Ruby Tanya Page 2

  Before breakfast I go for a walk. To reach the door I must pass through the home of Shazad Butt. Shazad is twelve like me, but bigger. He bullies me at school. I walk fast with my eyes down, feeling his eyes following me. He would thump me and pull my plaits if he was alone, but his father is watching. I see only the floor till I close the door behind me: the Butts are none of my flipping business, as Ruby Tanya would say.

  It is raining the sort of rain called drizzle, which falls a lot on England. I put my scarf over my hair and tuck the ends in my jacket. There is grass, but it is best in drizzle to keep to the concrete pathways. I walk one pathway, then another and another till I am near to the gates, which are closed. I think they are closed because nobody is going to school, but perhaps there is another reason. Four men of my country are staring through the bars at three English men on the road outside. Nobody is talking, they are just staring. I stop to watch, but one of the men turns to me. It is half past seven, he growls. Why are you not at the mess? The mess is where we all have breakfast. It is quite tidy – I don’t know why it is called the mess.

  I look at the man. I am going for a walk, I tell him, before breakfast.

  Then walk, he says, and I walk away, wondering why the English men are here, and whether Ruby Tanya will get through the gates if she decides to call for me. I want to see Ruby Tanya, to know she’s all right and to ask her about the bomb.

  I could not have guessed, that Friday morning, how much the bomb was going to change our lives.

  - Six

  Ruby Tanya

  WHERE ARE YOU off to? Mum asked as I zipped up my jacket. It’s wet, you know.

  I know, Mum, but this jacket’s showerproof. I thought I’d collect my bike from school then go up the camp, call for Asra. Dad had gone to work so it was OK to mention Asra.

  I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Ruby Tanya. Not today.

  How d’you mean? What’s wrong with today?

  Mum sighed. You heard your dad, love. There might be trouble. If some bunch of heroes have gone out there with baseball bats or whatever, I don’t want you involved.

  I won’t get involved, will I? I’m just calling for my friend.

  Yes, I know, but listen: suppose there’s a reporter from the Star? A photographer, or even somebody from the telly? There could be, and you know what it’d be like in this house if you were filmed or photographed anywhere near the camp and your dad saw you. It’d be the end of your friendship with Asra.

  I nodded. I know, Mum, but how about if I stop at that bend in the lane and have a look, and if anything seems to be happening I forget it and come home?

  She sighed again. All right, love. If you promise me you’ll do that, you can go. Have you got your key, because I’ll be at work when you get back. There’s salad and pizza in the fridge.

  Mum works at a charity shop in the village. I showed her my key and my mobile. I’ll call you at the shop so you’ll know I haven’t been kidnapped or anything. Don’t worry.

  Mum snorted. Don’t worry, she says. My daughter goes off to her quiet little village school, and the next thing I know I get a call to say somebody’s blown the place up and my child’s in hospital. You’d worry if you were a mum, Ruby Tanya.

  I grinned. I think you’d worry as well – I am only twelve.

  There’s no need to be cheeky, young woman. I’ll talk to you later.

  Later, Mum. ’Bye.

  I turned my collar up and set off towards school, squinting at the world through the rain-beads on my glasses, hoping I’d find everything just as usual at my best friend’s so-called home.

  - Seven

  Ruby Tanya

  I HAD NO prob collecting my bike. There was a policewoman at the gate, who let me through when I explained. Stay away from the building, was all she said.

  You know when you’re getting near the camp, because of the sign. It’s got rust spots, the words are faded and the whole thing’s practically buried in long grass but there it is. RAF TIPTON LACEY 1/4 MILE, it says, in pink which used to be red. The bend is just after the sign.

  Approaching it I dismounted, leaned the bike on the hedge, crabbed along the wet verge and peered through a tangle of hawthorn. A blue car was parked just this side of the gates and three men were standing in the road, hunched against the drizzle with their hands in their jacket pockets, gazing into the camp. I couldn’t identify them, they were too far away, but I knew the car. It was Mr Holloway’s Polo. Mr Holloway is the village barber. None of the men seemed to be carrying weapons, which was a relief, and there was nobody from TV or the papers.

