This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘Salamalaikum, beta,’ said Khala, ambling into the kitchen.

  Mariam jumped. ‘I’ll make breakfast,’ she said, embarrassed in the cold light of day by what had happened the night before. What must Khala have thought? When Mariam broke away from her she had simply said: ‘Shall we have dinner?’ As if crying into someone’s arms was normal.

  ‘No, beta,’ replied Khala now. ‘I’ll make breakfast. This much I know about the kitchen, na?’

  Mariam flitted between carrying on with the free flow of sentences and wanting to maintain order in her kitchen. You must learn to let go. This, she realised, could be applied to Tupperware as well as ex-husbands. So she smiled, ignoring the clanging of cutlery. A plate of fruit, all cut up, was put in front of her, along with a mug of green tea, then Khala left the kitchen without saying another word. Mariam managed to shout out a thank you as she ate a forkful of blueberries.

  Two hours later she emerged from her writing stupor – something creative about a woman who’d lost her memory and couldn’t find her way out of a forest. She felt a sense of vigour, which she usually only experienced when exercising her body or exorcising her mind. She checked her email again but still nothing. Jenny usually responded promptly. Of course, that was pre-mosque days. There was no impartiality in this place. But she waited. She listened to another Adalrik clip – this time on purging the past – exercised for an hour, had lunch with Khala, and then did some more writing. As three o’clock approached, she went to collect Haaris, who walked towards the car, shoulder slouched under the beating rain.

  ‘Hi, baby,’ she said as he got into the passenger seat.

  Haaris looked out of the car window, the windscreen wipers furiously sashaying side-to-side.

  ‘How was school?’

  ‘Fine,’ he replied.

  She looked at him, waiting for more. Haaris was usually as monosyllabic as Bilal was pessimistic.

  ‘What’d you get up to?’ she asked.

  ‘Usual.’

  She paused at the front gate and noticed Sam’s dad, Harry, pull up by her side. She tried to smile through the rain, but he stared resolutely ahead. Haaris and Sam did the same.

  ‘How’s Sam?’ she asked, feeling anxious.

  ‘God, Mum, what’s with the million questions?’

  Before she could reply there was a knock on her window.

  ‘Hell-o,’ sang Terri, Haaris’s form teacher, waving at Mariam from under her umbrella in her jumper and flip-flops. ‘This weather! Gosh, you’re looking well. Sorry, it’s just a quick word about the bake sale next month for the church bell – almost there with the money! We wondered if you’d like to make something traditional?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Terri glanced at Haaris, who looked down at his lap.

  ‘Something … Hang on, let me check because I don’t want to offend anyone.’ She laughed. ‘You are Pakistani, aren’t you? I mean your parents are from there. I understand that’s a very important distinction.’

  Mariam felt her nostrils flare. ‘Quite.’

  ‘Well, if you could make something Pakistani, that’d be wonderful.’

  ‘Right,’ said Mariam. ‘Like what?’

  Terri bent lower, clasping her hands between her knees. ‘We were hoping you’d help with that.’ She laughed again.

  Try to see the best in people. Dig deep. Deeper than your husband’s grave.

  ‘Okay,’ she finally replied, even though she’d never made a Pakistani dessert in her life. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ said Terri, clapping her hands, despite still holding on to an umbrella. ‘We want to be inclusive. It’s so nice to experience other cultures, isn’t it? No matter what’s happening.’

  Mariam gripped the steering wheel. ‘Of course.’

  Terri stepped back and waved so hard Mariam thought her hand might fall off.

  ‘So now I have to learn to make ladoos?’ Mariam joked to Haaris. ‘The height of cultural experience.’

  He didn’t reply. By the time they got home the rain had subsided, the skies cleared with a rainbow arching over the green fields. Haaris went to go straight to his room but then paused at the stairs and looked back. ‘Am I going to Dad’s this half-term?’

  Mariam hung the car keys on the key rack. ‘Did you want to?’

  He shrugged. ‘Be good. Different.’

