This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘Arthur!’ Shelley exclaimed as she entered the kitchen.

  He must’ve heard a unique urgency in her tone, because he managed to get off the sofa and look through the kitchen door. Shelley flung open the oven door to take out the burned turkey, slamming it on the kitchen counter.

  ‘I asked you to check on it in twenty minutes if I hadn’t got back,’ she added, her voice shaking, tears prickling her eyes.

  ‘Hmm. TV was on too loud. I forgot.’

  She shook her head at his nonsensical excuse. ‘Now what?’ she said, giving him a full view of the remains of Christmas Day lunch.

  Arthur looked at her blankly.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  Shelley realised, in that moment, that Arthur had never provided a solution to anything. He only created problems. The main one being that he had to be a consideration in all the decisions she made, without sharing any of the burden. The smell of burned turkey and doubt filled her senses. It was Khala’s fault. Khala with her warm arms and words that had no place being spoken at all.

  I. Hope. You. Are. Happy.

  What a thing to say! Whoever had the right to hope on another’s behalf, as if their life was to be pitied?

  ‘Maybe it looks worse than it tastes.’ Arthur picked up a knife and stabbed through the burned meat. ‘There,’ he added. ‘It’s all right on the inside. We’ll just slice the burned bits off.’

  It was too late. Khala had ignited the question of happiness and it inflamed Shelley. She watched Arthur as he sliced off bits of burned turkey and threw them in the sink. Didn’t he know there was a bin for food waste? It struck Shelley with the clarity of the church bell tolling.

  She wasn’t happy.

  ‘Stop it, Arthur,’ she mumbled as he carried on ruining the turkey further. ‘I said stop it!’ she shouted.

  He froze.

  She grabbed the knife from him.

  Arthur retreated, but just as he was about to walk out, Shelley said: ‘And if you could lay the table.’

  She felt him pause.

  ‘I’m watchin—’

  ‘If you’re eating then you’re helping.’

  She waited for a response.

  ‘Where are the plates?’

  ‘If you don’t know by now, I suggest you find them.’

  With a final grunt Arthur left the kitchen. Shelley knew that he’d not do it properly. Eventually he’d expect her to take over from his own ineptness. And she would. Just as she always had done. So, Shelley buttered the parsnips, knowing she could not, would not, forgive Khala’s words.

  27 December

  Dear Reverend,

  I pray this finds you in good health.

  I am writing to you from the Christians for Muslims Alliance, an organisation of individuals who started this charity after the increased Islamophobic attacks since 9/11 and 7/7. We have watched, with regret, the events unfolding in your village. As devout Christians we believe in loving one another, living under the umbrella of one human race. We must help our Muslim brothers and sisters feel a part of the community, and so urge you and the bishop to reconsider the deconsecration of the church.

  Of course, the ultimate decider is the good Lord Himself, but we must do what we can and this is why we plan to come down from London to Babbel’s End to peacefully protest against the protesting of the mosque.

  We have contacted some news outlets for the purpose of bringing the nation together, reminding us all to love thy neighbour.

  Please let us know if there are any protocols you wish us to follow. We do not want to offend anyone, merely show the Muslims in the area, and in Britain, that they have friends.

  Warm regards,

  Timothy Popper

  Richard sighed. He should be grateful for the Timothy Poppers of the world but even so … Babbel’s End was not a hub of multi-culture. Popper had clearly been in London too long to see that there was a world outside it.

  Notice to all residents of Babbel’s End

  Dear residents,

  Please be advised that there will be a peaceful protest outside St Swithun’s on 29th December at 2.30 p.m. The Christians for Muslims Alliance are making their way from London to show their support for the mosque. Also be advised that news outlets will be present.

  Yours, as ever,

  Reverend Richard

  This had to be some kind of elaborate joke.

  ‘I just saw it with my own eyes,’ exclaimed Copperthwaite down the phone to Shelley.

  ‘Christians for Muslims?’

  Copperthwaite scoffed.

  ‘Only in London,’ added Shelley.

