This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  This, he had to concede, was kismet. He’d fill in the grave when he got home; no more of that nonsense either. He took the cloth off his head and lifted his robe, realising the absurdity of what he’d been attempting. Something would have to be done about that mystery donation, and the selling of his mum’s house, but he’d have to worry about that later.

  It’s a wonder Mariam was still with him. That Haaris still spoke to him – just look at him sitting alone while Sam joked around with their friends. Trying to plant roots really could cut you off.

  ‘I find mulching at this time of year excellent for suppressing weeds,’ said Richard to Mrs Newbury.

  ‘Richard, we need to speak,’ Bilal interrupted. ‘Mrs Newbury.’

  Richard paused long enough for Mrs Newbury to acknowledge Bilal, but she pretended he wasn’t there. Bilal didn’t care about that any more. He had to tell Richard before he changed his mind. Before he forgot the way Mariam had gripped his hand. He led Richard to a quieter spot in the room, noticing his aunts huddled in a corner where Margaret and Mrs Pankhurst had joined them. How grateful he felt to them for making his family feel welcome.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Richard asked.

  Bilal hesitated.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  His friend’s eyes bore into his. ‘About?’

  ‘The mosque. I’m going to forget it.’

  Richard crossed his arms.

  ‘I know you’re relieved really,’ continued Bilal. ‘And that’s okay. I understand. It’s not worth it in the end, I don’t think.’

  He waited for Richard to speak. It was taking a while and he wasn’t sure what to make of his friend’s stare.

  ‘You don’t think?’ repeated Richard. ‘Or you know?’

  ‘Does it matter either way?’

  ‘It does.’

  Bilal saw the village thespians still in their stage attire: Shelley in her wings, Margaret with her crown. Sometimes he wished that Richard would just say, ‘yes’ or ‘no’, call the spade a spade. The devil really was in the detail.

  ‘The land I wanted to buy … well, she won’t sell it to me. She knew it was for the mosque and she refused. This whole thing’s just caused too much trouble.’

  ‘I see.’ Richard paused. ‘But you always knew that it would.’

  Except Bilal had underestimated his constitution for conflict. And back then he hadn’t realised that his marriage needed saving as much as his mother’s memory.

  ‘Look at Bruce. It brought out the worst in him and see what happened? And aside from that … things are tricky at home.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s all taken a bit of a toll.’

  Silence.

  ‘Well, say something,’ said Bilal.

  Richard rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Do you think it’s just the mosque that’s done that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ exclaimed Bilal, turning a few heads.

  He had too many thoughts and that was nothing compared to his cocktail of emotions. Even Gaviscon couldn’t help. He took a deep breath, waiting for Richard to speak. Again.

  ‘Well?’ Bilal asked.

  ‘You know what’s best for you.’

  ‘It’s all too much,’ said Bilal. ‘The planning permission, the money, the looks we all get. No-one invites us over any more, no quick coffees, no chat about the weather – nothing. It’s like we’re invisible. And Haaris – his friends have all deserted him …’

  Richard’s expression looked pained.

  ‘Listen, it’s not your fault,’ added Bilal. ‘I’m just giving you the facts.’

  Bilal could almost see the flurry of thoughts occupying Richard.

  ‘What?’ asked Bilal.

  ‘It’s not right,’ said Richard, scratching at Rudolph’s nose. ‘A mosque’s just another building.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just another house of God,’ added Richard.

  This was getting rather tedious. Bilal wanted to go and tell Mariam what he’d done. ‘And?’

  ‘What’s the use of a church bell if no-one actually uses the church?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just empty,’ said Richard, almost to himself.

  ‘Yes, it’s all quite sad,’ replied Bilal, unsure of Richard’s point. The place was getting hotter, people close by.

  ‘Bill …’ said Richard, now tugging at a thread on Rudolph’s nose. ‘What if we converted St Swithun’s into a mosque?’

  Bilal leaned forward. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘We’d have to get it deconsecrated,’ said Richard quietly, deep in thought. ‘And there are channels I’d have to go through, but …’ He looked at Bilal, as if this was his battle as well as Bilal’s. ‘It’s the answer.’

