondered, was his role in the Wimbledon Islamic Boys’ Day School? Groundsman? Janitor?
‘Rafiq will be giving classes in macro-economics,’ said Malik, ‘and he will also be dealing with engineering. He can make anything. He is one of my oldest friends. Even though he is from the University of Birmingham. You are an Oxford man, of course.’
East of Wimbledon Page 1