This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘Bill.’

  Bilal looked up to see his employee, Bruce, in his pale blue T-shirt, ill-fitted jeans and forgettable face.

  ‘Thanks for staying late today to sort out those spreadsheets,’ said Bilal.

  ‘It’s what you pay me for,’ replied Bruce, taking his seat behind him.

  Bilal looked at the agenda that was left on their seat. Democratic time. That was the time used to talk about issues from the previous meeting’s agenda. His palms felt sweaty and he had an unexpected urge to go and get Mariam so she could be by his side. A mosque. It suddenly felt so absurd, sitting here with all his friends, in the hall where fetes and meetings took place. It just didn’t fit. Bilal watched the room fill – more people than usual for some reason. Was his conviction purely circumstantial? Only forceful when standing in front of a mirror? Why hadn’t he inherited his mum’s talent for confrontation? Why was his body, now rigid in his seat, betraying signs of protest? Why hadn’t he told his wife? And if it was the right thing to do, why was the whole thing giving him indigestion? Each white face suggested that his mum’s legacy should simply be kept alive in his own, unimpressive memory.

  ‘Hello.’

  Richard came to sit next to Bilal.

  ‘I’m going to do it,’ blurted Bilal to him in whisper.

  Richard held his gaze for a moment. Bilal would have to ignore the look of doubt. Ignoring uncomfortable things, after all, was the habit of his lifetime.

  ‘I see,’ replied Richard. ‘Today?’

  Bilal nodded.

  ‘Do what?’ asked Harry, who tended to spread his legs in direct proportion to how badly he wanted a question answered. He often looked in danger of doing the splits.

  Bilal swallowed hard. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Going to liven this party up?’ said Harry, his bare knees now knocking against Bilal’s trousers.

  Richard gave what Bilal supposed was meant to be a supportive nod, but could as easily have been a twitch.

  The room went silent as Shelley stood up, nodding to Richard. She scratched her skin, which looked red and blotchy in her V-necked chiffon dress.

  ‘I know we’re all busy, so your being here is a testament to your dedication to Babbel’s End. We’ve lots to discuss, so let’s get on.’

  The main door swung open, hitting the wall so hard that the sound reverberated in the room. Everyone turned towards it. There, stood in his flat cap and boots caked with dry mud, was Tom. Shelley frowned.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ he exclaimed, bowing.

  ‘Tom. We’d just begun.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me disturb the peace, please,’ he said.

  Tom walked in and took a seat at the front, looking around and smiling at everyone. Bilal saw him catch Richard’s eye and wink. He picked up the paper on his chair.

  ‘I see my bush is on the agenda,’ he said.

  ‘This’ll be interesting,’ muttered Harry.

  Bilal wonderd if Tom’s bush would eclipse the proposal of a mosque in Babbel’s End. He suspected not. Bilal wiped his clammy hands and took long, deep breaths. He could see Shelley’s mouth moving but couldn’t hear her. Just then he saw a Pakistani woman in printed shalwar kameez, her dupatta over her head, standing behind Shelley, laughing at her. It was his mum. Bilal had to blink several times before Sakeena disappeared.

  ‘Bill, are you all right?’ whispered Richard.

  ‘Hmm?’

  Richard looked concerned.

  ‘Yes, yes. Fine.’ Bilal rubbed his chest.

  ‘It’s time,’ said Richard.

  For a moment, Bilal froze.

  ‘No-one?’ said Shelley, about to move on to the next item on the agenda.

  Richard prodded Bilal’s thigh, prompting him to jump up.

  ‘Actually …’ Bilal cleared his throat, taking in the sea of familiar faces who were now looking at him expectantly. Except for Mr Pankhurst, who was nodding off in his chair. ‘I have something.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Shelley.

  Bilal looked again at Richard. He buoyed his courage and said: ‘It’s really about building new things.’

  Bilal could feel the uneasy shuffle of bums on chairs.

  ‘Well then,’ said Shelley. ‘You have your three minutes.’

  Bilal cleared his throat. ‘Right, yes, the thing is …’ He looked around the hall and laughed nervously. ‘We … it is a cultural time.’ What the hell did that even mean? ‘And as you all know, I’m Muslim …’

  Now he had everyone’s attention.