  Still, I didn’t know what to do. There were no cameras, but my dad and Mr Holloway are in the quiz team down the Three Horseshoes. They play every Tuesday. If old Holloway saw me out here he’d be bound to mention it to Dad. I decided to wait a bit. After all, nothing much was happening: maybe those guys’d get fed up being rained on and go home.

  I was getting pretty wet myself under the dripping hedge. Spider webs are pretty with rain-beads on them, but I wasn’t sure where the spiders were and that was making me itch. I was glad when PC Willoughby’s patrol car whooshed by and drew up behind the Polo.

  PC Willoughby got out of the car and went over to the three men. Somebody inside the camp must have called 999. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but after a couple of minutes and a few angry gestures towards the gates, the trio shuffled to the Polo and got in. The policeman stood watching as the barber started up, executed a three-point turn and accelerated in my direction. I turned my back as the car went by, so I didn’t see who the passengers were.

  The policeman was talking through the gates to somebody I couldn’t see. I had to wait till he’d finished, which luckily wasn’t long. Other vehicles were passing all the time, and I hoped nobody’d spot me who knew Dad. That’s the trouble in a village: everybody knows everybody; you can’t do anything on the quiet.

  PC Willoughby didn’t turn the patrol car round, but continued towards Danmouth. When it was out of sight I emerged like a half-drowned hen from under the hedge, retrieved the bike and trudged along to the gate. Two men were opening them, but they saw me and reversed direction, swinging them shut with a crash. I was so startled I stood gawping through the bars with my mouth open. Four bearded men gazed back at me the way you might look at a venomous snake or a sabre-tooth cat.

  - Eight

  Asra

  WHERE HAVE YOU been? asks Father, as I slip into my seat at the breakfast table. You’re quite wet.

  I went for a walk, Father. The gates are closed. Three English men are outside.

  Father nods. I know this, it is the trouble Mr Shofiq warned us of. You should stay away from the gates; all the children must stay away.

  But what about Ruby Tanya, Father?

  Your friend at school – what about her?

  She will come, I think, like Saturday, but the gates will be closed.

  Father shrugs. Then she will go home, Asra. He sighs. When I said all the children, I meant the English ones also. If there is fighting at the gates, it will be no place for children. Eat your breakfast, please.

  No place for children. I stare into my porridge bowl without seeing it, my mind showing me video clips of my country in the days before we ran away. Mr Hussain next door, trying to fight the soldiers who have come to drag him off. His wife runs after them, then cries out and falls into the dust, where she lies blowing red bubbles at the sky, her mouth smashed by a rifle butt. Seven charred dolls I see one day, all that is left of a family, lying in front of their burnt-out home. Pretty little Sushi Bibi before she finds the cluster bomb, and after.

  After is not so nice.

  Father?

  What is it, Asra?

  Please, may I leave the breakfast?

  Why, child, are you unwell?

  No, Father, but I am seeing things, things that happened near our home. People …

  I know. He nods, smiles a sad smile. I see those things too, so does your mother, so does everyb
ody here. We must all try to push them away; they will grow dim with time. Drink your juice.

  And Ruby Tanya …?

  Father smiles. While you are finishing your juice, I will walk down to the gates. If your friend is there I will give her your hello; if not I will leave your hello with the men on guard, who will give it to her if she comes later. How’s that?

  It seems sad to me, but I see it is the best that can be managed. Thank you, Father. I smile, and lift my glass.

  - Nine

  Ruby Tanya

  I’M RUBY TANYA, I’VE come to call for my friend Asra.

  One of the men shook his head. No children play today, they have teachings, prayers.

  I nodded. I know about Fridays, but the children go to school Fridays, don’t they? They’d be on their way now if there’d been no bomb.

  The man shrugged. If there’d been no bomb; but there was. Things are not the same.

  Me and Asra are the same. Best friends, always will be.

  The man smiled briefly. Your father – he knows of this friendship?

