This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘Right. But no-one’s going to sell us the land.’

  ‘Have faith in Allah. But listen to me. Carefully, yes?’

  Bilal held the receiver closer to his ear.

  ‘No violence.’

  ‘Violence?’

  ‘Keep calm.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Our Islam teaches us peace. Not this nonsense we see on the news.’

  ‘Well, quite.’

  ‘Ah … one minute.’

  Bilal heard shuffling on the other end of the line.

  ‘Salam, brother Bilal.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘My name’s Taufiq. I’m one of the new imams at the mosque.’ He sounded very young.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I know Uncle’s spoken to you about making sure everything’s done with adab. You know, etiquette,’ added Taufiq. ‘You’re now an example of what a Muslim should be, mashallah. Allah has granted you this position. Use it wisely.’

  Surely Allah had the wrong chap. How could Bilal in any way be an exemplary Muslim?

  ‘Yes, Taufiq, that’s very well, but … how old are you exactly?’

  ‘Brother,’ replied Taufiq, a smile in his voice, ‘old enough to know that, unfortunately, people can be impulsive.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bilal replied, who had some experience with impulse.

  ‘There’ll be the racists coming out of the woodwork, others justifying their Islamophobia by saying we’re taking over.’

  Oh dear.

  ‘But our people might do stupid things too. Ones without the capacity to reflect,’ he added with enough scorn for Bilal to recognise. ‘You must lead by example.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘We’ll do all we can for you here, brother.’ Taufiq paused again. ‘Our prayers are with you.’

  WE’RE OFF TO SEE the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz.

  ‘Ugh, this is boring.’

  ‘It’s a classic, you little brats.’

  ‘Mariam! How do you put this oven on?’

  ‘Put on Zee TV, they’re showing a Christmas special.’

  Rukhsana had been driven to anxiety by all this shoon shaan. The frosty stillness outside her window was the only thing that calmed her.

  It had got too cold for her daily walks, but after the barn party she’d still attempted a few in the vain hope that she might run into Shelley and try – in her broken English – to make her see Bilal’s point of view. Just like she’d tried to make Bilal and Mariam see Shelley’s. But they’d turned on the television and there was everyone’s face on the news in the clip they’d shown from that YouTube. Rukhsana clicked on the counter that Haaris had got her for Christmas (a much more modern way of praying, he said), and tried to reason that she mustn’t despair, that things were beyond her control, and yet she had this urge to fix things. If Sakeena were here she’d know what to do. Better yet, she’d do it herself.

  ‘Haaaaaris!’

  Mariam was probably calling him to lay the table. The others were in the kitchen preparing Christmas Day lunch. Mariam and Bilal had taken ownership of the turkey but Shagufta and Gulfashan had decided to make complementary dishes: biryani, koftay, dahi pakoriyan with homemade tamarind chutney, kebabs and garlic naan. The smell of fried onions, chicken tikkas sizzling and pilau wafted through the house. Rukhsana decided she’d better join them before everyone thought she’d fallen into a depression.

  As she opened the kitchen door she heard the sound of old Bollywood songs playing.

  ‘O-ho, what are you doing to the rice, Shagufta?’ exclaimed Gulfashan, shoving her out of the way.

  Mariam had her back to Khala as Bilal made the stuffing.

  ‘There are too many people here, Rukhsana,’ shouted Gulfashan, who hardly looked at her.

  Mariam turned around and raised her eyebrows. So, Rukhsana went to the living room, where Vaseem, his wife, children and Haaris were playing a board game, the television muted in the background. The fairy lights around the tree were lit, the presents had all been opened, Rukhsana’s favourite old Bollywood singer sang in the background. She wondered if Shelley had family members around her? She wished she could invite her over so she could smell the turkey and the spices, and hear Rafi sing in his harmonious tones.

  Then the phone rang.

  No-one paid attention. She’d never have dreamed of it before, but her English was getting better and so, in a bout of confidence, Rukhsana picked it up.

  ‘Hellaw?’

  ‘Do you have something to do with this?’ came a voice. Khala recognised it, but before she could say anything the voice continued. ‘I want to know why on God’s green earth – and on Christmas Day of all days – Babbel’s End is swarmi … packed, with Muslims.’