  ‘Who are they to come down here and tell us what to do? How to live? As if I’ve not had enough of that,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Yes. Quite. But calm down or you’ll aggravate your hernia.’

  Copperthwaite was right, of course. Shelley wasn’t trying to change other people’s lives, or stick her nose into their affairs, she was merely thinking of the piece of life and land that concerned her community. If only this ridiculous Christians for Muslims Alliance could do the same.

  ‘If they want to protest then we can do the same,’ said Copperthwaite.

  ‘Of course. But I really need to know who took our bell.’

  ‘Do you think it was one of us?’

  Shelley paused. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘That Tom. I saw him walking the dogs while I was reading the noticeboard. Self-satisfied bastard. “Be joining the protest, will you, Cops? See you there,” he said. I knew I should’ve left more than just a note on Bill’s windshield.’

  Shelley had been about to say something but paused.

  ‘Copsy …’

  ‘And I wish you’d cut off more than Tom’s bush.’

  ‘What did you say about the note?’

  There was a long pause. ‘Well, it didn’t do any harm, did it?’

  ‘Copsy,’ Shelley said, her voice low, disbelieving.

  ‘Don’t you go getting holier than thou, Shells. You know damn well he deserved it. I’ve not been in this village my whole life to have it turned upside down.’

  Shelley, for perhaps the second time in her well-intentioned life, was lost for words.

  ‘I’ve put up with a lot, Shells, goddamned nearly lost my life to fit in, and to think some entitled … foreigner … could come in and want to change things.’ He scoffed. ‘No chance.’

  ‘But that was … it was …’

  ‘What? You know you’re glad someone did it. I’ve known you too long to believe your mock outrage.’

  ‘I–wha–you …’

  ‘Hmph.’

  Silence.

  Shelley was relieved when Copsy abruptly hung up. It took a few moments before she was able to put the receiver down. Her long-term friend, confidant – however grumpy he was, there’d been no other in her life – had written that horrid note to Bilal. What’s more is he was right. She had felt a sense of satisfaction that Bilal had received it. That someone – Copsy – had taken matters into his own hands.

  She took a deep breath. There were things to do. Focus had been her life’s work and it couldn’t fail her now. She got the phone tree out to rally the troops. Then she drove into town, because you needed things for a protest.

  The roads were still quiet as Shelley parked up and made her way to the shops with her list. She noticed the few people in town stare at her. Shelley wasn’t prone to exaggeration – the looks couldn’t be a figment of her imagination. Then one person actually smiled. It should’ve lifted her spirits but it only dampened them.

  Holier than thou.

  As she walked over the small bridge she saw a tall hooded figure in the distance. He was facing the Waitrose wall, a can in his hand. He began to spray it all over the brickwork, not noticing Shelley or that she had got out her phone to call the police.

  What was the world coming to?

  The sirens didn’t deter the boy. As the police got out of the car he didn’t even try to run away, merely leaned aga
inst the wall before being handcuffed and shoved in the back of the car. And that’s when she saw.

  It was Dan.

  Her heart beat faster.

  Poor Bruce. What was most odd was that her sympathy also extended to Dan. The intimidating nuisance Dan, who’d lost his friend.

  Should she have seen who it was before calling the police? She could’ve tried to talk to him first, at least? It was too late now though. Some things were just always too late.

  As Shelley walked into Waitrose and took out her list, she reminded herself that she had done what was her duty by law. Except she wasn’t sure any longer whether duty was quite as black and white as she had always thought.

  ‘That old windbag’s at it again,’ said Margaret as Mariam opened her front door.

  She hoped her mascara hadn’t smudged from having just cried in the toilet. It was the only place she had enough privacy.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Shelley! Mrs Pankhurst called to tell me that Jenny had called Mr Pankhurst to tell him about this protest.’

  ‘What protest?’

  ‘My God. You’ve not heard? Christians for Muslims.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Mariam.

  ‘Are you okay, dear?’

  Perhaps it was because Mariam missed the mother she never had, or that she now had to choose between her ex-husband and current one, or that Margaret’s face was so kind, but she couldn’t help but burst into tears.