  The words sounded foreign coming out of his mouth – as if he was asserting an identity he hadn’t quite recognised. Yet it didn’t feel unnatural either.

  ‘And, well … as such there are certain things Muslims need.’

  What was he saying?

  He detected the reserved alarm on everyone’s face and knew he should sit down. Forget the entire thing. Change was meant for fascist states and oppressive governments, not serene, bobbing-along, minding-its-own-business Babbel’s End.

  ‘And so I propose – for the sake of …’

  For the sake of who? His dead mother?

  ‘… unity …’ Bilal glanced at Richard, who was looking at him intently.

  Mrs Pankhurst nudged her husband, who awoke with a snort.

  ‘… That, maybe, we should consider building … a mosque.’

  Time stopped.

  Twenty-eight meeting agendas halted and trembled in people’s hands.

  Harry closed his legs.

  Richard folded his arms.

  Mosque.

  The word hissed in the village hall.

  Bilal was sure he saw the first signs of beads of sweat on Jenny’s forehead. Mr Pankhurst leaned forward, as if his hearing deceived him. Mrs Pankhurst’s facial features seemed to have crumpled into each other. Bruce looked down at the ground. As for Shelley, the redness from her neckline had spread up to her face, her hands clasped together as if gripping the key to St Swithun’s petty cash box.

  Bilal attempted a smile, but his mouth was dry, his lips stuck to his teeth. ‘I realise it’s a bit out of the blue …’

  The vocal tremors of mistrust were already beginning, echoing in the hall as well as in the spaces of Bilal’s thumping heart.

  Shelley gave a tight smile as the evening sun washed her face with its light. ‘A mosque?’ she asked.

  Bilal could sit down and pretend it was a slip of the tongue, rather than a slip of the heart. He could tell them to forget what he said. He should ignore what his mum had asked of him. So why did he feel without choice?

  Bilal’s emotional tangle was interrupted by a loud laugh and clapping. There was Tom with his eyes closed in unmodulated mirth.

  Shelley looked more than a little put out. ‘Do you mean the type of mosque that has a minaret? With the call to prayer five times a day?’ she added.

  There was mumbling. Mr Pankhurst leaned back, whispering in his wife’s ear. Harry slowly turned away from Bilal.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he replied.

  Heat rose to Bilal’s cheeks as he clenched his fists together, trying to feel resolute in a wavering room. Tom was now staring at him in wonder. Why couldn’t he look away?

  ‘I realise it’s rather unorthodox …’

  Someone scoffed.

  ‘But, you see,’ he added, hands shaking, ‘I’m part of this community, aren’t I?’

  He looked around the room, which seemed to have become unsure of exactly what Bilal was. Did they think he was becoming one of those extreme Muslims? He had, after all, spent his whole life trying to be un-Muslim. The idea made him want to reach for a beer and a packet of pork scratchings. Though he was Muslim enough to hate the idea of pigs, at least.

  ‘Of course you are,’ said Richard.

  Shelley gave another tight smile.

  ‘So, I feel it would be good … important to have a mosque to show that.’

  Mr Pankhurst scraped back his chair and stood up. ‘Is this some so
rt of joke, Bill?’

  Bilal’s face flushed deeper at the indignity of having his mum’s request reduced to a stunt.

  ‘I’m quite serious,’ he replied.

  ‘Hear, hear!’ exclaimed Tom.

  The mumbling had turned into a commotion as Bilal felt the blood rush to his ears.

  ‘Quiet. Quiet, please,’ called out Shelley.

  She straightened up as the voices died down.

  ‘Well, Bill. We had no idea you felt so strongly about your faith. Not that you shouldn’t, of course.’

  He wanted to say he didn’t. Until now his Muslim and Pakistani heritage had been purely anecdotal – good for an interesting story in the pub, or a quick laugh about how they’d eat tandoori chicken at Christmas while wearing Christmas cracker hats. But that image he’d had while lying in the grave, of being in the mosque, had imprinted itself in his mind. Plus, there were all kinds of inoffensive mosque initiatives throughout the country nowadays – chai-at-the-mosque, meet-a-Muslim – opening doors to open minds etcetera. Because it was largely agreed that open minds (and doors) were better than closed ones. Perhaps he could host one of those. It struck him so forcefully and gave him such a warm feeling he had to unbutton his suit jacket.

