This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  Now, Saif’s wife was leaving him. His declaration on the phone earlier had slipped into her ear like a wisp of smoke, morphing into a two-tonne weight that crushed her chest as she wrapped another present in Rudolph-themed paper.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ he’d said.

  Mariam would have smothered his words if she had had a moment to reflect, breathe and let go. But letting go can’t have witnesses. Reasoning with oneself can’t have interruptions, and the onslaught of activity was at an all-time high. After she checked on the chops, she went into her study, locking the door behind her as she leaned against the wall. What did he mean that he’d made a mistake? Was the mistake his increasing self-reflection, which bored his current wife into an exodus?

  Or was it leaving Mariam?

  Her heart pounded.

  She put one hand over her mouth, grabbing the bin with the other, thinking she might be sick.

  ‘Mum!’ came Haaris’s voice as he rattled the door handle. ‘You in there? It’s locked.’

  ‘Coming,’ she called out, taking deep breaths, closing her eyes and doing what Khala did whenever she seemed overwhelmed. ‘Allah hu Akbar,’ Mariam whispered. ‘Allah hu Akbar, Allah hu Akbar, Allah hu Akbar.’

  ‘Do I have to go with you?’

  Mariam took another deep breath, steadied herself and opened the door. ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘But why?’ he whined, looking so desperate she almost gave in to him.

  ‘You loved it last year.’

  ‘That was last year.’

  She pulled Haaris into a hug, kissing his head as many times as she could before he pulled away from her.

  ‘Mum, my hair.’

  She grabbed his face, willing herself not to cry. ‘I made that hair.’

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘according to Khala, God made the hair, so …’

  She turned him around because her tears would surface, and pushed him towards the staircase, steeling herself as they entered the living room.

  ‘I think we’re all ready,’ she said to the aunts as Vaseem walked in with a concerned-looking Bilal. She got the bag with their costumes. ‘Haaris, grab the stick.’

  ‘But I don’t want to see anyone, Mum,’ he murmured. ‘Please.’

  She swallowed hard, her heart cracking as she pressed his head to her chest. ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ she whispered. ‘Sometimes we just have to face up to things.’

  ‘Hai hai,’ exclaimed Gulfashan from the back of the van.

  ‘So cold.’

  ‘So foggy.’

  ‘How can you see?’

  ‘Careful of the bush just there,’ said Bilal, pointing to Tom’s hedge.

  ‘Slow down.’

  Mariam leaned into Haaris and whispered, ‘Quite loud, aren’t they?’

  He managed to give her a knowing look – her son, the only unique thing in this world; an anchor to her otherwise frenzied feelings; the one distinction in the blur of her life. Mariam put her arm around him, savouring the solidity of his form as he took out his Nintendo Switch. But he simply held on to it and stared out of the window. Bilal turned around and looked at them. They drove through the village green, strewn with lights – James had put up a reindeer in a sleigh and Santa Claus outside his bookshop – past The Pig and the Ox, and arrived at the barn, which sat across from a row of houses. Behind the barn the field stretched out, obscured by the fog, but from where they could hear a cow or two. The thatched roof and two bushes that stood either side of the entrance had been decorated with fairy lights that twinkled through the mist; a wreath of frosted acorns and mistletoe hung outside the door. A line of bright white bulbs hung from the barn’s gable, attached to two poles on the other side of the road. They all teetered out of the van, the aunts complaining about the uneven ground, the slippery mud, the cold that seeped into their bones. Where were the street lamps? Thank God they didn’t live in a village.

  Then they saw the spectacle before them and let out an appreciative breath.

  A hum of chatter came from within, people walking in, greeted by Richard in jeans and a Christmas jumper – this year it was one of Rudolph with stars sprinkled around him – Richard’s collar intact underneath. Mariam took a deep breath, pressing her gloved hands together.

  ‘You’re here,’ exclaimed Richard, rubbing his arms and looking at the line of brown people, the bulbs’ warm light shining on their awed faces.

  Bilal introduced him to everyone as Vaseem clasped Richard’s hand in his.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Reverend.’

  ‘And to you. Come in, come in. Can’t have anyone catching a cold before the Nativity. Plenty to eat and drink.’

