A Girl From Zanzibar by Roger King

of his wedding night. We did not talk of these things. Not in public, not anywhere. I had never before seen her so completely routed. She staggered slightly with dizziness. “We must go,” she muttered in a low voice to us, not him, and abruptly set off. “These dents,” he said to me, his attention turning back to the wall, “were they made by British cannonballs during the eighteen ninety bombardment?” Mrs F had gone a few steps, then discovered that neither myself nor my mother had fallen into formation. “Are you English?” my mother asked suddenly and brighty, though it was obvious that he was. “Oh ... yes.” “I don’t know about the cannonballs,” I offered. “I’m Isabella D’Souza,” announced Mummy, as if she’d just discovered it. “Oh, I see. Geoffrey Sutton.” He wiped his hand on his shorts, then didn’t offer it. “I’m Marcella. And that,” I added as we moved away to join the glowering Mrs F, “is my aunt, Mrs Fernandez.” I LIKE MY STUDENTS. THEY ARE TOUCHING, SOMEHOW , these untidy young people set in the neatness of their col lege landscape. They seem to have no idea of grace or beauty. How can it be that these privileged children of such a big, rich and confident nation are so fragile and lost? Moore, it turns out, particularly specialises in the troublesome children of the wealthy, who for their own reasons do not wish to be like their parents. The college has hired me to teach Multi-cultural Studies, but no one has told me what this is. I asked the dean, Dean Goodrich, and he