MISS SHARPE WROTE two words on the whiteboard and Ruby copied them carefully on to the cover of a brand-new blue exercise book.
My Dairy.
‘You should write in your diaries every day,’ said Miss Sharpe, to groans from the boys. She put down the marker pen and walked up and down between the desks. Ruby liked it when Miss Sharpe walked about, because it made it harder for Essie Littlejohn to poke her with a pencil. Essie’s daddy owned the hotel where Mummy worked and Ruby hated her, with her big ears and her good crayons and her fancy mains gas.
‘All the things you do, and the thoughts you have,’ Miss Sharpe continued. ‘All your secret dreams and plans for the future.’
Ruby noticed that she had pale pearl varnish on her short nails. Ruby wasn’t allowed to paint her nails because only slags painted their nails, but Miss Sharpe didn’t look like a slag. She had ugly brown hair and no make-up, and her only jewellery was a bracelet that tinkled with charms, including a little silver horseshoe. Ruby liked the horseshoe, and – by extension – Miss Sharpe, so she didn’t see how Miss Sharpe could be a slag. Maybe nail polish was only slaggy if it was a French manicure, like the girls from the college, who smoked on the bus.
Miss Sharpe saw Ruby looking at the charms and smiled her lopsided smile. She had only been here since the beginning of term, so she hadn’t had time to get miserable yet.
David Leather put up his hand and asked if he could write about his milk-bottle collection and Shawn Loosemore asked if he could write about smashing up David Leather’s milk-bottle collection, and everyone laughed – apart from David and Miss Sharpe, who had to clap her hands to make them all be quiet.
‘Of course, David. Hobbies, or what you did at the weekend, or what you want for your birthday, or your pets. It will be like Facebook, but just for 5B. Then,’ she said, ‘those who want to can read their diaries out in class, and we’ll be able learn about each other’s—’
The bell rang and Miss Sharpe had to raise her voice over the scraping chairs.
‘—everyday lives! Have a lovely weekend everybody!’
Ruby stuffed My Dairy into her plush pony-shaped backpack, then trailed out of the classroom behind the others.
The other kids had no interest in her or her everyday life.
Writing it down wouldn’t make any difference.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Cowboy.
Cowboy Night was the best night of the week.
On Cowboy afternoons, Ruby would get off the bus and go into the shop to spend her pocket money under the suspicious eye of Mr Preece. She didn’t like Mr Preece, who had hair curling from his ears, and eyes that looked too big behind thick glasses. She took an age every Friday to buy the same two things: a Mars bar and a copy of Pony & Rider, which were her treats for the week.
By the time she reached the little chapel, she’d always eaten the Mars bar.
Pony & Rider lasted longer, and Ruby ambled down the hill, envying the pretty girls with their long legs wrapped around immaculate ponies, and looking for good pictures to cut out and stick over her bed, until it became difficult to see by the miserly light that the forest allowed. Then she hurried the rest of the way to Limeburn, letting gravity speed her home.
Daddy sucked spaghetti into his mouth in long strings that were still attached to his plate, and Ruby did the same, but Mummy said ‘Ruby!’ and made her stop. She wound her spaghetti around her fork so that it was like putting a knot of wet wool in your mouth. It wasn’t half the fun.
‘Mmm,’ said Daddy, ‘that was great, thanks.’ He leaned back and played the drums on his tummy. Sometimes Ruby had to guess what song.
‘More?’ asked Mummy.
‘Please.’ He made the most of a burp and Ruby giggled. Daddy could say ‘Bulawayo’ before finishing a burp. He laughed too; Daddy was always in a good mood on Cowboy Nights.
Mummy got up and crossed to the stove. Daddy watched her all the way. When she got back with the second plateful, he said, ‘What’s the occasion?’
‘What?’
‘New shoes.’
Mummy looked down as if they were a surprise to her too.
‘Oh,’ she said, pushing her hair behind her ear.
