This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

The church – multi-faith centre – (it would take a while before Shelley could say that without letting out an agitated sigh) was again filling with people, an even bigger group, for Khala’s memorial. Shelley had ordered halal meat for the patties she made herself. She thought it best not to tell anyone, because she’d heard rather unsavoury things about halal meat, though this was organic and produced by a lovely Muslim couple in Oxford. Oxford was surely a civilised place.

  Khala’s friends from Birmingham had come, along with the man with a van, who really looked much more charming in a suit. She supposed nothing could be done about the beard. A journalist had asked if she could be present. Shelley wanted to check what the lady’s angle would be, whether she’d disrespect her friend’s memory, but upon interrogation Shelley was satisfied. The country should know about Khala. Haaris was going to video the ceremony and put it up on YouTube – not because they wanted to be exhibitionists, but because it was time the nation saw everyone in the village together. She saw Tom take a seat. He would always be an oppressive presence to her but she would have to let him stay for the memorial. Taking her stand at what used to be the pulpit, Shelley thanked everyone for coming. She cleared her throat and took her notes in her trembling hands.

  ‘I’ll keep this brief, rather like Khala’s time in Babbel’s End. I know she wasn’t particularly social, and so many of you won’t have met her, but I can tell you that she was a very kind soul indeed.’

  Shelley looked around and surprisingly saw nods of assent. Her heart lifted, her hands trembled a little less.

  ‘In the short time I knew her, and even shorter time in which I understood her on account of my poor Punjabi –’ a few chuckles came from the crowd – ‘she made me realise that it never was too late to change one’s life. Her faith in … Allah …’ It took Shelley some courage to say Allah, but she would be resolute. And only three people flinched, which seemed to her rather positive. ‘… was consistent – a virtue which seems to have lost all meaning in modern life.’ Many murmurs of agreement. ‘She was a woman who had known love with her husband and I pray today that she is reunited with him in the afterlife.’

  ‘Amen,’ she heard a few voices say.

  ‘“Now I wear wellies and aronaks,” Khala would say,’ added Shelley, deciding against mimicking her accent, but not her pronunciation of anoraks. ‘In the last six months of her life, Khala had become the person who walked amongst nature, tried to learn English, listened to me and my … well, worries – we all have them, don’t we? – because I thought she didn’t understand, but she did – even with her limited English. She observed people and seemed to just get them.’ Shelley looked up from her notes, and wished there weren’t tears in her eyes, but it couldn’t be helped. ‘Perhaps language isn’t as big a barrier as we think.’ Shelley paused to catch the breath that had caught in her throat, pushed down the lump that had formed. ‘There are many more things I’d liked to have known about Khala, but I do know that she wrote Urdu poetry. Mariam, would you like to come up and recite one?’

  Shelley stepped away as Mariam rested a piece of paper on the lectern:

  Apnay des ko chor diya tha

  Waqt ka dharra mor diya tha

  Ek bhein ke ujhrewe ghar mein

  Apni bhi duniya banadia tha

  England ka bheegawa Mausam

  Apni ankhon se jorra liya tha

  Jaisi teri guzri

  Apni kismet mein yehi likha tha

  Tumhein milay zindagi mein sahara

  Mere umeed se khilaywe dil ne, bas yehi kaha tha.

  Mariam’s voice cracked at one point, but she carried on. Shelley looked at everyone through her blurred vision, some reaching for their tissues, and wondered how many were affected by the poetry and cadence of speech. Were the tears for Khala or for the certainty of loss? Did the older ones, like her, think about the creaking of their knees and see it as another sign of their impending mortality, or did they cry because of the inevitability of change? The younger ones fidgeted and shuffled, not yet realising that their time would also come one day. She hoped and prayed, anyway, that theirs would not be cut short like Teddy’s had. Anne rested her head on Tom’s shoulder, Bilal held on to Haaris’s hand, Bruce sat with his wife, Mr and Mrs Pankhurst sat comfortably next to one another, and Copperthwaite seemed to have ironed out his frown. Arthur never would be by her side, but she knew that if Khala could make a change so late in life, then there was no excuse for Shelley to hold on to consistency as if it were gospel.

