closer and looked up: the Widow Shawquat!
Around the bottom of the fountain-house was a thin line of harassed-looking policemen.
‘What’s going on?’ said Owen, in Arabic.
‘By God, she is putting salt on their tails!’ said someone in front of him with relish.
The voice, too, seemed familiar. Its owner looked round. It was Owen’s friend, the barber.
‘What’s up there?’
‘The
kuttub
.’
The school. The Widow Shawquat’s school. It all began to fall into place.
‘The police came, did they?’
‘Yes. Her son was hearing the children say their lessons and the police came and said “The
kuttub
belongs to someone else now: out you go!” And Abdul said: “I will send for my mother!” And the police said. “Ho ho!” And then the Widow Shawquat came.’
‘What happened?’
‘She kicked their ass.’
One of the constables at the foot of the fountain-house, hearing the exchange, turned round.
‘She attacked me brutally, effendi!’ he said indignantly. ‘She smote me savagely in the side!’
‘She kicked you up the ass!’ said the barber.
‘She thrust me from the
kuttub
!’
‘You, a policeman! What sort of man is this? To allow a woman to put him out!’
‘I’d like to see you try!’ retorted the constable. ‘You wouldn’t do any better!’
‘Twenty policemen? One woman?’ scoffed somebody from the crowd.
‘There weren’t twenty! There were just three of us,’ protested the constable who had been assaulted.
‘And then you called for reinforcements!’ jeered the scoffer in the crowd. ‘One woman!’
‘One woman!’ said the barber indignantly. He jumped up on to the steps of the fountain-house and turned to address the crowd. ‘One woman! Savagely assaulted!’
‘Here, wait a minute,’ said the policeman. ‘You’ve got it wrong. We were the ones who were savagely assaulted.’
‘A woman of the people!’ cried the barber. ‘One of us!’
‘Yes, yes!’
The crowd, excited, began to stir.
‘Brutally attacked!’ cried the barber.
‘Shame! Shame!’
‘Her first, us next!’
‘It certainly will be you if you don’t shut up,’ warned one of the policemen.
‘They are picking on our women!’
The policemen began to look anxious.
‘What are we going to do?’ one of them called to Owen over the heads of the crowd.
‘Who’s in charge here?’
The constables pushed forward a reluctant corporal. ‘What shall I do, effendi? I ought to arrest her for disturbing the peace, but…’
‘Just try it! Just try it!’ cried the barber.
‘Shall I knock him on the head?’ asked one of the constables.
‘You ought to go up and reason with her, Hamid,’ said one of the constables urgently.
The corporal seemed unwilling.
‘Yes!’ said the constable enthusiastically. ‘Go up and talk to her sweetly, Hamid!’
‘She might kick
my
ass,’ objected the corporal. ‘That would be bad for discipline.’
‘Call yourself a man?’ cried the barber.
The corporal turned on him threateningly. The Widow Shawquat was one thing; an ordinary street agitator quite another.
‘Are you disturbing the peace?’
The barber skipped hastily back into the crowd. With two or three rows in between him and the constables he felt bolder.
‘I’m not: she is,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you do something about her?’
‘Yes, why not!’ taunted the crowd.
‘We could rush her,’ said one of the constables doubtfully.
‘Right!’ said the corporal. ‘You go first.’
The constables looked at the staircase uncertainly.
‘You rush her,’ shouted someone in the crowd—it may have been the barber—‘and we’ll rush you!’
The crowd, good-humoured up to now and enjoying watching the police’s dilemma, suddenly surged menacingly forward.
The constables paled and fell back.
The crowd pushed forward again, driving them back and back until they came to the front of the stairs. One or two of the constables were forced up it. As more and more came on to the
Around the bottom of the fountain-house was a thin line of harassed-looking policemen.
‘What’s going on?’ said Owen, in Arabic.
‘By God, she is putting salt on their tails!’ said someone in front of him with relish.
The voice, too, seemed familiar. Its owner looked round. It was Owen’s friend, the barber.
‘What’s up there?’
‘The
kuttub
.’
The school. The Widow Shawquat’s school. It all began to fall into place.
‘The police came, did they?’
‘Yes. Her son was hearing the children say their lessons and the police came and said “The
kuttub
belongs to someone else now: out you go!” And Abdul said: “I will send for my mother!” And the police said. “Ho ho!” And then the Widow Shawquat came.’
‘What happened?’
‘She kicked their ass.’
One of the constables at the foot of the fountain-house, hearing the exchange, turned round.
‘She attacked me brutally, effendi!’ he said indignantly. ‘She smote me savagely in the side!’
‘She kicked you up the ass!’ said the barber.
‘She thrust me from the
kuttub
!’
‘You, a policeman! What sort of man is this? To allow a woman to put him out!’
‘I’d like to see you try!’ retorted the constable. ‘You wouldn’t do any better!’
‘Twenty policemen? One woman?’ scoffed somebody from the crowd.
‘There weren’t twenty! There were just three of us,’ protested the constable who had been assaulted.
‘And then you called for reinforcements!’ jeered the scoffer in the crowd. ‘One woman!’
‘One woman!’ said the barber indignantly. He jumped up on to the steps of the fountain-house and turned to address the crowd. ‘One woman! Savagely assaulted!’
‘Here, wait a minute,’ said the policeman. ‘You’ve got it wrong. We were the ones who were savagely assaulted.’
‘A woman of the people!’ cried the barber. ‘One of us!’
‘Yes, yes!’
The crowd, excited, began to stir.
‘Brutally attacked!’ cried the barber.
‘Shame! Shame!’
‘Her first, us next!’
‘It certainly will be you if you don’t shut up,’ warned one of the policemen.
‘They are picking on our women!’
The policemen began to look anxious.
‘What are we going to do?’ one of them called to Owen over the heads of the crowd.
‘Who’s in charge here?’
The constables pushed forward a reluctant corporal. ‘What shall I do, effendi? I ought to arrest her for disturbing the peace, but…’
‘Just try it! Just try it!’ cried the barber.
‘Shall I knock him on the head?’ asked one of the constables.
‘You ought to go up and reason with her, Hamid,’ said one of the constables urgently.
The corporal seemed unwilling.
‘Yes!’ said the constable enthusiastically. ‘Go up and talk to her sweetly, Hamid!’
‘She might kick
my
ass,’ objected the corporal. ‘That would be bad for discipline.’
‘Call yourself a man?’ cried the barber.
The corporal turned on him threateningly. The Widow Shawquat was one thing; an ordinary street agitator quite another.
‘Are you disturbing the peace?’
The barber skipped hastily back into the crowd. With two or three rows in between him and the constables he felt bolder.
‘I’m not: she is,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you do something about her?’
‘Yes, why not!’ taunted the crowd.
‘We could rush her,’ said one of the constables doubtfully.
‘Right!’ said the corporal. ‘You go first.’
The constables looked at the staircase uncertainly.
‘You rush her,’ shouted someone in the crowd—it may have been the barber—‘and we’ll rush you!’
The crowd, good-humoured up to now and enjoying watching the police’s dilemma, suddenly surged menacingly forward.
The constables paled and fell back.
The crowd pushed forward again, driving them back and back until they came to the front of the stairs. One or two of the constables were forced up it. As more and more came on to the
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