Free East of Wimbledon by Nigel Williams

mother. Over the years, the two men in the Wilson family had made so many inroads into her natural delicacy that now, at nearly fifty, she would sometimes seem to parody maleness, to flaunt it at its possessors, in an attempt at that last, desperate act of criticism – sarcasm.
    ‘Get your arse on down there,’ she yelled – ‘only make sure you wipe it first!’
    Robert heard his father guffaw. They still had the capacity to amuse each other, even if they left him stone cold.
    Before this conversation could become any more specific, Robert leaned on the bell, hard.
    ‘I’m coming!’ yelled his father. ‘Hold your horses!’
    Hasan, his head and shoulders still eerily still, was smiling in a benign manner at the letterbox. He continued to hold Robert’s hand tightly. Robert tried to look natural, and failed.
    ‘He’s coming!’ said Hasan, ‘I hear him!’
    There was a clumping sound from within the house. The door opened, and Robert found himself, once again, looking at his father. He took in the long, shaggy hair, the wire glasses, the beaky nose and the slightly anxious expression. Mr Wilson senior always looked as if he had just remembered that he had forgotten something. This was, indeed, quite often the case.
    It was possible, he thought to himself, that his father would never work again. In which case he, Robert, would be the only earner in the household. He would have to try to do this new job in a thorough and conscientious manner. He would be a
good
teacher. He would be the inspiration of a whole new generation of British Muslims. He saw himself, sitting cross-legged in a stone courtyard, surrounded by eager little children from the Third World, dressed, like him, in long, white robes. Did Muslims sit cross-legged? Or was that the followers of the Maharishi Yogi or whatever his name was?
    ‘Hello there!’ said Mr Wilson to Hasan. ‘And how are
you
?’
    He was talking as if to an old friend – a manner he quite often affected with complete strangers. Behind him, Mrs Wilson had appeared. She was bobbing up and down beside his left shoulder, jabbing her finger towards Hasan.
    ‘Who is
he
?’
    This question was voiced silently, with a great deal of lip and teeth work. She could have been presenting a programme for deaf people. Robert did not answer her.
    ‘Is he one of
them
?’
    Robert nodded.
    Mrs Wilson looked determinedly saucy. She clearly hoped that social life in Wimbledon Park was going to look up now that her only son had become a Muslim.
Let them all come
, her expression seemed to say.
Baggy trousers, prayer-mats – wheel ’em in!
She pranced out of the front door. ‘Welcome to our house,’ she said to Hasan, in the low, solemn voice she used in the Wimbledon Players. ‘Welcome! And peace be on you and on your house!’ She bowed low as she said this, and walked backwards into the hall.
    Behind the kitchen door, Badger was making small, high-pitched noises from the back of his throat.
    Robert took one last, despairing look back at the street as he followed his mother inside. There was a man standing in the shadow of one of the plane trees opposite. He was wearing a shabby looking leather jacket, jeans and a check shirt. Although he was of Middle Eastern appearance, at first Robert took him for a punk, because his jacket was ripped at the back. It looked as if it had been torn in the interests of fashion. And, although it was hard to judge at this distance, there was definitely something suspicious about the man’s shoes.
    Mrs Wilson did not seem unduly alarmed at the prospect of having acquired a paying guest. As they went into the front room, she announced her intention of giving Hasan her husband’s office upstairs. ‘You never do anything in it anyway,’ she said in a cheerful voice, ‘and at least he won’t notice the wallpaper. It’s amazing the way he gets about, isn’t it? For a blind person, he’s very quick on his feet!’
    She made no attempt to modify her voice.