  Bilal stared at his friend. ‘Convert St Swithun’s? Into a mosque?’

  Richard nodded.

  ‘But … it’s a church,’ said Bilal.

  ‘A holy space.’

  ‘For Christians.’

  ‘Right now it’s just for decorative purposes.’

  Bilal loved the small, stone building, surrounded by grass and flowers, with the characteristic wooden door that had to be pulled with some force in order to get in, the rows of carved pews, the two memorial columns erected in memory of Henry and Elizabeth Elliot, who’d lost their baby in 1702 and had donated money to the church. All those names on the plaques – the stories behind each life transcended the years and were kept alive in that space. The village had a fundraiser when the church’s roof needed fixing, and they made target, just like they had for the bell – so intent were they on patching up and preserving old things.

  ‘But what about everything it means?’ said Bilal.

  Richard folded his arms again, looking at the ground in thought. ‘Yes. Yes, I know what you mean, but looking too much into the past can stop you from considering the future.’

  ‘What’s brought this on?’ asked Bilal, recognising something troubled in his friend.

  Richard paused. ‘We have to push past ignorance, Bill. Even if we don’t like doing it.’

  Before Bilal could reply, there came a very loud voice amongst the chattering din.

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  The room went quiet.

  There stood Shelley, face red, wings shaking.

  ‘Now, Shelley—’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ she interrupted. ‘Convert the church into a mosque?’

  Murmurs vibrated.

  ‘This is too much,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked someone.

  ‘Our reverend and his friend here are plotting to convert St Swithun’s into a mosque.’

  The room erupted in expressions of collective shock. Shelley’s fists were clenched, the vein in her forehead protruding.

  ‘Don’t worry, Shelley, I wasn—’

  ‘I am very sorry, Bill – Bilal – but I will worry.’

  ‘This is alarming,’ said Jenny, stepping forward.

  ‘Please, everyone,’ said Richard. ‘Let’s carry on with the party. Shelley, let’s talk about this later.’

  ‘I’m tired of being ignored—’

  ‘Ha! Couldn’t if we tried,’ exclaimed Margaret, nestled between Bilal’s aunts.

  ‘I’m sorry, Reverend, but is it true?’

  Silence descended, all eyes on Richard. Bilal saw Mariam’s confused face. What was happening?

  ‘Well?’ said Copperthwaite. ‘Speak up. Is it?’

  ‘This isn’t the time,’ replied Richard.

  ‘It is!’ someone exclaimed.

  ‘Well, now, let’s stay calm,’ said Mrs Pankhurst.

  ‘Being calm has brought us nowhere,’ replied Shelley.

  Mariam had weaved her way through the crowd and was already by Bilal’s side.

  ‘I don’t wish to be dramatic,’ Shelley added, looking around the fairy-lit room, the faces flushed with indignation. ‘But it’s time to pick a side.’

  The crowds gathered closer to Shelley, disper
sing from Bilal and everyone related to him.

  ‘Shelley …’ came Richard’s slow, pronounced warning.

  ‘Let her say it, Reverend,’ shouted Margaret, putting an arm around Khala.

  Shelley paused, looking at Khala, almost as if she were re-considering things. But with what seemed like some effort, Shelley looked away and added: ‘If you are for this mosque that now threatens to destroy our much-loved church, then it follows that you mustn’t care very much about the place in which you live.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Shelley.’

  Shelley closed her eyes upon hearing the voice. Bilal looked around and saw Tom standing with Anne.

  ‘Sorry we’re late to the party,’ he added, stepping closer to the crowd. ‘We know there’s no-one in the world who cares about this place as much as you, Shelley.’ He paused. ‘Except for me, obviously. Why’d you think I gave Bill that money?’

  It was the confession that broke Shelley’s composure. She strode up to Tom, glaring at his self-satisfied face as if she might push him into the ice bucket. Instead, without another word, she marched out of the barn. She sped all the way home. She didn’t even say hello to Arthur, didn’t care he was sitting in the exact position she had left him in. She stalked through the house, into the garden shed and got out her electric hedge-cutter.

