Ruby Tanya

by Robert Swindells

  Between them the couple calmed my friend, cleaned her up, and having satisfied themselves she wasn’t badly hurt, installed her on the sofa in their lounge with a cup of milky tea. I got tea too, and there was a plate of chocolate biscuits. Our police station’s loads better than the ones you see on telly.

  PC Willoughby leaned forward in his armchair. Now, Asra, he said gently, did you recognize any of those boys? Do you know their names?

  Asra gazed at the policeman for a moment, then nodded. I see them all at school, but names … She hesitated, glanced at Mrs Willoughby in the other armchair, then at me beside her on the sofa, then at the hearthrug. My father says we must not bring trouble for ourselfs. If I say names there will be trouble, I think.

  The policeman nodded. Trouble for those boys perhaps, but you see, Asra, if we don’t do anything they’ll think, Oh, right, we got away with that, let’s do it again. I need to speak to their parents, that’s all. He smiled. I recognized two or three or them myself, and I’d probably have placed the rest if they hadn’t moved so quick. Nobody’ll know you split on ’em, love, if that’s what you’re worried about.

  So Asra gave him names, and I mentioned one or two myself. He wrote them down in his notebook, nodded and stood up. Right, girls, he said briskly, thank you very much. With a bit of luck we’ll nip this spot of bother in the bud before it gets out of hand. We want no riots in Tipton Lacey, people taking the law into their own hands.

  We were at the door when I remembered why I’d come to Aspen Arbour in the first place. I produced the flyer. These’re round the village, I mumbled, thrusting it at him. I thought you should know. I didn’t mention Dad, but of course I didn’t need to, his name was on the thing.

  Willoughby smoothed it out. Lamp the Camp, he growled. What the heck does that mean?

  I shook my head. I don’t know, Mr Willoughby. I looked at him. What you said to Asra, about nobody knowing …

  He nodded. It’s all right, love, no one’ll know I got this from you. He smiled. You’ve done the right thing, Ruby Tanya, in case you were wondering.

  I’d been wondering all right. I was still wondering when Asra and I turned the corner at the end of Aspen Arbour. The picture in my mind was of Dad being bundled into one of those black vans with POLICE on the side and shields above their windscreens. Make me really popular at home, that would.

  Not.

  - Twenty

  Asra

  I AM WALKING in Beech Grove with my good friend Ruby Tanya. On my face is a cut with a plaster, and a happy smile. Those boys were hating me but Ruby Tanya is not. She keeps looking at me as we go along. You OK? she is saying. Yes, I tell her, I am very OK.

  I wish we could go to my place, she says, but my dad …

  I nod my head. I know; it doesn’t matter.

  I’m really sorry.

  Don’t be sorry. I’m not sorry. We are two friends still, that’s what matters.

  Ruby Tanya smiles. Shall we check out Mayfields, then? Mayfields is the village bread shop, but there are some tables and they have coffee. It is handy if you can’t be arsed going into Danmouth. When she told me this Ruby Tanya said, arsed is a bad word. Don’t use it at home. This is how she is difference from other kids; other kids teach us bad words and don’t tell us they are bad. They think it is very funny if we say one to a teacher.

  In Mayfields is not so busy, because Saturday afternoon everybody is shopping in Danmouth. We get coffee, sit down. How come you’re out anyway? asks Ruby Tanya. Are the gates open?

  I shake my head, tell her about the gap in the fence.

  Won’t you get into trouble though? she asks.

  Yes, but I had to know if you still like me and you do, don’t you?

  Course I do, why shouldn’t I?

  There is the bomb.

  So? She shrugs. Just because some turnip-heads decide to blame asylum seekers doesn’t mean I’ve got to drop my best friend, does it?

  I look to her over the rim of my cup. Your father … he blames us, I think.

  Yeah, well he’s one of the turnip-heads, Asra. We don’t get to choose our parents, you know.

  Yes, I know, Ruby Tanya, but families are important. I don’t want you to get trouble with your family because of me.

  I won’t get trouble, she says. They’ll get trouble, the turnip-heads. You heard what PC Willoughby said: he’ll sort ’em out.