  Different? Why did he suddenly want something different? ‘Okay.’

  Khala Rukhsana called out to Haaris, who brushed past Mariam and went into her room, closing the door behind him. She looked at her phone for an email but there was still nothing. Whatever had happened between Haaris and Sam, she knew it was something to do with the mosque. In a bout of impatience, she called Jenny.

  ‘Hi. Mariam. I was just about to take the dog for a walk—’

  ‘Did you get my article?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  Jenny paused. ‘I’m not sure it’s quite right for the paper.’

  Mariam gripped the top of the kitchen chair. ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s quite hard-hitting. You’re a good writer, but—’

  ‘You don’t want to address racism?’

  ‘Oh, God, no, it doesn’t all boil down to that,’ said Jenny. Jenny who was obviously on Shelley’s side. ‘What happened is appalling. Even Shelley thinks so. But do we need more provocation in an already provocative situation?’

  Mariam had to level her breathing. ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s September so too early to write about the Nativity. Your write-up about the harvest festival was great, by the way.’ Jenny paused. ‘Why not write something about the broadband?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I know everyone’s complaining about the new telephone poles, but I do wish people moved with the times.’

  Mariam’s heart beat faster as she looked around the living room for a sign, any sign, of her Muslim-ness. She strode out of the room, looking in the passage, the kitchen, searching the house for anything that might tell a stranger who the Hashams were. It turned out that the most visible sign of their being Muslim had been on Bilal’s office door.

  ‘The connection is dire for people working from home and raising a family,’ carried on Jenny. ‘It’s not easy being a woman, is it?’

  Then Mariam heard Haaris and Khala’s faint voices, a hodgepodge of English and Punjabi.

  ‘Jenny,’ said Mariam. ‘An article about my husband’s office being graffitied with: Fucking Muslims, Go Home isn’t important, but substandard Wi-Fi connectivity is?’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Hello?’ said Mariam.

  ‘I’m sorry. There’s just no need for foul language.’

  ‘No, we don’t like it much ourselves,’ replied Mariam. Her shoulders stiffened. An attack on her family dismissed in favour of broadband! It was absurd. Absurd, how perfectly unsurprising it was. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think this will work.’ Mariam swallowed hard. ‘I’m resigning.’

  ‘Mariam,’ said Jenny. ‘That’s quite dramatic.’

  Dramatic! Mariam paused. ‘Oh no, Jenny. You’ve not even begun to see dramatic.’

  She put the phone down, her hands shaking and mind reeling. Mariam paced the living room. Had she really quit her job? What choice did she have? She tried to rein in her panic – she still had other freelancing jobs. Except for some reason it all felt vacuous. They were jobs of no importance and it made her feel like a woman of little importance. What if Mariam finally had nothing – other than Haaris – to show for her life? She’d spent so many years apathetic about her career – why? She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and took deep breaths. One, two, three, four. It was times like this she wanted to pick up the phone and call Anne. It was just the kind of thing that would’ve started as a rant and ended up in laughter. Before Teddy. Mariam played with her phone, thinking of Haaris. And then she dialled Anne’s number.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mariam. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Oh. H
i.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m okay. Fine.’ There was a pause. ‘You?’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Mariam. ‘Listen, I—’

  ‘I heard about the graffiti.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that.’

  ‘That was pretty nasty,’ said Anne.

  ‘I know. Thanks.’ Mariam sat on the sofa, staring at the TV screen on their wall. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been round for so long.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Yeah, well …’

  ‘I just …’

  But there was nothing Mariam could say that could begin to explain it. She remembered that day with clarity. Mariam had witnessed a woman losing her mind and it had terrified her. Not just because she wasn’t sure whether Anne would ever come back from it, but because she’d glimpsed herself in Anne: the wild, unfiltered breaking of a heart and life. Mariam had spent every night in the house with her for a week, refusing to leave her side, and all she’d been thinking was: what if that had been Haaris? When she returned home, she would hold on to him whenever he said goodbye. Grab his face to kiss his cheek, even though he’d exclaim, ‘Mum! Get off!’ Every morning when he left the house she agonised: will he come back to me?

