by Ayisha Malik
But on these walks, she barely recognised herself.
RICHARD LOOKED UP AT St Swithun’s bell tower where the restored bell, which weighed a modest 650 pounds, was now tolling through the village. He wondered who exactly it tolled for. Going into the empty church, he sat on the front pew and looked up at Christ on the cross, feeling the coldness of the unused altar. He considered Bilal firing Bruce. They both knew Bruce was covering for Dan’s graffiti, but the note on the windscreen was inexcusable. If, of course, it had been him. Richard felt unsure – it just wasn’t like Bruce.
Bilal insisted he was going to press charges. ‘I don’t want Haaris growing up thinking that there aren’t consequences to actions,’ he’d said.
But Richard had asked him to reconsider. Was it right for Bruce to be charged with a crime he didn’t commit? And hasty retribution for another crime he claimed he didn’t commit would be bad for Bruce and, indeed, Bilal.
‘It was his handwriting,’ he’d insisted.
Still, Bilal listened to his friend and agreed that he wouldn’t do anything for now.
Richard heard the creak of the wooden door and turned around.
‘I came to check on the bell and saw your car parked,’ said Shelley.
He noticed the envelope she held. Before she could push the new petition into his hand, Richard said: ‘I was planning to come and see you today.’
‘Oh?’ Shelley’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘What was the occasion?’
‘I wondered if you’d like to play the angel Gabriel in the Nativity?’
He kept his tone light. Shelley wasn’t to be fooled by earnestness.
‘No-one else has taken you up on the offer?’ she asked, taking a seat next to him on the pew.
Richard held back his sigh. ‘I’ve not asked anyone else.’
Shelley’s shoulders visibly relaxed. ‘Well … I see. What about the wise men? Copperthwaite’s hip’s playing up. He could do with a distraction.’
Richard tried his best at a neutral face. If ever there was a person to take the magic out of a moment, it was Copperthwaite.
‘And Mr Pankhurst could be the other,’ added Shelley.
He saw where this was going. ‘Good idea. How about Margaret as the third wise man?’
‘She’s a woman.’
‘And Gabriel was an angel,’ Richard responded with a smile.
Shelley sniffed. ‘Fine.’
‘So … you’ll be an angel?’
Shelley nodded curtly. ‘But it won’t stop me from giving you this.’
She handed him the envelope he’d hoped she’d put back in her handbag.
‘I see. Even after what happened at Bill’s office?’ asked Richard.
Shelley crossed her ankles. ‘I don’t make any excuses for vandalism or threatening letters, but the principle still stands, Reverend.’
He held the envelope, not wishing to see who else had now signed. Instead, he looked again at the figure of Christ. The sun pushed through the grey clouds for a few moments, shining through the stained windows and casting a light on the chancel.
‘Won’t you even look at how many more names there are on the petition?’ she said.
‘I understand people are upset but—’
‘What’ll be next? Maybe a Muslim-only school?’ Shelley’s now high-pitched voice reverberated in the church. ‘And pardon me for saying, but at least Mariam doesn’t wear one of those scarves. Can the same be said for the type of people who’ll want to visit?’
‘You object to them?’
‘Well, no, it’s a free country, but you understand that kind of thing can make a person feel uncomfortable.’
‘Does her aunt?’ Richard asked.
Shelley paused, as if recalibrating her thoughts. ‘I’m sure we all seem very closed-minded, but in this day and age it takes some bravery to say exactly what’s on one’s mind.’
‘Yes. It does.’ Richard observed the colour rise in Shelley’s cheeks. ‘Would you like to have a cup of tea?’ he asked, already getting up and leading Shelley through the ambulatory into the vestry.
She hesitated. ‘I didn’t realise we kept a stock of tea here.’
‘I try to come here once a week, just so I know the church is in use.’
Shelley entered the small office space and looked at the wooden table, where there were papers and a few old books. ‘You’re reading C.S. Lewis’s reflection on Psalms.’
