3. I confirm that if everything goes according to plan, your agency will handle all sales-lettings of the very many properties my company plans to build at a certain location.
Yours sincerely,
The signature was an illegible ballpoint scrawl, but I didn’t need to read it. There was only one guy who could have written this letter, and his name was Sefton Feltwell. I fed it through the fax machine to get a copy before replacing the original carefully in its folder. If I was my dad, I’d have kept that letter in the safe at my Danmouth office, but there you go: Careless with fireworks, careless with everything. That’s an old saying I just made up.
- Forty-Six
Ruby Tanya
I DIDN’T KNOW what I was going to do with my copy of Feltwell’s letter. I thought of showing it to Mum, but then it occurred to me she might know all about it already. Just because she and Dad argued all the time didn’t mean they had secrets from each other. I didn’t want to go running to PC Willoughby again: he’d think I couldn’t wait to see my dad behind bars. Besides, I wasn’t sure Dad and Feltwell were doing anything illegal. There’s no law against protesting, as long as you’re not beating people up or setting their homes on fire, and campaigning to have somebody elected is part of the democratic process. It was that last bit, number three, which I thought might be dodgy. Feltwell seemed to be bribing Dad, offering to put a lot of business his way if he stirred up enough trouble to … what?
I read paragraph three again. If everything goes according to plan, it said. What was the plan? Why so coy about a certain location, where very many properties were to be built?
A certain location. I sat on the sofa with the letter in my lap, gazing through the sleet-spattered window at our privet hedge, shivering in the wind. I hoped the Volvo had broken down in some bleak, out-of-the-way spot where Dad couldn’t get a signal on his phone, and that he was trudging along, hands in pockets, head down, trouser legs plastered to his shins. How sweet is that?
I wondered what Asra was doing. What can you do on a day like this, in a dilapidated wooden hut at the edge of a disused airfield where there’s nothing but acre after acre of wet, wind-whipped grass and paths of crumbling concrete? There isn’t even—
That’s when it hit me: a certain location. Of course! RAF Tipton Lacey. Well, it had to be, didn’t it? A huge expanse of land with nothing on it except the odd hangar and a cluster of rotting billets. Ideal for Feltwell’s very many properties. Buy the place from the military for a song, bulldoze the old structures and Bob’s your uncle: a ready-made building site. Only one fly in the ointment: those pesky asylum seekers. Get them out and away you go.
I still didn’t know what to do. Though I hated to admit it, I needed an adult. Somebody who was on the asylum seekers’ side, or at least not against them. It didn’t take me long to decide who, because it was obvious. I’d show the letter to Gran.
Dad and Gran don’t get on. She’s an old hippy who wears beads and saves whales, and she threw my grandad Andrew out for eating her rabbit. She lives by herself now, in the old part of the village. Her cottage was built in 1779. Dad calls it the Hobbit Hole, which is the worst insult he can think of.
I couldn’t go straight away in case Dad got back before Mum, though if you ask me it’d serve him right to have to stand in the sleet for a bit. I folded the letter, put it in my jeans pocket and switched on the telly.
- Forty-Seven
Ruby Tanya
HELLO, GRAN.
Oh hi, Ruby, it’s you. I wondered who it was knocking at this time of night. Nothing heavy, I hope?
Not really, Gran, just something I’d like you to take a look at.
Gran’s the only person in the world who calls me Ruby. She knows why Dad christened me Ruby Tanya, and she doesn’t approve. Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel, she says. It’s a quote, but I think she means Dad. It was nine o’clock: Mum only let me come because it’s three weeks since Gran had a visit. Dad was still out when I set off.
Give me that jacket, love, I’ll hang it by the radiator. You should wear a long coat, horrible night like this.
I haven’t got a long coat, Gran, they’re uncool. Did you have a long coat?
Oh yes, I had a beautiful Afghan with words embroidered in Elvish all round the hem. I’d have been warm at the South Pole in it. Come sit by the fire while I brew some green tea.