  ‘Where in the hell are you going with that? And why are you wearing wings?’ he shouted as she slammed the door behind her.

  Shelley’s car screeched to a halt. She got out her torch and banged it on to the car’s bonnet. The buzz of the hedge-cutter trilled through the quiet country air, the fluorescent glare of the torch shining a light on her winged figure.

  ‘That man!’ she exclaimed as she hacked off a towering chunk of Tom’s overgrown Red Robin bush.

  How dare he? She hadn’t thought to pick up her gloves and her hands were as icy as her resolve. It wasn’t even as if he cared what happened here. He just went around making life difficult for everyone. Shelley had had enough. After a few very satisfying minutes a set of headlights flashed at her. She turned to see an oncoming van. It halted and out stepped Bilal and Haaris, with phone in hand, by his side.

  ‘Shelley.’

  ‘That man has no regard,’ she shouted over the noise of the cutter, going at the bush again, bits of red and green leaves flying in the air like confetti.

  Another car pulled up behind the van, lights flashing on Shelley’s face.

  ‘What’s going on?’ called out Richard as he approached Bilal. Seeing Shelley with the hedge-cutter answered his question. But before he could intervene another car had pulled up and out came a voice.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  Tom’s figure emerged, bathed in the glow of headlights as he looked on at his neighbour and fallen bush.

  ‘This is private property’ he shouted, marching towards her.

  ‘And this is public land,’ Shelley retorted.

  Before long a line of several cars were backed up, people rolling out of their vehicles to watch the spectacle, inky figures against the dark night and times.

  ‘You can’t leave things be, can you?’ said Tom, red-faced.

  ‘Dad, calm down,’ came Anne’s voice. ‘Shelley, stop that now.’

  ‘Not when people like your father don’t care a jot about others,’ Shelley replied.

  ‘You all seeing this?’ Tom said, turning to look at the gathering, which looked on in disbelief. ‘Stop that right now!’ he shouted as Shelley continued to hack at the bush.

  But short of rugby-tackling Shelley, there was no stopping her. It wasn’t long before the bush had been cut and slashed, opening up Coowood Lane, making room for two-way traffic. Shelley switched off the cutter and threw it in the boot as a scattering of applause came from the shadows.

  ‘This is who you want in charge of things?’ exclaimed Tom. ‘Sticking her nose in, ripping things to pieces?’

  Quiet.

  ‘Ugh, you people,’ he said. ‘Well! You heard her before,’

  Tom continued. ‘Pick a side. And by God, let it be the right one.’

  SHELLEY SLAMMED THE PHONE down. It was the fourth media call she’d received in forty-eight hours.

  ‘Take the phone off the hook,’ Arthur called out, eyes glued to the television.

  ‘It might be important.’

  She received a grunt in response. Her neighbours were also calling – updating her on news of which she was already aware. Shelley had lost her mind. It wasn’t the right way to have done it. The hedge-cutter had been a bit much. But despite all that, there wasn’t much doubt about the fact that in the eyes of Babbel’s End, Shelley was a hero. Her lapse in judgement meant Coowood Lane was no longer a hazard. Even the Hashams couldn’t deny that. And, after all, the provocation was at its peak. St Swithun’s a mosque!

  Unfortunately, in all the commotion in the barn, no-one had noticed Sam recording the entire scene on his phone. Then, later, between flashing lights and hedge-cutters, no-one paid attention to Haaris, catching Shelley’s meltdown on his own phone, (which rather trumped the barn in terms of visuals). Honestly! Children nowadays! A little bother at school and all this competition. Then Sam and Haaris forged a team – called a truce! – put the clips together and uploaded it on YouTube.

  Now Babbel’s End was teeming with outsiders. Reporters fizzed around the village green, pouring out of The Pig and the Ox, scattering around people’s houses, for God’s sake. They were everywhere: wrapped in their coats and scarves, putting their smartphones in the air to find reception – the indignity of it all. Jenny had been interviewed by at least two reporters and Mr Pankhurst – who refused to speak to anyone – had to put his hand up to three others. The quiet Christmas spirit had been punctured by interfering busybodies.

