The Wish Pony

by Catherine Bateson

  ‘Well,’ Magda said as the first flier slid out of the printer, ‘if that doesn’t get you some business, nothing will!’

  I wanted to colour in the ribbons by hand – some blue, some pink, so I wasn’t a sexist dog walker – but by then it was past my bedtime and Magda said I’d have to do it the next day. I hid the fliers in my desk drawer and said goodnight to Magda sleepily. Dad still hadn’t rung – it had been hours and hours, but Magda said that wasn’t a bad sign.

  ‘No news is good news,’ she said, which didn’t sound right to me, no news was just no news, but I was really too sleepy to work it out properly.

  I wanted to make at least ten wishes on the Wish Pony for my mother and little brother before I went to sleep. I made four and a half – but I think the half counted.

  The Wish Pony liked having a hand curled around him. He liked feeling the warm breath against his back and hearing a heartbeat. It made him think of standing in a field, the sun on his flanks and the smell of fresh grass fizzing up his nostrils.

  He took over Ruby’s wishes at four and a half and counted up to 101 before he, too, slid into something like sleep.

  In the kitchen, Magda finished the crossword in yesterday’s paper which she had fished out of the recycle bin. She checked her answers against the current newspaper which was lying on the kitchen table. She made twenty-five words from the letter jumble but didn’t get the nine-letter word. She had another cup of tea. She skimmed through a recipe book belonging to Ruby’s mother.

  ‘I might try that one,’ she thought, examining a photograph of a glossy rhubarb tart, and she wrote the recipe down in a small notebook she discovered in one of her dressing-gown pockets. Finally, she discovered a stack of overdue library books and started to read a mystery set in the 1930s. It was the cover that attracted her – she was almost positive she had worn a frock like the one swathed around the heroine. She remembered smoothing the silk over her knees. It had felt like cool water under her fingers.

  Magda made no wishes. Not even for Ruby’s dad to come home so she could go across the road to bed. Let what happens, happen, Magda thought. You never know what the universe wants until it’s taken – or given.

  Baby Logan was born at 11.17 pm. The hospital called him Baby Logan because Dad and Mum hadn’t named him yet. They’d thought they’d have another ten weeks to argue about his name but he’d come so early he’d surprised us all. I didn’t like the way the hospital called him Baby Logan.

  He was so small, my dad said, that he could practically hold him in one hand. Not that he’d been allowed to hold him. They’d put him straight into a special baby crib. He showed me some photos on his mobile phone.

  My dad’s thumb was practically as big as Baby Logan’s shoulder. The baby’s skin was all mottled and his eyes were shut tight as a new kitten’s. He wasn’t exactly ugly, but he didn’t exactly look as I had imagined, either. I didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t see heaps of the baby, anyway, because he seemed to be covered in tubes.

  ‘He’s very little,’ I said finally.

  Dad put the photo down and sighed.

  I’d said the wrong thing. ‘What are all those tubes for?’ I asked.

  ‘The tubes keep him alive,’ Dad said. ‘That one helps him breathe.’

  ‘Can’t he breathe by himself?’

  ‘Not quite yet. Ruby, ask me anything you like, of course, but when your mother comes home, don’t pester her with a lot of questions, okay? It might be too hard for her to answer this kind of thing. Okay?’

  ‘When is she coming home?’

  ‘In a couple of days. But we won’t be able to bring your brother home for weeks.’

  ‘Weeks? But why?’

  ‘Ruby, premature babies often need to stay in hospital until they are the same age as they would have been if they’d been born full term. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, but I didn’t understand at all. I’d just got a good look at Dad and seen how the skin under his eyes was all droopy and his chin was stubbly because he hadn’t shaved. He looked old.

  ‘So he won’t be coming home for a while,’ Dad said, ‘and that’s going to be hard on us all. Your mum will have to be at the hospital every day to see him and we’ll have to give her as much support as possible. I expect perfect behaviour, Ruby. And I mean perfect.’

  I was about to argue with him that no one could be perfect all the time but I didn’t because the phone rang and it was Mum. It was so good to hear her voice and know she was okay. She said I should have the day off school and Dad and I should see her that afternoon. She sounded quite cheerful until I told her I loved her and then there was a great big sniff on the end of the phone. But that couldn’t have been me saying the wrong thing – there’s nothing wrong with saying I love you. Then Dad and she talked for a long time and I got bored so I scooted out and letter-boxed my fliers all up and down our street.

  I didn’t just do the houses with dogs, I did them all in case someone had a friend who had a friend. I even put a flier in Magda’s letterbox – she might show it to Bailey, who might admire my poem. I knew it had nothing to do with computers, but he might still be impressed with my business acumen.

