Ros Asquith - Trixie and the Dream Pony of Doom

“How did you know?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. This only goes to show how although I am Tricksy Trixie to my mates, I can’t seem to get away with it at home.

Dad smiled. “It’s just what I used to do at your age.” And he went off to the kitchen, whistling.

There was a letter from Warty-Beak, but of course I had wasted an hour’s precious health-giving snooze for nothing because Dad had sussed out what I was doing. Although he seemed so laid back with all his whistling and planks and whatever, he had in actual fact chosen to tell Mum that I was trying to intercept a letter from school.

“What’s this about a letter from school?” Mum asked.

I explained about the drawing.

“Trixie,” said Mum fiercely, but I could see a smile just at the very edge of her mouth. The smile tried hard to cling on, but she forced it away by wiping her hand very firmly over her lips. I think I saw the smile landing near Harpo’s basket. Maybe if the basket could get full of smiles it might entice Bonzo and Harpo and the rest of the puppies to use it at night. (Instead of smothering me by insisting on sleeping on my bed like a vast furry duvet full of eels, like they usually do.) I tried to drag my thoughts back to being Very Extremely serious.

“Trixie, it’s not funny,” Mum was saying. “You know how hard teachers work and Mrs Hedake is really trying to improve standards at St Aubergine’s.”

“Yes, by making us do millions of tests so the league tables look better,” I muttered. “We’re all being tested to destruction,” I added, because I know that’s what she thinks and I was trying to Butter Her Up. (A Grandma Clump phrase which means flattery, I think, but I’ve never understood why – something to do with bread feeling happier with butter on? Surely not, because it would be one step closer to getting eaten, wouldn’t it?)

“You know I don’t agree with that,” said Mum, who although she is a teacher is the very Nicest Kind and believes that children should be Creative and Free and not herded in little boxes and given billions of stupid tests. “But doing a rude drawing of the head teacher and Mr Wartover really is very disrespectful and, more importantly, unkind.”

“Twixy wude! Twixy wude! Eats her clothes and wears her food!” chanted Tomato. I could see that Dad was trying Very Extremely hard not to laugh.

“I know,” I said.

“Well why did you do it?”

I realised I had spent so much time describing the drawing that I had forgotten to say it wasn’t by me.

“I didn’t do it. That’s the whole point!” I explained. “Someone else did it and signed my name to it, but Warty-Beak …”

“Please don’t call him that, his name is Mr Wartover” said Mum. “You wouldn’t like it if everybody called you spotty botty.”

“Spotty botty, spotty botty, Twixie’s botty vewwy gwotty,” chanted Tomato. He is perfectly capable of pronouncing his “r”s when he likes, but he thinks it makes him sound cute. Or maybe he’s trying to imitate my trumpet teacher, Danny Vibrato, who talks just like Jonathan Woss and makes my name sound like a chocolate bar.

“You’re missing the point,” I said, kicking Tomato under the table. Mistake. Tomato shrieked and threw his bowl of rice popsicles at me.

I ducked. It was a slow-motion moment that I would like to rewind because most of the popsicles and a lot of milk and something pink went all over Mum’s nice new suit. (She has been in a Very Extremely grumpy mood all month anyway because her school is going to have a thing called an Ofsted, which Mum says is horrid, because vile inspectors come and poke around in all the teachers’ lessons and make sure they are doing a Good Job.)

So now Mum had cereal and strawberry jam (which is Tomato’s latest eating fad – he will turn into one of those hyperactive kids on S upernanny if he doesn’t watch out) all down her smart suit and no time to offer sympathy to her one-and-only daughter.

“That’s the last straw. Now I’ll be late!” she hissed and ran upstairs to change.

I looked at Dad for support. “Warty didn’t believe me, Dad. And he’s going to stop me leaving early today for Gran’s TV show.”

“That’s between you and your mum,” said Dad. “Leave me out of it. I’m worried already that I might not be able to go myself because of this ghastly job. Now hurry up else you’ll be late too.”

“Well, why do you do the job if it’s so ghastly?” I asked. I know Dad is really happiest when he’s sawing up planks and whistling, but now his job is driving for about five different companies and sometimes he has to work all night.

“Three reasons. No, four: money, money, money and money,” said Dad.

“You’re too interested in money. Why can’t we just live like Free Spirits?” I asked.

“Because however free your spirit is, your house and food and trumpet lessons are not,” said Dad.

“But when Gran wins a million squid she’ll give us loads,” I said.

“Yes, and there will be flying pigs eating pie in the sky,” said Dad confusingly. I wish he and Grandma Clump didn’t always talk about kettles of fish and pies in the sky as if I know what they’re on about.

Dad doesn’t care, I thought as I rushed to get my school bag. And if he wasn’t able to come to the TV studio, it was even more important that I did. Poor old dad , I thought. He never gets a day off and he hasn’t got time to do the work he likes, which is making things out of wood. Having both my parents Very Extremely stressed about work and money just when I am on the brink of getting my Dream Pony is not helpful. Which is why I haven’t mentioned the Dream Pony thing to either of them, only to Grandma Clump. I know they’ll be pleased when I get him, of course they will. But they don’t realise how important it is for me to be there at the TV studio to cheer Gran on.

Chloe and Dinah were waiting for me at the school gates. We had five minutes to form a plan to trap the evil-doer.

“It’s got to be Grey Griselda,” said Dinah. “The drawing’s too good for Orange Orson.”

“Yeah, I think that too. Orson uses all his available brain cells in his bullying muscles.” I remembered the times Orange Orson had held my head down the toilet. “He’s too busy duffing people up to bother with anything so clever as forgery.”

“Yeah, and Griselda’s been smirking even more than usual,” said Chloe. It was true. Griselda is the worst kind of bully because she is also a Teacher’s Pet. She wears ribbons in her plaits and has fairies on her lunchbox, and she always comes top in tests and wins sack races and is a Good Sport, and has a gaggle of girls in Year Three who follow her around and hold her hand and admire her. She is a truly sickening person because she does all this and conceals her evil side, which is always telling on other people and getting them into trouble whenever she has the opportunity.

“We must put on our thinking caps,” said Chloe, looking teachery. “But we need some brain sugar. Er, although of course the best brain sugar is from, um, fruit,” she said, producing three Toffee Twister bars from under her jumper. I never stop being amazed by Chloe’s stash of sweeties – she is truly the Main Munch for our school. Then she smiled shyly and said, “I’ve got an idea.”