Trixie and the Dream Pony of Doom

“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 Supernanny 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.”

I made myself look Very Extremely excited about it. Chloe always needs a lot of reassurance about things like whether she is your friend or not. I sometimes think it would be easier to be a boy; they don’t seem to need to be Best Friends in the same way as girls do.

“OK, what’s your idea?” said Dinah, looking huffy.

“We could fingerprint her.”

“What?!”

“I’ve brought in this detective kit that’s got fingerprint powder.” Chloe rummaged in her school bag and pulled out a six-year-old’s Super Spy set.

“Chase after Griselda with a fake Sherlock Holmes hat on and a plastic magnifying glass hoping she’ll give you a finger print? VERY clever. Not,” said Dinah.

Chloe looked as if she was about to cry.

“Wait, it’s brilliant,” I said. “We don’t actually have to DO it, we have to PRETEND we’ve done it!”

“Eh?” said Dinah and Chloe.

I scratched my head in what I hoped was a professor sort of way (actually, I think I was worried about another invasion of Dreaded Nits) and patiently explained.

“We confront Griselda with the dread evidence. We TELL her we’ve got her fingerprints from one of her own exercise books and we say they exactly match the ones on the drawing! She’s BOUND to confess!”

At break we all strolled over to Griselda looking like we hadn’t a care in the world. She was sitting with a crowd of Year Threes, who all looked at her adoringly except for Little Thomasina, who she had pinched. She always picks on one so that poor person will feel all left out and forlorn and the others will all feel they are the favourites. It makes you want to throw up. Her bully-buddies – Big Barbara with the pineapple hairdo and Sniffling Sophie who always has a drip on the end of her nose – were with her, mocking the weeping girl.

“Hi, Griselda. I have to take my hat off to you. You are an absolute genius,” said Dinah.

Griselda looked surprised, but pleased. “Which particular bit of my genius are you referring to?” she asked.

“That drawing of Hedake snogging Warty you did. Hilarious. It’s exactly like both of them. Fantastic copy of Trixie’s handwriting on it too.” Dinah looked as if she was about to split her sides laughing about it.

But Griselda’s not dim. Flattered or not, she could smell a big fat rat. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” she said, looking haughty.

“Oh, go on, Griselda. No one in this school is clever enough to pull off a stunt like that except you. And me, of course.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Griselda again, only this time she had turned from haughty to flustered.

“Perhaps you’d like to discuss it further, somewhere private,” said Dinah. She can sound quite menacing when she wants to. “So all your little fans won’t hear about it.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Oh yes there is. We have fingerprints to prove it.”

Griselda made a faint gurgling sound. Then she said very loudly, “Oh well, if you really want me to help you sort out your little problem, I suppose I have to. Everybody needs me all the time,” she added theatrically for the benefit of her fan club. “I’ll see you later, sweeties. Come on.”

She gestured to her two sidekicks, and Big Barbara and Sniffling Sophie got up. Big Barbara aimed a sly kick at Little Thomasina, who burst into a fresh bout of weeping, and they followed us round the back of the caretaker’s hut.

“What do you mean, fingerprints?” asked Griselda.

“Chloe’s uncle’s in M15 – he always lets her play with his kit: invisible ink, fingerprint stuff, false beards, poison, high-velocity rifles, that kind of thing,” Dinah said.

Griselda shuffled uncomfortably and her mouth fell open.

“We nicked one of your exercise books and compared the prints on it with the ones on the Hedake drawing. They were identical. It was you. Confess all. If you don’t tell Warty it was you and clear Trixie, we’ll tell him ourselves.”

Griselda’s mouth fell open further, and then she burst into tears.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she wailed. “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t!”

“You’re lying,” Dinah hissed. “Of course it was you; it has to be!”

Sniffling Sophie and Big Barbara got in on the act. “Lay off her,” Big Barbara said. “She obviously didn’t do it and she can prove it.”