  We talk and talk, happy to be together. I tell how the boys started chasing me, and how frightened I was till I remembered the police station. How surprise when I see she is there. Ruby Tanya tells me about the papers she found at home, the flyers, and all about her father and the fireworks. She is not glad our school will be mended in only one week and a half. I tell her I am very glad, but scared that everything might be different, kids hating us, teachers hating us too. I tell her about Miss Aram and Mr Younis. She says that sort of thing couldn’t happen in England, people wouldn’t stand for it. I tell her I hope she is right.

  It is a very good time at Mayfields till the man comes in. I do not know the big ugly person but Ruby Tanya does and she whispers a bad word. He is buying a pasty, staring at us as the lady wraps it and takes his money. When he has his change he comes across. You’re Ed Redwood’s girl, aren’t you? he growls. Ruby Tanya nods and the man looks at me. Who’s this then?

  My name is—

  I asked her, he snarls. Rude fellow.

  Asra Saber, murmurs Ruby Tanya. My best friend.

  Oh dear, says the man, shaking his bristly head. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Take her home to tea, do you? Ruby Tanya says nothing and the man smiles a scary smile. No, I thought not. Daddy wouldn’t be too keen, would he, budding bomber at his table? He laughs, turning away. I’ll see you later, young Redwood. He shoots me a horrible look. I better not see you though, Miss Saber.

  A very good time, broken now like Sushi Bibi’s face.

  - Twenty-One

  Ruby Tanya

  IT WAS GOOD seeing Asra, having a good natter. Shame about Donkey Jacket, the ignorant pig. He knew Dad, so my secret friendship would soon be up the spout. Never mind: they have to send us both to school, it’s the law, so we’ll see each other there if nowhere else.

  We set off home at three because it gets dark so soon in November. We said ta-ta at the corner of Glebe Lane and I stood there for a bit, watching Asra walk off down Danmouth Road. We’d not arranged anything for tomorrow because we’d no idea what was going to happen. We might both be grounded for sneaking off. At the bend she turned and waved. I waved back, then sauntered on past the Jarvis place. He’d gone in, leaving the garden looking really neat.

  As soon as I walked in the kitchen door I knew something had happened. Mum was at the sink, chopping carrots. Where’ve you been, love? she asked in an urgent whisper. Your dad wants to talk to you. I was in trouble and I knew it. Wants to talk to you is code for feels like knocking you into the middle of next week.

  ’S OK, Mum, I murmured, I was down Mayfields, that’s all. I went through to the hallway and hung my jacket on the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Then I took a deep breath and walked into the lounge.

  He was in his armchair opposite the telly, which he zapped as I walked in. If there was a button on the remote for zapping kids he’d have clicked me off too, I could tell. Sit down, he growled, indicating the other chair. What d’you know about this, Ruby Tanya? He flapped a crumpled flyer at me. I looked at it. It’s one of your flyers, I said: the ones Vikki took round.

  Not this one. He brandished the thing. This one’s different, it hasn’t got a sticker. What d’you say to that, eh?

  Er … oh.

  Is that all you can say, Ruby Tanya? Oh? D’you know who gave me this? Well, do you?

  I didn’t say anything – there was nothing I could say. I’d slipped up, made a boo-boo. I’d completely forgotten about the sticker, given PC Willoughby the only copy that didn’t have one.

  I’ll tell you who gave it to me, shall I? He wasn’t asking, of cours
e; didn’t give me time to reply but roared out the name. Frank Willoughby. PC Willoughby. And who gave it to him, eh? You, that’s who. My own daughter, my flesh and blood.

  Man, was he working himself into a state. Dad’s never actually hit me, but I was beginning to think he might this time, and I reckon Mum thought so too because she stuck her head round the door. Ed …?

  Shut up, Sarah, he snarled. Get back in that kitchen and shut the door behind you. You probably think I’m kidding but I’m not: those were his exact words. Get back in that kitchen. I was gob-smacked. I could hardly believe it. It was like one of those Victorian dramas on telly.

