Trixie and the Dream Pony of Doom

I realised it was Tuesday, the day my little brother has his little fiends from nursery back to tea. “If you can face the Invasion of the Killer Tomatoes,” I said.

Tomato is my little brother. Completely round with a scarlet face. I have no idea why we call him Tomato.

Sure enough, when we got home there were fairy cakes flying around the kitchen and the floor was awash with orange juice and pasta. My poor mum, who races home early from the school where she teaches every Tuesday so she can be a Good Mother, was frantically scrubbing the floor at one end while trying to soothe a small crazed toddler who was screaming as if his whole family had been eaten before his eyes by a T Rex or something.

“What’s up?” I squeaked.

“Tomato stole his bun,” snapped Mum.

What is it with toddlers? Why are they so emotional?

Me and Dinah and Chloe grabbed a few fistfuls of fairy cakes and raced up to the comfort of my room. My humungous dog Harpo and her puppies were flat out on the bed, so we heaved them off.

Flat out is never a very good description of Harpo since she is the fattest dog in the universe, and Bonzo (her cutest little puppy and the one I am begging my parents to be allowed to keep) is threatening to go the same way. I think it’s because Mum feeds them a diet of Fidoburgers instead of expensive Plumpy Pooch, which would be much better for their health but, as Dad likes to point out at every opportunity, which would be much worse for the health of his wallet. Mrs Nosey-Parker-Next-Door feeds her dog, Lorenzo, on Pooch de Luxe, “a whole other canine experience”. Lorenzo’s the father of Harpo’s puppies, much to Mrs Next-Door’s disgust. Not that he lifts a paw to support them, which only goes to show that posh food does not always make for posh manners.

“So,” said Dinah, “Plan A: we find the culprit by tomorrow afternoon so Trixie’s off the hook, or she pretends to be ill tomorrow and doesn’t go to school at all.”

“That’s a Plan A and a Plan B,” Chloe said very seriously. “It’s two plans.”

“Oh, why do you have to be so lame?” Dinah snapped. “However many plans it is, those are the only options.”

“Just trying to help,” Chloe muttered.

“Whoopee!” I shouted, and did a little cartwheel. This is a mistake in a room the size of a nit’s lunchbox. All the books on my bedside shelf clattered on to the floor to join my socks, underwear, old Barbies, bus tickets and so on. Harpo got slowly up and thought about barking, then realised what a big effort that would be and sat down again.

“Don’t you ever tidy your room?” said Chloe.

“You’ve got a problem about bunking off ill,” Dinah said. “Warty-Beak said he’d write to your parents. He never forgets anything like that. He’s bound to have done it right after school. They’ll get the letter in the morning. As soon as they read it they’ll know you’re lying.”

“And your mum’s a teacher too,” Chloe advised. “She’s not going to go along with you making up stories to get off the hook at school, whatever the reason.”

“I could intercept the letter before my mum picks it up. I know when the postman comes,” I said.

“But supposing they find out?” Chloe was scandalised. That’s how hard she finds it to do anything against the rules. She will definitely grow up to be a World Leader. On second thoughts, no. Politicians are always going against rules and have no idea, according to my dad, about community or good honest old-fashioned values – they just hope people won’t find out before the next election. He says teachers are the only decent people left in a cruel world. Perhaps that is because:

a) he is life-long partners with a Very Extremely nice teacher, my mum, and

b) because he hasn’t met Warty-Beak.

“They won’t find out. How could they?” said Dinah. “And I’ll call the school saying you’re sick.”

Dinah won’t have any trouble with this. She’s the best mimic in the school, or possibly the world, as any of you who have read my story about my Amazing Doggy Yap Star will know.

“Dinah, you’re the cat’s pyjamas!”

“I still think it would be better if we could find out who really did that rude drawing,” said Chloe.

“Yes, well, I’d bet it’ll be either of my two archenemies,” I muttered.

“You mean Orrible Orange Orson or Ghastly Grey Griselda,” said Chloe, naming the two kids who’ve made school life a misery for our generation.

“Yes. But how do we discover which …?”

That night I dreamed I was up in the clouds riding Merlin again, my perfect palomino stallion that I am going to buy with Grandma Clump’s prize money. Then I heard Warty-Beak’s laugh coming from somewhere, but I woke up sweating before we plummeted down and hit the ground.

One good thing about dreaming is you always wake up before you die. It would be nice if real life was like that.

(#u809f2557-3122-556a-a25c-d912fb942118)

“Is it April Fool’s Day?”

“No. Why?”

“Normally at this hour you would be sleeping like a forest full of logs and I would be beating a tattoo on your door to get you to stir,” said my amusing father, who had appeared by the front door (where I was crouched waiting to catch the post) and was, as usual, carrying a plank. I say as usual because he spends all his spare time trying to fix things around the house. It’s also usual that after a while the fixed things fall to bits again, so yet another plank is needed.

“What do you need a plank for at this time of day?” I asked, to change the subject.

“Don’t change the subject. Are you expecting a letter from school?”

“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.”