‘Yes, it’s always interesting to me,’ said Richard, as he handed the tea to Shelley before taking a seat. ‘Don’t you think that sometimes dislike can taint your vision as much as love?’
Shelley rested her tea cup on her saucer. ‘It was clever of you to stay away from the word hate, but not clever enough. How many times do I have to say that this isn’t personal?’
Richard leaned forward. ‘Of course it is. Especially when you’re forming petitions to stop Bill and Mariam from being in the Nativity. When they’re being left threatening notes and their property is getting vandalised. You’ve stirred something in people, Shelley.’
Shelley stared at him, and for a moment Richard thought he’d pierced through this barrier of preservation. He tried to keep his irritation in check. She straightened up in the chair as it creaked. Richard noticed the swelling in her ankles and felt sorry for the inevitability of old age. Sorry that it could surpass wisdom.
‘I’ve lived in this village my entire life,’ said Shelley. ‘As did my parents. As did theirs. Do Bill’s opinions about what happens here matter more than mine?’ She put her unfinished tea on the floor. ‘I think it’s time for me to go.’
‘It’d be a shame to start measuring whose opinions are more important.’
‘Except when it suits you, of course.’
‘Especially when it doesn’t suit me. How else are we to learn?’
Shelley took her purse and stood up. Richard had no option but to follow her out to the nave.
‘If you insist on Mariam and Bilal playing Mary and Joseph then I’ll have to insist on separate rehearsals—’
‘Shelley …’
‘I won’t be dissuaded,’ she said. ‘And as someone who’s meant to be impartial and think of everyone’s wishes, I expect you to respect that.’
On Richard’s way home the pale sheet of darkness began to thicken as dusk set in. Mitch had already strung up fairy lights outside The Pig and the Ox, as he did every year, six weeks before Christmas. A dispirited Richard found himself driving towards Anne’s.
He knocked on the door several times, about to turn away, when Tom walked through the gate.
‘Hello,’ said Richard. ‘I thought Anne might be in.’
‘Hmph.’ Tom walked past him, scowling as he opened the door and switched on the dim passage lights. ‘Anne! The reverend’s here, doing his charity.’
Richard sighed inwardly. ‘How are you?’
‘Just been to my grandson’s grave, so cracking.’
Richard didn’t respond.
‘Anne! Where is she?’
They walked into the living room. The coffee table in the middle was bare, a tall floor lamp lit in the corner, the curtains drawn. The quiet of the house was disquieting. Tom peeked through the curtains.
‘What the hell …?’
Tom, with a newfound energy, marched into the garden. Richard followed, only to find Anne sitting on the edge of what appeared to be a hole in the ground, a shovel abandoned next to her.
‘What are you doing? Why aren’t you wearing a coat?’ demanded Tom. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
She looked up as if barely registering him. The dark was settling in around them, a few stars making an appearance.
‘What is that hole?’ said Tom.
She looked into it – it was barely big enough to fit a dog, but Richard understood. He bent down and wrapped his scarf around her cold, bare neck.
‘Let’s go inside.’
‘Well? What’s going on?’ Tom’s face was scrunched up in confusion. ‘Don’
t go worrying my already addled brain.’
She glanced at Richard, squatting next to her, and he wasn’t sure whether it was with contempt or for help.
‘Anne,’ said Tom, his voice softening. He looked increasingly worried as he went to sit next to her, grunting at the effort it took him. ‘You can tell your old man anything, can’t you?’
‘It’s just …’ She looked over at Richard again, her teeth beginning to chatter as he took off his coat and wrapped that around her too. ‘You’re the one who put the idea in my head.’ She looked so distressed it was all Richard could do to stop himself from wrapping his arms around her too. The entire thing was getting out of hand; no Nativity rehearsals and now Anne digging herself a grave. Jesus.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘What the hell have you done now?’ exclaimed Tom to Richard.
