East of Wimbledon

by Nigel Williams

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Robert.

  He was beginning to find this conversation oppressive. You would have thought she would have put up a bit more of a fight for Christian values. He got to his feet and went to the window. The German next door was mowing his lawn. Beyond him the Patersons were playing tennis against the Joneses. Why couldn’t they find another way to compete with each other? thought Robert. Like – who could jump off the highest building head first. Over to the left, a huge plane tree, dulled by the August heat, cast dappled shadows on his father’s lawn. Badger was lying on his back doing complicated cycling movements with all four legs. As Robert watched, the dog righted himself, shot out his tongue to the left of his snout and chomped his jaws together smartly.

  He had never planned on staying in Wimbledon. He had always thought, somehow, that, like his friends and contemporaries, he would go somewhere glamorous and far away. York, say, or Brighton. He had applied, years ago, to a polytechnic in North Wales. They had not even replied to his letter. He was still here, eight years after leaving school, in the beautifully kept room with the pink duvet, the twenty or thirty paperbacks and all the loving tributes to his childhood. ‘We’re the lost generation!’ Martin Finkelstein, the clever boy from South Wimbledon, used to say. ‘We’re the children of the eighties! We have no hope!’ At least Finkelstein had gone on to get a scholarship to Cambridge. Maisie and Robert were people who had even managed to go missing from the lost generation.

  He felt just as much a Muslim as he felt like any of the other things he occasionally owned up to being.

  ‘There’s a guy called Malik,’ he said. ‘He’s sort of my spiritual mentor. I’d like you to meet him.’

  It was only as he said this that Robert realized that he really did like Mr Malik. Almost more than anyone he had met in the last five years. Not that he had met many people in the last five years.

  ‘I’d love to meet him,’ said Maisie. ‘Is he young?’

  It occurred to Robert that he had absolutely no notion of Mr Malik’s age. He could have been anything from twenty-five to fifty. Was this, perhaps, in part due to his religion?

  ‘Is he Pakistani?’ said Maisie. ‘I adore Pakistanis! Is he like Imran Khan?’

  ‘I’m not sure what he is,’ said Robert. ‘He’s not English, that’s for sure.’

  Except that there was something quite incredibly English about Malik.

  Maisie was peering at the manuscript. ‘Read me a bit,’ she said in the slightly bossy squawk she acquired whenever she was genuinely excited.

  Robert screwed up his eyes and gestured to the first page. ‘All that,’ he said, ‘is about your breasts. Or her breasts, rather – Hoj’s woman’s breasts.’

  Maisie looked at the letters dubiously. She held the manuscript out in front of her at arm’s length. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘you have to hold it upside down or back to front in order to read it. They do write back to front, don’t they?’

  ‘They do,’ said Robert crisply, anxious to get off the subject of Arabic, ‘but I quite often read the Koran in English.’

  Maisie’s eyes flickered. She seemed impressed. ‘You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Very serious,’ said Robert, whipping Mr Malik’s Koran from his jacket pocket. ‘I never go anywhere without a copy of this. Believe you me, it makes quite a read!’

  Maisie shook her head in something like wonder. The most interesting thing about Robert, up to this moment, her face seemed to suggest, was his impression of John Major. But now . . .

  Robert flicked through the Koran’s pages. It looked pretty menacing stuff, even viewed at high speed. It also seemed worryingly long.

  ‘You’re not reading it backwards!’ cried Maisie, in an accusing voice, ‘you’re holding it the right way up!’

  ‘It’s in English!’ said Robert.

  Not that reading it upside down or back to front would, as far as Robert was concerned, have made much difference, as he riffled through snappy chapter headings like ‘The Blood Clots’, ‘He Frowned’, and one entitled simply ‘Sad’. There seemed to be four pages devoted to the Greeks, and a useful subsection on ‘Kneeling’. Once again he found himself wondering whether he had the necessary stamina to be a Muslim, even an imitation one.

  As he put the book down, the doorbell rang. He heard his mother’s steps in the hall and then heard her clear, confident voice call up the stairs.

  ‘There’s a man here with a package for you, darling!’

  With a sense of foreboding he could not quite explain, Robert tiptoed out on to the landing. A small man in a motorcyclist’s helmet was waiting at the door, holding a large brown paper parcel. The fact that he looked as if he came from the Middle East did not disturb Robert particularly. But he found, as the messenger came into the hall, that he was checking the state of the man’s footwear carefully, and was absurdly relieved to discover that he was wearing the same kind of shoe on both feet.

