Ruby Tanya

by Robert Swindells

  Curtain material. What brought that on all of a sudden? Nothing wrong with the curtains we’ve got. I’d psyched myself up to tell Dad how he’d scared Asra’s people with his daft stunt, and now I’d an extra hour to wait.

  I poked about upstairs but there was nothing new, except Dad had clipped the piece about Lamp the Camp out of the Sunday paper and filed it with the bomb coverage from the Star and a copy of his flyer. As usual I was careful to leave everything exactly as I’d found it.

  I switched on the telly, watched an Aussie soap. They were having a barbie, which was just my luck because I was starving. I sat there slavering as a bronzed hunk loaded people’s plates with steak and sausage. Please, sir, I want some more.

  The news came on. I muted it and tried to follow what was happening by reading the newsreader’s lips. No chance – it beats me how anybody can do that. Without commentary, the stuff on the screen was pantomime, a succession of unconnected, meaningless images. I thought about Kelly Mountain and Andrew Farrell. Somebody had pressed the mute button on their world, reducing everything to this.

  Then I saw a face I thought I recognized. There was some sort of march: people on the street behind the guy being interviewed, marching with placards. I pressed for sound but I’d missed the interview. The guy had turned away, was rejoining the march; … visible manifestation of growing public disquiet over the issue of asylum seekers, intoned the reporter. He gave his name, said he was in London and returned me to the studio. A second or two later I remembered why that face was familiar. The guy was one of the pair I’d seen with Dad in Danmouth mall.

  - Thirty-Three

  Ruby Tanya

  I CHICKENED OUT. Well, by the time they’d got out of their coats, unwrapped the boring-looking fabric they’d chosen and fussed about, holding it against the wallpaper, the carpet and the three-piece suite to see if it matched, the moment had passed. Also they’d brought fish and chips for tea because it was my favourite, and Mum made a point of telling me it was Dad’s idea, so I’d have come across as ungrateful if I’d laid into him. Oh, I know there’s never any shortage of excuses for taking the easy way out, but that’s what happened and that’s how I handled it.

  I spent half the night thinking about the guy on the news, the one who knew Dad. I wished I’d caught the interview; wished I could stay up for the ten o’clock bulletin in case they showed it again. No chance, of course: nine’s my bed time during the week.

  Tuesday morning I waited till Dad roared off in the Volvo, then looked across the table.

  Mum?

  What is it, sweetheart? She was enjoying her second cup of coffee.

  There was a guy on the news last night, leading some sort of march.

  Oh yes, and what about him?

  I recognized him. I’ve seen him in Danmouth with Dad.

  She looked up. Well who is he, Ruby Tanya? What’s his name?

  I don’t know, Mum.

  Didn’t it say, on the news?

  I had the sound off.

  Oh. Well, he’s probably a client of your father’s, looking to buy a property in the area.

  But Mum, he was in London.

  Yes, well, lots of people abandon London for some peaceful backwater, darling. She smiled brightly. Why didn’t you mention it earlier, while your dad was here? He might have been interested.

  I … dunno, Mum. I thought he might get mad, think I was spying on him that day in Danmouth.

  Mum laughed. Honestly, sweetheart, you have the oddest notions. Why on earth should your dad think you were spying?

  I shrugged. I don’t know, Mum, but there was another man with them – the guy in the donkey jacket who called here a week last Sunday and blabbed to Dad about Asra.

  Oh, that man. Mum frowned, shook her head. I didn’t take to him at all. Cleaver’s his name apparently, but your father didn’t tell me anything else about him. You say he was with Dad and this other man?

  Yes.

  Well then, it’ll be something to do with work. Mum smiled. I expect your father’ll enlighten us when he’s ready, Ruby Tanya. Meanwhile, I think it’s time you were off to school.

  I read this in my magazine: If you’re worried about something, talk to your parents. They should’ve added, It’ll get you absolutely nowhere.

  - Thirty-Four

  Asra

  IT IS TUESDAY, quarter past eight. Time to go to school. We are waiting in the minibus for Mr Malik, who drives us. Shazad Butt is not here, just his sister Saida. When I whisper to her, Is Shazad sick? she says, No, he will come with our father. I don’t understand why Mr Butt will come to the minibus, and before I can ask he is here, with Shazad and Mr Malik.

  Listen please, says Mr Malik. Mr Butt has something to say to you all. We look to Shazad’s father, who has climbed into the bus, bent over so his head won’t hit the top. He begins.

  Children, he says, my son has spoken to me about yesterday at school, how some of you were frightened and bullied in the yard. He lays his hand on Shazad’s shoulder and I know from his face Shazad is feeling very important. I think to myself, you are a bully too, but I do not say this. Mr Butt continues.

  We know about bullies. We are here in England because of bullies. Bullies drove us from our own land. He sighs, shakes his head. We cannot let ourselves be driven out again, there is nowhere to go. So. He looks at us all. It is necessary that we defend ourselves before the bullying goes too far. We don’t want trouble, at school or anywhere else, but we are entitled to defend ourselves, so this is what we will do. At morning break each day, and at lunch time and afternoon break, my son and some of the older boys will form themselves into a squad to protect the smaller boys and the girls. You will help with this plan by staying always together in the yard, so that the boys can watch over you. They must never start trouble, but they will defend you if you are threatened.

  Mr Butt makes me sad with his words. Sad and frightened. School has been a good place, a place where we could feel safe. These words – squad, defend, protect – they are words I remember from my country; they go with guns and bombs and blood, not with school.

  Not with the one big family.

  - Thirty-Five

  Ruby Tanya

  SOMETHING BAD HAPPENED Tuesday lunch time. I mean, really bad. Somebody jumped a Year Five kid and gave him such a kicking that Miss Hopkinson had to call an ambulance.

  It wasn’t in the yard. Wouldn’t have happened there because some of the biggest lads from the camp have got themselves together into a sort of posse to guard the girls and smaller boys, so it happened in the boys’ cloakroom.

  The kid was badly hurt, but not to where he couldn’t talk. Miss Hopkinson put him on the camp bed they keep in the first-aid room for fainters and so on, and old Ramsden comes and questions him. He’s like, Who was it, Asif? Who did this to you?

  Sir, I don’t know, says Asif.

  You don’t know? goes Ramsden. Somebody wrestles you to the floor and proceeds to kick you repeatedly in the back and stomach and you don’t recognize him? I can’t see how that’s possible, Asif.

  No, sir.

  Was he a Year Six perhaps, or Seven?

  Sir, I don’t know.

  What about his hair? Was it blond or dark? Did he wear it short or long?

  Yes, sir, it was blond or dark, short or long.

  He was more scared of his attacker than he was of the head, and you can’t blame him. Whoever did it probably promised more of the same if he dobbed him in. I know who it was, and I bet Ramsden has a fair idea as well. Neither of us can prove it, but Keith Allardyce, who’d been sullen following his unsponsored jog with Traynor, swaggered round the place all afternoon looking like the cat that got the cream. You work it out.

  The infirmary phoned Ramsden and he sent a note round. We were having maths with Boyd, who read out the note. The kid had two cracked ribs and bruising. They were keeping him in overnight for observation, but there was no cause for alarm. The boy’s parents were at his bedside. At the end of
the note Ramsden had put: If Asif’s assailant will own up before the end of the school day, I will do my utmost to treat it as an internal matter, rather than involving the police.

  As if, Asif.

  - Thirty-Six

  Asra

  I AM ABOUT to get in the bus when Ruby Tanya calls my name. I’m sorry, she says, about Asif.

  I look to her. You did not beat Asif, I tell her. You must not be sorry to me.

  No, she says, of course I didn’t do it. I meant I’m sorry it happened. Are we still friends?

  Oh yes, I tell her. Much is difference now because of the bomb, but not with you and me. I will always be your friend.

  Triffic, smiles Ruby Tanya. Listen – you’ll have to get a moby so we can talk.

  I nod. I know, I will speak to my father, but …

  Not easy, with everything that’s going on. I understand, honest. See you tomorrow?

  Yes, tomorrow.

  As the bus is starting to go, somebody behind grabs both of my plaits and pulls my head back till I am seeing this angry face. It is Shazad Butt. What did she want? he says.

  Who? You are hurting my head, Shazad.

  You know who. He tugs harder, water comes to my eyes.

  She was saying sorry about Asif.

  Ha! Shazad squeezes my hair. She is not sorry, she is glad. They are all glad.

  Not Ruby Tanya. She’s my friend.

  He squeezes till I cry out. He brings his face very close and hisses, She is not your friend, Asra, she is English.

  You want to be English, I tell him. Your father wants to be English.

  That is difference, he snaps. We want to be English, but not like them. They are cruel.

  You are cruel, I cry. It is you hurting my head, not English. Let me go, Shazad.

  He lets go my plaits, but only because Mr Malik has heard my cry and is looking at him through his mirror. Shazad sinks into the seat behind mine, talking softly so Mr Malik won’t hear. Mr Ramsden says we are one family but we are two: the English family, and our family. You must decide which family is yours, Asra Saber. Nobody can be in two families.

  Without turning round I say to him, Two families can be friends. We have seen in our country what happens when they are not. We must be friends, or we will do terrible things to each other. If we do terrible things, England will be same like our country: some people will be the people, others will be the goats. We will be the goats.

  Ha! goes Shazad, but then he is quiet. I mop my eyes with a tissue and look out of the window at pretty little Tipton Lacey, which tanks and planes would ruin in an hour.

  - Thirty-Seven

  Ruby Tanya

  I’D REACHED THE corner of Danmouth Road and Glebe Lane when the patrol car drew up beside me and PC Willoughby stuck his head out.

  Ruby Tanya?

  Yes.

  I wanted to thank you for alerting me to that demonstration Friday night. Could have turned nasty if it hadn’t been for you.

  I looked at him. It was nasty, I said. The people were scared witless. I’ve been wondering why you didn’t stop it.

  He pulled a face. I couldn’t stop it, love – it wasn’t clear any laws were being broken. But I was on hand to keep the lunatic element from taking things too far.

  Lunatic element?

  He nodded. Young lads with baseball bats, drunk, spoiling for a fight, crammed into a couple of old bangers. No knowing what they might have done if I hadn’t been there.

  Oh, I didn’t know about that, Mr Willoughby – paper didn’t mention it. Could have been worse, then?

  Much worse, Ruby Tanya. He smiled. Well, better get on. Thanks again.

  Wait! The window stopped halfway up, came down again.

  What is it, love?

  There was a guy there Friday night, Sefton Feltwell, a reporter interviewed him. D’you know him?

  The policeman nodded. Know of 'him, yes. Why?

  Who is he? My dad seems to know him, says he’s from London.

  Yes, that’s right. Feltwell lives in London and he’s a nasty piece of work; secretary of a fringe political party called Britain First. Nazis. Tell your dad to steer well clear of that feller, Ruby Tanya. He’s trouble.

  Tell my dad? Tell him. I laughed. You don’t know my dad, Mr Willoughby. He’d rip my head off and pour boiling oil down the inside of my neck. He’s not the sort of guy you tell. A thought struck me. This Feltwell, does he have a friend? Big, brutal-looking guy in a donkey jacket, name of Cleaver?

  The policeman nodded. Martin Cleaver, known to his friends as Cave-Troll Cleaver. Feltwell has brains but no muscle, Cleaver’s the opposite. He’s the party’s chief heavy. Don’t tell me your dad knows him as well?

  I nodded. I … think he might.

  Oh dear. He shook his head. Attracted to Tipton Lacey by our spot of bother, I shouldn’t wonder. They like that sort of thing. Well. He twisted the key in the ignition, looked up at me. You might just drop a hint at home, love – say I’m aware these fellers’re around and I’ve got my eye on ’em. See you.

  The car rolled forward, the window slid up. Just before it closed completely he called something I didn’t quite catch, but it sounded like dangerous people.

  - Thirty-Eight

  Ruby Tanya

  I DIDN’T MEAN to say anything about Dad’s dangerous friends. Not to him, not to Mum. They were just about speaking to each other and I didn’t feel like stirring it up again.

  Good day, sweetheart? goes Mum as I walk through the door. She was defrosting something in the microwave.

  I pulled a face. Did you ever have a good day at school, Mum?

  She smiled. Looking back, it seems I had lots of good days. Perhaps they didn’t strike me as particularly good at the time, though.

  I went through to the hallway, hung my bag and jacket on the newel post. It was ten to four; Dad wouldn’t be in for another hour and a half. I returned to the kitchen.

  Keith Allardyce beat up Asif Akhtar today, I said. Put him in hospital.

  Oh dear, gasped Mum, how awful. The microwave pinged, she opened the door and took out some pieces of breaded fish. We hadn’t that sort of thing to cope with in my day, certainly. Is Asif badly hurt?

  I don’t think so. Cracked ribs, bruises.

  Still, that’s bad enough. What happened to Keith Allardyce?

  Nothing.

  Nothing?

  No, Akhtar was too scared to dob him in, so Ramsden couldn’t prove it was him.

  Young thug. Mum shook her head. I hope this isn’t the start of some sort of racial conflict at school, Ruby Tanya. There’s enough of that everywhere else. She dropped potatoes into the washing-up bowl, turned on the cold tap. Have you got homework?

  Yes, Mum – English and Maths.

  Why not do it before tea, dear, get it out of the way?

  Well, why not? I snagged my bag off the post, bounded upstairs and shut myself in my room. English is dead easy but maths is a pain. With Millie it’s the other way round, so I got her on the phone and we helped each other. It’s not cheating, it’s co-operation. We’d only just hung up when my moby beeped. I couldn’t think who it could be.

  Hello?

  Is this Ruby Tanya, please?

  Asra?

  Yes, it is me.

  Where are you – the social club?

  No, I’m in the hut, lending Father’s mobile.

  Brilliant! So what’s happening out there?

  Nothing is happening, Ruby Tanya. I just wanted to call.

  Glad you did. Done your homework?

  Yes, or I would not be having Father’s phone. Listen.

  She told me about Shazad Butt, what he said on the bus. She practically had to whisper because there was only a blanket between her and the bully. What a way to live.

  He’s a plonker, I told her when she’d finished. A sad, twisted plonker, so listen: don’t chuck out of the family, Asra. The one family. I asked PC Willoughby about that horrible guy we met in Mayfields. He’s called Cave-Troll Cl
eaver and he’s trying to stir up trouble in the village, him and some others. I think they want to split everybody up, make us hate each other. We mustn’t let them do that, Asra.

  I know, it is what happened in my country. I told you, remember? We became goats.

  Oh yeah, I remember now.

  Anyway, here’s my father. We will talk tomorrow, Ruby Tanya. Goodbye.

  ’Bye, Asra.

  Got to stick by one another. Got to. It isn’t cheating, it’s co-operation.

  - Thirty-Nine

  Asra

  WE ARE EATING breakfast when police come. This is not PC Willoughby; there are no chocolate biscuits. Four men with shiny helmets and guns, jogging across the mess to our table. They are looking at my father. One says, Gulbankar Saber?

  I am he, says Father. He is looking startled, a little afraid.

  We’d like you to come with us, Mr Saber.

  Where? What is the matter?

  There are questions we’d like to ask you, down at the station.

  Questions? Can you not ask them now please, here?

  I’m afraid not, sir. If you refuse to co-operate, we have the authority to—

  I am not refusing, sighs Father. He scrapes back his chair, stands up. Mother is clinging to his hand, starting to cry. The Butts and Majids sit silently watching. Two police take Father’s arms, begin to lead him away. Mother lets go his hand with a little scream. Father twists round to look at her. Don’t worry, Nusrat, he says. It is a mistake; everything will be all right.

  My mother gets up to follow, but Mr Majid holds to her arm and says no. I am glad, because I am remembering Mr Hussain’s wife in our village, clubbed in the mouth till she lies in the dust, blowing red bubbles at the sky.

  I do not know till after what happens to Father. It is a long, terrible day for me at school. I walk with Ruby Tanya on the field. She listens as I talk, lends me a tissue when I cry. Nobody comes to tell me I am choosing wrong family, even Shazad. In English I cannot stop weeping. I have to tell Mrs Rule the police have taken my father. She pats my shoulder, tells me she’s sure everything will be fine, sends me out to sit by the cloakroom door till I feel better. She does not understand but she is a good woman. She even lets Ruby Tanya keep me company.