Anne looked at her dad, her gaze troubled as she told him about Bilal digging his own grave and lying in it, because his mum used to.
‘What?’ Tom looked at Richard. ‘What in your god’s name is all this?’
He took the shovel and threw it across the hole. ‘Everyone’s lost their fucking mind.’ Then he paused, looking at his daughter again. ‘Why were you doing it?’
She looked at her hands, resting on her legs. ‘I don’t know. To feel something. Even if it was just fear.’
‘Of what?’ asked Richard, gripping his arms, pretending the cold hadn’t penetrated his skin.
‘Death.’
‘Christ almighty,’ exhaled Tom, watching his daughter as if he was experiencing a physical pain.
‘It’s okay, Dad. I’m fine.’
‘And do you?’ asked Richard. ‘Feel fear?’
A sad smile played on Anne’s lips as she shook her head. ‘No.’
‘What do you feel?’ asked Richard.
She looked at him beneath the large yellow moon, tears surfacing, looking sorrier than she ever had done. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I feel nothing.’
‘… Ar-Rahman. Allamal Qur’an. Khalaqal insaan. Allamahul bayaan.’
Bilal had never imagined he’d hear it again, and there it was – a surah from the Qur’an. In Babbel’s End. He’d just started the fire in the living room, trying to bring warmth in the midst of December’s cold, amongst other things, and went to get Khala. He stopped in his tracks. Her door was ajar, the words floating into the passage, a stillness taking hold. His mum would recite this surah aloud once a week. A memory ploughed itself into his mind.
‘Denying the truth of God,’ she’d said, trying to explain its essence, ‘is like denying the truth of the beauty of the world.’
She’d taken his face in her hand, smiling, and then raised an eyebrow, as if to challenge him.
He peeked in to see Khala sitting by the window, looking out of it, some papers and a pen in hand. A few minutes in and he could hear carol singers, singing ‘Silent Night’ outside Margaret’s house. Only three weeks to go until Christmas, and the aunts and the Nativity still to get through. The voices were distant, a harmonious background to the surah filling their home. Every week his mum would sit on their green and brown velvet sofa, rocking back and forth while reading, as if swaying to a tune, before she’d wipe her eyes, muttering, ‘The greatness of the world.’
She never expanded on that, and now that the world was feeling small to him, he wished he’d asked her about its greatness.
The surah had finished and it took a few moments for Khala to gather her papers and lay them on the bed.
‘Sorry,’ said Bilal, setting foot into the room. ‘The door was open.’
‘Come in, beta. I was looking at the stars.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ He looked up at the star-studded sky.
The carol singers had quietened; he waited for them to sing outside their home, but the night was indeed silent for the Hashams. He shouldn’t have been surprised that they passed them by, but it still pinched. Mariam enjoyed carol singers. With quiet regret, Bilal left his khala and went back into the living room to find Mariam on the sewing machine.
‘You heard that then?’ she said accusingly.
‘Yes.’
‘Mob mentality.’ Mariam shook her head as the sewing machine whirred and she pressed her foot on the peddle.
Bilal picked up a few small logs from the basket and added them to the fire, poking them with the tongs. ‘They’re hardly a mob.’
Mariam whipped the brown, linen cloak from the machine and pressed it against Bilal.
‘Put it on.’
Bilal sighed, inwardly. He pulled the cloak over his shirt and chinos and looked down, outstretching his arms, the sleeves flapping around.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked, standing back to inspect her handiwork.
‘Nothing like Joseph.’
She had insisted on making the costumes for the Nativity. If they were going to be the centre of attention, without a chance to rehearse as one cast, then she’d make sure they both shone.
‘It’s short,’ said Mariam. ‘Give it back.’
She began unstitching the bottom of the hem. ‘To just pass our house like that … Not that I’m surprised. You know someone said to Haaris that his stepdad was a bastard for firing Dan’s dad?’
