This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘Like I said to your neighbour: you’ll be informed in due course.’

  ‘Of course I don’t want to destroy things,’ exclaimed Bilal. ‘Why can’t we have a church and a mosque?’

  There was a roar of mock laughter.

  ‘Living with the fairies.’

  ‘Turned this village into a hell-hole!’

  ‘Get your camera out of my face.’

  ‘WHO KNOWS THIS MAN?’ Guppy’s voice resounded.

  Silence.

  Everyone turned to Guppy, who pointed to the man in question. The man shuffled on his feet, attempting a weak smile under everyone’s stare.

  ‘You know him?’ said Guppy, looking at Timothy Popper, the alliance leader.

  Timothy shook his head.

  ‘Any of you lot?’ added Guppy, eyeing the reporters, who gave non-committal shrugs. They hardly even recognised each other such was their geographic diversity.

  ‘Who cares?’ someone exclaimed.

  ‘Turnpike Constructions he says he’s from,’ Guppy called out.

  Turnpike buttoned up his coat, looking everyone square in the face. Mrs Pankhurst and Jenny narrowed their eyes at him.

  ‘A construction company?’ Bilal had now pushed through everyone, Haaris by his side, to stand beside Shelley. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Turnpike cleared his throat and repeated: ‘You’ll be informed in due course.’

  ‘I think we’d quite like to know now,’ said Richard, with a smile that didn’t altogether reach his eyes.

  ‘Someone from a construction company has no business at a protest,’ added Mariam.

  Copperthwaite and Anne had joined them too, the rest of the village closing in on Turnpike – protestors, supporters, counter-protestors – all pushed to the back.

  ‘Now, if you could give me some room,’ Turnpike began.

  ‘Let’s not crowd our visitor,’ said Richard. Everyone seemed to take heed of this as Richard added to Turnpike: ‘Well?’

  ‘You’ll all be informed in due course.’

  ‘Is the man a robot?’ said Mr Pankhurst.

  ‘Yes,’ added Mrs Pankhurst. ‘Be transparent.’

  ‘You heard the lady,’ said Harry, resting his hands on Sam’s shoulders.

  ‘I’m here to help,’ said Turnpike.

  ‘Help who exactly?’

  ‘Got the face of a man who’d only like to help himself,’ said Copperthwaite.

  There was a murmur of assent.

  ‘Perhaps it would be good to set up a formal meeting,’ said Turnpike. ‘I’ll speak to the managers. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

  But no-one moved.

  ‘Now seems as good a time as any,’ replied Richard.

  Turnpike swallowed hard. ‘Very well.’ He straightened his back. ‘Modernisation and innovation has long been a stance of Turnpike Constructions.’ He paused, his nose red from the cold as he cleared his throat, facing narrowing eyes and stiffening bodies at the word modernisation. ‘Never have there been more people travelling between towns and cities, contributing to our growing economy—’

  ‘Spare us the company line and get to the point,’ interrupted Mariam.

  ‘You should underst—’

  ‘You heard her,’ interjected Shelley.

  ‘We’re straight-talkers here,’ added Margaret. ‘What do you want with our mosque?’

  ‘Church,’ corrected Shelley.

  ‘Our building,’ added Bilal.

  ‘The reason … we see … its situation is that …’

  ‘Spit it out, man.’

  ‘The thing is, we need to tear it down.’

  Silence.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Shelley, stepping forward and leaning in close to the harbinger of the future.

  ‘For the new road. All for your benefit. By 2035 we estimate that there’ll be twenty thou—’

  ‘Are you mad?’ someone exclaimed.

  At once, everyone’s voices merged, pointing at Turnpike, telling him to get off their land, that he’d tear this church/mosque/building down over their dead bodies. Then Tom stalked up to him, pointing his finger into Turnpike’s now sweaty face.

  ‘Don’t you even think about it.’

  2035? Who knew what changes would metastasise tomorrow, let alone by 2035?

  Tom’s face flushed red as Turnpike laughed uncomfortably. ‘Well, sir, it’s already thought about.’