  4

  ‘Robert’s thinking of becoming a Muslim,’ said Maisie, brightly, over the dinner table.

  After a brief, horror-struck pause, his father said, ‘That’s terrific!’

  ‘Yes,’ said his mother with alarming speed, ‘it is terrific! It’s great! It’s wonderful!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maisie, ‘isn’t it?’

  Robert’s mother helped herself to cassoulet.

  ‘What are you going to call yourself?’

  ‘Ahmed,’ said Robert.

  ‘Are you allowed cassoulet?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Robert – ‘I’ll have to check.’

  He heaped two pork sausages on to his plate and added some beans, a hunk of bacon and three or four stewed tomatoes. His father was splashing wine into Maisie’s glass. ‘If I ever had a daughter,’ Mr Wilson used to say, ‘I’d like her to be like Maisie!’ Badger approached the head of the Wilson family and gave him a deep and soulful look. Mr Wilson gave him a carrot.

  Next to Robert on the table was a package. On the outside he read, in clear, firm capitals:

  FROM THE ISLAMIC BOYS’ DAY INDEPENDENT WIMBLEDON SCHOOL.

  Underneath this were a few Arabic letters and under them, in quotation marks, the words, LET US WORK TOGETHER. In the top right-hand corner of the parcel was a large, printed message, warning people that it contained valuable documents. Someone had sellotaped the package together and someone else had torn off the Selloptape. Inside were a few sheets of paper.

  As his mother and father heaped cassoulet on to their plates, Robert took out the first sheet. This was headed simply:

  BROCHURE

  Under this he read:

  Muslim values and Muslim tradition are everywhere in ferment. We read in many newspapers of the need for Muslim schools, but we have to ask What kind of Muslim schools? Are they to be a narrow, sectarian enterprise that only succeeds in alienating an already alienated Muslim population from a country where, like any immigrant community, it wishes only to belong?

  Next to this, in capitals that could only be Mr Malik’s, he read:

  I.E. NO LOONIES NEED APPLY

  Robert read on as Maisie forked food into her face. Robert’s father was asking her whether her father was any better. Maisie was telling him, in a cheerful, brightly inflected voice, that Mr Pierrepoint was not expected to live beyond October or November. ‘We rather hoped he’d be around for Christmas,’ she was saying, ‘but it looks as if not, I fear. Although that may be for the best. He loathes Christmas.’

  Robert spilt a small amount of gravy over Mr Malik’s next paragraph.

  The Independent Boys’ Day School (Wimbledon Islamic) will provide a fully comprehensive education in the background of a supportive and caring Muslim environment. Although the medium of instruction will be English, and skills for dealing with the UK will be taught (we all are aware, I feel sure, of the ‘Old Boy’ network) we orientate our classes around a fully comprehensive awareness of the need to achieve in UK terms and yet m
aintain a wholly authentic, if modern, Islamic identity.

  Next to this, Malik had written:

  I.E. GET THE LITTLE BASTARDS SIX ‘A’ LEVELS AND A PLACE AT OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE.

  Robert’s mother was telling Maisie that it was wonderful that she had such a sense of purpose in life. Sotheby’s, she was saying, must be a. wonderful place to be. ‘You are surrounded, my dear,’ she went on, ‘by beautiful things!’ She looked, mournfully, at the men in her family as she said this. ‘Some young people,’ she continued, looking at Robert, ‘just seem to drift.’ Robert kept his eyes on the brochure. Badger sidled up to him and placed his long head on Robert’s left knee. Robert gave him a bean.

  English literature and the classics will be taught by Dr Robert Wilson of the University of Oxford, a ‘Varsity’ man who is also a practising Muslim and has adopted the name of Yusuf Khan.

  Next to this Malik had written:

  HOW DOES THE NAME GRAB YOU? I THINK IT HITS THE RIGHT TONE BUT WE CAN CHANGE IT IF YOU PREFER.

  Alongside him will be ‘Rafiq’ Ali Shah of the University of Birmingham, who will teach macro-economics, engineering and practical artwork, and a fully qualified, all-male teaching core of experienced Muslims.

  Robert’s father was peering over his shoulder. Robert adopted a Quasimodo-like stance, hugging his plate to his chest as he turned over the page.

