This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  It was, quite frankly, patronising. Of course, Bilal didn’t see it that way. In the stark light of the Nativity, Mariam wasn’t sure why his incessant optimism had once appealed to her. On top of which, she’d gone into every stationery shop in town with the red tin box, to see if she could find out where it’d been bought, but had found nothing.

  Bilal had returned from Birmingham, so she should’ve been kinder, but he still hadn’t told Khala and this cowardice didn’t induce affection.

  ‘I’ve nothing against Richard, but the way he just assumed we’d jump at the chance at being Mary and Joseph …’ Mariam had said.

  She unfolded the letter on the table for the tenth time. ‘Are you sure you don’t recognise the writing?’ she asked. ‘It’s not similar to the graffiti?’

  Bilal didn’t even pretend to look this time. ‘I don’t go around inspecting people’s handwriting.’

  Mariam paused. Such snark wasn’t Bilal’s habit. That was her domain.

  ‘And I don’t think Richard’s gesture was patronising,’ added Bilal, looking her in the eye.

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘He’s trying to bring us back into the fold,’ Bilal explained.

  ‘Really successfully,’ said Mariam, flattening the hate mail on the table with her hand.

  Bilal snatched the piece of paper from the table and tore it into pieces.

  ‘What are you doing?’ exclaimed Mariam.

  He threw the pieces in the bin, Mariam looking at him in dismay.

  ‘That was evidence,’ she said, rushing to the bin.

  ‘There’s no point dwelling on it.’

  Mariam took a deep breath. ‘Why do we even want to be in this fold?’

  Why was she so intent on Haaris fitting in? Maybe Bilal was right, maybe Haaris should learn to stand out. It was happening anyway, whether they liked it or not.

  Accept the things you cannot control because you will never be able to control how someone sees you.

  It had been true of Saif, and now it was true of Babbel’s End.

  Bilal looked too deflated, too soon. He sat in his chair, rubbing his forehead. ‘It’s our home.’

  Mariam could almost feel Bilal’s mum’s I told you so. God, that woman was clever, even beyond her grave. But Mariam had wanted to live here too, partly to prove Sakeena wrong, but mostly to get away from the place that reminded her so much of her past life. She wished Bilal would sit more erect so she could soften towards him. Doleful eyes just made her irritable.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he asked.

  Bringing the kitchen chair around, she sat opposite him. Mariam hadn’t bargained for his doubt on the matter, but she wondered: did you build a mosque in a place that felt like home? Or to make it feel like home?

  ‘You see the best in people,’ she said. ‘Between us, it’s probably a good thing. Because when this is over you’ll at least be able to look them in the eye and not want to … I don’t know … pummel them.’

  ‘Pummel?’ Bilal looked amused.

  ‘Or something less violent.’

  He got up and kissed her on her head.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked as he grabbed his gardening coat and scarf.

  ‘Outside.’

  She watched from the window as, despite the cold and damp of the November day, her husband lay down in his makeshift grave, a place he seemed to find more respite from the world than with her.

  Bilal picked up the earth next to him in his gloved hand and played with it absentmindedly.

  ‘I thought this mosque would make things clearer,’ Bilal mumbled at the sky.

  His mother appeared, wearing a white shalwar kameez with a bright red dupatta and matching red Nike trainers. His trainers. She’d refused to let him throw them out when he’d grown out of them. With two pairs of insoles, she’d said, they were practically made for her. He’d insisted they didn’t go with her clothes – she only ever wore shalwar kameez. But she wouldn’t be deterred. Now, not even in his imagination.

  Just then he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

  ‘Hello. It’s Richard. Are you busy?’

  ‘Oh, just pondering life.’

  ‘Decent pastime.’ Richard paused. ‘How’s work? No more graffiti? Notes?’

  ‘No. But there’s always tomorrow,’ said Bilal.

  Richard paused again. ‘Listen, I wanted to ask about Bruce … Does he talk about Dan?’

  ‘Not much,’ replied Bilal. ‘He’s a quiet man, but I mean, it’s Dan …’

  ‘Hmmm. I’ve never felt that he’s the best influence on Gerald and …’

  ‘And?’ said Bilal, finding himself sitting up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi. Sorry. It’s nothing. You know kids. He had a spray can—’

  ‘What?’ Bilal swallowed hard. ‘You think the graffiti was him?’