  ‘It’s not like I’ve been in the mood to see people,’ said Anne. ‘Though you never were people.’

  Mariam’s guilt swelled, her heart cracked a little. ‘People are hard work.’

  ‘Aren’t they?’ replied Anne.

  Mariam missed her friend. She was mortified at how little she could do to help her. Mortified at how little she had tried.

  ‘It’s just, if it was me—’ began Mariam.

  ‘I know.’

  They were both quiet for a few moments before Anne said: ‘How’s Bilal taking the whole thing?’

  ‘How do you think?’ said Mariam.

  ‘Pretending it didn’t happen?’

  Mariam let out a small laugh.

  ‘Richard mentioned … he said something about a grave.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Yes,’ said Mariam, feeling a flush of embarrassment, but the least she could do was explain the backstory.

  ‘Does it help him?’ asked Anne.

  ‘I’m not sure. But it hasn’t done us any favours,’ said Mariam.

  Silence.

  ‘How’s your dad?’

  ‘Fine. I keep telling him to stop getting so angry about things, his heart’s rickety enough. Although I should thank Bill.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mariam, even in Dad’s wildest dreams he’d never have come up with a plan as antagonising as building a mosque in Babbel’s End.’

  There was a pause before they both burst into laughter.

  ‘Well,’ said Mariam, ‘I’m glad the token brown people have come in handy.’

  ‘After this, there’ll be nothing token about you.’

  Mariam laughed again. How could she help Anne with her sorrow, so that their lives might tally with each other’s again? But Anne’s type of grief couldn’t be watered down to something as mild as Mariam’s discontent. It was a force too strong and isolated; it could make room for nothing and no-one.

  ‘Anyway, I just wanted to say hello. It’d be nice to see you soon.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Anne.

  ‘Give me a call when you’re free.’

  Anne said she would as she put the phone down, while Mariam knew full well she wouldn’t. How could they bridge the gap of the random injustice of one of them having a son, and the other losing one?

  After their conversation, Bilal was the first to put the phone down on his impulsive wife. Yet he was annoyed with Jenny. Mariam had written something important – and since she’d written it he knew it would be more than just good …

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bruce, coming into his office. ‘Is Mrs Neil’s cat’s wicker basket tax-deductible?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid you’ll have to give her the bad news.’

  Bilal had seen Bruce parked in the car that morning with his son, Dan, clearly in the throes of an argument. Would he and Haaris ever argue like that? Bilal felt an unexpected pang of pity for his employee, trying to forget he was at that meeting, and forced a smile.

  Bruce went to leave as Bilal asked: ‘How are things?’

  ‘Fine.’ Pause. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And Dan?’

  ‘Still not quite himself. After Teddy.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ replied Bilal as sympathetically as he could for a person who knew that Dan would be Dan, with or without Teddy. ‘They were close.’

  ‘He’s just distant, you know,’ replied Bruce, before his face reddened, as if he’d said too much. ‘Anyway,’ he added. ‘Lots to do.’

  Bruce left and sat back at his desk. If he could just have said something about the graffiti to Bilal, Bilal might try and understand why he had been at that meeting. Instead Bilal went back to staring at the page with the land listing. Vaseem had called to let him know that his mum’s place had been valued and was worth less than a quarter of the money Bilal needed to actually buy and build on the thirty acres behind St Swithun’s. Perhaps he could buy a small section of the plot? So Bilal had given Vaseem the go ahead. With or without Mariam’s consent, a plan for Khala, or an idea about where the rest of the money might come from. Then he looked at the proposal he’d written to send to the imam in Birmingham, which was more of a one-page document begging them to help him in the name of spreading peace. Bilal shifted uncomfortably at the idea, since it was rather spreading discord. He picked up the phone and took a deep breath before dialling a number.

  ‘Hello, I’m enquiring about the land for sale – between Babbel’s End and Little Chebby? I wanted to speak to the owner about applying to the council for planning permission.’