  Lightly glued to a thick sheet of cream woven paper were several black and white photographs, clearly lifted from the pages of magazines. There were pictures of classrooms and laboratories, and one of a large, well-equipped gymnasium. A tall Indian-looking boy was balancing on his hands, watched by a group of rather suspicious-looking men in white coats. A caption underneath read ST EDWARD’S SCHOOL, BOMBAY. At the bottom of the page was a photograph of an Olympic-size swimming-pool. Malik’s text read as follows:

  Classrooms and laboratories offer the student the chance to grow and learn, in a pleasant and relaxed environment, while our swimming-pool will enable those who wish to ‘swim’ to do so whenever they feel the need. But we will also be mindful of the need of boys to fulfil the five obligations placed on Muslims, including, of course, the daily prayers, which will be an integral part of school life. The school’s own mosque – built with funds supplied by the National Bank of Kuwait – will supply this!

  Robert turned over the page. He found he was looking at what looked like a full colour reproduction of the Taj Mahal. Next to it, Malik had written:

  ACTUAL LIFE-SIZE OF PREMISES. SERIOUSLY THOUGH, BASIC FUNDING IS IN PLACE BUT ALL IDEAS WELCOME.

  Underneath the photograph he had proposed the following text:

  Financial backing for the school has been made available by Mr Shah, a leading figure in the Wimbledon Dharjee community. Mr Shah is a prominent local businessman whose interests include the ‘Sunnytime’ newsagent’s and confectioner’s and a tandoori restaurant in Raynes Park.

  There were no other photographs on this page. Instead there was a raggedly typed series of paragraphs, headed:

  STAFF BIOGRAPHIES

  MALIK, J. (BA OXON, FIRST-CLASS HONOURS IN FRENCH, ENGLISH AND MATHEMATICS)

  Mr Malik’s family are from Pakistan but he was brought up and educated in the UK at Eton and Oxford, where he founded his successful company CORPORATE PRODUCTS LTD, now trading as RECESSION BUSTERS. He is a member of the Diners Club.

  There was a space underneath this next to which the headmaster had written DASHING PHOTO OF SELF HERE! Underneath this was the photo of himself that Robert had enclosed with his application. It made him look more than usually like a tapir.

  YUSUF KHAN (‘ROBERT WILSON’, MA OXON, FIRST CLASS IN CLASSICAL LANGUAGES. RUGBY FOOTBALL AND CRICKET BLUE) Yusuf went to Cranborne School, Wimbledon, and is a recent convert to Islam. He is twenty-four years old, a fine games player and a dedicated teacher of the young! He wrote to us, asking to be included in our venture as follows—

  With a thrill of horror, Robert recognized a (slightly doctored) paragraph from his letter of application:

  I am a practising Muslim, based in Wimbledon, who is keen to develop my interpersonal skills in relation to other Muslims. I have taught at several non-Muslim schools and am keen to work with others of my faith in a supportive and fully Islamic environment! Wilson is six feet two inches, fond of opera and married with six children.

  Next to this Malik had written:

  I HOPE YOU LIKE THE OPERA IDEA. AND ONE OF US HAS TO BE MARRIED. IT MIGHT AS WELL BE YOU! I WANT TO DO A MAILSHOT OF ALL PARENTS WITH ISLAMIC NAMES WHOSE CHILDREN FAILED TO GET IN TO CRANBORNE SCHOOL. URGENT WE TALK RE THIS. POSS CHANGE NAME OF SCHOOL? LOSE REFERENCE TO ISLAM? I AM ANXIOUS FOR A BROAD BASE, WILSON. YOUR VIEWS, PLEASE, SOONEST!

  The final staff biography read:

  ‘RAFIQ’ ALI SHAH (MSC BIRM UNIV.)

  ‘Rafiq’ is a close personal friend of Mr Malik and has been closely involved in the Foundation Trust for the Islamic Boys’ Wimbledon Independent School. He is a talented and modern-thinking scientist, with a great flair for doing and making practical things, from furniture to jewellery! He will be taking the boys in all aspects of crafts and sciences. ‘Rafiq’ also hails from the Wimbledon Dharjees, a group distantly related to the Nizari Ismailis, whose full history is available in a pamphlet written by Mr Shah, our patron, entitled FROM BAGHDAD TO WIMBLEDON. A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE WIMBLEDON DHARJEES!