At that point Haaris came and placed a small box under the Christmas tree.
‘Who’s that for?’ Mariam asked, faking a smile.
‘Khala,’ he said, and walked back out.
Last year he’d run into this room as if scoring a goal when putting his present for Bilal under the tree. Mariam’s brows were etched in concern as she watched Haaris leave. Was it all worth it?
‘Any more ideas about who gave us that money?’ said Bilal.
‘No. There’s no way to trace it and … oh, I don’t even know why it matters any more.’
Bilal’s stomach churned at this change in tune – he was losing his constitution as well as his wife. She’d stopped telling him to forget this mosque business since they’d been left that note, so he should’ve been grateful, and yet something jarred. Mariam slid the cloak into the machine again.
‘You’re not mad about this any more, are you?’ he asked.
‘Bilal.’ Mariam paused and looked up. ‘I don’t know what I am.’
To the Hashams,
The mini-van in your drive has extended into the road, causing cars to swerve. It’s also been noted that the van’s bumper is broken. Should it fall off in the middle of the road, it could cause considerable harm.
We’d appreciate the van being moved so as to not impede oncoming cars, and that the bumper is checked so that it goes back with the van, as soon as possible as intended.
Best,
Jenny and James Ponsonby.
‘All right, bro? Got ourselves into a bit of a mess, innit.’
Vaseem’s arm dangled out of the van window, e-cigarette in hand, as he revved the engine again in an attempt to hurtle Vaseem’s Removals van out of the ditch. The vehicle stuck in the middle of the quiet village’s Rayner’s Lane was already giving Bilal heartburn. Auntie Shagufta – hair immaculately set with light brown highlights – and Auntie Gulfashan – grey bun hidden beneath her Russian hat – peered out of the van windows. The curtains in the Ponsonbys’ yellow house twitched.
After his failed attempt, Vaseem Bhai came bounding up to Bilal, gripping him into a bear hug.
‘Look at you,’ he said, his e-cigarette prodding Bilal as he grabbed his friend’s face with both hands. ‘Told Khala R yet about the house?’
‘No, and please don’t say anything.’
‘Buyers are getting itchy, you know. My boys are gonna have to remove all that stuff soon,’ said Vaseem.
‘I know, I know.’
Bilal was delaying the inevitable – but he couldn’t have Khala’s things removed without her knowing.
Vaseem Bhai pulled Bilal’s head forward, inspecting his head. ‘Losing your hair, bro. I got stuff for that. Buy two and I’ll give you the third free. Special family disco
unt.’
Vaseem Bhai laughed his belly laugh, ruffling Bilal’s head without thinking of Bilal’s feathers. He glanced over his shoulder to check if Jenny and James were still watching. A few months ago they’d have been out here offering their AA insurance and a cup of tea. Bilal wished that his guests could have arrived at a less curtain-twitching time. It just so happened that fate had conspired to heighten everyone’s twitchiness when he heard the chugging of a car and saw, from afar, Copperthwaite approach in his unmistakable 1920s red Willys-Overland Whippet. A smaller car might’ve been able to pass through, but there was no way that Whippet was going anywhere.
‘Oh, God,’ muttered Bilal.
‘Look at that car,’ said Vaseem.
Auntie Gulfashan started knocking at the window. ‘Will we be stuck here all day?’ came her muffled voice.
Copperthwaite, in his grey trilby, slowed down before his car came to a stop. He peered over the steering wheel, looking straight at Bilal. Bilal walked over to him, gesturing for him to roll down his window.
‘Bit of a disaster,’ he said.
Copperthwaites’ furrowed his brows. ‘Hmph.’
Vaseem Bhai was already walking around Copperthwaite’s car, rubbing his cold hands together, surveying it. ‘What model is this?’ He poked his head into Copperthwaite’s window. ‘All right, mate?’
Copperthwaite looked at Vaseem’s outstretched hand before reluctantly taking it.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Vaseem added.