I don’t really like green tea, but Gran doesn’t buy ordinary tea and she never has coffee either. I can just about force the green stuff down if I think about something else. She brought two steaming mugs. There, she smiled, wrap your hands round that and you’ll thaw out in no time. We sat either side of the ancient hearth, gazing into the flames which gave the room its only light. Gran’s never in a rush, it’s one of the things I like about her, but after a bit she smiled in the flickering glow and said, So, what d’you want me to look at, Ruby?
I put my half-empty mug on the hearthstone and produced the letter. This came to Dad from a guy called Sefton Feltwell, who’s got something to do with—
Gran nodded. I know who Sefton Feltwell is, darling. I wondered who’d got him to come to the village. Might’ve known it’d be your father. Let’s have a look.
I passed her the letter. You might need a light.
Naw. She shook her head. Firelight’s plenty. She smoothed out the flimsy sheet and slanted it to catch the glow.
Hoooh! she went when she’d read it. If this means what it seems to mean, Ruby, it’s heavy stuff. She shook her head again. So your dad fancies himself as a councillor, does he?
I dunno, Gran, he hasn’t mentioned it in front of me.
No, I can see why he might not. Does your mum know?
I shrugged. Don’t think so. Should I show this to someone? Who?
Who indeed? murmured Gran. She sat staring at the fire, dangling the letter between her knees. Won’t he miss this, your dad?
It’s a copy, from the fax machine. I put the original back.
Ah. She was silent for a while. I finished my tea, which was a relief, and settled back in the chair. It was snug, Gran’s downstairs room. Restful. I closed my eyes.
Arthur Hadwin, said Gran.
Huh? I shook my head, yawning. Sorry, Gran, I must’ve nodded off. Who did you say?
Arthur Hadwin, Ruby. Editor of the Star. He’s one of the good guys. I hung out at Frodo’s with his dad.
Frodo’s?
Bistro in Danmouth in the good old days. Went bust in ’seventy-nine, along with everything else. I reckon young Arthur ought to see this letter.
What d’you think he’ll do with it?
Gran shrugged. I dunno, Ruby. He might start a campaign, Villagers Against Corruption: VAC for short.
Is Dad into corruption then, Gran? What’ll happen to him?
It smells like corruption to me, love. Nothing’ll happen to your dad if it can be stopped before it starts. Otherwise …
And what about me? I mean, Dad’ll know how Mr Hadwin got the letter, won’t he? He’ll murder me, especially after I gave that flyer to Constable Willoughby.
Gran shook her head. He’ll protect his source, will Arthur. I’ll tell him he’d better. Your dad’ll never suspect you Ruby, I promise. D’you trust me?
I smiled, nodded. Yes, I do, Gran, that’s why I came here.
Then you can leave this with me. She folded the letter, put it under a hunk of coral on her side table and smiled in the firelight. More tea?
- Forty-Eight
Ruby Tanya
IT WAS NEARLY midnight when Dad came home, and I think he was a bit drunk because he sounded clumsier than usual, banging into things. I suppose that’s what woke me up. Mum must’ve waited up for him. I could hear them talking. Not the words, just their voices.
I had to go to the bathroom. It wasn’t an excuse to earwig, I really had to go. There were crockery sounds from the kitchen: Mum was getting Dad a bit of supper. As I tiptoed along the landing he came out of the front room to join her. I’m not s
aying he did it, Sarah, he boomed as he walked through.
Ssssh! went Mum. You’ll wake Ruby Tanya. We mustn’t lay a thing like this on her.
A thing like what? I crept to the banister, leaned over. The kettle was making so much din it was practically drowning them out. Mum said something like, Why else would they have a giant picture of him, Ed? Raise their tankards to it, talk about killed in action?
And Dad, in his now I’m really starting to get mad voice, said, I told you, Sarah, I don’t know. Cleaver was cagey. I couldn’t get a straight answer out of him. And now can we please drop it. I’m starving and you’re not concentrating on that sandwich.