  She would have to break things before putting them back together. Her marriage was going to be one of them.

  Then something quite surprising happened. Margaret got up from the third row because she had a few words to say, and went on to explain the time and effort Khala had put in to sew the shalwar kameez for her.

  ‘And of course I loved it,’ said Margaret. ‘Who wouldn’t!’

  Then Mrs Pankhurst got up. Apparently Khala had put her hand on Mrs Pankhurst’s arm when she realised that Mr Pankhurst and she were arguing about the mosque and said four simple words: ‘It will be okay.’

  This was followed by James, who said he lost his beard in the barn at the Nativity, when Khala turned up and gave it to him. Shelley smiled to herself. Khala really did see everything. And who could forget that they got the church bell back because Khala exchanged her Allah necklace for it. But perhaps most surprising of all was when Tom stood up. Everyone watched as he hobbled up to the lectern with his stick. Shelley stiffened.

  If that man spoils today, I will take his walking stick and shall seriously consider putting it in a place where the sun doesn’t venture.

  ‘I’m sure you all wish it was my memorial instead,’ he said. ‘But the good ones always go first. Well, I didn’t know Khala very well. Quiet woman. Think I scared her. But she was taking one of her walks when I was walking the dogs and she said to me: “Margaret is very nice woman”.’

  Shelley looked at Margaret, confused.

  ‘I said, “Well, that’s jolly good for her but what am I to do with it?!”’ He cleared his throat. ‘Don’t think she understood me. But you know what that sly, old woman said?’ Now Tom fixed his gaze on Margaret. ‘She damn well said, “Marry her”.’

  There followed quite a kerfuffle: outbreaks of whispers and murmurings, people saying things in each other’s ears, while Margaret turned a shade of beetroot for the first time in her unashamed life.

  ‘And, I mean, let’s not get carried away here,’ added Tom. ‘But, well, Mags, what do you say? Would you go on a date with a poor man like me?’

  Margaret stood up and put her hands on her hips. ‘Tom Lark, I am a hundred-and-fifty-two. Marry me and we can think about that date.’

  Tom went red. He’d remembered the note his wife had left him, still in his drawer, and decided he’d finally throw that letter in the fire. It was long overdue.

  ‘Yes, yes, all right, but you’ll have to get rid of those bloody begonias. Can’t stand the things.’

  The room burst into applause as Tom made his way to sit next to Margaret and they both looked ahead as if they hadn’t just bound themselves to one another for the rest of their days. However short they might be.

  ‘And on that note,’ said Shelley, feeling somewhat perplexed by it all, ‘please feel free to take some non-alcoholic drinks and refreshments. Khala’s friends were very kind to bring traditional Pakistani food, so do try some, although you stay away from them, Copsy – you can’t handle spices.’

  The crowd broke out, gathering in groups and taking their food and drink out into the cold winter air. It was an unaccountably sunny day, the chirping of birds filling the air.

  ‘There are troubles ahead,’ said Shelley as she and Bilal walked out of the centre.

  The truth was Shelley knew – today it was the A-road, tomorrow it would be something else, and she might not have the power to stop it. May not even be around to stop it. (Who knew how long we were all of this earth?) Whatever it might be.

&
nbsp; ‘I know,’ replied Bilal.

  She looked at him, his downcast face, hands in his pocket, before he turned to her. ‘It was very moving.’

  ‘I didn’t understand a word of the poem. But for some inexplicable reason, yes. It was.’

  Shelley realised that it was so often what she wished to do: to move people. Perhaps she had gone about it the wrong way. Although she was never any good at poetry, so she’d have to consider her options.

  ‘I meant the memorial,’ Bilal said.

  ‘Oh, well. That’s quite okay. She’ll be missed,’ she added. They stopped under a big oak tree, the sun filtering through the bare branches.

  Just then Tom came charging towards them. ‘Those damned people.’ He was waving a piece of paper that Margaret had handed to him. It was a letter being sent to residents informing them of the construction plans.

  Shelley took it from him and read it. So, it had begun.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘This isn’t the time. Not today.’

  He looked wildly between Bilal and Shelley. ‘When will be the time?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Shelley. ‘We start again.’