  Yes. Well … no. I mean, I haven’t told him yet.

  Why not?

  Because he doesn’t like … er … he thinks you and your people … oh, I dunno: he’s funny, that’s all.

  Funny? The man shook his head. Your father is Ed Redwood, yes?

  Yes, how d’you know?

  He pulled a face. It is not a thing for children, Ruby Tanya. Go home, read a book.

  It was raining harder. I could hardly see through my lenses and my hair was plastered to my skull. I was turning away when I spotted Asra’s dad beyond the gate. I grabbed the top rail, stuck my face through the bars. Hello, Mr Saber, I’ve come to see if Asra’s doing anything.

  He walked across, shaking his head. I’m sorry, Ruby Tanya, Asra won’t be leaving the camp today. She asked me to say hello. He looked me up and down. You’re very wet. I should ask you in to sit by the stove, drink something hot, but … He indicated the four men.

  It’s OK, Mr Saber; I was just off anyway. Tell Asra, won’t you? Say I’ll come tomorrow, same time. ’Bye. I hadn’t meant to be that abrupt. Five seconds and I was pedalling back along the lane with an aching lump in my throat, half-blind with tears. He called after me, something about tomorrow, but the wind through the hawthorns rattled a hard rain on my jacket and I couldn’t make it out.

  - Ten

  Ruby Tanya

  I WENT HOME. Well, what else was there to do in the pouring rain? I locked myself in and had a good cry. I’m not usually the weepy type: perhaps it was delayed reaction to yesterday. Anyway, I sat on the sofa and let it all out, and it made me feel better.

  Actually I quite like having the place to myself. You know – watch whatever you want on the telly, play loud music, raid the biscuit tin; whatever. Nobody nagging, picking on you, telling you to tidy your room or come and peel these potatoes. I washed my face, called Mum and told her she could stop twitching, switched on the telly and vegged out, not really watching. The twelve o’clock news jerked me out of my trance: it was about our famous bomb again. I zapped it and went through to the kitchen.

  I ate my pizza and chucked the salad in the bin, under something so Mum wouldn’t see. A coffee and five Hobnobs did for pudding, then it was time for a poking-about expedition. Poking about means nosing where you wouldn’t if your parents were in. Bedroom drawers are good: it’s incredible what people keep in their bedroom drawers. The tops of wardrobes can also be worth investigating: I’ve found future birthday and Chrissy presents up there, and once there was this amazing video. I’m not going to tell you what it was like. I rewound it and whipped it off after a couple of minutes but it made me see Mum and Dad in a whole new way.

  I didn’t find any videos this time but I found something else, up in the office which is really an attic. The computer’s up there, and a filing cabinet and loads of stuff to do with Dad’s work as an estate agent. Dad doesn’t like his stuff touched, so naturally I go through it pretty thoroughly on the odd occasions when I’m home alone. Mind you, I’m always careful to leave everything as I found it: like I said, he’s a pain when he’s upset.

  I found this pamphlet, what they call a flyer. There wasn’t just one; there were bundles of them stacked on the floor. I took one off the top and read it. This is what it said:

  LAMP THE CAMP

  An overwhelming majority of villagers are unhappy about the new role of the former RAF Tipton Lacey, now a dumping ground for illegal aliens. If you are one of us and have a vehicle, why not join us opposite the main gates at ten p.m. on Friday, 12 November for a non-violent direct action, the exact nature of which cannot be revealed in advance for security reasons.

  DON’T SIT ON THE FENCE: YOU’RE EITHER FOR US OR AGAINST US.

  At the bottom in small print it said, Published and printed by, with Dad’s name and our address.

  The flyer had been printed before the bomb, so naturally there was no mention. November the twelfth was a week from today. I had no idea what a non-violent direct action was, or that Dad was actually campaigning against the asylum seekers. If Asra’s people were aware of his involvement it would explain how the men on guard knew his name, and why they’d slammed the gates in my face.

  I folded my copy of the flyer and put it in my jeans pocket. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it: show it to somebody perhaps, but who? And was there any point, when presumably it’d be all over the village by tomorrow?