  ‘Not just me, but Mariam too. And Haaris. Maybe more Muslims nearby?’

  ‘More Muslims?’ people muttered. ‘What kind?’

  He imagined Mariam reading their collective thoughts: were these other Muslims the tandoori-chicken-but-without-the-Christmas-hat-wearing sort, or another breed altogether? Did all Muslims eat tandoori chicken?

  ‘Exactly how many? And how nearby?’ spat Mr Pankhurst, his thick, grey moustache tremoring.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be a nice sign to the outside world, John?’ Richard intervened, addressing Pankhurst. ‘Considering the times we live in.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Bilal, his confidence rising. ‘That too.’

  ‘Yes, well, of course,’ said Shelley, looking around the hall, attempting to widen her smile. ‘Thank you, Bilal. Let’s move on, shall we?’

  Was that it? Had they heard him? Bilal’s heart felt wedged somewhere in his knees when someone spoke up.

  ‘Where exactly would this mosque be?’

  It was Guppy, looking at Bilal as if he’d just told him he’d stolen his golden retriever. Bilal had always had a soft spot for Guppy, who was often mistaken for a woman – one who’d let herself go, but a woman nonetheless – because of his long, lank hair, delicate features and broad hips.

  ‘I’ve not really thought about that,’ replied Bilal. ‘I wanted to present it to the council before I take … practical steps.’

  ‘Practical steps?’

  ‘He can’t be serious!’

  Richard angled his head.

  Bilal frowned. Why shouldn’t he be serious?

  ‘It’s very good of you,’ replied Shelley, her eyes boring into Bilal’s.

  ‘Excuse me, Bill,’ said Mrs Pankhurst, ‘but this really is … out of the blue.’

  Murmurs of agreement pervaded the hall, but Bilal’s resolution began to lift his heart from his knees, into his lower abdomen, at least.

  ‘Racist!’ Tom stood up, an ominous smile playing on his lips as Mrs Pankhurst flushed red.

  ‘Well, wha … no, I … Tom Lark,’ said Mrs Pankhurst, recovering, ‘don’t you go causing trouble.’

  ‘Do sit down,’ said Shelley, closing her eyes as if she were talking to a child.

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean it that way,’ said Bilal to Mrs Pankhurst.

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘Bill, my boy, all she meant was that it’s just not English,’ added Tom. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  No-one contradicted Tom. Not even Mrs Pankhurst. Bilal balked. What did everyone even mean by English? Bilal was English. Though he could concede that having a mosque in the middle of the village might not be. Surely you could be and want two different things at the same time? More than two things, even. He also enjoyed golf, for example.

  ‘If I may?’ Richard stood up, cutting a large and distinguished figure. He radiated calm and it served as a tranquiliser to Bilal’s errant nerves. ‘We know that St Paul’s isn’t exactly brimming with a full congregation. And as for St Swithun’s …’ He looked around at the people who lowered their eyes, guilty of long-standing apathy. ‘Anything that brings a little faith can only be a good thing, no?’

  ‘With all due respect, Reverend, that’s hardly the same thing,’ replied Shelley.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  There was a pause as the two held each other’s gaze.

  ‘God’s man!’ exclaimed Tom.

  Shelley let out a sigh.

  ‘Smartest thing he’s said in years.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom,’ replied Richard, sounding tired.

  Tom surveyed the room, squinting at everyone.

  ‘You look at these people, Bill,’ said Tom. ‘Take in each and every expression. They tell you truths you’ll never learn from their mouths.’

  Bilal couldn’t help but look at the familiar faces that were now somehow foreign. He glanced at his hands; the cut of his suit couldn’t hide the fact that he was brown, and never before had this distinguishing feature felt like such a hindrance. It didn’t matter how much of his faith and culture he shed – quite happily – he could never shed the colour of his skin.

  And why had he felt he had to?

  ‘Tom …’ began Shelley.