  We went to the hospital after lunch. I made Mum a card – I didn’t know whether to say Congratulations because Dad told me it still wasn’t certain whether Baby Logan would live or not – but in the end we agreed we should put Congratulations. It sounded as though we believed he would live. I wasn’t sure that Dad did, though. His face sagged when he mentioned him and lines frowned across his forehead.

  We stopped at the florist’s to choose flowers. The pale colours all looked too funereal, Dad said. So we bought some gerberas that were almost the same orange as Magda’s hair.

  ‘A bit garish,’ Dad said, ‘but at least they’re cheerful.’

  ‘Orange is very in this season,’ the florist said rather sharply.

  ‘My mum’s had a baby,’ I said. I was worried she wouldn’t do the curly ribbons if she didn’t like what Dad had said. ‘But he came too early and he might die.’

  ‘Oh, shame. Your poor mother,’ the woman said and put an extra gerbera in the bouquet. ‘What colour paper would you like?’ she asked me, and I chose blue because Mum had once told me that orange and blue could be spectacular together. They were – the paper was deep blue, like a summer night sky before it goes completely black, and the lady used orange ribbons and made them extra curly.

  ‘She’ll love them,’ I said, and then added, so the florist knew that I wasn’t just saying it, ‘she’s an artist and she cares about colour.’

  ‘Well, you wish her all the best,’ she said. ‘I hope she and the little baby are soon home.’

  ‘You needn’t tell everyone,’ Dad said to me in the car. ‘I’m not sure that your mum would want everyone to know.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I wasn’t going to try to explain about the ribbon. Dad didn’t always notice other people, particularly when he was feeling stressed.

  The hospital’s sharp smell got up my nose and made me want to sneeze. The corridors were busy with people and trolleys. We passed a woman being wheeled out of one room and I tried not to look at all the tubes and particularly at the bag of red liquid – it had to be blood – that was being wheeled along with her.

  ‘Has Mum got tubes?’ I asked Dad when the woman had passed us.

  ‘No,’ Dad said and put his hand on my head, ‘no, she’s fine. Maybe a little tired, but just the way she always is.’

  I’d expected her to be lying down in bed. That’s what everyone does in a hospital. But she was sitting up instead, reading. She loved the gerberas.

  ‘Beautiful colours, Ruby,’ she said, ‘just like fire in a deep sky. Magical.’

  Dad perched on the bed. He kept looking around him and clearing his throat.

  ‘Now don’t you worry, Rita,’ he said, ‘everything will be fine. I’ve organised Ruby and she’s going to be perfectly good. Magda’s offered to help, if we need
her.’

  ‘What would we do without Magda?’ Mum said. ‘Thank god I offered her a lift that day, otherwise I might not even have met her. You know what it’s like these days with neighbours. There’s not that old bake-a-cake-and-visit routine.’

  ‘Where did you give her a lift?’ I asked. It was odd that Mum knew Magda, too. After all, Magda was really my friend. She lent me books and I owned her Wish Pony.

  ‘Oh, to the doctor’s once,’ Mum said, ‘and to the butcher’s another time. It must be difficult to be old.’

  ‘She gets around,’ I said. I didn’t like to think of Magda being old. I particularly didn’t like to think of Magda’s age in a hospital.

  Somewhere close a baby began crying. A look of pain crossed my mother’s face.

  ‘I hate that,’ she whispered, looking at my dad. ‘I can’t stand it, Edward. And then my milk comes in.’

  I wondered what she meant but then I saw the front of her nightie and I understood.

  ‘Ruby, could you hand me that towel, please?’

  I passed it to her, trying not to look at the spreading stain of milk. She held the towel over her and I knew she was fighting tears. Dad moved closer to her and wrapped his arm around her and I moved in on the other side and put my head against her shoulder. She smelt different – sweet and sour at the same time.

  Eventually she said, ‘Well, I might just go and have a very quick shower. Then we could all go and see him, what do you think?’

  As soon as I saw Baby Logan, I knew why Mum was so worried. He was tiny and tubes ran out of him in all directions. He was wearing a pale blue hat and the smallest singlet I had ever seen – which was too big for him – and he just lay there, with his eyes closed. It was obvious he was going to die.

  A nurse smiled at us all and recorded something in the chart that hung down at the front of his little bed – which was more like a clear box than anything else. There were holes in the side where you could put your hands in and stroke him. The nurse showed me how but I was too scared of all the tubes to do it.

  ‘He’s doing well,’ she told us, ‘a little fighter. He’ll be fine.’

  Mum’s smile seemed grateful, rather than convinced. I didn’t blame her.

  ‘Yes,’ Dad said, ‘positive thought, that’s what we need, isn’t it, Rita?’ His voice sounded too hearty among the beeping noises of the hospital machines. He must have thought so, too, because he cleared his throat and studied Baby Logan’s machinery with careful attention.

