This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘That makes sense,’ she added, wiping the stray tear.

  ‘It would’ve been her wish.’

  ‘Perhaps she’d have liked to be laid to rest here,’ Shelley replied.

  ‘I don’t see why,’ said Richard. ‘It wasn’t her home.’

  The idea of home suddenly seemed so arbitrary to Shelley. ‘She was happy here.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware you knew each other,’ said Richard.

  Shelley paused. ‘Sometimes we’d walk together.’

  Her voice sounded strained but it was beyond her control, as so much of life was.

  ‘What happened on these walks?’

  Shelley wasn’t sure how to articulate it. What did happen? She unburdened her life to a person who hardly understood her.

  ‘It’s over with now,’ she replied. Shelley opened the kitchen door to see Arthur still on the sofa. ‘Did you know she wrote poetry?’

  ‘Did she? In Urdu?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Well, obviously in Urdu.’

  ‘No, of course. Excuse me.’

  What a silly thing to ask, but she supposed the reverend was human too.

  ‘Would you like to go to the funeral?’ he asked.

  The thought had passed some part of her consciousness, but with such speed that she hadn’t dwelled on it.

  ‘I’m sure Bilal and Mariam would be fine with it. And apparently Islamic funerals are open to whoever wants to attend,’ added Richard.

  Shelley imagined sitting in a mosque with strangers. What were the rituals? What would they think of her? Would she have to pray with them? She wouldn’t even know what to wear.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to interfere,’ came Shelley’s reply.

  ‘I don’t think they’d see it like that,’ replied Richard. ‘They’re very ope—’

  ‘No, really, Reverend. I don’t think it’s appropriate.’

  That ended that conversation as Shelley told the reverend that she’d wait to email the district council and their local MP with the petition until the first week of January. She’d be able to gather more signatures from neighbouring villages by then.

  After all of that arguing about whether the church would be a mosque, wouldn’t it be something to lose the place altogether? Shelley looked out of her window again into the night sky, the fog as dense as ever. She wondered if there’d be any fireworks tonight.

  ‘I suppose I’ll see you next year then, Reverend.’

  He asked what she’d be doing that evening.

  ‘Just a quiet one,’ said Shelley. ‘I’ll pay a visit to Tom. Though God knows why I bother.’

  Richard paused. ‘Because we try,’ he said, a heaviness in his voice.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Shelley, still looking out into the night sky. ‘We try.’

  Take hold of the feelings you have and imagine a jar.

  Now put each feeling into that jar.

  Are you done?

  No?

  Take a few more minutes.

  Pick up that jar and take a look inside. What are the emotions you see and recognise?

  Mariam squinted at the empty space in her hand. The jar she imagined was murky – as were its contents.

  ‘Ugh,’ she exclaimed as she closed her laptop and chucked the fictitious jar through the room’s window.

  Perhaps it was being back here in Birmingham that skewed her feelings. Or maybe her feelings were skewed because of the gathering of people downstairs, praying for Khala, Haaris sitting there too, with her ex-husband, while her current husband made the arrangements for the funeral. They had to stay at Auntie Shagufta’s across the road from her mother in-law’s house because it now belonged to someone else. Here the walls were painted white, the light lino covered in rugs dotted around the house. But that earthy smell mixed with fried oil and vanilla was still Sakeena’s. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Oh, hi.’ Mariam closed her laptop.

  Saif came into the room and she wasn’t sure how she felt about him closing the door behind him.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Poor Auntie Rukhsana.’

  She considered him, the love of her life, in his plain white shalwar kameez, kempt beard and look of regret.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Haaris will miss her,’ he added. ‘I’m worried about him.’

  ‘They’d got close.’ Mariam managed a smile. ‘But I’m glad that he got to spend time with her – she was like the naani he never had.’

  Saif folded his arms and looked at Mariam so intently it unsettled her, the fluttering in her stomach bordering on nausea.

  ‘We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,’ he said, softly, kindly. But it didn’t matter.

  It annoyed Mariam.