  ‘You take your grubby, city-dwelling hands and get out of here.’

  ‘Dad,’ said Anne, holding on to Tom’s arm. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Like hell it is,’ exclaimed Tom.

  Shelley was taken aback by the force of Tom’s words. His hand was mid-air in righteous indignation, everyone waiting for him to continue.

  ‘Dad?’

  But Tom didn’t respond. He clutched his chest as his walking stick fell to the ground.

  Richard strode forward and grabbed him before he fell.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ exclaimed Richard.

  ‘Where’s my phone?’

  ‘It’s here.’

  Suddenly everyone had their phones stretched out in front of them.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ exclaimed Mariam, dialling 999.

  The crowds heaved forward as Richard eased Tom to the floor, his head on Anne’s lap, and bent over him, loosening Tom’s coat and scarf. Shelley pushed the crowd back, demanding they give Richard space, instructing them to remove any cars that might block the ambulance’s way.

  Everyone complied. Even the videographers put their cameras down.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Turnpike.

  Shelley stared at him hard. ‘You’ve done enough.’

  Then she looked at Anne, her face ashen.

  Don’t you go dying, Tom Lark. I’ll deal with you a hundred times but don’t you go dying on that daughter of yours.

  At Evergreen Hospital, Shelley sat in the waiting room, along with Bilal and Mariam (he’d told Vaseem to take the family home), Margaret, the Pankhursts and Copperthwaite. Richard sat next to Anne, glancing at her every so often as she stared at the posters on the wall.

  Margaret tapped her fingers impatiently. ‘How long will it be, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Calm down,’ grumbled Copperthwaite.

  It was a surprise to everyone, except Shelley, when he’d decided to come too. The others hadn’t considered the importance of consistency for Copperthwaite. He had never liked Tom, but he was used to him, and familiarity could breed even the most reluctant of positive emotions.

  Margaret looked like she was about to say something but held her tongue. It wasn’t long before a doctor walked in and everyone stood up.

  ‘Who’s Mr Lark’s relative?’

  ‘I’m his daughter.’ Anne stood up.

  The doctor smiled. ‘He’s out of danger. You can relax.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she grabbed Richard’s hand.

  The doctor explained that he’d had a heart attack, but it had been a mild one, even though at Tom’s age he was lucky it wasn’t more severe.

  Shelley cleared her throat. ‘We should leave you to it,’ she said, patting Anne on the arm, unsure whether to hug her or not.

  Shelley shook her head as Bilal’s phone rang. He spoke into it, his voice getting louder. Common courtesy seemed to have gone out of the window.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘What? We’re still at the hospital.’ Bilal sat back on his chair, putting his head in his hands. ‘I don’t … What do you mean?’

  Shelley’s heart began to beat faster.

  He put the phone down.

  ‘What is it?’ said Mariam.

  ‘It was Vaseem,’ replied Bilal. ‘He says …’

  He looked confused, uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure what he was saying, or who he was saying it to.

  ‘He says Khala’s died.’

  Protest for Mosque Threatens Life of Babbel’s End Resident

  The ongoing dispute over whether to convert a l
ongstanding church in Babbel’s End to a mosque took an unexpected twist when it was declared that it may have to be knocked down for an A-road. In the midst of the commotion that erupted, one of the residents suffered a heart attack. Tom Lark, who is in critical care, was one of the protestors, when the previously undisclosed plan was revealed, causing further waves of discontent in this already fractured community.

  KHALA HAD BEEN FOUND on the sofa, as if asleep, in front of the dying fire. It was Shagufta who’d walked in on her, excitedly telling her to wake up and hear about these, quite frankly, uncivilised villagers. But Khala didn’t wake up. Shagufta shook her friend as Gulfashan, Vaseem and his family walked in.

  ‘Ya Allah,’ exclaimed Shagufta, before muttering the first kalima prayer – which was always a good thing to remember as a Muslim in the face of death, if your emotional capacities allowed it. Rukhsana would’ve been very grateful for Shagufta, had she been able to hear her.