  ‘Shelley?’

  ‘Khala?’ Shelley snapped.

  ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘Bill, Khala. I need to speak with Bill. Now.’

  Bilal felt that his personal acquaintance with the idiom ‘spiralling out of control,’ had become rather intimate.

  ‘Cold out, innit?’ said Vaseem as he drove past Tom’s house, the hedge now neatened and in keeping with the rest of the village order. It was too cold for the aunts to walk and Bilal had tried to keep them back, but it was no good. Most surprising was Khala, who wouldn’t be deterred.

  ‘I did not like the look of that woman when I met her,’ said Gulfashan, referring to Shelley. ‘Sarree.’

  Bilal rubbed his temple. ‘Turn right at the village noticeboard.’

  He was just about to give further directions but he didn’t have to. The lane leading up to St Swithun’s was lined with cars, people getting out in their hijabs and jubbas. Vaseem parked the van and Bilal jumped out and strode towards the church before he stopped in his tracks.

  ‘What the …?’ He stared up at St Swithun’s bell tower, only there was no bell.

  The crowds parted as he entered the churchyard and there he saw Shelley, her palms up, saying things he couldn’t hear amongst the din. She locked eyes with Bilal and shouldered her way past all the Muslims. He’d have thought he was in Birmingham if it weren’t for the stone church set against the rolling hills.

  ‘Will you take responsibility for this?’ she exclaimed, mist emanating from her mouth.

  ‘I don’t know what this is,’ he replied.

  ‘For God’s sake, someone stole the bell. On Christmas Day.’

  ‘Where’s Richard?’

  ‘Inside, trying to get to the bottom of it,’ she said.

  ‘Why are all these people here?’ said Bilal. ‘I don’t understand.’

  From the corner of his eye he saw a reporter taking notes furiously. If Bilal pinched himself, would he wake up?

  ‘Young man,’ came a voice as a man came towards him.

  His long, grey-speckled beard gave the impression of Gandalf in the shire. If it weren’t for the skull cap and jubba he was wearing.

  ‘You are Bilal?’ the stranger asked. ‘Bilal Hasham?’

  There was nothing to do but admit it. The man broke into a smile and pulled Bilal into a hug. He then grabbed him by the shoulders, surveying him.

  ‘May Allah give you jaza for what you are doing.’

  He recognised jaza. If Bilal recalled correctly it meant reward. All these old words were coming back to him, anchoring themselves into his present.

  ‘I’m not doing anything.’

  Bilal’s eyes flickered around – there must be forty people here. He searched for Mariam, but couldn’t see her. The man slapped him so hard on the back Bilal almost choked.

  ‘Humble as well. Allah bless the woman who gave birth to you.’

  There was a girl, she looked Somalian, no more than sixteen, in hijab, skinny jeans and a duffle coat speaking to the reporter.

  ‘Do you feel your religious needs aren’t being met in this county?’ asked the reporter.

  ‘Well, no. Not really,’ she said. ‘There aren’t any mosques around here. But we just got on with it because … well …
’ She gestured around her. ‘Anyway, my parents always told us not to make a fuss of things, so … whatever. Right? But then he came along.’

  The girl smiled brightly, pointing to Bilal.

  ‘What exactly happened, Shelley?’ said Bilal, turning to her.

  ‘We’d just got home after the reverend’s morning service in St Paul’s, and I was in the kitchen when Copperthwaite – you know he never goes to church – called to say he’d noticed lots of cars driving past. Then Jenny called to say there were people gathering around St Swithun’s. And, well, I abandoned my cooking and came down, only to find the bell had gone missing and all your people here.’

  Bilal ran his hand through his hair. ‘Okay, I think we need to stay calm.’

  ‘Mr Hasham,’ called out the reporter, coming towards him.

  Bilal felt the distinct need to run away, but his eyes searched for Mariam again and this time he saw her. She was on the phone, the look on her face a mixture of tension and surrender.

  Lead by example.

  ‘What do you make of all this?’ The reporter cast his arms around the church.

