This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘Goddamn country going to the dogs,’ he added now.

  Shelley listened patiently to his ensuing tirade, then told him she had a meeting to organise. The next call she made was to Mr Pankhurst.

  ‘Shelley,’ he said, as she heard Mrs Pankhurst talking in the background.

  ‘You really must calm down …’

  ‘I am quite speechless,’ he added.

  Shelley may very well have lost her husband, but there would be an ice show in hell before she lost her village.

  That night Shelley tossed and turned. When she finally managed to sleep she dreamed of minarets and calls to prayers in Babbel’s End, until her village had morphed into some Moroccan landscape. Shelley woke up in a cold sweat and resented the peace with which Arthur slept.

  It didn’t take long to rally the majority of people for an emergency meeting the following day at The Pig and the Ox. Shelley hesitated when calling Richard and was relieved when he didn’t answer. At least she had done her duty as Christian and churchwarden by making the call. She got to Margaret’s number. That woman had seen too much of the world, so Shelley – for the sake of keeping focused – skipped her name too.

  ‘We’re here to discuss the … the outrageous event at yesterday’s parish council meeting,’ said Shelley, calling the meeting to order.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Outrageous.’

  The lights in the pub were always low, exactly how the villagers liked it. Mick came with everyone’s drinks, wishing them luck, making extra space for them after he’d heard what the meeting was for.

  Shelley took a sip of her sherry and looked around at the heaving crowd she’d managed to gather, the pine tables dotted in the middle of the room with their matching chairs, a cart wheel hanging against the burgundy wall, beside which was a wheelbarrow filled with logs, the fireplace next to it, which would be roaring come winter. People from neighbouring villages – Little Chebby and Swinknowle, Romsey and Baerney – had also come. Because what if Bill’s idea caught on? What if more Muslims came out and decided they wanted to bring foreign ideas into their green spaces? There was a reason people chose to live in a quiet village. There was a certain way of doing things in these parts.

  ‘I didn’t know what to say when I heard,’ exclaimed one voice.

  ‘Oh, I said exactly what I felt,’ came another. ‘That Pa—’

  ‘It is indeed a very trying time,’ interjected Shelley quickly, unsure where that particular statement was going. ‘But I don’t think any of us have the intention of letting this abomination go ahead.’

  ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘Hear, hear!’

  Shelley’s gaze rested on Anne. Why was she here and how had she even heard about the meeting? The people sitting around Anne shifted around her apologetically, still sorry for her loss, but sorrier for their inability to articulate their sympathy. It all rather detracted from the current problem. Aside from the discomfort of Anne’s characteristic silence, the last thing Shelley needed was for Tom to come bounding in.

  ‘Are we sure Bill’s in his right mind?’ asked Mrs Pankhurst, taking off her hot pink scarf. Never had Mrs Pankhurst’s incessantly cold body temperature bothered Shelley more. ‘I’ve thought about it and his mother’s death hit him rather hard, you know.’

  She detected a few people nodding, as if this hadn’t occurred to them; at least one looked pensive. Empathy, after all, wasn’t always a given, but there was a time and a place for such a thing. This wasn’t it.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ added Mrs Pankhurst.

  ‘No-one’s denying that,’ replied Shelley, annoyed. ‘Even good people can have very bad ideas.’

  ‘Exactly, Linda,’ exclaimed Mr Pankhurst to his wife, who in turn gave him a stare hard enough for everyone to look away from the usually happily married couple.

  A Mexican wave of nodding heads rippled through the gathering.

  ‘I wouldn’t have pegged Bill as a fanatic,’ said another. ‘But then he’s Asian, so who can tell?’

  ‘Stay in the sun long enough and you’ll be brown-skinned too,’ replied Mrs Pankhurst. ‘Honestly, he wants to build a mosque, not a Jihadi centre.’

  ‘I mean, it’s not as if he’s a refugee or something,’ said another voice.

  Shelley wasn’t comfortable with the mumbles of agreement here. She had more than surface feelings for the refugee crisis. It never took too long after a news story for her to make a donation to a Christian Aid appeal. But if they spent all evening discussing the whys and whats, they’d never get anywhere.