  Mum couldn’t believe it either. She stood in the doorway gawping at my dad, Tipton Lacey’s answer to Soames Forsythe. Maybe that’s what saved me from a battering, because I’m sure he was working up to something pretty drastic. Anyway, when Mum didn’t move he seemed to realize he’d gone a bit over the top. He didn’t apologize, that’s not his style, but you could see by the way his fingers dug into the ends of the chair arms that he was struggling to get himself under control. He stared at the rug – he didn’t know where else to look. When some of the redness had faded from his face, he mumbled about loyalty and blood being thicker than water, and sentenced me to no pocket money for two weeks.

  I thought I’d got off light considering, but of course it wasn’t over. PC Willoughby had done his worst but Dad’s friend, the ugly one in the donkey jacket, hadn’t.

  Not yet.

  - Twenty-Two

  Asra

  IT IS A quarter to four when I creep through Mushroom Gap. This is how I am calling my hole in the fence: Mushroom Gap. It is coming dark but still I am hoping nobody has missed me.

  It is no chance, as Ruby Tanya would say. Everybody is missing me. Everybody has been looking, even Shazad Butt. Father is very angry. Your mother, he says. Look at her, how red her eyes are. She thought you were dead. Cried and cried till I telephoned to the police, and the policeman told me boys have hurt you. See. He pulls me in front of a piece of mirror we have on the wall. Look at yourself. Bruises, grazes, a sticking plaster on your cheek. Do you think this is how your mother likes to see you? Is this why we brought you all the way to England, so that things can be for us like they were in our country?

  I have never seen Father so angry. It frightens me more than those boys did, and when he starts to beat me it hurts more but I do not scream, because I know Shazad Butt listens through the blanket, listens for my screams. When he has done beating, Father flings me down and strides out, and I crawl to Mother and bury my face in her lap. She sings to me softly, stroking my hair so I will know she loves me. I weep and weep, but quietly, and deep inside me is a place where I cannot feel sorry that I went to Ruby Tanya.

  - Twenty-Three

  Ruby Tanya

  D’YOU GET DAYS when your mum and dad aren’t talking? I bet you do, and isn’t it a bummer? Especially when they communicate through you. You know – tell your father his dinner’s on the table. Tell your mother your dad’s not hungry. And so it goes on.

  Well, I knew Sunday was going to be one of those days, so I called Millie Saturday night and arranged to meet her at ten next morning on the Green. It’s not the world’s most exciting venue, the Green at Tipton Lacey. It’s got a duck-pond and some benches and an ancient horse-chestnut tree, and there’s a post with a little red bin fastened to it where dog-walkers are supposed to dump the poo they scoop up. There was a brief craze last spring for grabbing kids’ bags on the way home from school and emptying them into this bin, but it died out after two lads got suspended. Anyway, with Mayfields shut on Sundays the Green was where kids usually met, so straight after a grimly silent breakfast I set off, wearing a puffa jacket over my apprentice tart kit.

  It was a typical November morning, damply grey with a raw, niggling wind – just what you don’t need when you aim to stay out as long as possible – but at least it wasn’t raining. Millie hadn’t arrived when I got there so I waited under the tree. Its branches were bare, but the massive trunk sheltered me from the wind. Well, a bit.

  What time d’you call this? I jeered, when she finally showed up. It was nearly a quarter past.

  Sorry, R.T. Mum made me iron my school stuff.

  What the heck for? There’s no school till a week tomorrow.

  I know. She’s going through a you’re old enough to start looking after your own things phase. You know what parents’re like.

  Tell me about it. Mine aren’t talking. All you can do is make yourself scarce.

  So what aren’t they talking about, your folks?

  Oh, it’s some daft leaflet my dad’s put out. Mum doesn’t agree with it.

  Lamp the Camp, you mean?

  Yeah, how’d you know? Oh – you’ll have got one through the door of course.

  We did. My dad’s taking the Shogun out there Friday. He reckons you dad’s got the right idea.

  I snorted. Tell him not to bother, Millie. Dad won’t be there himself. Willoughby’s given him the hard word.

  He hasn’t.

  He has.

  How’d he get wind of it – they never shoved a leaflet through his door surely?

  No, I gave him one.

  You? Split on your own dad?