  ‘Heavens,’ said Margaret.

  Mariam stepped out into the grey, icy cold in case anyone heard.

  ‘What is the matter?’ asked Margaret. ‘You know – we won’t let prejudice win.’

  Mariam shook her head, teeth chattering, unable to stop the tears from flowing as Margaret pulled her into a hug. She took off her woollen polka dot scarf and wrapped it around Mariam.

  ‘Now, that’s exactly what it is, no matter what anyone says. Why … any counter protest should be seen as a hate crime.’

  Mariam sniffed, smelling a mixture of farm and Poison on Margaret. She shook her head again. ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Then what? Hmm?’

  ‘It’s me,’ said Mariam, a new barrage of tears taking over. ‘I’m all wrong.’

  ‘Are you? You seem perfectly fine to me. Aside from the crying, of course.’

  Why was Margaret so nice? Showering Mariam with a kindness that she didn’t deserve.

  ‘I can’t control anything,’ Mariam said, catching her breath.

  ‘Whoever can?’ replied Margaret.

  ‘But feelings,’ cried Mariam, looking up at Margaret’s lovely, wrinkled face. ‘If they belong to me then why can’t I control them?’

  Margaret smiled. ‘My dear, that’s like saying we can control our thoughts. The day we manage that is the day we master our feelings. What’s wrong with your thoughts anyway?’

  ‘I told Bilal that I don’t love him.’

  Margaret paused. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘How am I meant to know?’

  ‘Hmm,’ replied Margaret.

  ‘It’s just that I …’

  ‘Go on …’

  ‘He knows.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He knows that I …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That I still love my ex-husband. And now his wife’s left him and he says he wants me and Haaris back.’

  A fresh wave of tears took over and the cold, just like Saif, got under Mariam’s skin.

  ‘Come on,’ said Margaret, leading Mariam by the hand down the road, through the grand black gate and along the gravelled path into her home.

  ‘Now you sit here while I make you some tea.’

  Mariam looked around the scruffy, open-plan kitchen: cookbooks stacked haphazardly on wonky shelves, dishes in the sink, whitewashed wooden counters and exposed brick walls, from before they were trendy.

  Margaret went about the kitchen, talking to herself as she put the kettle on: ‘Teabag in the mug, milk from the fridge for me … Ah, what biscuits do I have …?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mariam.

  Watching Margaret like this, widowed and living alone, Mariam was ashamed that she didn’t visit her more often. How did Margaret manage to stay so incessantly bright?

  ‘What for?’ Margaret smiled as she handed Mariam a peppermint tea. ‘Now tell me. Properly.’

  Mariam looked into her steaming hot mug, ignoring the watermarks on it, the flecks of dirt, which she subtly wiped off. And so she told Margaret everything. The first marriage, the betrayal, the comfort of Bilal, his love for Haaris and her, the way the reality of her life and heart didn’t align. And now the choice she had to make.

  ‘Yes.’ Margaret nodded. ‘That is a tricky one.’

  ‘It is,’ said Mariam. ‘I couldn’t lie to him any more.’

  ‘Does he know that your horrid – sorry – ex is now single again?’

  Mariam shook her head. ‘I already feel awful enough.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes. Bilal’s a good man.’

  Thanks, Margaret. It would be so much easier if he weren’t.

  ‘So, what is it you want?’ asked Margaret.

  Mariam gripped her mug. ‘I don’t know.’ She paused. ‘To feel like I’m living the life I chose, not a life that just … happened.’

  ‘Ah. Control.’

  Mariam nodded.

  ‘I read a lot of psychology books. The best thing to do with something like that is to just, you know, let it go.’

  Mariam smiled at the simplicity of it. She’d tried. Then she thought that maybe – during a run, drinking tea, or writing a passage of what she dared to hope could one day be a book – things would let go of her.

  ‘Except now I have a choice to make and Haaris to think of.’

  Margaret considered this as she peeled a banana and ate it, both ladies sitting in silence for a while.

  ‘Liberate yourself, dear. Read the signs. What’s the point in being Muslim and having faith if you can’t relinquish control to the God you believe in, see the path he’s showing you, et cetera?’