  The aunts meandered cautiously into the unknown territory, a wave of warmth enveloping them, the smell of mulled wine and the heat of the crackling fire thawing their cold hands and suspicious hearts. Candles were dotted around, fairy lights looped around the wooden beams on high ceilings. Mince pies and Christmas puddings, gingerbread men, pigs in a blanket and roasted chestnuts were laid out on tables, glasses and wine some feet away, ice buckets in the corner.

  The room paused. It was always going to.

  The diamantes on the aunts’ golden and purple shalwar kameezes, the bronze thread-work on their scarves felt like an assertion here.

  What did Mariam’s black trousers and white angora jumper say about her?

  Focus less on the material and more on the heart of life’s matter.

  Candle flames still flickered, the fire still roared, but the people were still.

  ‘Marvellous!’

  Margaret came up to them in her green sequinned jumper and gillet, shaking hands with each aunt so vigorously, taking in their demeanour with such pleasure that Mariam made a note to bake Margaret something nice for New Year’s. Khala then handed a bag to Margaret.

  ‘Christmas present,’ she said.

  ‘What? For me?’ Margaret peered into the bag, taking out material of some sort. She held up a pale gold and dusky pink kameez as people glanced her way. ‘Oh, gosh. It’s heavenly.’

  She hugged Khala, who looked so pleased Mariam wondered why her own mum had never done that for people? Why hadn’t she hugged them so readily, offering to sew things and make zarda?

  ‘You like?’ asked Khala.

  ‘Like? I adore. Shall I wear it now?’

  ‘Please, no,’ said Mariam, trying to smile. ‘I don’t think a wise man would turn up wearing shalwar kameez.’

  ‘Such a boring lot, weren’t they?’

  Mariam scanned the room: there was Copperthwaite, today in a red and green Ascot, coupled with deriding gaze; the Pankhursts, standing uncomfortably apart; Jenny and James, the interchangeable couple; Sam and his parents. No Bruce. Mariam noticed Haaris turn his back, pretending to observe the concrete floor. People from Little Chebby, Long Chebby, Swinknowle and other neighbouring villages were also present. And there was Shelley, staring at Khala and Margaret.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Richard asked, leaning into Mariam.

  ‘Oh. Yes,’ Mariam replied, lifting up the bag with hers and Bilal’s costumes. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘I’m really glad you didn’t back out,’ said Richard.

  Bilal was engaged in conversation with Margaret – largely as a translator – even though the aunts, apart from Khala, spoke fluent English.

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘A lot’s happened,’ he said, looking over Mariam’s shoulder towards the door. ‘But then, all the more reason to stand one’s ground.’

  ‘I thought we were just doing the Nativity.’

  Richard smiled at her. ‘Politics and religion …’

  Mariam returned the smile.

  Be receptive to kindness. Offer it yourself so that it comes your way. You receive from the universe what you give to it. Give love.

  My ex-husband is going to be single.

  ‘Why don’t you both go and start getting ready?’ said Richard. ‘I’ll tell the wise men et al to do the same.’

  Mar
iam nodded as she and Bilal walked towards the back of the barn, where there was a screen and a door to a toilet. Behind the screen were a couple of blocks making a stage and set for the Nativity. Bilal and Mariam were momentarily taken aback.

  ‘Richard really does go all-out, doesn’t he?’ said Bilal.

  Wooden beams framed the stage that glittered with lights and homemade ornaments, which Richard had inherited from his predecessors. There was a manger, and a makeshift donkey, which was slightly disconcerting.

  Bilal was staring at Mariam as she was handing him his costume.

  ‘Are you happy?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Happy?’

  Happiness is transient and is dependent not on what you have in life, but how you perceive it.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, more curtly than intended.

  His face seemed to deflate.

  ‘That face doesn’t make me happy,’ Mariam said. It was meant to come out light and frothy, but instead came out like shards of glass.

  ‘Right,’ said Bilal.

  ‘You honestly ask the oddest of questions at the oddest of times.’

  ‘Mariam …’

  She pushed the robes into his hands but couldn’t quite meet his gaze. He could’ve warned her before asking such a direct question.