  Tom put up his hands. ‘Say no more.’

  And he swept out of the room, leaving nothing but a pervasive mistrust behind.

  ‘A MOSQUE!’

  Shelley’s demeanour unravelled as soon as she stepped into her Volvo and drove off down Skiffle Road.

  ‘A mosque.’

  (If only she knew that Bilal had felt similar surprise when he first heard it from his mother’s lips.)

  She thought of when he moved here with his family and attended the first council meeting, back when Shelley was just a parish councillor – he had been rapt at her words. A quiet discomfort had lingered in her. She wasn’t a racist – heavens! She had, after all, rather taken to Bilal’s wife, despite her monochrome clothes. (That was until Shelley discovered that Mariam still referred to herself as ‘Ms’. For Shelley this was dithering under the guise of feminism, and if there was one thing she couldn’t abide, it was dithering.) No, it had nothing to do with the Hashams’ skin colour. It was the unknown. Unknown people harboured unknown ideas. And ideas could be a dangerous thing.

  She strode into the house and looked around for her intellectually vacant husband. Holly came barking at her feet as Shelley patted her head.

  ‘A mosque, Holly.’

  Arthur was sitting in the garden on his red and white striped deck chair, staring at the night sky.

  ‘You’ll never guess the absolute treachery.’

  Shelley posed in the door frame, on the decking, expecting her husband to turn around. He didn’t. His hearing was becoming increasingly selective. She wasn’t sure whether it was age or stubbornness. Maybe they were the same thing.

  ‘Well? Don’t you want to hear what happened?’

  Shelley walked over to Arthur and leaned over him. She realised she leaned over him a fair bit, so took a step back. She wouldn’t have it said that she stifled him. Not when she felt stifled so much of the time.

  ‘If you want to tell me, no point in objecting.’

  Arthur had the knack of sounding cleverer than he was and the deceit of it irked Shelley, but she couldn’t stop the words coming out of her mouth. As she related the events of the meeting, his expression began to change, until he looked at her full in the face and said: ‘A mosque? In Babbel’s End?’

  Here was validation. Even her husband managed to emit emotion.

  ‘You couldn’t make it up, could you?’

  ‘Bill?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘I thought he was Sikh.’

  Shelley exhaled.

  ‘It�
�s nonsense,’ said Arthur. ‘Wouldn’t look right for one.’

  A joy sprawled in Shelley’s chest. The last time they had agreed on anything was probably when Arthur, for reasons now forgotten, thought they should spend the rest of their lives together.

  ‘We can’t let this happen,’ said Shelley.

  ‘You’re going to stop him?’

  ‘You said yourself it’s nonsense.’

  ‘Aye, but a man has to make his mark,’ replied Arthur.

  ‘You can make a mark without building a mosque.’

  Arthur turned his head away and Shelley knew she’d lost him to the night sky. It didn’t matter. She had been losing him every day for the past forty years.

  Shelley went back inside and picked up the phone tree, which every household in the village had in case of an emergency. Below Shelley’s name was Copperthwaite’s.

  ‘What?’ he’d exclaimed, coughing, still in bed with his chest infection. ‘A damned mosque?’

  ‘Language, Copsy.’

  She always could rely on his outrage. He’d been a part of this village his whole life – just as long as Shelley had. In fact, it was the only thing he had been a part of, on account of what had always been considered his predilections.

  Copperthwaite had looked on the unfolding of gay pride and celebrated ‘coming out’ with increasing disbelief; men and women affirming their sexuality on speakerphones and marches while he had barely affirmed his to himself. He’d failed to live by his own desires and, looking at these young (and old) people, had the impression that he must’ve failed others too. There wasn’t even a lost love he could mourn and consider the question of ‘what if’ to fill his redundant days. There’d been one particular event, but it had meant more to Copperthwaite than the young man in question. A classic case of misdirection.

  Back then, sitting in his home, Shelley had pressed his hand for a moment, carefully avoiding the full details of his upset. Her then strawberry-blonde hair fell over her shoulders rather charmingly, her face not yet lined with the vagaries of her own life. She’d just begun her teaching course and felt anchored enough to offer some anchoring to others, whatever their unfortunate circumstance.