  ‘I’ve certainly never seen this many Muslims in Babbel’s End before,’ said Bilal with a wavering smile.

  ‘Who do you think stole the bell?’

  Bilal hadn’t realised that the bearded uncle was still there until he intervened. ‘When I saw this man on television I praised Allah …’

  Bilal wanted to sit down, right there, on the frosty grass.

  ‘I’m the imam for a small mosque in Blotistone. Unfortunately,’ he cleared his throat, ‘not all Muslims agree that a church is a place for a mosque.’

  Shelley scoffed.

  ‘I wanted to come and see it myself but my plans, as you can see, weren’t kept secret for long. My wife told her sister what I was doing, who then told her uncle, who told his cousin’s niece and …’ They looked around them. ‘And then this happened. Plus, you know, no traffic on Christmas.’

  ‘You’re telling me that you being here and the bell going missing is just a coincidence?’ said Shelley.

  ‘Nothing God does is by coincidence,’ he replied.

  Shelley was caught off guard by this spiritual logic.

  ‘So,’ said the journalist, ‘you think this is a faith-driven crime?’

  ‘Who do you report for?’ snapped Shelley. ‘Are you here to just stir trouble?’

  The journalist carried on as if Shelley hadn’t spoken. ‘I have all I need here. And you are Mr …?’ he asked the imam.

  ‘Hannachi.’

  ‘Can I add that the deconsecration and conversion probably won’t—’

  But before Bilal could finish his sentence the shriek of a whistle filled the air. He looked around to see where it was coming from. It went on and on until the crowd was forced into silence.

  Bilal watched in amazement as Khala Rukhsana waddled past and began telling people off in Punjabi.

  ‘Taanu sharam nai aandi? Christmas de din angraizan nu khapana?’

  Some faces stared blankly but others understood. Someone whispered to the Algerian imam, who passed it on to his neighbour, who repeated the translation to the Somali girl’s mum: Aren’t you ashamed, disturbing English people on Christmas Day? Everyone looked at one another sheepishly as their eyes fell on Shelley.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, very sorry.’

  Shelley looked bemused.

  ‘Hun saaray apne kaar chalo. Assi vi Christmas manaani hai,’ added Khala.

  Bilal couldn’t believe his eyes or ears. Khala, in a crowd, ordering people to go back home so they could celebrate Christmas.

  ‘Baji,’ said one man, walking up to Khala. ‘You know celebrating Christmas is haram.’

  Khala looked like she might blow her whistle in his face. ‘You spoiling this day for everyone is haram.’

  The aunts looked at one another, clearly wondering what had possessed their friend. The crowds began to disperse, looking back at the church. Shelley scrutinised every gaze, each one seeming to agitate a separate nerve. Richard came out of the church with Olly in his PCSO uniform, looking more than a little harassed.

  ‘Well?’ said Bilal to Richard.

  ‘It must’ve happened in the middle of the night.’ Richard rubbed his forehead. ‘I imagine they’d have needed several people to carry the ladder and to bring the bell down the tower, but the new bell’s not as heavy as the old one and you see the tower’s not very high, so …’

  ‘And?’ said Shelley.

  ‘Well …’ Richard sighed. ‘There’s no clue as to who might’ve done it.’

  Without evidence pointing to any one party, both sides were free to uninhibitedly blame the other. It didn’t matter that no-one currently standing under the tower had taken the bell themselves – logic mattered very little in times of vast emotions.

  ‘And I ask that no-one jump to any conclusions,’ added Richard, his tone stern.

  But minds that weren’t anchored to reason would jump.

  Shelley nodded to everyone, her eyes settling on Khala. She pointedly looked away and made to leave.

  Khala stepped into her path. Was she going to blow the whistle in Shelley’s face too?

  Then they witnessed the most extraordinary thing: Khala opened her arms, wrapped them around Shelley and pulled her into a hug. Even more disconcertingly, Shelley, after an initial reluctance, wrapped her arms around Khala too.

  Everyone stared.

  What was going on? Should Bilal break this whole thing up?

  They remained in that embrace as Khala said something in her ear. Shelley seemed disturbed. Then they let go and Shelley walked, as if trying to keep her balance, towards her car, and drove off without looking back.