You’re not concentrating on that sandwich. He can be a total prat, my dad. If I ever get married, which is unlikely, it won’t be to someone who expects me to concentrate on his flipping sandwich, I can tell you that. Anyway, I didn’t hear any more because somebody closed the kitchen door. I used the bathroom and went back to bed, where I lay wondering where Dad had been all day, why Cleaver was cagey and whose giant picture they’d toasted, whoever they were.
One thing was for sure: whatever they’d been discussing, Mum was dead set against me knowing about it, and of course that made me ultra curious. I was still playing and rewinding the bits I’d overheard inside my skull when I heard them coming up to bed. I squinted at the clock on my unit. It was five past one.
- Forty-Nine
Asra
SUNDAY IS FOGGY morning. We are shadows on the broken path, it makes us talk in whispers. The smallest children have not seen fog before. They make a game: it is to leave the path and be invisible to their parents. Mothers call their names, but the children are laughing somewhere and do not hear. It is not so good for the parents, this game.
At the mess it is damp and cold, even inside. Breakfast is eggs and bread. At my table we eat without talking. I am thinking to myself how slowly this day will pass, grey with English fog, and with fear that is all our own.
I am wrong. When we are making our way back, beside the shape of our hut is the shape of someone waiting. It is Ruby Tanya. I run to her. Ruby Tanya, I was not expect you today. How did you get in the gates?
She is laughing, hugging me. They let me in, Asra. I said I was here to see you and they opened the gate. Didn’t expect ’em to, not in this fog, but there you go. What shall we do? Bus it into Danmouth?
No, interrupts my father. No Danmouth, nowhere outside the camp. He smiles at Ruby Tanya. I’m sorry, but Asra was beaten by some boys, you know this. You are welcome to be with my daughter in our home, or you can walk on the airfield, though I’m afraid it is not a nice morning.
Ruby Tanya nods. I understand, Mr Saber. She grins at me. Inside or out, Asra: you choose. I smile. I choose out, Ruby Tanya. Our home is full with just the three of us; with four it would be like … What are the little fishes?
Sardines, says Ruby Tanya. Come on then. You can conduct me round the Saber Estate. ’Bye, Mr Saber, Mrs Saber.
Goodbye, Ruby Tanya, says Father. And remember: not beyond the airfield.
I guide my friend on the path to the airfield. It is long, and seems longer because we cannot see, but I don’t care. I am with Ruby Tanya. We are alone together, the fog makes us more alone.
What will you show me first? says Ruby Tanya. She’s speaking like a BBC lady. The deer park perhaps, or the orangery? Or what about the fountains?
I will show you first the ruins, I tell her.
Oooh! she squeals. I absolutely adore ruins, my dear. She thinks I am kidding, but I am not. There’s no deer park, no orangery and no fountains, but there are ruins.
Somewhere the sun must have risen. A pearly light is seeping through the fog. Still we cannot see far, but the light makes me feel more happy. Or maybe Ruby Tanya is doing it, I don’t know. We are on a long, cracked path with clumps of dying weeds; it is farther than I remember. Where are these divine ruins, my dear? she asks after a while. Still the BBC, but only half-joking, I think.
Close, I tell her, though I don’t really know. In fact I am beginning to feel lost, but luckily I spot what I have been looking for: a piece of rusty machinery in the long grass. Here we must leave the path, I tell her. From here, on an ordinary day I can see the ruins perfectly clearly, but today there’s nothing. I have to hope I’m leading Ruby Tanya in the right direction.
We wade through the wet grass. My friend is getting fed up and I don’t blame her: the legs of her jeans are wet and she thinks there are no ruins anyway. When I finally see them and point, she’s amazed. There really are ruins, she gasps in her everyday voice. What was this place?
It used to be a farm, I tell her, but in the Second World War the government took all the land for an airfield and the farm died.
How d’you know? asks Ruby Tanya. I didn’t know, and I was born in the village.
I smile sadly. Mr Shofiq read about it at the library in Danmouth. He says if we learn village history, we will fit in. I believe him before, but now I think it might not be enough.
No, murmured Ruby Tanya. It’d take an invasion from Mars to make some people see we’re all Earthlings. Come on. Let’s explore.
