by Ayisha Malik
‘You not talk?’
Shelley stopped.
‘I just have to say, Khala, that you shouldn’t say you hope someone is happy.’ The colour in Shelley’s cheeks rose, her voice clipped as she rubbed her gloved fingers in agitation.
‘Hain?’
‘On Christmas Day. You said, “I hope you are happy.”’
Khala nodded, waiting for Shelley’s point.
‘It’s not the done thing.’
‘Hain? What is “done thing”?’
‘Something that isn’t proper, Khala,’ replied Shelley.
‘Hmm?’
‘Like this protest. It’s not right.’
Why did Rukhsana never say the right thing? Why did she never understand the rules? And whose rules were they, anyway? Holly ran around both of them, panting and stopping by Rukhsana, who still balked and twitched around dogs.
‘I know he’s your nephew, but I can’t change my stance on the matter.’
‘Stance?’ asked Khala, getting increasingly bewildered. And what did Bilal have to do with her wishing Shelley happiness?
‘You know. Position. About the mosque.’
Hai hai, the mosque. Had Sakeena any idea what she would be doing to her son’s life? People die and then leave you with the guilt of carrying on their wishes. This did not feel very Islamic.
‘Of course you’ll be on Bilal’s side, it’s only fair, but I hope—’
‘Why you don’t want it?’ interrupted Rukhsana.
‘Would you want a church in your home in Pakistan?’ asked Shelley.
‘Where is home?’ replied Rukhsana.
Could a place she hadn’t been back to for decades really be called home? Even Birmingham had felt like a kind of limbo.
‘Where you were born, of course,’ replied Shelley.
Rukhsana wanted to say that home must be where you feel most alive, but she wasn’t sure how to construct that sentence. Never had she wanted Shelley to understand the expression on her face, the thoughts she couldn’t articulate, more.
‘It’s not personal,’ said Shelley.
Rukhsana stopped and Shelley had to turn around. Personal. She’d heard Mariam and Bilal say this. It sounded like person.
‘We all are persons,’ she replied.
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
A sense of pride swelled in Rukhsana that she had understood something. The wind whistled in Rukhsana’s ears as the sun cleared through the clouds.
‘But,’ continued Shelley. ‘You have to put your point across …’ Shelley observed Rukhsana’s confused look. ‘Fight for what you believe in.’ She raised her fist to demonstrate her point.
‘Fight no good.’
Shelley sighed. ‘Khala, you ignore too much.’
Rukhsana looked at Shelley. It was as if for the first time someone had actually understood her. She nodded.
‘Anyway,’ said Shelley. ‘I must go.’
It occurred to Rukhsana that Shelley was always the one to end their meetings.
‘Tomorrow walk?’ asked Rukhsana.
Shelley paused. ‘No. Not tomorrow.’
‘Then?’
Shelley put the lead around Holly’s neck as she said: ‘I don’t know. Maybe no more walking.’
‘Why?’ asked Rukhsana, her heart in her throat.
‘Because all things must end eventually,’ replied Shelley, pursing her lips.
Without another word, a wave or a hug, Shelley left. Rukhsana had been sentimental. Just because she and Shelley shared what was in their heart, they didn’t understand each other – they’d merely scraped the surface. Perhaps Shagufta and Gulfashan were right. Maybe that’s why Sakeena – who basked in variety – didn’t like it here. There were some divides you could not cross, that just made you feel bad about yourself. A heaviness took over Rukhsana as she opened the front door and walked into the noisy din of the household. Maybe it was time to go back to the familiarity of her sister’s home, sitting next to the grave that Sakeena had dug. At least there she didn’t make mistakes. At least there she was in no-one’s way. She’d speak to Bilal. Tell him it was time to leave, omitting the details of why – how she had said too much to Shelley and lost another thing in her life.
