White Trash

by John King

  —You were sick down the side of the car, remember?

  Ruby nodded and groaned from the dull pain stuck in her head, a leftover she didn’t want, teeth fuzzy from not brushing them last night when she got in, she hadn’t brought her toothbrush along, forgot, usually she would’ve tucked it in her handbag, or if she wasn’t taking a handbag she’d put it in a pocket, or if she didn’t have a pocket she’d slip it in her waist, remembering a time she was dancing, well and truly nutted, and her toothbrush went spinning off under hundreds of feet and she was crawling around trying to find it, a pink brush she’d bought the day before, and eventually she grabbed it, when they were back at the bar Dawn took it off her and stirred her drink, laughing, big-shot cocktails when they were only drinking vodka, and next day when she woke up her pink toothbrush was packed with dirt, and the worst thing was she’d cleaned her teeth with it when she got back to Dawn’s, the thought of it almost made her throw up, so she thought of something else instead, saw them sitting in the back of Des’s car last night, eating, with that preacher on the radio, a Bible-bashing voice straight from Dixie tormenting the speakers and praising God, doing his best to conjure up the devil as he dished out public health warnings, eternal damnation and the tormenting fires of a dodgy nightclub down near the core of the Earth, deep in the cellar where the walls were hot like coals, rock glowing behind the turntable as this tricky little geezer spun his wax and had the horn something rotten, two of them sticking out of his head, radio waves on the surface hijacked by a fundamentalist with no sense of humour.

  With the sun out and about, the idea of hell didn’t mean much, a joke to match with Gary the star-spangled gangster, Paula sipping from her Pokémon mug, she knew all the names as well, big gangs of computer-generated mythology. Ruby rubbed her eyes and sipped the coffee. It was thick and muddy and just what she needed. Her legs were stiff as she sat cross-legged, her and Paula sitting in silence for a long time, enjoying the drink.

  —The girls had to wake me up this morning, Paula said, at last. I was sick when I got up, but I made their breakfast and got them to school in time, like a good mum. My mum left early and left me to it.

  She laughed and emptied her mug.

  —I’m going back to bed, Rube. You don’t mind, do you? You’ll be all right, won’t you? Make yourself some toast if you want, there’s bread on the counter and jam in the fridge, cornflakes in the cupboard.

  —Don’t worry about me.

  Paula went back upstairs and Ruby went into the kitchen, where she made herself four slices of toast, because she was a greedy cow, smothering them in honey she found in the fridge next to the jam, then went out into the garden. It was a beautiful day and she was feeling better, the stiffness more or less gone. There was a deckchair by the back door and she set it up, eased back, ate her toast in the sun, long strands of honey dripping on to the plate, chewing it well and appreciating the texture.

  A crow landed on the roof of the house behind Paula’s, so big it could’ve been a raven, claws gripping slates as it peered at a paddling pool down below, the plastic sagging and slowly leaking air, long plastic tubes full of someone’s breath, and she’d done it enough times, blown up balloons and had an aching jaw for hours afterwards. There was a rabbit hutch back against the house, out of sight of the crow, straw scattered over grass that needed a cut, a lot different to the one next door where it was shorn close to the ground, and she could see all the houses and gardens from where she was sitting, the fences made out of wire. Paula could do more with her garden if she wanted, but she wasn’t green-fingered, had tried with a curry plant her mum gave her but then forgot to water it.

  Ruby watched the crow for a long time, its body so beautiful and strong, oily feathers gleaming in the light, water off a duck’s back was the expression, except the crow was a tougher bird. She used to feed ducks with her mum, in the park, the drakes the pretty boys, stale bread scattered over the water and pulling in coots, sometimes flocks of seagulls so Mum said there was a storm brewing at sea, the ducks quacking as the bread went soggy and swelled to twice its size.

  When she’d finished her toast Ruby hauled herself up and went inside for her handbag, sitting back on the deckchair and rolling a nice chunky spliff, the crow turning its head left and right, maybe it had a predator, she couldn’t think what sort of bird would go after a crow, not round here anyway, there were no eagles or hawks cruising the skies, and she knew what they said about crows, that they had a nasty streak and pecked the heads off other birds, robbed nests and decapitated chicks. They lurked on the moors, bleak landscapes that were only bleak if you were an outsider looking at them and expecting the worst, it was the same as a city or a town, anywhere really, it was there inside the observer. Ruby knew that well enough. It was a way of seeing things. There were no moors here, but maybe there had been once, a hundred years ago, you couldn’t tell, generations of crows too stuck to move away, adjusting to changing times, dustbins spilling food. The foxes liked it round here as well, she’d seen them, didn’t want to think of pecking devil birds, admired the shape and colour of the crow instead, the gold fur of a vixen.

  Ruby lit up and sucked the smoke in, easing further into the chair, the sun on her face, at just the right angle, hitting her arms and legs. She was feeling mellow, the leftovers of last night gone, coffee melting the fuzz on her teeth, and Paula bought good coffee, it was a luxury but well worth the extra pound or so, and that toast had filled the hole in her belly nicely, everything was beginning to simmer, the clouds thin, air sweet, the crow launching itself, wings swaying with a lazy swagger, flapping and squawking its way across the houses and off to the flats with their blue railings and white wood panels, disappearing behind the roofs.