  He waited for Richard’s reponse.

  ‘No,’ he replied, finally. ‘No … I’m just worried about Gerald. Anyway,’ added Richard, ‘you and Mariam still set to be beacons of the Nativity?’

  Bilal gave a barely audible ‘yes’. His friend’s generosity only heightened his wife-weary state. Richard said bye to Bilal, who closed his eyes again, the image of his mother etched into his retinas. Why was the process of building this mosque beginning to show the cracks in the foundation of their marriage?

  Rukhsana returned from another walk with Shelley, who had actually laughed once in their conversation.

  ‘Tusi aithay masjid kiun nahin chaanday?’ Rukhsana had asked.

  She wanted to understand why everyone was so against the mosque, but, of course, Shelley didn’t understand the question. A small crease appeared on Shelley’s brow as she spoke (if only Rukhsana had learnt English sooner, she’d have understood the origins of that crease). Rukhsana caught the words English, Punjabi and something like melloddius. She’d have to ask Haaris what it meant.

  By the end her heart would be lighter and even Shelley’s lips wouldn’t be so pursed. Rukhsana had shared things she’d never voiced to her friends, because if Shelley couldn’t understand then she couldn’t judge. Sometimes, though, Shelley would give her a look so sympathetic that perhaps pain transcended language.

  Rukhsana’s life now brimmed with a routine of walks, words and prayers. She’d spend a little time every day sewing Margaret’s outfit, which was coming along nicely. At least a quarter of her notebook was full of poetry. She wished she could share her words about the pot-holed streets in Rawalpindi and the rolling hills of Babbel’s End, the mountains of Sawaat she’d never seen and the pebbled beaches she didn’t want to visit – the endless sea being something that frightened her. She wanted to unravel the mysteries of these two lands, but she’d seen too little of either. Her life had been small but her feelings vast, perhaps as vast as the world she never explored. But these were the matters of her heart, and they weren’t easy to explain.

  What would Shagufta and Gulfashan make of her wellies, and what do they call this coat? Boar Boar?

  For the first time Rukhsana felt the urge to speak to her friends – she actually had stories to share. She picked up the phone and called Gulfashan.

  FEELINGS WERE A COMPLICATED matter. Bilal had tossed and turned all night and every time he woke up he’d stare at Mariam’s sleeping face, wanting to stroke her hair and shake her at the same time.

  He got up early and went downstairs to make coffee when he saw the light on in Khala’s room, door ajar, a muffling of voices.

  ‘And then Henry the Eighth …’ Haaris gestured, slitting his throat, speaking in his English-accented Urdu. ‘To that wife too.’

  ‘Hai Allah, so many wives,’ said Khala.

  ‘Test!’ Haaris knelt on the edge of Khala’s bed in his Spiderman pyjamas, hair flopping over his face. ‘What is marwaana in English?’

  Bilal let out a small laugh. It took a while before Khala replied: ‘Ummm, kill?’

  Haaris high-fived Khala.

  ‘You know, I wish I was a ki
ng,’ continued Haaris in English. ‘I mean, I’d put a stop to wars and stuff, and I’d make sure everyone could afford video games. But, like, if people wanted to build mosques or churches or synagogues or whatever, I’d let them.’

  Bilal wanted to go in and kiss Haaris on the head.

  ‘Speak slow,’ laughed Khala.

  ‘Or do I want to be a superhero?’

  ‘What?’ asked Khala.

  He flexed his arm muscles and in Urdu managed to say: ‘Make Sam disappear.’

  Khala paused, just the ruching of the blanket over her legs visible to Bilal.

  ‘Beta, what is the use making people disappear when it’s how they think that is the problem?’

  ‘Weird,’ said Haaris, looking sombre. ‘That’s what my dad says.’

  His bloody dad, the shadow of a past, lurking in their present.

  Bilal showered and crept out of the house, vapour emanating from his mouth, the morning sky still in the process of waking up as he made his way to work early. Haaris is not happy and it is my fault. He walked into the office and switched on the lights. As he passed Bruce’s desk he stopped. A Post-it was on his computer. Without thinking, Bilal took it and looked at the handwriting.

  Get Kat M&S shoes she wanted

  Ask Bill for afternoon off for Dan’s dr appointment Thu 2pm

  Send off T’s docs to archives.