- Fifty
Ruby Tanya
SO SHE’S LIVED here about five minutes and she knows more about Tipton Lacey than I do. I must’ve passed the camp hundreds of times but I’ve never noticed any ruins, and I’d no idea it was once a farm. Just goes to show.
We approached the house, Asra leading. It felt dead spooky, but I suppose that was the fog. We crept through a gateway into what must once have been the farmyard. Hard now to imagine hens pecking about, the farmer’s wife coming out of her kitchen to scatter corn for them. What if her ghost is trapped here, doomed to feed a phantom flock for ever? I shivered.
There was no porch door. You could see the place had been boarded up at one time, but somebody’d prised the planks loose and left them scattered about. Tramps, most likely. Come on, whispered Asra, there are lots of rooms. I will show you.
I hung back a bit. Been inside before, have you?
Oh yes, many times. It is my private place, when I’m overfed of everybody.
It’s fed up, not overfed.
Yes, fed up. Come on.
Are you sure the floors’re safe?
I’m alive, Ruby Tanya, not lying dead inside.
OK, but let’s not talk about dead.
It was foggy inside, which I hadn’t expected, and there were a lot of rooms. Asra led me across stone-flagged floors, through doorways, down echoing passages. You could see where tramps had lit fires, some on hearths, one in the middle of a floor. There were a few empty bottles and some mildewed rags, but I could tell by the way the place smelled that nobody had dossed here lately.
Ready to go up? whispered Asra. We’d arrived at the foot of some dodgy-looking stairs.
Dunno, I murmured. Is there anything worth looking at?
Oh yes, she said. There is the bestest room, where I have my chair.
Your chair?
Well, it is mine now. Come on.
There were six rooms: five big ones and a little one. Asra’s bestest was a big one at the front, where a frail wooden chair stood by the glassless window. When it is no fog, she told me, I can see from my chair right across the airfield to the huts. If Shazad Butt was coming, I would hide.
I glanced round the room. Where, under the chair? There’s nowhere to hide, Asra.
She shook her head. Not in here, silly. Downstairs in the kitchen. Come, let me show you.
I let her lead me back to the kitchen, where my guided tour had begun. Now, she said, Shazad is crossing the yard. Where will you hide?
I dunno. Up the chimney?
She shrieked with laughter, setting off an echo that reminded me of an old movie I saw on telly, about a madwoman in an attic. Up the chimney, cackled Asra. You are comedian, Ruby Tanya.
Where, then? Now I’d remembered the madwoman, I was ready to leave.
In here, of course. She crossed to a row
of windows that overlooked the farmyard. On the floor under them stood a long deep chest. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it before: it was the only thing in the room. She bent and lifted the heavy-looking lid, and of course the hinges creaked. I practically fudged my undies but Asra stayed cool – so cool that before I knew what was happening she’d stepped into the chest, squatted down and was lowering the lid. It was obvious she’d done it before.
OK, I croaked, I get the picture. Can we get out of here now, please?
She raised the lid and her eyebrows. Don’t you want to try it? It’s no sardines, plenty room for two.
N-no thanks, Asra. It’s an ace hiding place, but I’d really rather be outside.
OK. She stepped out and let the lid fall with a mighty crash.
Aren’t you scared when you’re here by yourself? I asked as we headed for the door. The echo of the falling lid made me want to hurry.
Scared? she said. Why should I be scared? It’s an old empty house, no planes come, no men with guns.
What about ghosts, though?
Ghosts? Asra pulled a face. I see ghosts, Ruby Tanya, but they do not live here, I bring them with me. They live inside my head, so for me everywhere is haunted.
I didn’t know what to say to that.
- Fifty-One
Asra
IT IS GOOD we had this time together, Ruby Tanya and me, because next day comes a bad thing: the baddest that could happen.
It is a letter for my father, from the government. It comes in the morning, but I do not know about it till afternoon because I am at school. It is a quiet day at school, no fighting. The pupils will put on a play for Christmas, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and we are learning our parts. I will be in chorus.
When I get home, Mother is weeping. Father is holding her. I am very scared. What is wrong? I ask.
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