East of Wimbledon by Nigel Williams Page A

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