  Bilal’s heartbeat quickened. He knew this handwriting, didn’t he? The neatness of each letter and word, the forward slant, the orderliness of it. He held the paper, staring at it in disbelief.

  ‘Bill?’

  Bilal turned to see Bruce.

  ‘Is this yours?’ asked Bilal.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bruce, looking confused and, Bilal noticed, rather tired. ‘I’ve come in early to—’

  ‘This is your handwriting?’

  It began to make sense. Bruce had never actually liked Bilal. Mariam was right. Bilal was too optimistic. Bruce’s quiet manner was actually curtness. His indifference about the graffiti, his presence at the anti-mosque meeting … Didn’t Richard say he’d seen Dan with a spray can? The apple, after all, fell close to the tree. Bilal’s simmering doubt boiled over into conviction; he only wished he hadn’t torn up that note. Why hadn’t he listened to Mariam?

  ‘Bruce, did you write this?’ said Bilal.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Bruce said, taking the Post-it. ‘You said it was fine to have Thursday off.’

  ‘I … Why were you at Shelley’s meeting? Against the mosque?’

  Bruce clenched his jaw. ‘We all have the right to an opinion.’

  ‘You’ve certainly made yours very clear.’

  Bruce looked unmoved. Oh yes, now he could see where Dan got it from. Bilal was absolutely certain that it was the same handwriting.

  ‘Did you … I can’t believe I’m asking this … Did you leave that note on my car windscreen?’

  ‘Wha …? What’s given you that idea?’ asked Bruce, his face going red.

  He tried to read Bruce’s expression, but it looked so confused it made Bilal doubt his own conviction.

  ‘And the graffiti?’ asked Bilal, noticing a nick in Bruce’s chin from where he must’ve shaved.

  ‘Graffiti?’ said Bruce, his look wavering.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bilal. ‘Was that … Dan?’

  Bruce paused, stony-faced as he looked at his desk.

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘Bruce, I’m sorry, but I find that hard to believe with everything he … well, you know … gets up to.’

  Bruce stared at Bilal. ‘It wasn’t him.’

  ‘Richard himself told me he caught him with a spray can.’

  ‘It was me.’

  Bilal’s heart sank. They’d never been friends outside the office, but they’d always been civil. Before the mosque debacle, every now and then, they’d even shared a joke about tax deductibles. Bilal had given Bruce a job. But in all that time he’d never actually accepted Bilal.

  ‘It was you?’ said Bilal.

  ‘Will you press charges?’ said Bruce, his voice low.

  Bilal couldn’t believe it. Bruce was covering for Dan – of course he was – but it didn’t matter. He’d written that note; his son had graffitied his office door. They were both the same.

  ‘I’ll pay for the damages,’ said Bruce with such a severe expression Bilal’s anger turned into something solid. There wouldn’t be enough Gaviscon in Babbel’s End to alleviate his heartburn.

  ‘You realise this is gross misconduct? That you’re fired?’ said Bilal.

  Bruce paused, as if steadying himself. ‘I understand.’

  He began to gather his things: a few photos of his wife and family, but not much else.

  Without another word, Bruce gave Bilal a nod and made his way out of the office.

  ‘And yes,’ said Bilal, the anger bursting in his chest, ‘I will be pressing charges.’

  ‘Oh, beta, I’ve done something terrible,’ said Khala as Bilal emerged in the living room, his tie loosened and hair windswept. Khala held her rosary beads, other hand clutched to her necklace, looking as if she was about to cry.

  ‘Sshh, Khala,’ said Mariam, relating to Bilal that Rukhsana had inadvertently invited Auntie Gulfashan and Auntie Shagufta to stay with them over Christmas.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I tried to tell them,’ Khala exclaimed. ‘I said you are busy, it’s cold here, but Gul just said instead of being cold in Birmingham they’d be cold in Babbel’s End.’

  Mariam’s life had become a series of taking deep breaths. She tried to sound sympathetic but Bilal had to tell Khala it wasn’t going to work. He had to tell Khala he’d sold her sister’s house.

  ‘I’m sorry I acted as if it was my home,’ said Khala, wiping her tears.

  He handed her a tissue and for a moment Mariam thought he looked like he might cry too.