  Apparently he didn’t need to own the land to get permission, provided the owner was in agreement. The agent told him that Mrs Gardiner, who now lived in Scotland, was visiting her son in Australia and wouldn’t be back for a few months. He’d drop her an email.

  ‘What’s the planning permission for?’ asked the agent, after taking Bilal’s email address.

  Bilal cleared his throat. ‘A mosque,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A mosque.’

  ‘A what?’

  Bilal sighed. ‘You know the place of worship? For Muslims?’

  ‘Oh. All right. Fine. I’ll, er, I’ll let her know.’ The agent paused. ‘Though I should probably warn you – Mrs Gardiner’s agnostic.’

  Bilal put the phone down. ‘I’m not asking her to convert,’ he added when there was no-one on the other end to hear him.

  He grabbed his jacket and keys and drove towards Babbel’s End, parking up in the lay-by next to a fence that stopped the gathered cows from escaping. He stepped out into the cloudy day, the chill of autumn already in the air, and made his way towards the land behind St Swithun’s church. There was a steep, hilly road and when you got to the top, beyond the low stone wall, you could see miles of rolling hills and the sea. Sheep were bleating on the patch on his left, a row of pine trees lining the road as Bilal reached the top, panting. The vast expanse of the country was spread before him, hills of green and yellow with the sea just about visible. Slivers of white light lined the grey clouds, the sun pushing through, casting the fields in shadows and illuminated light. Bilal’s heart swelled with pride. He imagined the mosque behind St Swithun’s and a warmth filled up within him. He always assumed that you created yourself in whatever shape you wanted, but it turned out that people didn’t trust the art of shape-shifting. He looked up at the sky. Go home, indeed.

  He’d show them who was home.

  BILAL PARKED UP OUTSIDE his house. When he got to the doorstep he noticed the red tin box on the welcome mat. He looked around – perhaps someone had left it there by accident? But there was no-one in sight. He put the box under his arm and opened the front door.

  ‘Mariam!’ he called out. ‘Anyone ring the doorbell?’

  He walked in
to the kitchen to see Khala peering into Mariam’s laptop screen. Mariam came in a few seconds later in her gym gear and Bilal appreciated what good shape his wife was in. This was immediately followed by regret that lately, she didn’t seem to want to share it with him.

  ‘You’re home early,’ she said, frowning.

  She was twitchy, her eyes searching for something to do.

  ‘Been a bit of a day, hasn’t it?’ he said, trying to be as still as possible, to counter Mariam’s constant movements.

  ‘That Jenny,’ began Mariam. ‘So now I don’t have a job—’

  ‘Well, you have other freelancing and you didn’t have to quit,’ he said.

  She stared at him. ‘Didn’t I?’

  Haaris then walked in, addressing Khala directly. ‘Do. You. Seeee?’ He then turned to Mariam. ‘Khala said she’d help make zarda for the bakesale.’

  ‘Are you happy with that? Or do you just want cupcakes? Like everyone else?’ asked Mariam.

  Haaris shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘What?’ said Bilal.

  Mariam explained. ‘We are literally giving them bite-size culture.’

  He had visions of bright yellow rice with almonds and raisins in the midst of all the cupcakes.

  ‘Right,’ he said, looking at Khala. ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘English,’ explained Haaris.

  ‘She asked whether Mum spoke English,’ added Mariam. ‘What with her being a housewife. And I said, yes, of course. But it’s not a matter of course, is it?’

  Khala looked back at them. ‘I seeeee.’

  ‘Anyway, Haaris told her it’s never too late. Onnay kya see na?’ Mariam continued in Punjabi, mentioning to Bilal that Khala said she felt too old to learn new things. ‘So, we’re going to get her a phone, download an app and she can learn. It was Haaris’s idea.’

  Khala beamed at Haaris.

  ‘Oh. Okay. Great idea,’ Bilal replied.

  His mum had told Khala a hundred times to learn English. What had changed, he wondered.