Bilal and Harris had made up the placards. Focus, after all, was the key. Vaseem Bhai had collected thirty wooden sticks from a man who knew a man in Titchester. The aunts were making snacks. Heaven forbid there should be an occasion without samosas. They’d moved the sofas out of the way and spread everything out in the living room. Bilal knelt over one of the signs: Faith and Peace for One and All. He hoped that no-one thought he’d come up with it. It was difficult to dissuade Vaseem Bhai though, who fancied himself to be quite poetic.
Bilal looked up and saw Mariam, standing with a mug of tea in her hand.
‘It might be okay if you helped, Mum,’ said Haaris.
‘I’m already occupied,’ she replied, lifting her mug.
Haaris rolled his eyes. ‘Control your woman,’ he said to Bilal.
She’s not my woman. She’s not anyone’s woman. Bilal looked down at his placard again. These past few days he had tried to conjure anger. Though he wasn’t a man prone to excessive feeling, he thought that his wife practically admitting that she was in love with her ex-husband might drive him to it. Instead a strange numbness had prevailed. One which helped him apply his attention to things like clearing out the attic, taking the rubbish to the dump, calling around and asking who’d support the Christians for Muslims Alliance. He’d fixed the drain in the second toilet, and set up a Twitter account to keep abreast of national opinion – especially after the latest story in Newcastle about some bacon being thrown at a mosque (awful waste of food), after which someone retaliated by throwing a brick through a UKIP member’s house with a verse from the Qur’an (waste of a brick). Passions had been ignited without much creative outlet it seemed. So, Bilal oiled the hinges on all the doors, and took a copious amount of Gaviscon, and an Ativan or three.
Mariam settled next to him. He could smell her lemon and tea-tree oil shampoo. Her knee just about touching his thigh.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.
Her eyes were on him. What did this mean? Why did she look at him if she no longer loved him and why couldn’t he be angry with her? Anger could lead to hate and then he could get somewhere. Haaris handed her a black felt-tip and told her to go over the writing in pencil. Mariam went to work quietly and Bilal wondered: was her ex-husband still in love with her too?
Richard’s family had just left, so he’d been changing the bed sheets, loading the dishwasher and clearing up the remnants of the festivities when the doorbell rang.
‘Hello,’ said Anne, nuzzling her face in her scarf because of the wind.
He had made a conscious effort to avoid her. Their last meeting had muddled up the straight paths of his intentions and he needed some time to properly draw them up again.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.
‘Not quite,’ she said.
That’s when he noticed she wasn’t alone.
‘Gerald?’
He walked in behind Anne, giving Richard an unsure smile.
‘Well, come in. Don’t mind the smell. I burned my toast,’ said Richard, as they walked into his living room.
‘Gerald has something to tell you,’ said Anne.
Gerald stood in his puffa coat, jamming his cold, red hands in his pockets as he avoided Richard’s gaze.
‘What’s going on?’ Richard asked, trying to ignore the fact that Anne looked flushed and it heightened the brightness of her eyes.
‘Well,’ said Anne to Gerald. ‘Tell him, or I will.’
Gerald slumped into Richard’s chair and looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry, yeah? Like really, really sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘Ugh,’ exhaled Gerald. ‘I did it, all right?’
‘Did what?’ said Richard.
‘I stole the bell.’
; Richard stared at Gerald for a few moments before he turned to Anne. ‘Is this true?’
‘You’re hearing it from the horse’s mouth,’ she replied.
‘What?’ Richard sat down in front of Gerald, clasping his hands together. ‘Why?’
Gerald shrugged. ‘It was stupid. Da …’
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied.
‘You didn’t do this alone, so you’d better tell me,’ said Richard.
So, Gerald revealed all. According to him, he’d gone to see Dan, who was now in custody until his hearing because of breaking the terms of his recent parole. He thought that stealing the bell was a matter of principle. Richard glanced at Anne, who looked equally dumbfounded by the logic.
‘It’s’cos Bill fired his dad and his dad didn’t even do nothing,’ said Gerald, his flushed face matching the hue of his pimples. ‘He said taking the bell would serve him right’cos obviously everyone would blame him. So, me and some mates … we called a person.’
‘Are you … is this …’ Richard looked at Anne before facing Gerald again. ‘Have you absolutely lost your mind?’ exclaimed Richard.
Gerald stared at the ground.
‘Well?’ demanded Richard.
Gerald unzipped his coat and took it off. ‘Also …’ he mumbled.
‘What?’
Gerald looked at Richard. ‘Dan didn’t do the graffiti.’
Richard had to take a deep breath as he clenched his jaw. ‘Listen, I know he’s your friend, but—’
‘It was me.’
Gerald looked at the ground again.
‘What?’
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he cried. ‘I dunno. My nan was doing my head in and my mum was just as bad and I thought …’
‘What?’ snapped Richard.
Gerald shrugged. ‘I was bored and then I was at Dan’s one Friday and his dad’s office keys were there and I just … you know. I returned them the next day. No-one even noticed they’d gone.’
Gerald looked up, his face sorrier than ever. ‘I guess I thought Dan would think it was funny.’
Richard had to take a few moments to absorb this. ‘Right.’
‘He properly laughed his face off—’
‘That’s enough, Gerald.’
‘And it was weird—’
‘I said that’s enough.’
Anne started at Richard’s raised voice. He had to grip both hands together in case they did something he’d regret.
‘That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,’ he said.
‘Richard …’
‘What on earth were you thinking?’
‘Richard, your voice—’
He stood up, towering over Gerald. ‘This is what happens when you don’t think.’ He turned to Anne. ‘Has everyone lost the capacity to use the brain God’s given them?’
‘I—’
‘You’ll put this right, Gerald,’ said Richard, cutting him off.
Gerald nodded.
‘We’re going over to Bill’s now so you can tell him and his whole family what you did. You’re lucky I’m not making a call straight to the police.’ Richard pointed at Gerald, barely able to stop his hand from shaking. ‘And after that you’re telling me where that bell is and we’re going to get it back.’
Richard grabbed his coat and car keys, slamming the car door in Gerald’s face as Anne got in next to him.
‘I think you should calm down,’ she whispered.
‘Like hell I will.’
Of all the unfathomable, ill-thought-out, ridiculous things. Young people just had too much time on their hands. No responsibility. Richard had called Shelley to let her know what had happened, and she set out for Bilal and Mariam’s immediately. As she stepped through their front door she glanced into the room filled with placards and God knows what else, the aunts and cousin with his family, a hubbub of noise, a baby crying, all of them speaking over one another. No Khala.
Mariam hurriedly shut the door, leading Shelley into the second living room.
‘The thing is, we sold the bell to this guy,’ said Gerald, looking at the faces that still glared at him, after his confession about the graffiti and profuse apology.
Bilal rubbed the bridge of his nose.
‘Which guy?’ said Mariam, voice terse.
‘Gavin. Lives past Titchester – you know? Peatsland. Melts metal and stuff for scrap.’
Shelley let out a groan. Voices came from the other living room but where was Khala’s?
‘What if …’ Bilal began. ‘What if Bruce didn’t write the note?’
Richard seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
Shelley’s nerves fluttered.
‘It’s worth considering,’ said Richard.
‘He did look confused when I confronted him and I … oh, I’m doubting everything now.’
This wasn’t the moment for Shelley to out her friend and yet something had to be done about poor Bruce. Oh, there was so much to think about!
‘Give me this Gavin’s number,’ said Shelley. ‘I’ll go and see him this instant.’
As if on cue, Khala walked in and looked at everyone, her eyes settling on Shelley. She spoke to Mariam in Punjabi, who must’ve explained what was happening.
‘Dunno, Mrs Hawking. He’s kinda dodgy, if you know what I mean.’
‘Gerald Smith, if you’d been as committed to your lessons as you were to stealing this bell, I dare say you’d have made a success of your GCSEs.’
