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could earn anywhere else. And more than my layabout of a son could earn, though in his case it’s his own fault, he’s intelligent enough, anyone can see that—’
    ‘And then, when your husband died—?’
    ‘Some man comes along in a smart suit and a tarboosh and tells us it doesn’t belong to us any more!’
    ‘His name?’
    ‘I don’t know. He probably hasn’t got a name. He probably hasn’t got a father, not one that would acknowledge him—’
    ‘Yes, yes. Can you give me the name of the relative it passed to?’
    ‘Mungali Shawquat. Rashid Mungali Shawquat,’ she spat out. ‘But he’s not really a relative, he’s so far removed…and no relative would behave like that, not even a Shawquat. Of course, you may say it’s not his fault, the old fool is senile, but then whose fault is it, I ask? And he’s not so senile as all that, he got some cash for it, I’ll be bound. Of course, all the Shawquats are a bit simple—’
    ‘And now it’s in the hands of—?’
    ‘Mr. Adli Nazwas. That was his name.’
    ‘Have you got his address?’
    ‘Address?’ The Widow stopped in mid-flow.
    ‘Were you sent a letter?’
    ‘A letter? People like me don’t get sent letters. His man came round, this man in the tarboosh, and said: “Now you’ve got to get out. Be gone. By next Friday!”
    ‘So the school is already closed?’
    ‘Closed?’ said the Widow Shawquat indignantly. ‘Certainly not! My son’s along there. He doesn’t know anything but he’ll do as a teacher. He was at school himself, wasn’t he? Well then, he can do it.’
    ‘But I thought you said—’
    ‘It’ll close,’ said the Widow Shawquat with determination, ‘when they throw us out. And that won’t be so simple. I’ve told my son, Abdul, I said, if the men come, just send for me. I’ll send them off with their tails between their legs, you see if I don’t! That’s right, isn’t it, Mustapha?’ she appealed to the old man.
    The old man had, however, fallen into one of the catnaps of the aged.
    The Widow shrugged.
    ‘But, effendi,’ she said, turning back to Owen, ‘what if they send the police?’
    Owen thought it probable that the redoubtable widow would send them packing too. Aloud, however, he said sternly: ‘The law must be obeyed.’
    ‘But what if it’s unjust?’
    ‘There are proper ways of seeking redress.’
    ‘That’s just what I said!’ cried the Widow, gratified. ‘My very words! I said, we’re going to have to set about this in the proper way. So I put a letter in your box.’
    ‘Yes, well—’
    The Widow Shawquat eased her bulky frame forward to the edge of the divan and dropped on to her knees in the traditional posture of the suppliant.
    ‘You can stop them, effendi! You are the Protector of the Poor, the Hope of the Unfortunate—’
    Her voice rose into a sing-song.
    ‘No, no!’ said Owen hastily.
    ‘The Righter of Wrongs! The Sword of the People!’
    ‘Please stop.’
    ‘The Mamur Zapt is the All-Powerful!’
    ‘Not any more. Look, it’s all changed.’
    ‘They are strong and we are weak but you will stand between us!’
    ‘Look—’
    She clutched at his jacket, which was not quite as serviceable for the purpose as a galabeah, and kissed it.
    ‘You are our Father and Mother—’
    ‘All right, all right. I’ll do what I can.’
    The Widow stopped in mid-wail.
    ‘You will help us?’
    ‘Yes, but—’
    The Widow started to raise her voice in a paean of gratitude, but checked on seeing Owen’s face.
    ‘I will do what I can,’ said Owen. ‘But these things are not straightforward.’
    ‘I know that,’ said the Widow, easing herself back up on to the divan. ‘Adli Naswas is tricky and deceitful. So I said, let us go to someone who is tricky, too. And so, effendi, I turned to you.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘I went first,’ said the Widow, ‘to the Sheikh of our mosque. But he is without guile in these matters. All he could say was that he would speak to the