  ‘Well, we can’t lie about them either. And Khala acted more like a mother to me than my own ever did.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he conceded. ‘But still.’

  There was a knock on the door as it opened, pushing Saif forward.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  It was Bilal.

  He looked between Mariam and Saif, and seemed to hesitate before committing himself to the room. Saif, however – despite the indignity of almost falling flat on his face – carried on staring at Mariam.

  ‘I’ll wait for you.’ Saif paused longer than necessary, before adding: ‘Downstairs.’

  Mariam felt her face flush as he left the room.

  ‘What was he …’ Bilal paused. ‘Why are you sitting on the bed with your laptop?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she replied.

  But the lies felt too exhausting. She owed her husband some more truths and having lost the energy to play hide and seek with her emotions (there was such a thing as hiding too well), she shifted a little, inviting Bilal to sit next to her. Opening up the laptop, she replayed the YouTube video.

  Now, take each feeling out of the jar and place it in front of you, asking where it came from …

  ‘What jar?’ He looked around the room.

  ‘It’s imaginary.’

  ‘Oh,’ he replied.

  Mariam glanced at Bilal. He thought she was mad. It was etched in his furrowed brows.

  She paused the video and turned to him. ‘They’re … you know. Self-help videos.’

  This only fortified the crease in his brow.

  ‘Self-help?’ he repeated.

  Mariam nodded. ‘It helps me manage things.’

  ‘What things?’

  She took a deep breath. He was a man who, after all, sought clarity in everything – who couldn’t understand unless the details had been explained precisely.

  ‘You know what self-help videos are,’ she said.

  He looked at the screen again. ‘Well, yes. But I’ve never “got” them. What’s this jar business?’

  ‘Forget about that, it …’

  What was the use? A person either understood a thing, or they didn’t. You couldn’t teach it, not in any real way. Even if the audience was a willing one.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she added.

  ‘But it does matter,’ Bilal replied, looking at her. ‘Is this what you’ve been doing every time I’ve come home unexpectedly, and you’ve looked flustered?’

  ‘Have I?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought I was always quite composed.’

  ‘Which is why when you’re flustered, it shows.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mariam paused to consider how much Bilal saw.

  Bilal looked at the screen, scrolling down other YouTube clips. ‘Who is Starr Applebaum?’

  ‘Oh no, she’s awful.’

  ‘Ever think I might’ve been more use than these videos? I mean, I don’t have a jar …’

  Mariam smiled and they sat in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘Saif’s probably waiting for you,’ Bilal said.

  After all, love was just a tug of war between remembering and forgetting. Mariam wasn’t sure whether her dissatisfaction with her li
fe – her feelings – arose because she thought too highly of herself, or not highly enough. She didn’t need a jar, she needed an aeroplane-sized vessel to fit all of her feelings.

  Saif was hovering by the front door, looking for his other shoe in the sea of ones scattered against the wall. She noticed it and was going to pick it up for him, but thought better of it. Instead, she came down the last step and kicked it towards him. He gave a small smile.

  ‘Is that how you hand things to Bilal now?’ he asked, putting the shoes on.

  ‘I’d like to say she puts them on my feet before I leave the house, but that wouldn’t be true.’

  Mariam looked back to see Bilal standing behind her, his hands in his pockets. Saif also looked up.

  ‘Mariam would beat a person with their shoe before doing that,’ replied Saif.

  There was something so self-satisfied in his look, so predictable in what he said, that it hit Mariam in a rather forceful way. It occurred to her that her silent dignity in the past several years had had no outlet. She’d relied on the power of logic and self-help videos to unknot her feelings, and, quite frankly, both had failed. What made her think that silently failing emotionally was somehow better than vocally trying to succeed? It struck her that going back to Saif wouldn’t just be abandoning some kind of principle, it would tell her – and Haaris might also come to learn it – that this was the measure of her own self-worth. That she deserved to be a consolation prize. It wasn’t so much that she found clarity in that moment, but that she was seen with clarity by the man she’d been married to for the past ten years. And she realised that she loved him for it. Once the barrier of her love – or illness, as she was beginning to see it – for Saif had been removed, she might realise the many other ways she loved Bilal.