  That bird was strong and slow and on the move, but Ruby wasn’t going anywhere. She was knackered and, stretching her legs out, could easily sit here for the next ten years. She stubbed out on the grass, imagining the soil below as her eyelids dipped and she drifted in and out of sleep through long tunnels full of worms and moles, under the earth towards the devil’s nightclub with its Wurlitzer jukebox and decadent sounds, happy songs that for some reason were called evil, the walls of this cave moving and the coals of an electric fireplace flashing, a remix of her earlier thinking, Ruby turning her face sideways, enjoying the warmth, glad she didn’t have to go to work today, seeing furnaces in a crematorium deep inside the hospital, amputated arms and legs that made her back away from the light, plastic dolls from a shop display, and she was climbing the steps again, didn’t like sitting on a platform with a man in diamond cufflinks, chunks of rubble and broken planks in the soil, glue and plaster strung together with gold wire, the garden slanting where the bulldozers packed up early, the housing association concerned short of cash, it was Paula’s mum who’d bought her the turf six months after she’d moved in, six-inch nails in the gravel, stabbing one of her grandchildren in the foot, Ruby skipping in the playground a million years ago sinking her head down into the fountain for a mouthful of water, hot summer days, the best days.

  Everything was blank for a while, no cares in the world as the shouting of her school playtimes shot through the years from the school where Paula’s girls went, a few houses away, the playground on the other side of a wooden fence. She could hear cheering and laughing from boys and girls and the bang of a ball on the panels. Two more days and they’d be breaking up for their summer holidays. Paula was looking forward to having her kids at home but at the same time scared of the energy they were going to let loose on her, laughing when she told Ruby that last night, sipping her lager, water in her eyes thinking of her children, family values as strong as ever, the sound of shouting, another thump on the fence, Ruby floating away, a football flying over and bouncing a few feet in front of her.

  She looked towards the school and saw a small blond head appear, eight-year-old fingers holding on to the wood, a pumpkin face with short hair and a wide grin, a pound coin under his pillow, and Ruby stood up and got the ba
ll, threw it in the air and tried to volley it back, missed, the boy laughing, and now his head was multiplying, three more cropped pumpkins sticking up, grinning, one of the boys wolf-whistling, Ruby connecting with the ball second go and kicking it back over the fence. She was proud of the kick, to be honest it could’ve gone anywhere. She bowed.

  —Thanks, they shouted.

  The heads dropping down, out of sight.

  —You’ve got sexy tits.

  —Horny baby, horny.

  —Shagadelic.

  Ruby laughed at small boys and words they didn’t know the meaning of, the thump of the ball on the fence again, drifting, talk about leisure, she was thirsty and would go get a glass of water in a minute, when she could be bothered to move, later hearing a bell ring, the sound of shouting fading away, the fence silent, and there was peace again, a car engine reaching her every now and then, a radio somewhere, and she heard the bell again except it sounded more like a phone, heard a click and the sound of Paula’s mum’s voice in the machine asking where she was, if she’d gone down the shops and if not, maybe she was in the garden hanging up the washing, the volume turned up so the voice came into the garden, into Ruby’s head where it turned into the voice of her own mum, a woman raising a child, she thought about the responsibility involved, Ruby had nothing like that, she was free, okay she had to work and earn enough to pay the rent, buy food, and she did this okay, could pay for herself going out so she wasn’t one of these women who looked at men as if they were walking wallets, and those sort did exist, she just wasn’t one of them, equal meant equal in her book.

  Paula’s situation was different to Ruby’s, she understood that, harder, but at least she had her mother to help, as well as her dad, Ruby floating over yellow grass and the passing years and imagining her own mum putting her doll’s clothes on the line, shirts and dresses and jeans and socks and underpants and knickers and everything else. Her mum and dad’s clothes pulled the line down with the weight of the water, Ruby a small girl watching her mum, handing her pegs, trying to see the water evaporate. Mum told her how it melted away in the heat, right there in front of her eyes, except you only saw a bit of steam, the temperature rising, a hot day and then a nice breeze gave the clothes a special fresh smell. She wished she could smell her mum’s clothes now, hold a jumper to her nose and suck in the woman’s warmth, and there were bright plastic pegs with the wooden ones and they fell out of the split plastic bag and were trodden into the soil, sunk deeper and deeper until one day they’d be a relic in a museum, seen as a work of art, a contraption, something from a bygone age.

  Someone else lived in their house now. It had been the same as this one, more or less, but Ruby didn’t want to be back there with the memories, she wanted to stay happy.

  —Yeah, all right, Mum.

  Paula’s voice was indoors, she was talking loud, moving out of range, a door shutting for privacy, one of those phones you could walk around with, pushing buttons and trying to find a frequency, all mod cons that didn’t work, Ruby minding her own business.

  —Here you go, Paula said, coming out ten minutes later, handing over a cold drink, orange squash with a squiggly straw.