‘Do you have any idea how hard we all worked to raise the money to get that bell fixed?’ said Mariam. ‘I learned to make zarda.’
‘What’s zaadaa?’ he said.
‘You want zarda?’ Khala asked him in English. ‘I bring some.’
With which she left the room.
‘So, what do you propose we do?’ said Shelley, looking at Richard.
‘Excuse me,’ said Bilal. ‘Richard, can I have a word?’
The two men left the room, Shelley reeling at the idea that her church bell should be used for scrap. Khala came in with a tray of zarda as Shelley’s eyes locked with hers.
‘No time for that,’ she said. ‘Come on you.’ She grabbed Gerald by the arm. ‘You’re taking me to see Gavin.’
‘Shelley,’ said Anne, her voice cold. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘It certainly is.’
‘Well, you can’t go alone,’ replied Anne.
Shelley was already marching down the passage, Gerald in tow.
‘Shouldn’t we tell … Right, no,’ said Mariam as Shelley left the house, bundling Gerald into her car. A few moments later, out came Anne and Mariam, waving a set of keys, Khala waddling out behind them.
‘We’re taking the van,’ Mariam called out.
Shelley hesitated. In the end, she decided that this was a far more sensible plan.
Peatland was a thirty-minute drive away, which was an awfully long time to spend in an enclosed space with people who didn’t really speak to one another.
‘So, is that zaadaa thing sweet?’ Gerald asked Khala.
Khala looked at Shelley, who was sitting in the back with them, Mariam driving and Anne in the passenger seat next to her.
‘Her English is a little poor,’ Shelley explained.
‘Oh. Bit hard, innit?’
‘As is yours, it seems,’ added Shelley.
Mariam put the address in the SatNav.
Silence.
She turned to smile at Anne. ‘How was Chri—’ Mariam stopped herself. What a stupid question to ask. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ replied Anne. ‘You know …’
There was a pause.
‘You?’ Anne asked.
Mariam gave a short laugh. Anne looked in front of her.
They drove on, Mariam rummaging in her head for other banal things to say. It was enough for her to lose her own self-respect.
‘So, like, you don’t want the mosque?’ Gerald asked Shelley.
‘Acu
te observation,’ she replied.
‘Still snarky then, Mrs H?’
She gave him a withering look.
‘Sorry. Anne’s well up for it,’ Gerald added. ‘The mosque, that is.’
Mariam glanced at Anne.
‘Everyone’s entitled to their opinion,’ said Shelley. ‘It’s when people start donating money that it becomes a problem.’
‘You know, Shelley,’ replied Anne, ‘it’s not much different to raising money to fix a bell.’
‘Hardly,’ said Shelley, bristling. ‘Your dad doesn’t care what happens here. I don’t know why he stayed after your m—’
Anne whipped her head around. There was a palpable silence.
‘Well,’ Shelley added. ‘It just never made sense.’
‘Maybe he does care about the place, just not its people.’
Shelley looked exasperated. ‘That’s nonsense. A place is its people.’
‘Only the ones that suit you,’ replied Anne.
‘Excuse me?’
Anne paused. A few moments passed before she said: ‘You knew Teddy had a drug problem. You knew he had trouble, but not once, not one time did you or anyone think to help him. To even ask if there was anything you could do. You ask people about their turnips and topiary, or whatever, you still gossip about the woman who abandoned me – you really hated her, didn’t you? I don’t even blame you, because so do I. But didn’t you think? Didn’t it occur to you that it might be a kindness to ask me, Dad, anyone about your ex-student’s drug addiction?’
‘Of course I worried. Your dad had no time for me. Never has. And Anne, dear …’ Shelley’s voice softened. ‘Some things are beyond our control, no matter how hard we try.’
Mariam gripped the steering wheel, realising that she’d just agreed with Shelley about something.
‘But what did you do? You’re so good at rallying people, but what about when a life actually depended on it?’