  Were Bilal and Mariam getting similar calls from so-called journalists? What if their version of events cast Shelley as the wicked witch of Babbel’s End? She could see it now: the minority couple being publicly shamed for simply wanting a place of worship in their village, their home; the unreasonable white bullies, driving hedge-cutters at any supporter. The fire in Shelley’s belly inflamed her cheeks. People wouldn’t see or hear about how Bilal was met with open arms in his wishes to be part of the parish council before he got too busy and had to leave. Of course not! No-one cared about kindnesses of the past when there seemed to be so-called hatred in the present, though no-one ever forgot past hatred, even in present kindnesses. Shelley clicked again on that pesky site, YouTube. She typed in Nativity, Muslim mosque, and there it was: the familiar still frame of the barn.

  She clicked play and this time noticed new things: the Jones’s odd looks, not quite giving away who they were in agreement with. Bilal’s aunts came in and out of view; Rukhsana, her face caught between pain and panic. There was no use dwelling on that though. Then the camera was on Shelley. When people looked at her, is that what they saw? The sag of the jowls, a frame that looked larger on video than it did to her in the mirror, a patchy red face borne of fury, which didn’t paint her features in the most favourable light. Thankfully Shelley was good at correcting frivolous thoughts like vanity. There was Mariam, striding over to Bilal’s side. Shelley had to pause the video as Arthur’s cough turned into a hacking one, bad enough that she should offer to get him water, but he had legs after all. She played the video again. Copperthwaite was there behind her, his narrowed eyes speaking his support.

  ‘But it’s time to pick a side,’ came YouTube Shelley’s voice.

  Did she really say that?

  Bilal’s face was flushed almost a deeper shade of red than hers and for a moment she felt a twinge of guilt. She remembered the time he came and helped her put up the fence in her garden because Arthur was unwilling.

  ‘So what?’ reasoned Shelley.

  How powerful words could be. You could sentence someone to a feeling by using the right ones. Shelley was overwhelmed by her own sense of authority; the way her speech could cause ripples in the minds of those
around her. Then came Tom’s voice, changing the whole dynamic, usurping her freedom of speech by insisting upon his own. She fast-forwarded to the scene with her and the hedge-cutter. Why hadn’t she taken her wings off? Shelley shook her head. It was one thing to be indifferent, but to actively help by giving money to buy land … Unforgivable. Tom’s words beat down on her: ‘Pick a side. And by God, let it be the right one.’ The video ended and she looked at the number of people who had watched it growing by the minute. Over 132,000 hits – that’s what they called it – in forty-eight hours. Shelley scrolled down the ‘comments’ section:

  Yeah, watch what would’ve happened if a Muslim went mental with a hedge-cutter. Now tell me England ain’t racist.

  Shelley felt her heart beat faster. Of course she wasn’t racist! Why did people misconstrue opinion for racism?

  Fuckin muzlims. Go bk to Saudi where you belong!!

  This particular comment had over 4,500 ‘likes’. Shelley didn’t approve of the language or sentiment. The idea didn’t even make sense! Bilal and Mariam were originally from Pakistan. Shelley, troubled by the comment, phoned Copperthwaite.

  ‘Ha!’ he exclaimed. ‘And they call village people backwards. I bet you two-to-one that half of these ingrates live in council housing and the other half are bankers. Put your husband on the phone. He’ll take the bet.’

  ‘Isn’t it horrific?’ she said. ‘I mean, what’s out there?’

  ‘It’s a jungle, that’s what it is.’

  Shelley put the phone down and got out her glasses to scroll through the rest of the comments. The really disconcerting ones were those that called for the mass murder of Muslims. It made her so uncomfortable she decided to make herself some camomile tea. She’d have to respond to some of these remarks, because invoking violence would be a terrible outcome. Leaving an anonymous comment was all rather complicated but she went through the necessary steps because let it not be said that she wasn’t a woman of principle. She pressed on the reply button to the swearer: