Aren’t they? Dad was starting to get mad. What about this then, Sarah? He jabbed a finger at the labels: remember the bomb. If that’s not hurting anybody, what is?
Yes, but you don’t know who planted that bomb. Nobody does. You’re just assuming—
Look, Sarah, the school’s been there for what – a hundred years? Hundred and ten? And in all that time nobody’s bombed it. These so-called asylum seekers arrive, and in less than three months the place is blown sky-high. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?
Mum looked exasperated. Yes, that’s exactly what it is, Ed: a bit of a coincidence. You might as well say the school’s been there for a hundred and ten years, and the first time a prince visits the area it’s blown up, so therefore the prince must’ve done it. It’d make as much sense.
He went ape-shape of course. Picked up the stacks of flyers and snatched the labels out of my lap. All right, he yelled, I’ll do the job myself. Just don’t expect any fireworks next year, that’s all. I spend an hour in the pouring rain, not to mention the money, giving the two of you your own private display, and this is the thanks I get. Well that’s it: finito.
He stormed out to the kitchen where he’d have the table to work on. We could hear him slamming stuff down, scraping a chair across the tiles, muttering to himself. Mum looked at me and I could tell we were thinking the same thing. No more fireworks, she murmured. If I’d known it was that easy, I’d have done it years ago. We both started giggling, quietly so he wouldn’t hear.
- Thirteen
Asra
ON SATURDAY COMES a letter to Mr Shofiq. It is from Education Department. At ten o’clock everybody was in the social club where he read it two times: first in English, then in our language. It was about our school. The structural damage is less severe than the department feared, being mostly confined to one classroom. Though it will be some time before this classroom is back in use, the rest of the building has been inspected and declare safe, and after glazing work is complete, the school will reopen on Monday 15 November at the usual time of 08.30.
Everybody is happy: 15 November is nine days only. Flipping brilliant, Ruby Tanya would say. Or maybe not: English children like holidays better than school.
The drizzle was gone away but gates were shut again. I walked round the airfield. No planes come now; weeds are growing through cracks in the concrete of the perimeter track where I walk. I’m glad there are no planes: planes dropped bombs on my village four times; one bomb lay till Sushi Bibi touch it, then bang, no more that funny little girl.
Out on the airfield is no people. I can go slow, I can think. Today I am thinking about school, because of the letter. In my village was a school. All the children attend. The teacher was Miss Aram, she was kind. Then one morning it was not Miss Aram, it was a man called Mr Younis. He was not kind. We said, Where is Miss Aram? He said, Gone. One boy ask where, and Mr Younis beat him with a stick. Then he made everybody change places, children of one language this side, children of other language that side. When we was all sitting like this he pointed to me and my friends. These children are goats, he said. They eat rubbish and pee on the ground. They stink. No decent child will talk to them, play with them, eat near them. They are goats.
We tried to keep going to school, but it was too hard. Mr Younis talked only to one side of the room. To our side he brought the stick: the stick was our teacher. We were beaten if we spoke our language, but if we answered in theirs he would shout, This language is for people, not goats, so we didn’t know what to do. The other children wouldn’t talk to us or play with us. Soon they learned that they could please Mr Younis by hitting us, spitting on our food, pretending to be sick if one of us came close. After school we were chased, tripped and punched and pelted with stones. We’d come home wounded and find our parents afraid to confront our tormentors, afraid to complain, because bad things were happening to them too. They knew the bad men wanted us driven out of school, not just in our village but all over the country, so after a few days we stopped going.
It wasn’t holidays. Wasn’t fun. We knew we’d grow up like goats, fit for nothing but to wander with our heads down, looking for what nobody else wanted and eating it. Our parents knew this too; it was part of why they fled with us to England.
Anyway, that’s why I was glad our school would open soon.
- Fourteen
Ruby Tanya
I WOKE ON Saturday morning to a horrible suspicion. The more I thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. Dad’s going to make me deliver his flyers. I even knew what he’d say: Your mother and I have to work, you’re doing nothing special, the exercise’ll do you good, blah, blah, blah. It was bound to happen. My only chance was to pretend to oversleep, wiped out by the sheer exhilaration of his firework display. They’d been known to go out and leave me in bed so it just might work.
Breakfast seemed to last about a century, then Mum and Dad took it in turns to come upstairs and flush the loo. I lay on my side with the duvet up around my ears, absolutely still. Somebody – I think it was Mum – opened my door very quietly. I did this deep, rhythmic breathing till it clicked shut again. I even kept it up for a few seconds in case she’d got her ear to the door. In other words I was flipping brilliant.
After an age I heard the side door, then the Volvo. I gave it five minutes in case they came back for something they’d forgotten, then got up and went down in my dressing gown. Even then I didn’t relax: I wouldn’t have put it past Dad to have left a stack of flyers and a note.
There was no stack, no note. I had six spoonfuls of sugar on my Cheerios and four in my hot choc, and I didn’t brush my teeth. I put on designer jeans and my new top, the one Dad says makes me look like a trainee tart, and slapped on some of Mum’s expensive make-up. I put my phone, key and dosh in the denim shoulder bag that matches my jeans, and set off to catch the Danmouth bus.
Danmouth’s our nearest town. It’s nothing to get hysterical about, but there’s a mall with fashion shops and eateries and a Virgin Megastore. I phoned Millie Ross from the bus stop. Millie’s my second best friend, after Asra. I’d have phoned Asra but she doesn’t have a moby.
Hi, Millie, it’s me. I’m at the bus stop. Fancy coming to town?
Uh … I’ll have to ask the crumblies, I’m supposed to go to the garden centre with them.
The garden centre? What for?
Choose bulbs for next spring. You know, hyacinths and that.
Oh, wow, I hope they give you a badge, Millie: I CHOSE BULBS AT THE DANMOUTH ROAD GARDENERS’ WORLD, so everybody’ll know how brave you’ve been.
I know, I know, but you know what parents’re like. I’ll call you back.
She got out of it, don’t ask me how. I had to let the nine-o-five go by, but she was there in time for the nine thirty-five. We sat on the long back seat, hoping some lads would get on. Millie’s parents and mine are completely different except in this one way: they hate us hanging out with lads. But with my folks working and hers choosing bulbs, I thought, there was no chance we’d bump into them today.
Shows how wrong you can be.
- Fifteen
Ruby Tanya
SAM BRADLEY AND JASON MILLER got on at the next stop. They’re a year older than us and dead fit, especially Bradley. They said hi, but they sat near the front and when we stopped again two Year Eight girls joined them. We showed them we didn’t give a stuff by gawping through the window.
There were yellow trucks in the schoolyard, and some guys in hard hats. Millie pulled a face. They’re not wasting any time, she growled, working weekends. No wonder the dump’s reopening Monday week.
Monday week?
Oh yeah: didn’t you get the letter?
What letter?
Millie shrugged. Letter this morning, from the Education Department.
Ah, I nodded. Mum and Dad left before I got up, they’ll have seen it. I sighed. What a bummer. I hoped we’d be out till after Christmas, skip all that turkey and tinsel trash. The flipping concer
t.
Millie shook her head. You know how it is, R.T. Takes more than a bomb to put a dent in the season of goodwill.
At least it wasn’t raining as we crossed from the bus station to the mall. We checked out Virgin and the clothes shops, then headed for Mocha Sins, which does speciality coffees at scary prices. My parents don’t weigh me down with too much currency and Millie’s about the same, so we got plain coffees and made them last, watching the world go by, and that’s how I spotted Dad.
He was with two guys, one in a grey suit like his, the other in jeans and a donkey jacket. The suit could have been another estate agent, but Donkey Jacket looked like a soccer hooligan on steroids. I looked away as the three of them passed the plate-glass window we were sitting in. We weren’t doing anything wrong – there wasn’t a lad within spitting distance – but I didn’t want to be seen.
Millie looked at me. What’s up?
I pulled a face. Didn’t you see my dad?
Your dad, where?
Just walked past with two other guys.
Well, so what? We aren’t doing anything.
No, I know, but it’s a bit weird. He’s supposed to be at work.
Millie shrugged. He’s an estate agent, showing two guys a property. What’s weird about that?
I shook my head. Nothing. Where are they now?
Millie peered past my shoulder. If I’m looking at the right three, they’re turning into Bessy’s.
Dad’s choice, I murmured. Bessy’s is this deliberately old-fashioned teashop. The waitresses wear white caps and frilly pinnies and call the male customers sir, which is designed to attract slightly pervy men, if you ask me, but still …
When we’d nursed our coffees as long as we dared, we walked past Bessy’s. I glanced in but they weren’t in the window. If you wear a donkey jacket to Bessy’s they don’t give you a window table, they hide you. The thought of Dad having to sit in some shadowy corner not far from the toilets made me smile. If I’d known how my path and the hooligan’s would cross in the near future I’d have smiled on the other side of my face, whatever that means.
- Sixteen
Ruby Tanya
I WAS DREADING going home for lunch. Neither of my parents works Saturday afternoon and Mum brings fish and chips. It wasn’t the fish and chips I dreaded, it was those flyers. They must be about somewhere, waiting for me to shove them through everybody’s door.
Turned out I was wrong about that as well. We’d just sat down, and Dad was shaking vinegar over his chips like somebody putting a fire out when he looked across at Mum and said, By the way, Vikki took those leaflets round for me, didn’t mind a bit. Nice change from sitting in the office, I suppose.
Mum speared a chip. Fine. Did she ask what Lamp the Camp means?
He shook his head. Certainly not. Vikki works for me, she minds her own business.
Good for her. I hope you’re not starting trouble, Ed, that’s all.
Dad shook his head. I’m not starting anything, love; those terrorists started it. I’m just helping the locals focus their anger.
You’ve decided they’re terrorists, have you, the asylum seekers?
Of course they’re terrorists. That’s probably why their own country kicked ’em out.
It took me all my time to keep from yelling out, I was so mad. I wanted to say, Asra’s not a terrorist, and neither are her mum and dad. I wanted to tell him that the guy in the donkey jacket looked more like a terrorist than anybody I’d seen at the camp, but I couldn’t, could I? I kept my head down and tried to concentrate on my fish and chips, but it wasn’t easy.
They fratched all through the meal. I’m glad Mum doesn’t believe the same things Dad does, but I hate them fratching. As soon as we’d finished eating I escaped to my room. I sat on my bed, fished the crumpled flyer out of my pocket and smoothed it over my knee.
Lamp the Camp. Thanks to Vikki, this thing was all over Tipton Lacey. Was it true that an overwhelming majority of villagers were unhappy? I suppose it might be, especially after the bomb, but would they know what Lamp the Camp meant? Would loads of people actually drive out there next Friday night to take part in something the exact nature of which cannot be revealed? Sounds dodgy, right? Might even be illegal. A thought came to me: did Vikki shove one of these through PC Willoughby’s door?
The more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed. For security reasons. That meant Dad was worried in case the wrong people got to know in advance about his plan. Of course, the wrong people might just be the asylum seekers, but if what he was planning was illegal it could also mean the police, in which case he’d have told Vikki to skip the Willoughby place.
You’re going to think I’m awful, but I decided to push my flyer through the policeman’s door. Nobody wants to be a traitor to their own dad, but if PC Willoughby stopped him from breaking the law I’d have done him a favour, wouldn’t I? Saved him from jail, and saved Asra’s people from whatever Lamp the Camp meant.
It’s not as if I just rushed off and did it. I thought and thought about it, and it seemed right. In the end you can only do what you think is right.
- Seventeen
Asra
WALKING BACK ACROSS the airfield, I remember the English men at the gate and I think, We will be goats here too, because of the bomb. When we go back to school in nine days everything will be different; nobody will play with us or speak to us. The teachers will be cruel. Perhaps we will be driven out of England, but where will we go? Even goats need somewhere to live.
And what about Ruby Tanya? Already her father doesn’t like me, doesn’t like any of our people. She’s my one English friend; if she hates me now I don’t think so I can stand it.
