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
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
Similar Books