  ‘Inna lilla hai wa inna ilayhi raji’un,’ added Gulfashaan, once she had got over the shock of seeing her friend lying lifeless.

  We belong to God and to God we shall return.

  Vaseem called Bilal and he, Mariam and Haaris were back at the house within twenty minutes to find the ambulance’s blue lights flashing outside the place Khala had, that very day, called home.

  ‘Haaris, please go to your room,’ said Mariam, her hands shaking, but her voice unwavering.

  ‘No, I want to see Khala.’

  Haaris hadn’t had the experience of learning to control his voice the way his mum had.

  ‘Baby.’ She bent down and brought him into a hug, kissing his head. ‘I promise I’ll come and explain, okay? But you don’t want to see her like this.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Haaris, his voice finally breaking. ‘We were going to learn to speak Chinese.’

  But it was too late. The paramedics were bringing Khala out on a gurney and Bilal couldn’t help but remember it was how he’d seen her when he’d gone to collect her from Birmingham five months ago.

  ‘Khala,’ called Haaris, rushing to her side. ‘Khala, wake up.’

  This time it was Bilal that pulled Haaris back because Mariam’s fist was pressed against her mouth, her body swaying as if she might lose her balance. She didn’t. But it took something in her not to.

  ‘I’m going with her to the hospital,’ said Bilal to Mariam, handing Haaris over, who was now sobbing in his arms.

  ‘Okay,’ she was barely able to say.

  Then she reached up and hugged Bilal tight enough for him to know that she’d be there when he got back.

  Bilal waited for the doctor to confirm what they already knew. Richard sat next to him on one side, Anne on the other, the three of them adrift in the reverie of loss. Few words were exchanged, just the solace of shared experience. He decided to go alone and sit with Khala’s body before they took her to the morgue. Bilal wondered why he didn’t feel anything. A numbness spread to the tips of his fingers and toes, suggesting that after a lifetime of knowing Khala, perhaps he had felt very little for her. But he remembered her face and his guilt when he told her he’d sold his mum’s house – and it hadn’t been guilt (he was so accustomed to the feeling, any new emotion just felt like an extension of it). It had been affection. Such a strong one that he had told Mariam he wanted Khala to live with them.

  ‘Funny you say that,’ she’d replied. ‘Haaris said the same thing to me.’

  Haaris had insisted that they tell Khala it was his idea, because he’d been feeling that for ages and why should adults get all the credit? Mariam had given a sad smile.

  She hadn’t argued, and he knew that was half the battle. Though perhaps that was because she knew she’d no longer be living in the house with him. A sob escaped Bilal. His chest appeared to concave as he pressed his head to his hands.

  Khala’s had been a life less lived and now their lives were lesser without her.

  Haaris had fallen asleep in Mariam’s arms. She pulled his Spiderman blanket over him, switched off the Iron Man lamp and kissed him on the forehead. Auntie Shagufta and Gulfashan were in the living room, mourning their friend, and also the realisation that one day, maybe their bodies would be discovered in the same way. All alone. Mariam found herself walking into Khala’s room, sitting on her bed, in the dark.

  When Bilal had asked that Khala live with them, Mariam was relieved. Relieved that she’d not have to argue with him, because no, she didn’t mind. The entire thing surprised her. And then she had wondered, what if she left Bilal? Packed her suitcase, took Haaris and went back to Saif? She’d be leaving Khala behind as well, and why was it in life that you could never gain a thing without losing another?

  But now there was no gain. Only loss. She wiped the tears that fell, even though she hadn’t emitted a sob. She rummaged in the drawers for some tissue, but instead found a bunch of loose papers. Switching on the bedside lamp she looked at what seemed like hundreds of pages of writing in Urdu. Saif had encouraged her to read Urdu poetry, and though it took her a while and sometimes she couldn’t make out a word, she found herself able to read Khala’s words.

  ‘Hey.’

  She started and looked up through the tears still streaming down her face to see Bilal standing in the doorway.

  He came towards her as Mariam picked up the papers and showed them to him. ‘It’s Khala.’

  He took a crumpled piece and stared at it. ‘Can you read it?’