At lunch in the mess I can’t stop thinking about this. At our table is twelve people, three families. They are Mr and Mrs Butt with the bully Shazad and his sister Saida, the Majid parents with their three children, and us. In our village, Butt and Majid families were not our friends and we are not friends now. Each father and mother whispers together so the others won’t hear, and the children keep quiet. It is the same in the huts with their blanket walls. Ruby Tanya is the only one I can talk to properly. If I lose her I might as well cut out my tongue.
I decide I must find her, not in nine days but now. I have to know if she is still my friend. Straight after lunch I walk again over the crumbling concrete of the perimeter track till I come to a place I’ve noticed on earlier walks: a spot where people have broken through the ancient fence and trampled flat the rusty wire in order to pick the mushrooms, which many are growing on the airfield at this time of year. There is a muddy track through the long grass, made by many feet.
By the gap in the fence I stop and look back. The huts are a long way off, I can only see their roofs and somebody’s washing on a line, flapping. Children are playing in the grass but they are far away too, taking no notice of me. I step through the gap and into some bushes. I’ll be in bad trouble tonight but I won’t care, if my friend is still my friend.
- Eighteen
Ruby Tanya
PC WILLOUGHBY’S HOUSE IS on Aspen Arbour, in the new part of the village. It’s a semi in a row of semis. Everybody calls it the police station but it’s just a house with a blue porch light. It’s a five-minute walk from Glebe Lane, where we live, so I wouldn’t take the bike.
Mum and Dad were hating each other in separate rooms when I left, so nobody asked me where I was off to. It was a cool, cloudy afternoon, but dry. Mr Jarvis next door but one was putting his garden to bed for the winter, pruning back his fuchsia shrub. He looked up as I passed. Tell your dad I’ll be there Friday, love, he wheezed. He’s a good’un, your dad; deserves everybody’s support.
Like a coward I nodded. I’ll tell him, Mr Jarvis. I should have said, Tell him yourself, you horrible man, but you see, old Jarvis isn’t a horrible man. Not usually. In fact there aren’t many horrible people in Tipton Lacey at all. If they knew Asra, I bet Dad would be Lamping the Camp by himself on the twelfth. Pr
actically by himself, anyway.
I soon reached Aspen Arbour. The Willoughby house is number four. I pulled the crumpled flyer out of my jacket pocket and stood looking through the hedge at the lounge window. I didn’t particularly want PC Willoughby to know it was me pushing the thing through his door: I didn’t want anybody to know. The patrol car was parked on the drive but nobody seemed to be moving in the lounge. With any luck I could tiptoe up to the door using the car as cover, shove the flyer through the slot and get away without being identified. I was about to set foot on the drive when I heard kids shouting and whooping. As I glanced towards the noise, a girl came pelting round the corner. Silky yellow trousers flapped round her ankles and a long scarf streamed out behind her. As she raced towards me I realized with a shock that it was Asra, with a bunch of lads hard on her heels, baying.
As I started towards her she looked up and saw me. Quick, Ruby Tanya, she gasped, the policeman.
I didn’t tiptoe up that driveway, I sprinted. Instead of easing open the flap on the letter slot I started hammering on the door with both fists, yelling at the top of my voice. Glancing round I saw Asra make it to the gateway, but then the boys were on her, punching and pulling her down, shrieking, Bomber, bomber, bomber, mindless as they closed for the kill.
I don’t know they’d have killed her – I doubt if they do – but as Asra fell the door flew open and I was sent reeling. PC Willoughby bounded towards the melee, roaring. A boy shrilled a warning and the gang scattered like minnows, leaving my friend in a spatter of blood on the path.
- Nineteen
Ruby Tanya
’S ALL RIGHT, love, you’ll be all right. PC Willoughby squatted in his gateway, one hand cupping the back of Asra’s head, the other holding a handkerchief he was using to dab at the cut on her cheek. He glanced up. Go get Mrs Willoughby. Ask her to bring the first-aid kit and a glass of water.
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