Ruby leaned off her chair to see the shoes. Mummy always wore flat ones because she was too tall. These were far from flat, and had lots of thin straps. They looked like the shoes models wore in magazines.
‘Mum gave me some money for my birthday,’ said Mummy. ‘You remember.’
‘That was months ago.’
‘I haven’t had time to go shoe shopping.’
‘Bit high, aren’t they?’ said Daddy.
Mummy looked under the table at her feet. ‘They are a bit higher than they felt in the shop. I just thought it would be nice to have one good pair just in case…’ She tailed off.
‘In case of what?’ said Ruby.
‘Just in case we went out somewhere,’ she shrugged.
Daddy sucked up the new spaghetti.
‘Can I have some more spaghetti too?’ said Ruby.
‘What’s the magic word?’ said Mummy.
‘Please.’
‘Are you still hungry?’ said Mummy. ‘That was a big bowl for a little girl.’
‘Let her eat if she’s hungry,’ said Daddy.
‘I am hungry,’ said Ruby.
‘See?’
Mummy pursed her lips and Ruby felt cross, because faces like that made her remember that she was fat. Not fat like David Leather, whose legs rubbed together so hard that there were threadbare patches on his school trousers, but fat enough to hate a waistband and a mirror. Daddy said it was puppy fat and it was cute, but Ruby knew it wasn’t.
Mummy got up and brought the pan over and draped a little more spaghetti into Ruby’s bowl. She didn’t sit down again; she stood, watching the clock.
‘So,’ said Daddy, glancing at the clock. ‘What’s the occasion?’
‘No occasion,’ said Mummy. ‘Just thought I’d wear them tonight to show Mum what her money bought, that’s all.’
Ruby wound the spaghetti around her fork against the bottom of her bowl. ‘They’re too high, Mummy,’ she said. ‘You’ll fall over on the cobbles.’
‘Break an ankle,’ agreed Daddy.
Mummy stared at her feet and bit her thumbnail. The nail was already ragged, and when she went to work every day she put a fresh blue plaster on it.
Daddy pushed his chair back from the table and Ruby sucked up her last mouthful of spaghetti, then rushed upstairs after him, to watch him change.
Ruby loved Daddy every day, but on Cowboy Night she loved him even more, with his black clothes and black hat and the fake brass bullets glinting at his waist.
Cowboys was the best game she played in the woods, even though she didn’t have a hat or boots or a gunbelt. She had sticks that were shaped like guns, stuck into the pockets of her jeans as if they were in holsters.
Daddy adjusted his black Stetson so that it was low over his eyes, then opened the bottom drawer. Ruby craned to see what was coming out of it, because she wasn’t allowed to open the drawer herself. She wasn’t allowed to mess with Daddy’s cowboy things.
It was the Texas string tie, with a blue stone cattle skull and pointed silver tips to the laces. Daddy stood in front of the pitted mirror that hung on the back of the bedroom door, and looped it over his head, then replaced his hat – making sure it was just right in the mirror.
‘Wow!’ said Ruby.
He grinned and tipped his brim in her direction.
‘Why, thank you, Miss Ruby,’ he drawled, making her giggle.
He sat on the bed and pulled on his cowboy boots. Black with fancy white stitching. Mummy had found them in a charity shop, but they fitted like gloves.
‘You need spurs,’ Ruby said.
‘You think so?’
Of course she did; she’d heard him say so often enough.
‘Mummy has new shoes,’ she pointed out.
‘Well,’ shrugged Daddy, but didn’t go on.
Her father never said it in so many words, but they both understood that if her mother’s work weren’t so seasonal they would all have things that they wanted. In the season she worked almost every night and some days. In the winter she only did weekends, and they ate so much fish that Ruby could smell it on her pillow.
Daddy pulled open the drawer once again and took out the black leather gunbelt. He hitched it loosely, so that the holster hung low on his hip.
‘Can I tie the string?’ said Ruby, kneeling up beside his leg.