  ‘I think you should stop pretending that you know me,’ replied Mariam, ignoring the two aunties who’d just come out of the living room, making their way into the kitchen.

  Saif was visibly moved, but he recovered soon enough. ‘Maybe I should. Maybe you’re not who you used to be.’

  It was always this kind of innocuous, passive aggressive comment that fortified Mariam. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Mariam …’ Saif looked at Bilal, clearly annoyed that he couldn’t be alone with her, say all the things he wanted. ‘I’ll keep Haaris here for the weekend if you want.’

  ‘I think he’s okay with us,’ said Bilal.

  In that moment, it seemed a miraculous stroke of luck that Bilal was still by her side. She wondered if he would stay by her side – if their life hadn’t collapsed within the boundaries of her silence.

  ‘Okay. Well, we’ll talk later?’ said Saif.

  ‘I’ll be busy,’ she replied.

  He hesitated.

  ‘Bye, Saif,’ she said.

  There was nothing for it. He had to turn around, walk out and close the door behind him.

  ‘I don’t think Khala ever really liked him,’ she said, turning to Bilal.

  ‘No. Why would she? She liked you though,’ Bilal said.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure why.’

  ‘Maybe she thought you were kindred spirits,’ he replied.

  He looked at her as if he understood everything – more than he ever showed, anyway. He seemed new to her in that moment, even though he was familiar. Yes, she’d need the familiarity to anchor her and the newness to shift her perspective. How much of who you were could depend on another? So much interdependency mortified Mariam, but it was clear she’d have to rethink things.

  ‘She came into her own in Babbel’s End, didn’t she?’ said Mariam.

  Bilal nodded. ‘Mum had been …’

  ‘A good soul,’ added Mariam.

  He nodded again. ‘But even they have their flaws.’

  ‘How do you feel about flaws?’ she asked.

  ‘Mine, yours, or generally?’

  ‘You think I have flaws?’ she replied, raising her eyebrows.

  He laughed for a second but then thought better of it. ‘Let’s compare.’ He brought out his hand and she took it in hers. ‘Perhaps a list? You write yours and I’ll write mine?’

  Mariam had a fleeting thought about her imaginary jar, and how she’d put this feeling of contentment tinged with fear in it. She wished Khala were there to see her and Bilal holding hands, not out of solidarity or duty, but hope. For all of Khala’s forlorn words and looks, she could recognise hope when she saw it.

  ‘I just wanted to come and wish you a Happy New Year.’

  Richard stood at the foot of Tom’s hospital bed, Anne by her dad’s side, reading the paper. Margaret was also sitting there, telling Tom she was keeping his garden in order, fluffing his pillows for him.

  ‘No fireworks here,’ replied Tom.

  Anne was shaking her head. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when a mosque would get upstaged by an A-road.’

  Richard smiled. Was he imagining it or was there something of the old Anne back?

  ‘Don’t get me started,’ said Tom, his face going red.

  Richard took a seat. ‘It’s good to know you care, Tom.’

  ‘Of course I bloody care. Serves those self-satisfied bastards right, though. Worrying about a damned mosque when we have bigger problems. They need to get their priorities straight. I still say build the mosque. Long as there’s none of that call to prayer racket.’

  ‘I like those a great deal,’ said Margaret. ‘It’s very beautiful, you know.’

  She then proceeded to imitate the call to prayer, though it sounded more like the soundtrack of a bad Hollywood film about Native Americans. Richard cleared his throat.

  ‘Why, in Morocco,’ she added, ‘I used to enjoy it at least five times a day.’

  ‘Oh, it’s dreadful, Mags,’ replied Tom. ‘But then something’s got to give.’