  Tom grunted.

  ‘Mariam will start a social media campaign,’ said Bilal.

  ‘Very good idea. Haaris said something about clogging?’ suggested Shelley.

  ‘Vlogging,’ corrected Bilal.

  ‘Ah, there’s Richard. Reverend!’ Shelley called out.

  He turned around. Standing opposite him, hidden from view until then, was Anne. She was smiling.

  ‘How do you feel about … what was it?’

  ‘Vlogging.’

  ‘Yes, vlogging,’ Shelley asked a confused-looking Richard. ‘Preoccupied, I see,’ she added, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Haaris wants to go to Sam’s,’ said Mariam, sidling up next to Bilal. ‘Harry offered to drop him home afterwards.’

  ‘You know I’ve always thought that boy is trouble,’ said Shelley. ‘Now, we’ll need money for all these campaigns, and of course to properly convert the church,’ she added.

  ‘I’m going to use the money from the sale of Mum’s house,’ said Bilal. ‘I’m giving your donation back, Tom. Especially now, since you’re going to have to pay for a wedding,’ he added with a smile.

  Tom frowned as Shelley took a bite of a samosa and instantly wished she hadn’t.

  ‘What if it doesn’t work? What if the building is destroyed?’ She knew how these things often went; a few people couldn’t change things really. Not in any significant way.

  ‘We’ll start a crowdfund to keep the fat cats out,’ said Bilal. ‘Anything we can do, we’ll do it. There has to be some benefit to becoming a famous village.’

  Tom slapped Bilal’s back. ‘That’s the ticket. Crowdfunding. You’re brighter than you look.’

  ‘We’d better get back home,’ said Mariam. ‘Let me just say bye to Anne.’

  Tom was already striding towards Richard and Anne, calling the reverend a sly old bastard who should leave his daughter alone. Shelley shook her head.

  ‘Things will still change,’ said Shelley. ‘No matter what we do.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bilal. ‘They never do stay the same.’

  Everyone’s voices quietened then as the church bell tolled, each person taking a moment to appreciate what they had today.

  Shelley sighed and smiled. ‘Well, if I’ve at least done one good thing in my life, it’s trimming Tom’s unsightly bush.’

  Bilal got home and went out into the garden. He stared at the grave. How much had his mum understood when she’d asked him to build that mosque? Surely she’d have anticipated the breakdown that had ensued. Or perhaps she understood that doing things as you have always done them isn’t living; that to live is to change, however hard it might be. Bilal smiled and said a prayer for her. He made a promise to speak more Punjabi in the house. To hold on to things as long as you can before they vanish and become myths. Muttering the opening lines from Khala’s poem, he took a fistful of cold, damp earth and scattered it in the grave. Mariam came out and grabbed another shovel.

  ‘I thought you could do with some help,’ she said.

  After a few minutes they heard the familiar sound of Margaret’s quad bike, her faint voice getting closer. ‘Now, before you do all that, tell me. How does this look?’

  She came into view, wearing a fleece over the shalwar kameez that Khala had made her, farm boots on her feet, pearls still dangling around her neck.

  ‘Perfect for my wedding, no?’

  Bilal and Mariam paused.

  ‘Do I look monstrous?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘No,’ Mariam exclaimed. ‘I mean, you’ll need other shoes.’

  Margaret looked at her feet, as if this was an unfortunate but necessary notion.

  ‘I do like the pearls though,’ added Mariam.

  ‘Yes, they … go very well,’ was all Bilal could manage.

  ‘Excellent,’ replied Margaret. ‘Don’t know how Tom will feel about it, but what does that grumpy old fool know?’ With which Margaret drove back to where she’d come from.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Mariam. ‘I kind of wish your mum and Khala could see Margaret wear that on her wedding.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Plenty of other people will,’ he replied.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mariam. ‘I suppose that’s something.’ She looked at him and added: ‘You do know that includes me, don’t you? I plan to be there on the wedding day. With you. And, you know, all the days after that. I hope.’