  ‘You’re not, are you?’ he asked.

  Persistence! It made her so uncomfortable.

  ‘I mean, what’s happiness anyway?’ replied Mariam.

  ‘Mariam …?’

  ‘I have to think about it.’

  ‘You either are or you aren’t. If someone falls over they don’t have to think about if they’re hurt.’

  ‘If they’ve fallen over then of course they’re hurt.’

  Was it the the flames of the candles that played a trick on her, or were Bilal’s eyes watering?

  ‘Don’t do that,’ he whispered. ‘I have a right to know, don’t I?’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘The man who’s tried to make you happy.’

  Life was a constant flux of honesty versus not hurting feelings – even one’s own. You could do plenty of damage to yourself, simply by recognising the worst parts of who you are.

  ‘It’s my own job to make me happy,’ she replied.

  And she believed it. Why should anyone else bear the burden? And it was a burden – the constant need to be happy. As if sadness was like a cancer that should be fought at every stage. What if the real fight was accepting the sadness?

  Gratitude.

  List three things for which you are grateful.

  1. Haaris.

  2. Health.

  3. A home.

  What was home, anyway? Her first had been with her parents, and that was a non-starter. Her second with Saif had been the light at the end of the depths of anxiety – only it had been extinguished as quickly as it had burned. And then there’d been her home with Bilal. The light here flickered, but had never before felt in danger of going out.

  ‘Look at that donkey.’

  Mariam looked over her shoulder to see Shelley, Copperthwaite, Mr Pankhurst and Margaret approach.

  ‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘Not ready yet? Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time – not as if we need a dress-rehearsal or anything,’ she added, nudging Copperthwaite in the side. ‘Excellent family you have, Bill. Pakistanis do have beauty on their side – it’s the colouring.’

  Margaret looked at her companions.

  Silence.

  Copperthwaite cleared his phlegmy throat.

  ‘I’m not dallying around here. Give me that,’ he said, taking his costume from Shelley and barging past Bilal and Mariam into the toilet cubicle.

  Mr Pankhurst remained stony-faced, refusing to look at either of them. Mariam stood closer to Bilal.

  ‘Well, isn’t this the Christmas spirit?’ said Margaret.

  One by one everyone went in and changed into their costumes, coming out in biblical attire, if not manner.

  ‘Look at us,’ said Margaret, beaming.

  Bilal was draped in his beige cloak next to Mr Pankhurst and Copperthwaite, who’d donned a rather elaborate outfit for a wise man. Shelley adjusted her unwieldy wings.

  ‘Is Anne coming?’ said Mariam, peeking through the curtains.

  She’d bought and wrapped a present, hoping today would give her a chance to hand it to her. It would be her first Christmas without Teddy and if Mariam was going to atone for her shortcomings as a friend, now would be the time to begin.

  ‘If her bugger of a father comes, I’ll throw Jesus’s crib at him,’ said Copperthwaite, inspecting the jewels on his fingers.

  ‘You’ll give yourself a hernia,’ said Shelley.

  ‘I’d pay good money to see you bowled over by a hernia at Tom’s feet, Copsy,’ replied Margaret. ‘Say Jeeeees-us.’ Her flash caught the actors off guard. ‘Shelley, perhaps smile a little more – you’re an angel, not a fascist.’

  Margaret winked at Mariam.

  ‘It’s my flock,’ said Richard, entering the performance arena. ‘That crown suits you, Margaret.’

  Mariam thought he looked as proud as if the birth of Jesus was his idea. She hated her cynical observations sometimes. See the best in people. How else will they see the best in you?

  ‘Ready to act, as you please,’ Mariam responded.

  She sounded too chirpy. Bilal looked at her. Richard smiled. If he detected her disingenuousness, he didn’t show it. He was a better person than she. Most people were.

  ‘Now, I know you’ve not had a chance to rehearse together but we know the story well enough, yes?’ said Richard.

  There was a reluctant murmuring of assent.

  ‘Right. In your positions then, please.’ Richard moved the screen to reveal the seated audience. ‘A round of applause for our thespians.’

  There was a scattering of claps. Mariam wondered if Saif were here what he’d make of it. Why do you try so hard to fit in? These people don’t even want you here.

