Читать книгу Trixie and the Dream Pony of Doom - Ros Asquith - Страница 5

“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.”

“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.”

Dinah and Chloe and me looked at each other. Griselda’s lot so rarely say anything honest that somehow it sounds different when they do. “What do you mean, prove it?” I asked, doubtfully.

“Look at her hand, sucker,” Sniffling Sophie said.

Griselda held up her right hand. There was a huge plaster binding up her first two fingers. “Got bitten,” she said triumphantly. “I was trying to tie a Halloween mask on Sally Campbell’s cat to frighten her, and it bit me. Poisoned and all. I can’t even write at the moment, let alone draw.”

Big Barbara and Sniffling Sophie started to close in on us. We’d blown it. There was nothing for it but to beat a retreat.

Disaster! Granny Clump abandoned to her fate! I knew I just had to get to that TV studio, even if I was expelled.

“I’ll have to break out of school, there’s no other way,” I said. “Just tell Warty-Beak I fell in a cement mixer or something.”

I headed for the gates, but just as the bell rang Warty-Beak loomed from nowhere to shoo us all inside. I thought for a second of diving through his legs, but I could see Ms Dove was already locking the gates.

I doubled back, desperate, to a dismayed Chloe and a mischievously grinning Dinah.

“I know a way,” she whispered, grabbing my hand.

“Where are you going? Is it a new game? Can I join in?” said Martha Marchant, who appeared from nowhere like the Ghost of Gloom.

“Distract her, Chloe,” Dinah hissed in Chloe’s ear.

Chloe can be a bit slow at this sort of thing, but she did her best. She started off by standing up like a lamppost, putting both arms straight up above her head and sticking her hands up in a point.

“What am I being?” she asked Martha Marchant, who just shook her head and then looked at us for a clue. Phew. Some distraction this was turning out to be.

“A carrot,” Chloe said in the end, looking disappointed.

But Martha clapped her hands and giggled. “Be another one,” she said.