  Bilal kissed Mariam on the lips without feeling a flicker of doubt. They both picked up their shovels. This time, neither of them stopped until the ground was even. It would take a while and some care, but once the grass grew over it, the patch would blend with the rest of the garden, as if it had always been that way.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to my brilliant agent, Nelle Andrew, for your guidance, unerring support and confidence in this book. I am bloody lucky to have you on my side. To my wonderful editor, Eleanor Dryden; your belief (in me) and excitement about this book made writing it a little less of a pain in the arse. I almost feel ashamed for taking all the credit when the book is what it is because of you. I owe you a title too. Thank you to Sarah Bauer for your meticulous desk-editing, my copyeditor Genevieve Pegg, proof-reader Natalie Braine, marketing whizz Sahina Bibi, publicist Clare Kelly, Katie Lumsden, and everyone at Bonnier. I am eternally grateful for your confidence and everything you’ve done to make a home for my books. I don’t think an author could ask for more.

  Thanks to Helen Bryant for being my chauffeur in Dorset, arranging my accommodation, brainstorming plot and character, and always being there for an emergency Skype. And to Mace Bryant for keeping me company when Helen couldn’t. You are both wonderful. Alex Hammond, thank you for keeping the screenwriting dream alive, and for the genius idea of the construction threatening the church. Thank you to Anthony and Harriet Sykes for the most incredible month staying in the west wing of Bellamont House. My time in Dorset wouldn’t have been the same without your warmth and kindness. And, of course, thank you for Anthony’s excellent idea of converting a church into a mosque. I think that plot twist made this novel. (Come to think of it, I owe both major plot twists to other people, which tells you something about my imagination). Thank you to Gwen Kinghorn for speaking to me about being a member of the parish council and bringing me lamb chops; to Reverend Sue Lingford for talking to me at length about the life of a parish vicar; John Thorpe for welcoming me to Sunninghill Preparatory School, taking me to a fisherman’s meeting and forgiving me for calling him Julian at least eleven times; and thank you to Litton Cheney parish council for letting me sit in on their meeting, giving me a glimpse into village life.

  Thank you to Shaista Chishty for making that first week in Dorset (and my life) so romantic, and between your nikaab, my hat, your hair and my hijab, helping to confuse the maintenance man into thinking there were four of us living in
the west wing. There’s no one else I’d rather be chased by sheep with. Thank you, Nafeesa Yousuf, for being the constant (and, quite frankly, impossibly fast) reader. You helped lift my doubts with every real-time WhatsApp message. Clara Nelson, thank you for always putting things into perspective, being on hotline, and for giving me a god-daughter. I also couldn’t quite get through life without Sadaf Sethi, the most interfering and brilliant friend. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Jas Kundi, I always have and always will be thankful to and for you. Kristel Pous and Amber Ahmed, you have both provided shelter when I’ve needed it most – thank you for giving me supplementary homes.

  I was determined not to make any new friends in my 30s but then Remona Aly and Onjali Rauf wormed their way into my life; the most formidable duo I know – one day my work ethic might improve because of you two. (Also, thanks for the chicken that travelled from East London to Dorset.) Ailah Ahmed, I never walk past an alleyway without thinking of you. Thank you for all the wisdom, inevitable laughter and romantic days out. And thank you to Sameer Sheikh, whose pessimism brings out the optimist in me.

  A writer’s life wouldn’t be the same without a group to share the ups and downs with – and it’s usually more down than up. So, thank you to Vaseem Khan, Abir Mukherjee, Imran Mahmood, Alex Khan and Amit Dhand for filling each and every day with (top ten); bakwaas, unstinting advice and support, a healthy dose of tough love, some therapy (usually needed after the tough love), reality checks peppered with bouts of unreasonable optimism, Bitmojis and Gifs, but most importantly, ladoos. I am most grateful for the belief in ladoos. (Next ones are on Alex.) A special thanks to Abir and Vaseem for getting roped into reading early proofs. Caroline O’Donoghue – fellow cultural antagonist – thank you also for that early read and your flurry of positivity. You only cement my idea that the Irish are great craic. Thank you also to Sarah Shaffi who’s been a beacon of positivity about the book. And thanks to Nikesh Shukla.

  To the entire Zaffre writing gang, thank you for always being on hand when needed, especially Rebecca Thornton without whom random writerly rants just wouldn’t be the same.