  ‘Listen to you people.’

  Shelley looked at Copperthwaite, his finery distinguishing him in the crowd, the creases in his maroon Ascot tie as deep as the ones in his brow.

  ‘He and his wife were fine enough when they came here, but see what’s happening? Do you have any idea what this would mean?’

  ‘Remember, this isn’t personal,’ said Shelley. ‘It’s about the bigger picture. It’s about preserving our heritage.’

  ‘Of course it’s personal, Shell,’ said Copperthwaite. ‘When you start destroying things to build new ones. Where do you think this mosque will go, hmm?’

  ‘I mean we’re not going to get nasty,’ replied Shelley.

  This was her meeting and Copsy wasn’t going to push her off her usual spot on the moral high ground.

  ‘We’re civil people and we’ll take the civilised approach. We’ll let the Hashams know, via petition, that we’re against anything new that threatens to spoil our land.’

  People banged their glasses on the table. ‘Hear, hear!’

  This must’ve been the moment Shelley’s life had been leading up to – everyone watched her, in need of leadership. And she would lead. The ambassador of the village’s conscience.

  Mrs Pankhurst folded her arms, refusing to raise her wine glass with the rest of them. Mr Pankhurst seemed put out.

  ‘It’s not as if any of us have problems with Muslims,’ said Shelley. ‘But one should practise one’s religion in one’s own home.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘Who will the mosque serve, anyway?’ Shelley added, glad that everyone seemed to understand this was a rhetorical question. ‘We must present a united front. Like the community that we are. Agreed?’

  More voices of assent.

  Had Shelley been less enthralled by her own speech-making, she would’ve noticed the two figures walking through the pub door.

  She’d have seen them make their way towards the group and stand at the back of the crowd.

  She would’ve observed Richard glance at Bilal, who for the first time was left, literally and metaphorically, out of the circle.

  ‘Shelley,’ Bilal said quietly. ‘This is my community.’

  Silence.

  Everyone turned towards Bilal.

  Shelley’s cheeks flushed at the sight of Richard, whose eyebrows were creased enough for her to detect anger.

  ‘Bill,’ she replied, pulling herself together.

  She gave him a small smile but his gaze rested on every face, as if to say, ‘You too?’ Copperthwaite was the only one who met his stare without wavering. Mr Pankhurst looked away, his lips clamped together. Jenny Ponsonby took a prolonged sip from her Pinot Grigio as her husband, James, looked into his pint glass. Harry was sitting with his arms folded, looking down solemnly, as if he didn’t know how it had come to this. Then the blood rushed to Bilal’s face when he saw Bruce.

  ‘We weren’t told about the meeting, Shelley,’ said Richard.

  Shelley maintained her smile. ‘I tried calling you, Reverend.’

  ‘I must’ve missed the message,’ he replied.

  Richard scanned the crowd, his sight resting on Anne. Shelley detected the sinking of his shoulders, the softening of his eyes.

  ‘Let’s get another table,’ Richard said to Bilal.

  But Bilal was still staring at the crowd, his mouth droop
ing at each familiar face.

  ‘Bill?’

  Bilal turned and followed his friend.

  Shelley’s heart hammered as hard as her thoughts. Feelings shot around her body, her arms tingled (they were apt to go to sleep). She swallowed hard. She had never felt more alive.

  RICHARD CAME TO THE table with two beers, noticing Bilal’s eyes darting towards the throng. What was Anne doing there? It was so unlike her to be in public, let alone such a meeting. Richard slammed the drinks in front of his friend, spilling some on the table.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Richard.

  Bilal shook his head as Richard sat down, intentionally blocking the crowd from Bilal’s view.

  ‘Don’t pay attention to that,’ he said, reminding himself that this was about Bill, not Anne.

  It wasn’t up to him which meeting she should or shouldn’t attend, no matter in how much poor taste he found it. Richard may have had doubts on the mosque matter, but it was his personal challenge to free himself of preconceived notions. Learning was a lifelong process, and he had taken it for granted.