  ‘Signs? Sounds a bit mystical. I’m obviously not a very good Muslim.’

  ‘Appalling, if you ask me,’ replied Margaret.

  Mariam laughed.

  ‘Not mystical at all. People show themselves to be who they are and you just have to make sure your … love, or whatever you want to call it, doesn’t hamper your view of things.’ Margaret laid the banana peel on the table. ‘You know my Giles had been ill for six years before he passed away into the next realm.’

  ‘I liked him a lot.’

  Margaret raised her eyebrows. ‘You don’t have to lie. He’d always been a difficult bugger – it’s my weakness, I’m afraid – but there was more to him.’

  ‘Like?’ asked Mariam.

  ‘He was interested. He cared about the details of everything I did – the attention he paid to the most trivial matters, simply because they were my matters. It was quite the killing combination.’

  Margaret looked at a photo of her and Giles on the sideboard. ‘You can only embrace the lows, along with the highs, but let me tell you one thing for sure.’ She leaned forward and gave Mariam a look she recognised as quintessential grit. ‘You only have yourself. All that is inside you, all that you have lived through is your own. It can’t be redistributed, only untangled.’

  Mariam felt her eyes fill with tears again, but this time it was thinking about her parents and how miserable her dad had been when her mum had died. How he’d shut himself off from the world, including Mariam. She thought he’d change, but he soon began searching for the arms of a new woman to comfort him, just like he had when her mum was still alive.

  ‘Is that what brings happiness?’ asked Mariam, wryly.

  ‘Ha, the pursuit of happiness is the single most ridiculous lie we’ve been fed. All flapping about for the next best thing to numb the searing pain of loneliness.’

  Mariam paused and smiled. ‘Say it how it is, Margaret.’

  ‘
No point in hiding the fact that we all feel it; the loneliness. That’s also part of the problem. And now you young ones have this social media nonsense to contend with too. The real pursuit is of understanding. And not just ourselves. See?’

  Perhaps Mariam had focused so much on her own version of events, she hadn’t really considered anyone else’s.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Margaret, observing Mariam more keenly than she liked. ‘You’ll have to put all of that on hold.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The protest, dear.’ She beamed. ‘You have to focus on the protest.’

  RUKHSANA SAW SHELLEY FROM her window. Never had she changed into her wellingtons and shalwar kameez so quickly. She pulled on the knitted hat that Mariam had got her for Christmas and called out to her.

  Shelley turned around, not returning Rukhsana’s wave.

  ‘How are you?’ asked Rukhsana as she approached her.

  ‘Fine,’ said Shelley.

  Rukhsana felt her own smile falter. English people were just like this weather sometimes – one minute sunny, one minute grey.

  Shelley paused. ‘You?’

  ‘Fine,’ replied Rukhsana.

  Another pause. ‘I’m sorry, Khala, but I have to go.’

  Rukhsana had found that reading people’s body language, along with their words, made the task of understanding simpler.

  ‘Why?’

  Shelley showed the hint of a smile. ‘Your English is quite good now, no?’

  ‘Better than your Punjabi, haina?’ replied Rukhsana.

  It was a relief to see Shelley laugh. Even if it was like a rock hitting the ground.

  ‘Arthur needs you?’ asked Rukhsana.

  Shelley’s brow twitched. ‘No. Not quite.’

  ‘We walk?’

  Shelley put on her black leather gloves. ‘No, really—’

  But before Shelley could finish, Rukhsana had walked ahead of her. The grass was dewy, the clouds grey; this damp weather did nothing for Rukhsana’s bones, but she still regarded her wellies as a pair of rubber miracles. She’d abandoned the uncomfortable sweater and trousers and picked up her warmest shalwar kameez, put a cardigan over it, before pulling on her raincoat. Breathing in the cold, fresh air, she enjoyed the low mist, able to see the hills beyond the clearing. Rukhsana had spent the majority of her life accepting the rightness of Sakeena’s decisions. Until now. How could her sister not understand why her son was drawn to this place?