  What did it matter? Why were her thoughts constantly filtered by what he might think? Thoughts of him gave him relevance – and he had never felt more so than now.

  She should’ve put her foot down and said no to being in the Nativity. How long were you meant to stand in front of a crowd that tried to bowl you over with their looks? The energy it took to not be moved was diminishing. She saw Haaris, sitting between Khala and Vaseem Bhai, looking down at his lap, and Mariam had a sudden urge to go and slap Sam for being so fickle.

  ‘Two thousand years ago,’ began Richard’s narration, ‘in the town of Nazareth, lived a young woman named Mary. An angel came and told Mary: “Do not be afraid, you have found favour with God.”’

  The aunts’ faces in the crowd contracted, eyes narrowed, throats cleared. Mrs Pankhurst sat with her arms folded, staring at her husband on stage. From the corner of her eye Mariam could see Copperthwaite twitching behind the curtain, Shelley’s wing poking above his head, Margaret with her crown and phone.

  What had she learnt? That things splintered.

  Remember to breathe. Stay in the moment. Feel the ground beneath your feet.

  Mariam looked into the crowd and saw Sam filming the play, then her eyes rested on Haaris again. He’d grown so much in this past year and soon he’d leave her in order to live a life that was fully his own, stories that wouldn’t include her, and worse still – he’d face the challenges of daily living, the world falling away from him, or closing in on him. Then she felt a nudge. It was Bilal. She glanced around the stage at Jenny, the innkeeper, who was looking at her expectantly.

  ‘Is …’ Mariam had to clear her throat. ‘Is there any room at the inn?’

  No! There isn’t any room. And if you thought there ever had been it was an illusion.

  James, whose jeans were peeking out from under his robe, led them towards the stable, where Mariam was about to give birth to Jesus. The curtain closed before the indelicacies of labour had to be shown.
r />   ‘You stepped on my robe,’ came one voice.

  ‘Gosh, accident. Sorry,’ said another as Bilal, Mariam and James went behind the screen to give way to the shepherds.

  ‘I am here with good news for you, which will bring joy to all nations,’ came Richard’s voice as they imagined the shepherds’ scene taking place.

  ‘Good job, you two,’ said Margaret. ‘No time to stop, the shepherds are in Bethlehem.’

  Mariam and Bilal shuffled back on stage.

  ‘We have been following a star for months,’ enunciated Margaret. ‘And we knew that it was a sign that the king of the world was to be born.’

  Margaret picked up the plastic baby and Mariam saw Shelley’s brow twitch – the white doll had been painted brown.

  ‘Jesus would bring the light of love into the world – it would remind us for all eternity of God’s love for us.’

  Richard paused and looked around the room, pointedly. He waited. Then he waited a few more moments before he said: ‘The end.’

  The room gave a generous applause, moved by the scene, or perhaps Richard’s stern eye. Haaris clapped too. The aunts and Vaseem Bhai were varying shades of pleased and Richard turned around to give the actors a broad smile.

  Mariam grabbed Bilal’s hand on the way off the stage and she felt him squeeze it.

  ‘That was excellent. Excellent,’ said Margaret.

  ‘I need to speak with Richard,’ said Bilal as the audience broke out into chatter and he let go of Mariam’s hand.

  The moment she held his hand Bilal had decided: it was better to abandon ideas of the mosque than to abandon his family. Saif’s shadow was beginning to eclipse Bilal’s marriage. Looking out at everyone, watching them all on stage, the gathered community had lifted his heart as much as Mrs Gardiner’s email, with her transatlantic tension, had quashed it. He ignored the prodding thoughts of succumbing to peer pressure, giving in as if he wasn’t allowed to be more than just Bill, the brown guy in Babbel’s End, because wasn’t it easier if he just were? Instead of the man who pressed charges against the employee he fired? He smothered feelings of doubt and his mum’s voice that reverberated in his head. Anything this difficult must mean it’s just not meant to be. Hadn’t his mum always quoted that saying by the prophet (Muhammed, he was sure, but there were others and he really couldn’t keep up): What has reached you was never meant to miss you, and what has missed you was never meant to reach you.