  I went downstairs, leaving no evidence of my visit to the office. I knew nobody was going to notice one flyer gone. I switched on the telly and sat gawping, while the wind racketed round the house and flung handfuls of rain at the windows.

  - Eleven

  Ruby Tanya

  DAD PUT DOWN his teacup and rubbed his hands together. Dark soon, he grinned. Time for big bangs.

  It was bonfire night. Mum and I’ve never liked it much, partly because of Dad’s love of bangers. I hoped he’d forgotten about it this year and I bet Mum did too, but no chance. He hadn’t mentioned bonfire night, but he’d smuggled the usual box of fireworks home and hidden them in the shed, and I knew most of them would be bangers, the most powerful he could find.

  So at half-six there we were, the three of us, in wellies, in the back garden. We never have a bonfire, which is just as well because it was chucking it down. Does it always rain on November the fifth, by the way, or is that an illusion? Dad was in charge of the fireworks, same as every year. He acts like he’s the only one with enough brains to handle them properly. All the time he’s setting them up and lighting them you get this running commentary, like he fancies himself as a bomb-disposal expert or something. The words plonker and sad spring to mind.

  Some of the fireworks were quite nice, I suppose. A few. And of course there was the toffee. Plot toffee, Dad calls it. We have to have some, because he had it every bonfire night when he was a kid. In fact Mum uses his mum’s recipe so it’s exactly the same. I think Dad secretly wishes he could go back to being a boy: it’s a wonder he hasn’t preserved a pair of short trousers and one of those peaked schoolboy caps with a badge on the front, to wear on bonfire night.

  Here’s the weirdest bit though, same every year. He’ll start off ultra-cautious, lighting the blue touch-paper at arm’s length and standing well back, treating Mum and me to the commentary, talking about how stupid some people are with fireworks. Then, bit by bit as he gets excited, he’ll forget his own advice and start doing daft stuff with bangers: holding them till they splutter, then chucking them over next-door’s fence or rolling them under the shed, whooping like a loony as they explode. I’m always bursting to remind him what he’s said earlier and I bet Mum is too, but we’ve never done it. He’s such a baby it’s not worth upsetting him. So we stood blinking and flinching, pretending to enjoy ourselves till he’d flung the final banger and punched the air one last time.

  It was only half-seven when Mum and me kicked off our wellies, draped our sodden coats over chairbac
ks to dry out and collapsed on the sofa, relieved to have the ordeal over till next year. I was just getting comfy, gawping at a game show on the telly, when Dad came in the room. Here, Ruby Tanya, he said, nice little job for you. I twisted round to look. He’d got two great armfuls of Lamp the Camp flyers and a strip of sticky labels about a mile long. On every label, in big black capitals, were the words REMEMBER THE BOMB.

  - Twelve

  Ruby Tanya

  I WAS SMART enough to act like I’d never seen the flyer. I was like, What job, Dad? Where’d you get all this stuff?

  He dumped the stacks on the carpet and the strip in my lap. All you’ve got to do, he said, is stick one of these in the top right-hand corner of each leaflet.

  But there’s hundreds, I protested. Thousands. It’ll take me all night.

  No it won’t. If your mum and I help we’ll have ’em done by bed time easy.

  Mum peeled a flyer off the top, read it, looked at Dad. Lamp the Camp, she said. What does that mean, Ed? You’re not thinking of setting the place on fire, I hope?

  Don’t talk daft, Sarah.

  What does lamp mean, then?

  Look. He pointed to a line and read it aloud: … the exact nature of which cannot be revealed in advance for security reasons. You know what that means, don’t you? Means don’t ask questions.

  Mum shook her head. I’m not touching these till I know what they mean, Ed. I won’t tell anybody else, but I have the right to know what I’m getting involved in.

  You’re not getting involved, Sarah, you’re sticking a few self-adhesive labels on flyers. I’m the one who’s getting involved. Somebody has to.

  Why? asked Mum. Why not leave those poor people alone, Ed? They’re not hurting anybody.