by Ayisha Malik
‘We’ve done a count and we’re still £703 short,’ said Mick.
Disappointed groans permeated the room.
‘Hang on, hang on …’ he continued. ‘Our very own Shelley came up to me earlier and said she’d make up the difference needed with a personal donation.’
Everyone looked at Shelley, who smiled with the self-satisfaction of a woman who tried to hide it.
The room erupted in cheers as they raised their glass to her.
‘Good on you, Shell.’
‘What a woman.’
‘Unlike some others …’
There was a knowing pause in the room. Should Bilal have offered part of his mysterious donation? What was the etiquette of social warfare?
‘So … we’ve met our target. Great team effort everyone.’
Margaret looked a little put out by Shelley’s kindness. Not all acts of kindness were equal, after all.
‘Hum jeetgaye?’ asked Khala Rukhsana.
‘Yes, Khala,’ replied Mariam. ‘We won.’
Khala got the plastic bag, taking out three containers and handing them to Richard, Margaret and Mrs Pankhurst.
‘Mubarak,’ said Khala.
‘Gosh, where?’ said Margaret, looking around the pub.
‘No,’ said Mariam. She sometimes wondered whether Margaret was really of this world. ‘Not Hosni Mubarak,’ Mariam added, looking as agitated as Bilal felt. ‘Mubarak means congratulations. It’s the sweet rice, leftover from the bake sale.’
Khala then, unaware of people’s stares, and much to Bilal’s consternation, went over to the bar and gave a box to Tom. She didn’t notice Tom’s look of surprise as he nodded at her, then asked Mick for a spoon. She couldn’t not give him some, not when he’d lost a grandchild, and all she hoped was that it was the box with the most almonds in it. But the real surprise came when Khala made her way to Shelley, two more boxes in hand. Shelley looked like she might want to hide under the table.
‘Share?’ said Khala, handing her the containers. ‘Sorry.’
Everyone looked uncertainly at one another. Shelley gave her a tight smile, thanked her and took the boxes. As Khala ambled back to the table, smiling widely, everyone stared at the woman who looked as if she’d given them their just desserts.
How all white people enjoy their life, thought Rukhsana. This was the type of thing her friends in Birmingham would never do. Old women looked after their grandchildren, cooked and cleaned; they didn’t sit and relax in the evenings, or go out walking, like that Shelley with her dog. And this Mrs Punkhurst: she was such a large woman but she didn’t move, as if her whole body was in pain.
Every time Rukhsana had tried to catch Shelley’s eye she looked the other way. What did it matter if she was against building the mosque? It was her country after all.
If Rukhsana’s husband could see her, what would he have thought? All this alcohol … astaghfirullah. It was haram. Maybe that’s why Sakeena always said: ‘gora place, gora ways.’
After she had given out the zarda, Bilal said it was time to leave.
‘Stay, Khala,’ said Margaret, pressing her hand on Rukhsana’s arm with such force she sat back down.
‘Rukhsana,’ Bilal said to Margaret, perhaps for the third time.
‘O-ho,’ said Rukhsana. ‘Let her call me khala, even though she looks like she could be my khala.’
The budda – Tom? A nice, simple name – sitting on the stool, was looking at Margaret, his brows furrowed, cheeks red. He had finished his zarda, which pleased Khala. But why did everyone look so serious when the game was won and money for the bell raised?
All the chatter and the clinking of glasses filled Rukhsana with energy. She’d go for another walk tomorrow. Maybe she’d get closer to the cows.
Someone then came up to Richard (how strange that a man of God was in a place like this), who paused at the question he was asked, and then said Mariam and Bilal’s names.
Everyone stopped.
Rukhsana wished she’d picked up more English but peered into everyone’s faces, reading their expressions. The man (though he looked like a woman) talking to Richard didn’t look pleased, but Richard patted him on the shoulder, smiling. She caught words like ‘Christmas’.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked Mariam.
But Mariam was distracted and said something to the man. Guppy?
‘Mariam,’ said Bilal, as if warning her.