  She nodded, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. ‘Just about. They’re poems. That she’s written.’

  ‘She wrote poetry?’

  Mariam nodded again. ‘And, oh, Bilal,’ she said, trying to hold back her tears again. ‘I didn’t know … I couldn’t tell. She was so sad.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  Bilal sat on the edge of the bed, looking from the papers to Mariam as she skimmed through them.

  ‘It takes me a while to understand,’ she said. ‘But look, this one: Manzir-eh-kashti …’

  ‘Erm … destination of a ship?’ said Bilal.

  The English translation somehow didn’t do the poem’s title justice. Some things would always be lost in translation.

  ‘She writes how the kashti – ship – never docks, only goes round in circles with her as a passenger with a view of nothing but the never-ending sea.’ Mariam sniffed. ‘Why didn’t we see how sad she was?’

  The light from the lamp highlighted Bilal’s dark circles and sad eyes. He shook his head.

  ‘Is she really gone?’ she asked.

  He was barely able to hold back his own tears. ‘Yes,’ he managed to reply. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘… WAVES OF DISCONTENT in this already fractured community.’

  Shelley finished reading the article – a version of which had been printed in every major national paper – but there was not one mention of Khala. She reasoned that Khala hadn’t been at the protest, why would she be mentioned? Yet it felt like an unbearable omission. She sat at her computer, staring out of the window for a minute. The stillness between Christmas and New Year was usually a specific kind. But this one had the particular shadow of loss.

  To Whom It May Concern,

  We, the undersigned, hereby demonstrate our condemnation of the demolition of our church building to make way for the expansion of the A-road. As residents of the village this will not only be the cause of severe disruption to our daily lives, but also affect the nature reserves that are a marked attraction of our wonderful county.

  Please be advised that we will not let this matter rest, nor will we be ignored by officials who deemed it appropriate to begin such plans with complete disregard for the community’s thoughts and feelings.

  I hereby petition for a public inquiry to be made.

  Chairwoman of Babbel’s End council,

  Shelley Hawking

  Each one of the 1,232 inhabitants in Babbel’s End and its environs – who were not away on holiday – had signed their name. All names sitting s
ide-by-side for the first time in a while. Shelley had managed to garner 962 signatures against the mosque, but somehow that no longer felt satisfying.

  What came over Shelley in the next few days was a kind of fever, which only people who had suffered from love or loss could understand. Her hands trembled as she knocked from door-to-door, village-to-village, with petition in hand. She wrote with fervour and spoke with the air of someone who looked ready to lose her life before she lost her conviction. The numbers grew and grew and she supposed the people of neighbouring villages had rather more to lose from a new A-road than they ever did from a mosque.

  Upon hearing the news of Khala’s passing, Shelley felt that she had some right to rush back home with Mariam and Bilal, but she was unable to articulate it to them, for obvious reasons. She had asked Richard to relay any news, and it had swiftly come back with the confirmation that Khala was ‘no more of this world’. For all of Shelley’s Christianity, it struck her as an odd sentence. Of which world was Khala a part? And whatever world she belonged to now, Shelley wondered whether she’d ever really belonged to this one. Did Shelley even belong to this world? Since we all eventually die, she supposed no-one did. We were all merely passing by.

  Shelley was no stranger to death, having lost both parents, but she was surprised at how absurd it seemed to her in that moment. Just a few days ago, she and Khala were standing in Bilal’s house, and she was unwrapping Shelley’s present. The day before that they’d been speeding in the ‘Vaseem’s Removals’ van to save the church bell. Khala had exchanged something she held dear for something that Shelley held dear and now the person behind the action was gone.

  Shelley’s phone rang.

  ‘It’s Richard.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Just to let you know, Khala’s body’s been taken to Birmingham, where she’ll have a proper Islamic burial.’

  ‘Ah.’ Shelley lost all the energy that she seemed to have had in the past few days. She closed her eyes and realised that she would never again go on a walk with her friend. A lump formed in her throat, but she barely recognised what it indicated until a tear managed to push to the surface of her eye.