  He focused on his friend. ‘Bill?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be over there too?’ asked Bilal.

  ‘I’m right where I need to be.’

  Bilal looked at him, holding on to his beer. ‘Harry … and Bruce. Is that why he was even quieter at work today? Mrs Pankhurst sent us lamb chops the other week.’

  Richard knew Mrs Pankhurst had a soft spot for the Hashams. When she lived in London her children had a Pakistani childminder who still sent the family Christmas cards – there was nothing like the yearly communication via festive cards, signed with love, to keep affection alive.

  ‘Were they good?’ asked Richard.

  Bilal shrugged, angling to look over Richard’s shoulder. ‘Mariam made me give them to Sam’s parents. She’ll never go non-halal.’

  Bilal was about to take a sip from his beer but paused, staring at the pint. ‘I haven’t had a drink since my mum died.’

  Richard realised that he was bearing witness to a man in crisis.

  ‘I even prayed once,’ added Bilal. ‘Maybe I’ll do it again.’

  ‘I’ve found that much of faith is practice.’

  Richard couldn’t help but think that the same went for kindness. And, often, hate.

  ‘I know you think this is a bad idea, but I can’t turn back now.’

  Richard paused, unsure of what to say in lieu of lying. ‘What has Mariam said?’

  Bilal hesitated. ‘I’ve not told her yet.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘She’s a little preoccupied, what with Khala here.’

  ‘You’d better tell her soon – word doesn’t stay quiet here for long.’

  Bilal pushed his beer away and nodded.

  ‘All the more for me,’ said Richard, trying to sound upbeat.

  The hurt lingered on Bilal’s face as they watched people rise from their chairs, Shelley nodding at everyone, her face pinched. One by one they left the pub, avoiding Bilal’s gaze, and Richard felt a sense of foreboding, which he instantly regretted as dramatic. Anne came into view as the crowds dispersed and she stopped in front of Richard, crossing her arms.

  ‘Bye then,’ she said.

  ‘Bye,’ he replied, resisting the urge to ask what she was doing there.

  She looked at Bilal. ‘How’s Mariam?’

  ‘Fine. Thanks.’ He fidgeted with his beer mat. ‘You … you were at the meeting from the beginning?’

  Anne gave a small smile. ‘Spying for the greater good.’

  Richard admired her all the more for the way her humour managed to permeate her sadness just then. Bilal gave a relieved laugh.

  ‘I know Mariam’s been meaning to come and see you. But, well, you know …’

  ‘Busy lives,’ Anne added, turning to leave.

  Before Richard could say to Bilal that it wasn’t all bad, Mr Pankhurst had stomped over to him, his face red, his moustache trembling. Mrs Pankhurst turned around to see her husband pointing at Bilal with his thick finger, barely two inches from Bilal’s face.

  ‘Don’t.’ Jab.

  ‘You.’ Jab.

  ‘Dare.’ Jab.

  Bilal had gone pale, his chest rising and falling as if he could barely breathe.

  ‘John …’ began Richard, getting up.

  But Mr Pankhurst gave Richard a withering look as he swept around, marching out of the pub, Mrs Pankhurst and her pursed lips in tow.

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

  Bilal was staring at the door from which the Pankhursts had left.

  ‘I hope you know – this isn’t personal.’ Shelley gripped her purse in one hand, a notepad in another.

  She’d seen what had happened. The flush of her face gave her away.

  ‘Shelley,’ replied Richard, the sight of her notepad increasing his indignation. ‘That was a very big meeting.’

  ‘With all due respect, Reverend, it’s a very big issue.’

  Bilal cleared his throat, straightening his back as he looked at her. ‘It is.’

  ‘You understand?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe. But even so, Mrs Hawking–’ Bilal never referred to Shelley as Mrs Hawking – ‘We will not go gently into that good night,’ he added.

  Richard closed his eyes and took another sip of his beer.

  ‘No,’ replied Shelley, looking at both of them. ‘We most certainly will not.’

  Bilal had to go home and lie in his grave.