  Muslims gathered in droves in what looked like a pilgrimage to St Swithun’s on Christmas Day, only to discover that the church bell had been stolen. The culprit is unknown, but this hasn’t stopped anyone from making plans.

  ‘We’ll have to get rid of the stained-glass windows,’ said one gentleman by the name of Abdullah Green, a convert to Islam. ‘And, of course, the crucifixion of Christ. I suppose we won’t have to worry about the bell now.’

  There were many languages being spoken, few of which seem to be the mother tongue of Mr Green’s country of birth, and it makes one wonder – how will this affect a village that’s so quintessentially English?

  Bilal threw his phone on the bed in frustration and switched on the radio.

  ‘… as a Muslim, I’ve got to tell you, I don’t support this mosque. I mean, you’re taking a perfectly nice village and—’

  ‘Ugh,’ mumbled Bilal, switching the radio off.

  He sat on his bed, staring at the fluffy carpet. Had he been blind? He had spent the majority of his life believing that people were generally good sorts. That this racism thing people complained about was a figment of their own cynicism. Victim mentality. It was people never taking responsibility, blaming bad luck on phantom prejudices. It was only now that he began to wonder whether they might have had a point. He had to distinguish between the ones who liked to complain and the ones who actually had something to complain about.

  ‘Do you think it was one of our lot that stole the bell?’ asked Mariam, watching him from the doorway of their bedroom.

  Bilal sighed. ‘I hope not, but who knows?’

  He picked up his phone again.

  ‘Have you read the comments section?’ she asked.

  ‘No sense in that.’

  ‘Think we’re past the realm of sense, aren’t we?’

  ‘You know …’

  Did he want to say what was on his mind? Was that particular can of worms worth opening right now?

  ‘What?’ asked Mariam.

  ‘If you’d been a bit more supportive in the beginning …’

  That was all he had. There were all sorts of ways that sentence could go.

  ‘Then what?’ Mariam snapped.

  ‘This might not have happened.’

  It wasn’t
a very imaginative end to the sentence, but it wasn’t any less true for that.

  ‘Someone wouldn’t have stolen the church bell and a bunch of Muslims wouldn’t have turned up outside it on Christmas Day?’

  He sighed. Mariam always threw logic at his feelings.

  ‘Even if they did,’ he replied, ‘even if it had all happened exactly the way it has, I could’ve done with knowing you’re on my side.’

  ‘Whose else’s side would I be on?’ she asked, folding her arms.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve always been a law unto yourself.’

  He noticed her breathing get deeper. Were her fingers gripping her arms tighter? Bilal looked away and turned his phone over in his hands, just to distract himself from Mariam’s gaze. It was that gaze that had him hooked the first time they met. He was pretty sure it could weave the same magic now that it had then.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  She came and sat next to him, arms still folded.

  ‘You are?’ he asked.

  Mariam nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ Bilal replied.

  Then she was shaking her head. ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  Tears had surfaced in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry because I lied to you.’

  He gripped his phone.

  ‘What did Saif want when he called?’ asked Bilal, quietly.

  ‘How do you know it was him?’

  Something had been set in motion and Bilal knew he shouldn’t answer the question, but he had to face the inevitable. Hadn’t he learnt that there was no grave-pit deep enough in which to bury himself?

  ‘Because you have the same look whenever you speak to him.’

  She lowered her gaze and he noticed her wipe away a tear. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Bilal felt his own eyes fill with tears. He was free-falling into that grave-pit and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get to the bottom.

  Arthur’s grunting tipped Shelley’s irritation into an altogether new emotion. The church bell had gone. Stolen! The audacity. After all that work fundraising. Donating from her own pocket! Worse still was that she just knew it was someone from Bilal’s side. He might not know who, he might have nothing to do with them, but that wasn’t the point. And then when she returned from the Christmas Day debacle, Arthur and his brother were sitting on the couch, in front of the television! Shelley’s sister and her family were about to arrive and the kitchen was askew with dishes, cake batter in bowls, vegetable peelings, and smoke billowing out of the oven.