Then Margaret shook her finger at Guppy, who glared at Mariam and Bilal. Richard put his hand up to her before Guppy stomped back to Shelley’s table. Mariam and Bilal both started speaking very fast to Richard – serious and frustrated – and even he couldn’t seem to keep up. Margaret looked pleased, but Mrs Punkhurst was thinking hard. Richard tried to calm things; the vein in his neck was getting bigger. Tom was looking at everyone, laughing.
Then Shelley’s table got up.
They all walked out of the pub, not one person looking their way.
After a few more minutes of confusion, and feeling disconnected, Rukhsana left the pub following a visibly flustered Mariam and Bilal. She looked up at the full moon, the shape of the trees against the misty sky, the dimly lit street lamps, tinging everything with an orange hue, and she felt that this place could be as haunting as it was beautiful.
Then: ‘What the—’ came Bilal’s voice, grabbing a piece of paper from the windshield.
‘What?’ asked Mariam.
For a moment, Rukhsana was so pleased she’d understood their English she didn’t see their faces fall. Mariam folded the paper and put it in her pocket.
‘What is it?’ asked Rukhsana. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Someone wrote a note,’ replied Bilal.
Mariam had already opened the door for Rukhsana.
‘What did it say?’ asked Rukhsana.
Bilal’s shoulders drooped, his eyes sad. Had his hairline receded more since she’d got here? That look would have had Sakeena march around the house, shouting that Mariam just didn’t look after him; that Bilal had inherited none of his mother’s or father’s genes – he was too kind.
‘You’re not welcome here,’ he replied.
Rukhsana glanced at Mariam, whose eyes were glassy with either tears or fury.
‘Hain?’ said Rukhsana. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They don’t want us here, Khala,’ replied Mariam, her voice cold.
‘But … this is your home.’ She looked between Bilal and Mariam. ‘Maybe you will have to re-think your ammi’s request, beta. Maybe these people aren’t ready. Everything has its time.’
The break in Bilal’s heart was apparent on his face.
‘Absolutely not,’ replied Mariam.
Bilal looked at her.
‘Who are they to say we’re not welcome?’ she added.
They held each other’s gaze. If only Sakeena could have seen the strength Mariam seemed to give Bilal.
‘You’ve got the piece of paper?’ asked Bilal.
Mariam gave a small laugh that didn’t come from a place of happiness. ‘Oh, yes.’
They all got in the car and Rukhsana noticed Bilal put his hand on Mariam’s leg and squeeze it. She covered his hand with hers and that’s how they drove back, all the way home.
Dear Reverend,
You must understand why we categorically object to assigning the roles of Mary and Joseph to Mariam and Bilal. In the past three months the Hashams – who you full well know we had respected as a part of our community – have become intent on destroying everything Babbel’s End stands for.
This petition, with names attached, should show how strongly we all feel. Surely it is your duty to consider the feelings of the masses rather than succumb to the pressure of a minority.
Respectfully yours,
Shelley Hawking
Richard knew cages would be rattled. It was inevitable when people lived in such small ones. A month had passed and winter’s chill was settling into the village as well as people’s hearts. Despite se
veral conversations with Shelley, she had finally delivered her petition. Richard had spent much time considering the feelings of everyone in the village, but then the graffiti had happened, and the bake sale had been unfortunate, so that moment in the pub when Guppy asked him about the Nativity and Richard had looked at Bill’s withdrawn face, the decision was obvious.
But, of course, with conviction would come conflict.
‘Oh, don’t be such a dry old stick, Guppy,’ Margaret had said, watching his sweaty face turn red. ‘Mariam means Mary in Arabic.’
‘So?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘They were all brown.’
‘Who?’
‘Jesus’s lot, of course.’
Guppy’s eyebrows had collapsed from their disbelieving heights. He, along with most, believed history and holiness to have always been white.
After the Hashams had left, Tom had come and sat at Richard’s table.
‘For a man of God you have a wicked sense of humour.’
‘Tom, go and sit at the bar where you belong,’ said Margaret.
‘This isn’t for entertainment, Tom,’ said Richard.
Tom scoffed and shook his head. ‘Those two could head the next ten village spring cleans and they still won’t be a part of this place. Not if Bill actually succeeds. And you know what? I hope he bloody does.’
‘Why?’ asked Richard.
‘Teach these people a thing or two.’
‘And what do you think they’ll learn?’
Tom stared at Richard, holding his gaze. ‘That the fucking earth isn’t theirs.’
Shelley’s hands shook as she read Richard’s letter.
Dear Shelley,
Thank you for your letter, which I’ve admittedly received with regret. You seem to think that the pain of many is greater than the pain of a few. It’s disappointing that a family that has done so much for the community these past years can have that respect and love taken away so easily.
I sympathise with your position, but I cannot, in good conscience, take away what has already been offered to Bilal and Mariam. They are delighted to undertake their roles and I believe it will show everyone that it is better for us to live in respect and harmony than to begin to sow seeds of doubt – an evil that only grows unless it’s countered with neighbourly love and, of course, faith.
Yours truly,
Richard
Here was pure evidence: the all-embracing reverend was every bit as heretical as some people suggested. A clichéd product of the times – too scared to hold on to what was dear for fear of offending, happy to forsake his own roots so that others could plant theirs.
‘Arthur!’ she shouted, banging the kitchen door.
She almost knocked over the framed embroidery on the wall as she walked in to find him in his usual place. She shoved the letter in his face.
‘Another letter?’ he asked, without reading it.
She saved him the trouble, looking at him expectantly when she’d finished.
‘New age hippie,’ he said.
Her face flushed with relief. ‘Exactly.’
‘I told you: a man of God who’s that good-looking can’t be trusted,’ Arthur mumbled.
What did Richard’s looks have to do with anything?
‘Pfft, Margaret,’ he added, shaking his head. ‘Anyone who tells you that Mary and Joseph were brown are plain brainwashing you.’
Shelley paused at the gap in her husband’s knowledge. Of course they’d been brown, but she wished Arthur could stick to the point. Shelley needed to think. She grabbed her coat and summoned Holly, and they made their way towards the usual path through the fields, wishing she’d also brought her gloves. The inconvenience of this, however, was nothing compared to seeing Bilal’s aunt. At least this time she was in normal attire – trousers, a red jumper, an anorak that zipped up. Before Shelley could turn the other way, Bilal’s aunt was already waving to her.
‘God help me,’ exclaimed Shelley under her breath.
Richard pounded the treadmill and pushed himself on the leg press, before pulling at the wide-grip lat until he’d run out of breath, feeling mildly nauseous. His letter was perhaps too candid, but if one sought truth, then surely they must be truthful. The village had a right to feel wary about the mosque, but Bilal had a right to have one in the place he called home. Somehow two rights were making a wrong.
But if the village saw Bilal and Mariam play Mary and Joseph, they might realise that together they were in fact creating a new history.
At the bench press, Richard clenched his jaw, grunting at the extra five kilos he’d added to today’s workout, wondering what Jesus would’ve done.
‘All right, old man?’
It was Gerald, looking even skinnier than usual, a dimness to his sunken eyes. Next to him was Dan, with his solid form and overly groomed eyebrows.
‘You up for a bit of competition?’ said Dan, already lying on the neighbouring bench press, pushing weights before Richard could say yes.
Eventually, Richard had to stop, perturbed by Dan’s strength and composure as he benched 120 kilos.
Dan finally stopped. He wiped the sweat off his face and gripped Richard’s hand, looking smug, pressing it tighter than necessary.
Richard held on to it, meeting force with polite force.
‘Let go of him, man,’ exclaimed Gerald.
‘What?’ said Dan. ‘Rev’s all right, isn’t he?’
‘Don’t mind Dan. He’s just a knob.’
It was as Dan got his rucksack to take out a bottle of water that Richard noticed the spray can. He wasn’t a suspicious man, but he was a man of instinct.
‘Do you always carry spray paint?’ he asked, folding his arms, which he knew were the right shape of threatening.
Without hesitation Dan took the can out. ‘I like the colour red.’
‘People will start making assumptions,’ said Richard.
‘And …?’ Dan held Richard’s gaze.
Gerald stared at the ground. ‘Rev’s not got time for your bollocks.’ He looked at Richard, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘Say hi to Mrs Lark, yeah?’
Dan’s face seemed to flicker with something like emotion.
Yes, to counter people’s burgeoning hate, Richard had to show more than just dutiful love. Except as he watched Dan walk away with Gerald, he knew it was easier said than done.
It took Rukhsana longer to walk in these new clothes – everything felt so tight. The rolls of her flesh felt exposed, as if her body was on display. She didn’t know how goray wore them. Maybe that is why they also sometimes seemed so uptight. Still, she couldn’t ignore Shelley once she had seen her, even though she might laugh at her for dressing like someone she’s not.
‘Hellaw,’ she called out.
Shelley didn’t look happy, but then she had such a face and you shouldn’t question what Allah has given someone.
‘How are you?’ Rukhsana asked.
She could now say this fluently, as if she’d said it her whole life, and it made her excessively proud.
‘We walk?’ she added.
Shelley paused. ‘Oh, fine.’
Rukhsana decided that there must be something, other than Allah’s wisdom, that made Shelley’s lips so thin.
‘Game. Was … fun, haina?’ Rukhsana offered, keen to comment on the positives.
Plus, the quiz had been fun, despite what came afterwards. But Shelley whipped her head around, eyes narrowed. That dog started barking so Rukhsana had to keep muttering prayers under her breath. Then Shelley’s words came out in waves, Rukhsana barely catching two of them together before Shelley took a breath to continue. She caught things like ‘Christmas’ and ‘husband’ and ‘home’. Hai hai. Why wasn’t there someone to translate? Shelley went on like this until she stopped abruptly.
‘I’m sorry.’
That, Rukhsana understood, even though Shelley didn’t sound sorry.
‘It’s just how it is,’ Shelley added.
‘Hmm?�
� asked Rukhsana.
Shelley shook her head, her eyes rolling around as if she were considering the future. Or maybe the past? ‘Oh! Life!’
Rukhsana nodded. ‘Zindagi,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Zindagi mean life,’ Rukhsana explained.
‘Right.’
‘You have husband?’ she asked.
‘Well, yes … I just said … Oh, doesn’t matter. Yes. I have.’
Rukhsana smiled. ‘Twaadi kismet changi hai.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Rukhsana tried to think of the translation. ‘You.’
‘Yes?’
‘Are …’
‘Go on.’
Rukhsana concentrated. The word was on the tip of her tongue. Then it came to her.
‘Lucky.’
For a moment Shelley seemed surprised, and then had a look – something like pride, but also regret. Rukhsana would think of that look for a long time.
BILAL WALKED THROUGH THE narrow hall of his mum’s home in Birmingham – there to finalise the sale and organise storage until he knew what he’d do with everything. He should’ve told Khala by now, brought her with him, but he wanted to wait until they had a nice retirement community to show her. Selling the house was a good thing.
She would understand.
Ultimately.
Taking out his phone he chased the Titchester agent about the owner of the land, but no news there. He swallowed hard, remembering his mum’s words: look after your khala.
And now, since this whole Mary and Joseph drama, there was a new feeling. Whereas Mariam’s cynicism usually evoked feelings of endearment in him, they were recently evoking exasperation. Her cynicism seemed to be ageing disagreeably and he was beginning to see just how difficult his wife found it to let go of things.
He peered into his old bedroom and remembered something. Walking to his wardrobe he battled through to the back where the boardgames were kept. There it was: his backgammon set. After paying the garden a visit, where the grave was now unkempt, he went to leave and paused at the door. He took in the house one last time and finally walked out, backgammon set nestled under his arm and a gnawing sense of guilt in his chest.