  Well yeah – he could’ve gone to jail, see? And then there’s Asra, I didn’t want anything happening to her.

  Why, what is lamping? They’re not planning to kill somebody, are they?

  Don’t ask me, Millie. Dad won’t say what they’re gonna do. Probably won’t happen now anyway.

  We stuck our hands in our pockets, trailed across to the pond and plonked down on a bench. Two Canadas waddled over hoping to be fed. Millie gazed at them. Christmas next month, she growled. I’d leave if I were you.

  Whether it was sheer coincidence or something in Millie’s tone I don’t know, but the pair turned at once and after what has to be the shortest, most panicky take-off run ever witnessed, launched themselves into the air, gabbling like bingo let out.

  Laugh? We nearly christened our jeans. Well – you need a laugh now and then, don’t you? Specially on a miserable morning in November when you’ve no dosh in your pocket. Trouble with this laugh, it was cut short by a gruff voice saying, Morning, young Redwood. Dad home, is he?

  I swiped a hand across my streaming eyes and looked up into Donkey Jacket’s mocking face.

  - Twenty-Four

  Ruby Tanya

  Y-YES, HE’S HOME. Why?

  The man shrugged. Bit of business, your dad and me. He glanced at Millie. Bomber not with you today then?

  Bomber?

  Kid you were with in Mayfields. Asian.

  You mean Asra. Her dad doesn’t let her leave the camp.

  Good idea. There ought to be guard towers, electrified wire, keep ’em all in.

  I should’ve told him it was thanks to turnip-heads like him my friend’s parents daren’t let her out. I felt like it, but I didn’t. If he was off to see Dad I didn’t want him saying I’d been rude. I stared at the grass and said nothing and he moved on.

  Who’s that? asked Millie, as soon as he was far enough away not to hear.

  I shook my head. I dunno, someone Dad knows.

  Didn’t we see him in Danmouth mall yesterday, with your dad and another guy?

  Yes, that’s the first time I’d clapped eyes on him, or the other one. Looks a thug, doesn’t he? Not the type I’d associate with my dad.

  Millie shook her head. Can’t go by appearances, R.T. That’s probably a Versace donkey jacket he’s wearing.

  Yeah, right. You got any dosh?

  A bit. Why?

  I thought we might bus it into Danmouth.

  What for? Nothing’ll be open.

  Something to do though, isn’t it? Warm on the bus as well.

  Millie shrugged. Can if you like, but what’s wrong with your dosh?

  I pulled a face. Condemned to grinding poverty, Mill. Two weeks, for grassing.

  Serves you right, you m
oron. C’mon then.

  We sauntered towards the shelter, which was occupied as usual by a knot of bored village dwellers, smoking and spitting. There are only two buses on a Sunday. It’s a bit like living on Pluto.

  - Twenty-Five

  Ruby Tanya

  I PHONED HOME from town, got Mum. Well, I couldn’t face going home for lunch and they make such a fuss if I just don’t turn up.

  Danmouth six four six four seven eight, Sarah speaking.

  Hi, Mum, it’s me.

  Where are you, Ruby Tanya?

  Danmouth, with Millie. We’re thinking of eating here so I won’t be in for lunch.

  How’ve you got to Danmouth? You’ve no money.

  Millie paid for me on the bus.

  And lunch – I suppose you’re sponging on Millie for that too?

  ’Tisn’t sponging, Mum; we’re friends.

  That’s as maybe, young woman, but it isn’t meant to work like this, you know.

  What isn’t?

  Your father stopped your allowance as a punishment, Ruby Tanya. You’re not supposed to dodge the consequences, carrying on as normal using other people’s money. It’s no punishment if you’re not missing out on anything, is it?

  Mum, do you think I deserve to be punished for what I did? I thought you were dead against this Lamp the Camp business, same as me.

  That’s beside the point, sweetheart. Your father has disciplined you. It would be wrong of me to support you in defying him.

  I’m not defying Dad, Mum. I didn’t plan to dodge the consequences – today just happened, that’s all. Anyway, is it all right? Can I eat here? We’ll be home before dark.

  I suppose it’s all right, since you’re there and it’s almost lunch time now, but …

  What, Mum?