  ‘Of course it’s your home,’ said Bilal. ‘We’ll make space.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’ said Khala.

  He paused, his mouth twitching, unable to commit to a full smile. ‘No, of course we don’t.’ He turned to Mariam. ‘Do we?’

  What could she say? Recognise the negative parts of who you are and try to ask: why am I feeling this way?

  ‘No,’ replied Mariam. ‘It’s fine.’

  Rukhsana put her hand on Bilal’s face and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Your ammi would be so proud.’

  Mariam supposed her dead mum’s pride didn’t matter, and was then annoyed at her own ungraciousness. Khala managed to get up, telling them she had to go and pray.

  ‘Thanks for the support,’ said Mariam.

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘It’s not as if she can actually understand.’ Mariam was being mean. ‘It’s just …’

  I feel tired. And alone. And I don’t know if I ever loved you because I’m still in love with the man who broke my heart.

  She’d known this for longer than she cared to admit, but something about her life’s recent events had made the truth of it come to the surface. What chronic emotional issue did you have to dislodge in order to love the right person? It felt like such a waste. She felt a wave of sympathy for Bilal, for what he deserved and what he’d ended up getting.

  ‘Not now,’ he interrupted, sitting on the sofa and putting his head in his hands.

  ‘What happened?’

  When he told her about Bruce, she couldn’t believe it – he’d always seemed so harmless. Distant but harmless. Then she took Bilal’s hand, pressing into it, holding on tight – he probably thought it was out of affection. But it was just another way of telling him how sorry she was.

  Shelley saw Richard drive out of Tom’s garage. It was this kind of thing that piqued her. What made Tom more in need of spiritual support than her?

  ‘Hush, Holly,’ she said as the dog’s barking interrupted her thoughts.

  She swerved around that stupid bush, recounting all the things she had to do: thank Jenny for the carrot cake even
though it was dry; chase the district council for an update on the planning permission; gather more signatures against Bilal and Mariam being in the Nativity. How many numbers did it take to be heard? She’d parked up in the lay-by by the field when her mobile rang.

  ‘Hello?’ she snapped.

  ‘Guppy here.’

  She sighed as he launched into the details of his day until she sighed again, this time loud enough for him to get to the point.

  ‘Well, now, I don’t mean to disturb you but you ought ter know there were some very suited and booted men at St Swithun’s today.’

  ‘What?’

  She saw Khala in the distance.

  ‘I was checking on the new bell – it’s looking grand as anything – and strimmin’ the grass and I said, “Excuse me, sirs, but you’ll have to go while I finish up.”’

  ‘Holly, be quiet. What’s that?’

  ‘Suited folk. Never listen. They said that I could come back later. I told’em: “I always do my strimming on a Wednesday, eleven o’clock. Never missed a week”. One of them – black fellow, nice enough – said sorry, and then another had the cheek to offer me a fifty-pound note to leave.’

  Shelley held the car door open, intrigued. ‘Did you ask who they were?’

  ‘Said they were looking at the area. “For what?” I wanted to ask’em, but the black fellow apologised and the lot of’em left.’

  This was very odd. Although they were probably from some kind of film production company.

  ‘Honestly. We’re always good for a scene, aren’t we?’ said Shelley, shaking her head at the world and its preoccupations as she put the phone down.

  As if real life wasn’t dramatic enough.

  Shelley walked through the damp field, with her wide-brimmed hat, quilted jacket, scarf and dark sunglasses, looking – to her mind – inconspicuous. It’s not that she had anything to hide, conversing with Khala, but still … There was something cathartic about revealing her innermost soul to a woman who didn’t understand her. Shelley didn’t believe in this therapy nonsense – paying a stranger to listen. But here was a mutual exchange of stories and feelings. And there was something melodious about Khala’s voice, and even, dare Shelley say it, the language? Listening to the dip and rise of Khala’s intonation she knew, whatever life story she was telling, it was a sad one. It made sense to discover that Khala wrote poetry; it was only a shame Shelley would never be able to read it – she fancied herself quite cultured when it came to matters of the arts. Shelley walked up the frosty mound with Holly and saw Khala approaching, her strides more confident, her smile assured. She almost looked like she belonged in the countryside. Khala waved and Shelley felt the hint of her own smile emerging. She had a niggling anxiety that someone might recognise her.