  Anne held on to Tom’s arm, the trace of a smile on her face. Richard remembered how she’d gripped his hand when they were here in the hospital, and then how she’d let it go as if it never happened. A chasm of isolation seemed to open up in front of Richard; hope on one side and him on the other. The idea was so startling it was almost as if he’d fallen into the chasm. Here was blasphemy! To be without hope when he had God. But Richard was suffering what could only be described as a terrible bout of yearning. Somewhere between his treadmill, Christmas turkey and protest for the mosque, Richard’s affections – which he generally managed to rein in quite successfully – had turned into a new beast altogether. The shaky ground of reasoning was giving way to a sinkhole of what he could only describe as forlorn love. Being unaccustomed to such ardent feelings, Richard stood up.

  ‘You all right?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Hmm? Yes. Quite. I just realised the time. I’ve a meeting.’

  He dared not look at Anne.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ she said to her dad. ‘Our reverend is never too far away from bestowing sympathy.’

  A few months ago Richard would have taken the comment in the spirit that it was intended: to test his patience, but today was a different day and he felt like a different man.

  ‘Only where I feel it’s of some use,’ he said. ‘Clearly, it’s not here.’

  Anne met his gaze.

  ‘I hope you’re better soon, Tom.’

  Tom furrowed his brows, either in anger or confusion. Margaret cleared her throat, looking at him as if he ought to remember he was a man of the cloth.

  ‘Reverend,’ said Tom.

  Richard nodded goodbye to Margaret, gave Anne one last look before he walked away. As he turned the corner of the ward he heard Tom.

  ‘That man loves you, Anne, and you’re a damned fool if you think otherwise.’

  But the fury of desolate love drove Richard’s steps still faster away from Anne, until he was in his car, foot on the accelerator, speeding all the way to Pineneedle Prison.

  Brought face-to-face with Dan Barnes, Richard had hoped that he’d feel sympathy, but he couldn’t quite muster it.

  ‘How are you?’ Ric
hard asked.

  Dan sat up and nodded. ‘Fine.’

  Richard sighed. ‘I’ll just cut to the chase here. Gerald told me about the graffiti and stealing the bell.’

  Dan shook his head. ‘He can never keep things to himself.’

  ‘No,’ said Richard.

  They both sat and looked at each other – Dan in his grey sweatshirt and bottoms, Richard in his collar.

  ‘Listen,’ said Dan. ‘If you think I’m going to tell the police about Gerald and that graffiti, I’m not. Dad’s already taken the blame for it and I’m no grass.’

  ‘Well, that’s good of you. I think Gerald just needs a chance and with his previous conviction that could …’

  ‘Put him here, with me? Don’t worry, Rev. I’ve got selling drugs, buying drugs, oh, and that actual bodily harm thing to my name. Gerald’s all right with his one conviction of possession of pot.’ Dan gave a derisive laugh.

  Richard felt inordinately angry and had to press his hands to his legs. ‘How’s your dad?’

  Dan made no move to answer. ‘Are we done here?’

  ‘I suppose so. If you want.’

  Dan was about to stand up when Richard added: ‘Wouldn’t Teddy have talked you out of stealing that bell?’

  A flicker of sadness crossed Dan’s face as he looked at Richard.

  He shrugged. ‘Probably.’

  He went to walk out of the room but paused at the door. Without turning around he added: ‘Tell Ger …’

  ‘What?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Tell him to be more like Teddy.’

  When Bilal returned home after New Year with Mariam and Haaris, the first thing he saw was Khala’s waterproof anorak. It jolted into him the memory of her passive face, her body wrapped in a white shroud, before being taken to be buried. The sentimental notion that the sisters were now together occurred to Bilal, and he didn’t dislike it.

  ‘What happens to her things?’ asked Haaris.

  ‘We’ll sort through them,’ replied Mariam, pulling him into a hug. ‘Though she didn’t have much.’

  ‘Is it because she was alone?’ he asked.

  ‘She wasn’t alone,’ replied Bilal.

  But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie. Mariam had asked Haaris if he had wanted to see Khala’s face before they buried her and he had said yes. She had hoped that his curiosity for life wouldn’t match his curiosity for death. He’d looked at Khala, her face a pale yellow, lips darkened, for a full three minutes before turning to Mariam and whispering: ‘It’s not her, Mum, is it? It’s just a body.’