  Mr Malik had not been sure about this last sentence. He had crossed it out and, next to it, written:

  ‘BRIEF’ IS SOMETHING OF AN UNDERSTATEMENT. THE BOOK IS TWO THOUSAND PAGES LONG AND NOT RECOMMENDED TO ANYONE OUT OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT. REMIND ME TO ‘CLUE YOU IN’ ON THE WIMBLEDON DHARJEES!

  Next to Rafiq’s name he had written:

  POSS NOT MENTION RAFIQ’S BACKGROUND HERE. CERTAINLY NO PICTURE OF THE UGLY BASTARD. WE DO NOT WANT LOONIES!

  No, thought Robert grimly, they certainly did not want any more loonies. His mother had always told him that he had no grip on reality. He wondered what she would have to say about Mr Malik.

  Someone had clearly opened the package after Mr Malik had finished with it. It wasn’t just the broken seal that told him that: there were grimy fingermarks across the photographs that could not possibly belong to neat, well-perfumed Mr Malik. Could this be something to do with the two men in the Frog and Ferret? They certainly had an unhealthy interest in and knowledge of Robert’s involvement with the school, and they looked like men who would have few qualms about intercepting people’s mail.

  ‘Won’t you get involved in fatwas and things?’ Robert’s mother was saying. ‘They can get awfully steamed up can Muslims, can’t they?’

  Robert found he had started to sweat. He rearranged his face, rather primly, and said, ‘People in the West are very ignorant about Islam.’

  He certainly knew nothing about it whatsoever. Everyone at the table, he realized, was looking at him. People always seemed to want him to speak, and he tried to oblige in his usual manner – by saying the first thing that came into his head.

  ‘It isn’t just about going down to the mosque,’ he went on, in a stern, authoritarian voice.

  ‘What is it about?’ said Maisie, her eyes shining.

  People certainly sat up and listened when you told them you were a Muslim. It was a talking point.

  ‘Well,’ said Robert weightily, ‘as far as I can make out – and it’s early days yet – it’s about . . .’

  What was it about? His father was looking at him in that eager, doggy way in which he looked for exam results, sports results, girl results and all the other results Robert had not, so far, been able to deliver.

  ‘It’s about . . .’ he began again.

  Perhaps if he waited long enough he would receive some kind of divine guidance on this essential point. It did not, however, seem to be forthcoming.

  ‘It’s about the fact that Allah is . . .’ he groped for the right word – ‘very important. He is absolutely crucial. He is a . . . well . . . er . . . God!�
�

  His father nodded, keenly, anxious not to interrupt his son’s flow. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that Al-Lah is the Arabic word for “God”!’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Robert, trying not to sound too surprised by this fact. ‘Well, of course, I am rather new to it. You probably know as much as me. More, probably!’

  Mr Wilson shook his head and gave a slightly superior smile. ‘Muslim . . . Christian . . .’ he said. ‘What’s the difference basically?’

  This seemed to have brought them full circle. As Robert was not able to enlighten anyone on this point, he contented himself with a kind of shrug.

  Mr Wilson, who was showing worrying signs of being well informed about the Islamic world, went on, ‘The thing Muslims are very hot on is the Koran. They look at it morning, noon and night. They can’t get enough of it. It is to them the crucial book!’

  Robert’s mother clearly felt her son was being upstaged. She cleared her throat delicately, smoothed her greying hair, and looked at Robert, as she often did, as if he was a nervous dinner guest whom she was determined to encourage.

  ‘What’s the Koran like?’ said his mother. ‘And how did you get involved with it? Did someone give you a copy on a station or something? A sort of missionary? Or was it someone at the door?’

  Robert paused. Then he said, ‘I just . . . er . . . picked it up,’ he said – ‘in a bookshop. And found it . . . you know . . . unputdownable!’

  He didn’t think they looked ready to be told about the school. His mother was gulping air, rather fast, and patting down the back of her hair – something she did only when seriously concerned. And his father’s attempt at bluff, common-man-style interest in his son’s conversion could not conceal the rising panic in his eyes.

  ‘You should read it,’ said Robert.

  He, too, should get around to reading it – preferably in the fairly near future.

  ‘They chant it,’ Mr Wilson senior was saying, ‘from the top of those high buildings they have. Will you be doing that? Do they have any of them in Wimbledon?’