The leather thong was difficult to wrestle into a knot and turned into a loose half a bow.
‘Nice tyin’, young ’un.’
Ruby beamed at up him. ‘Sure, JT.’ She tried the accent, but it wound itself around her tongue like a cat and came out in a miaow.
Daddy used to have a gun in his gunbelt. Not a real one, but that didn’t matter – the government had made all the Gunslingers hand in their guns just because one stupid man shot some people miles away. And the man wasn’t even a cowboy, so it was really unfair.
But even without a gun, something about Daddy’s hat and his cowboy voice and his unshaven jaw always excited Ruby in a way she couldn’t put into words. He looked like a film star. Even the pale scars that curved through his eyebrow and across his right cheek looked good on Cowboy Night. In Ruby’s eyes they almost made him better. More dangerous.
‘John?’ her mother called up the stairs. ‘It’s quarter past.’
Daddy rolled his eyes at Ruby, and Ruby rolled them back. Nanna and Granpa came at half past. Granpa made her sit on his lap, and Nanna’s idea of sweets was fruit.
‘Can I come with you?’ It burst out of Ruby. She’d learned not to ask often, but she hadn’t asked for ages.
Daddy stopped adjusting his belt, and made a face in the mirror that looked like consideration. She held her breath.
‘Not this time, Rubes,’ he said.
‘When?’ she said, emboldened by the pause.
‘When you’re older.’ He always said the same thing.
‘I’m older now. I’m getting older all the time.’
There was a silent moment when Ruby thought she’d gone too far. But then he turned towards her and grinned.
‘No, you’re not!’ he said, and started to tickle her. ‘You’re not getting older!’
She giggled and rolled. He’d forgotten his cowboy accent, and the only burr in his voice was a West Country one, as he made her suffer with joy.
‘You’re my little cowboy,’ he said as she shrieked. ‘You’ll always be my little cowboy.’
‘John? They’ll be here any minute.’
Daddy stopped tickling and sighed, and Ruby flopped on to the bed, wheezing and still giggling on the out-breaths.
‘Big Nose and Ping Pong are on the warpath,’ Daddy whispered, and Ruby laughed. They called them that – just between themselves – because Granpa’s nose was big, and Nanna’s eyes were as poppy as ping-pong balls.
He straightened up. ‘I guess I’ll be headin’ out then,’ he said, back in character. ‘You have fun now, y’hear?’
Ruby made a face. ‘How old must I be before I can come with you?’
Daddy adjusted his belt for a long time, and when he spoke, it wasn’t in his cowboy voice.
‘Don’t rush to grow up, Rubes,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing good waiting for you there.’
He tilted his hat so it was low over his eyes. Then he got his accent back. ‘You stay home, Miss Ruby. Stay out of trouble.’
At the door, Daddy spun on his heel like a gunslinger, and drew on Ruby.
‘Pow! Pow-pow!’
Instead of a six-shooter he pulled a Mars bar from his holster and lobbed it gently to her. She gasped with delight – then shushed as he raised a secretive finger to his lips.
‘Don’t tell Mummy,’ he said.
Then he tipped his hat to her one last time and jig-jogged down the stairs, whistling ‘Red River Valley’, because it was her favourite song.
Ruby’s smile faded with the tune.
How could Daddy say she shouldn’t rush to grow up? It was all right for him to say! He’d probably forgotten what it was even like to be little, with all the fatness and the bullies and the homework.
She thought of all the good stuff waiting for her when she got older. The first thing she would do was buy a pony so that when she got a job she could ride it to work and to the shops and hitch it up outside so she could see it from the window. And with the money she made from doing… something… she’d buy her own custard creams and not have to search every time for where Mummy had hidden theirs. She’d live in a warm house in a sunny field, miles from trees, where mould didn’t blacken the walls and where the wind never squealed through the windows.
Daddy must be wrong about growing up.
She couldn’t wait to get there.