  —Mum woke me up phoning. It was a good job she did, I’d have kept sleeping. You don’t want to waste this sort of weather stuck inside.

  —You’re lucky having someone who cares about you so much.

  —Suppose so.

  —You do, you just don’t know it.

  —No, I do, of course I know it, I’d do the same for my kids. People help out, don’t they?

  Paula was sitting on the grass, an ant biting her leg. She jumped up and looked at the ground.

  —It bit me. Look.

  The skin was coming up. Ruby smiled.

  —It’ll be okay.

  Paula went over and got a plastic chair, sat with her feet tucked up. She looked better, and Ruby felt sorry for her, Jerry running off with a secretary from work, a teenager who wore stockings and a short skirt every day and turned his head. Paula had a go at her, scratched her face and wanted to scratch her eyes out. She blamed herself for not wanting sex for a long time after her second child was born, for taking things for granted thinking it didn’t matter if she slobbed around playing mummies and daddies. At other times she blamed the girl at work. Ruby had never seen her but been told what an evil, scheming slag she was, and just nodded. Jerry was to blame really, but there was nothing she could do but stay loyal to her friend.

  —Sneaky little bastard, hanging around in the grass and nipping me like that, then it goes and gets lost again. Does the damage and doesn’t own up.

  Paula was laughing, and Ruby started skinning up, Paula looking nervous.

  —There’s a drug dealer lives in that house over there, she said, laughing, and a copper in that one there, a real nasty bit of work who buys his gear off the other guy, but would probably nick me if he smelt that stuff. They’d probably take the kids away and put them in a home.

  Ruby felt guilty and stopped what she was doing.

  —Sorry, you have to think about these things when you’ve got kids. His car’s there so he’s in.

  Paula went inside and five minutes later reappeared with a tray filled with food, Mickey Mouse on the plastic, Goofy grinning ear to ear, all that Disney magic of last night revived. She put the tray down on the ground, flicking an ant away and lifted it on to the chair she’d been sitting on, a pile of cheese sandwiches on a plate, the MiniRolls cold from the fridge when Ruby reached out for one. They’d have to eat them fast otherwise they were going to melt in the sun. Paula went back in and came out with a blanket, in her bikini now, two cans of cider in her hands. Paula waved and the copper’s curtains moved.

  —He’s probably having a wank right now, watching us through binoculars, she laughed.

  Ruby hoped not, didn’t think so somehow, and this was the life all right, having a picnic on your day off. It didn’t matter that she’d been sweating and hadn’t brushed her teeth. They were a couple of slobs all right. Ruby covered in dry sweat from dancing and sleeping and sunbathing, going red on her arms. The sun was high in the sky as they drank their cider and ate their sandwiches, jam in the sponge inside the chocolate rolls, Ruby and Paula enjoying the best sort of day.

  The sun was high in the sky when Mr Jeffreys awoke from his slumber. He had remained at the hospital until 5am, wearily climbing into his bed at precisely six. His taxi had been waiting when he walked through the hospital doors and, with the streets devoid of traffic, he had reached his hotel within fifteen minutes. The skinhead driving was a genial chap, clearly sympathetic when he saw the weary state of his passenger. They shared the bond of two night-shift workers. Jeffreys felt confident enough to ask that the radio be switched from the barely audible country and western to some mellow jazz. This the skinhead had done with a friendly smile. If he had been listening to the hillbilly station Jeffreys would not have done so, but it was clear that his driver had forgotten the radio was even on.

  Cruising through the empty streets with a gentle saxophone playing in the background was a fitting reward for a hard night’s work. It took time to come down after such a prolonged and intensive burst of activity, yet to a certain extent this was achieved on the journey. He tipped the driver generously when the trip was complete and collected his key from the man on reception. The elevator was ready and he was whisked away. Mr Jeffreys studied his face in the mirror opposite the door. It was polished and clear. His reflection was fed into further mirrors on either side of the elevator. It was as if the lift was full of carbon copies. As if he had been successfully cloned. He laughed, but his face looked so tired. The doors soon opened and he padded towards his room, soft carpet even in the hallways. On returning to his room he had felt rather peckish and immediately ordered a club sandwich and two bottles of cold American beer in an ice bucket. The man who promptly delivered this was very polite and Jeffreys tipped him.

  Left alone with his thoughts, Mr Jeffreys had crack
ed the first beer using the supplied opener and guzzled greedily. He had achieved a great deal and needed time to unwind before retiring. He was not a big beer drinker, but enjoyed this particular brand, which was especially imported for the hotel’s American guests. The beer did not have a high alcohol content and was very refreshing. He finished the bottle and bit into his sandwich. It was delicious. He took his time. In keeping with the high standards of the hotel, the club sandwich had been lovingly prepared and presented. He liked the crusts removed and this had been done with precision. He sat and admired the sandwich, the contents as well as the shape. He savoured the taste in between sips from the second beer. When he had finished he brushed the crumbs into a small pile. These he ate. He inspected the plate. Emptied the second bottle. Looked at the clock and saw that there were another three minutes to go until six o’clock. He waited. On the stroke of six he had rolled over and buried his head in the pillow.