  Don’t. You. Dare.

  ‘Can’t talk,’ he said to Mariam, Haaris and Khala as he walked past.

  He sensed their lingering gaze on him as he went into the garden, but he felt too harassed by the meeting, knocked sideways by Mr Pankhurst, and then too elated at his apt use of poetry with Shelley to have the ability to explain himself.

  This isn’t personal.

  Mr Pankhurst’s finger in Bilal’s face felt very personal. Each averted gaze, each shake of the head was a denunciation; an attack. And it was all for Bilal. He settled into the grave, the earth smelling sweet as he looked up at the night sky. For a moment he thought he saw the shape of his mum’s face in the stars, but checked himself for becoming sentimental. Action was alleviating his guilt, a feeling of concreteness came to him, sharpening the edges of what he always felt was a watery personality. He sat up, facing the wall of earth, and reached for his phone, checking for reception.

  ‘Hello? I mean, salamalaikum?’

  ‘Walaikumasalam,’ came the voice on the other end of the line.

  Bilal took a deep breath before introducing himself to the imam at what used to be his mum’s local mosque in Birmingham.

  ‘Sakeena’s son?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Bilal, shuffling on the uncomfortable ground.

  ‘Sakeena Hasham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh haan. Your father left her, haina?’

  Bilal had to take a deep breath – it was thirty-seven years ago. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tst tst. Very strong woman, mashallah. And you sent us very generous donations when she passed away.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘May Allah reward you. How can I help?’

  Bilal explained his mum’s dying wish and his newfound endeavour to fulfil it.

  ‘Mashallah,’ exclaimed the imam. ‘This will be a sadaqa jaariya for your ammi – rewards in her afterlife for what she’s left behind.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but I need money and I was wondering whether …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Whether you might be able to help raise it. She was so dedicated to the mosque.’

  There was a long pause. ‘There is nothing better than building a house of worship. It is our duty as Muslims to help you. But …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Who will be the imam?’

  Bilal gulped. Of course! How could there be a mosque without an imam?

  ‘I’d not thought that far ahead,’ he replied.

  ‘You must think of this. Whe
re is your village?’

  ‘West Plimpington.’

  ‘West?’

  ‘Plimpington,’ replied Bilal.

  ‘One minute.’

  Bilal heard tapping as he waited.

  ‘I see only one mosque in the county.’ He paused. ‘Bloat-isstone?’

  ‘Blotistone?’ said Bilal. ‘That’s on the other side – hours away.’

  ‘Yes, beta, it’s far. What a name. Anyway, you will need to call them and ask for an imam.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can’t have a mosque without a leader,’ the imam added.

  ‘No.’

  ‘As for the money … well, people will have to know why they are giving it. Our own mosque is needing so much work, but we will help for sister Sakeena. Do you have plans?’

  ‘Plans?’

  ‘For funding?’

  ‘That’s why I called you.’

  The imam laughed. ‘We are only one mosque. How much can we raise for a place people haven’t heard of?’

  Bilal rested his elbow on his knee. ‘Right.’

  ‘You bring me a funding proposal and I’ll put it to the board members.’

  Bilal never thought he’d live to see the day there’d be board members at a mosque. ‘Okay.’

  The imam congratulated him again on doing God’s work. Bilal muttered his thanks, not entirely sure whether he should tell the imam it was rather his mum’s work he was doing.

  RUKHSANA WAS ABLE TO walk a little more each week and thanked Allah for modern medicine with each step.

  Being the type of woman who wasn’t partial to a lot of movement, Rukhsana had never before thought about the freedom of it. Sakeena had been the curious one – discovering new shops, unearthing different restaurants, looking at the world map she’d tacked on the living room wall and talking about the countries they’d visit once she’d saved enough money. Rukhsana would’ve gladly trodden the path that Sakeena laid out, but now it was another unfulfilled future. Rukhsana knew her life was a series of promising failures and so she couldn’t be blamed for the regular sighs she emitted. She knew Mariam – whose sighs seemed to remain on the inside – sometimes wondered about their origins.