  I stared at my brother. He didn’t feel like my brother. It didn’t help that he was called Baby Logan and not a proper name. But what could you call him? He didn’t look like any proper name – you couldn’t say, oh he looks just like a Mitchell or a Sam because he didn’t. He looked like a doll. The fragile kind you’re not allowed to play with.

  Mum and Dad sat there, Mum stroked him through the hand-holes and then Dad had a turn. Then they sat there and looked at him for a while and held hands. I was kind of bored. There was nothing to really see, except for the green graph recording Baby Logan’s heartbeats. I didn’t want to look at any of the other babies – that would feel rude. So I stood awkwardly beside Mum and Dad trying not to fidget. I was relieved when Dad said we should be going. We walked Mum back to her room and she told us again how beautiful the flowers were and kissed us both. When we turned to wave at the door, she was sitting in her chair, the book she’d been reading unopened in her lap. She managed a smile for us but the rest of her face sagged in sadness.

  Dad and I drove home in silence. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I knew Dad only wanted positive thoughts and I didn’t have a single one to offer. So I held my tongue.

  When we got home the answering machine was flashing. I held my breath when Dad pressed play, but it was only a work friend of his, wishing us all well. I’d hoped, of course, that it was someone ringing the Prancing Pooches dog walking service.

  That happened later in the afternoon and it was a good thing I’d had the day off school, or I might have lost my very first customer. The phone rang and Dad and I both dived for it, but he was quicker.

  ‘Edward Logan,’ he said in his telephone voice. Then there was a pause. ‘I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong number. I’ve never heard of Prancing Pooches.’

  ‘Dad,’ I hissed, ‘Dad, it’s me. I’m Prancing Pooches!’

  ‘Ruby, I’m on the phone.’

  ‘But Dad,’ I practically shouted, ‘it’s me!’ I grabbed a flier and held it up in front of his nose, while at the same time trying to wrestle the handset from him.

  ‘Could you hold on one minute,’ Dad said to my customer, ‘my daughter’s just trying to … one moment, please.’

  ‘I’m Prancing Pooches,’ I said, ‘it’s a way of earning some extra money.’

  ‘Ruby, you shouldn’t embark on wild schemes without okaying them first. I don’t know if I want you walking a pack of dogs around the neighbourhood!’

  ‘It’s not a pack,’ I pointed out, ‘it’s only one dog so far. And I won’t be walking around the neighbourhood. I’ve got it all worked out, Dad – please. You’re always saying I should use my brains and my initiative but when I do you get cranky. It’s not fair. This is a good idea.’

  ‘Well, okay – we’ll see.’ Dad handed the phone reluctantly over to me.

  ‘Prancing Pooches Dog Walking Service,’ I said in my special telephone voice, ‘how can I help you?’

  It was the big dog on the corner. Magda was right. That was the dog that needed walking – the only one in the street I was frightened of. I gritted my teeth. ‘No dog too large, no dog too small,’ I told the owner.

  ‘Do you have your own equipment?’ he asked. ‘Or do we supply our own leads? I only have an ordinary lead for Grinder, but really, if you’re as young as you sound, you’ll probably need one of those restraining leads. He pulls. My ex-girlfriend trained him. Not.’

  ‘I don’t have any equipment, yet,’ I said, trying to sound business-like, ‘I’m waiting to build up my … umm, dogs, before I get … stuff. Umm, does he bite?’

  ‘Grinder? No, he’s a big softie. He just pulls your arms out of their sockets sniffing around. But he won’t hurt you. I tell you what, if you can walk him every day after school – I assume you go to school? – for a cut rate of, say fifteen dollars a week, I’ll provide the restraining lead. Which will, of course, remain my property. How does that sound?’

  I hesitated, doing the maths. It was five dollars cheaper than my going rate for big dogs.

  ‘You’ll love Grinder,’ his owner said, ‘he’s a really lovely dog but he’s been so lonely since my girlfriend and I split up. Also,’ he added, ‘it’s better to get steady, regular work than someone just ringing you up because they’re sick or they’ve sprained their ankle. This is a permanent part-time position I’m offering you.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll take it,’ I said.

  ‘Good. You’d better come up and meet him while I’m here – so your first walk could be this evening, if you’re allowed to.’

  Dad insisted on walking up with me. ‘You don’t understand, Ruby, you’re just a little girl. People could take advantage.’

  But Grinder’s owner, a man called Tom, was in IT and not the least bit threatening. Grinder looked much bigger and fiercer close up. He drooled, too.

  ‘Umm, what kind of dog is he?’

  Tom shrugged, ‘Well, they said he was part-labrador, but he just kept growing! When we split, my girlfriend – my ex-girlfriend, a show puppy if ever there was one – claimed she’d really bought him for me. Between you and me she’d wanted a designer dog. Here – he’ll like you. Though you don’t seem a confident dog walker, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘It’s her first venture into this business,’ Dad said, ‘she’s got to grow with the job, if you know what I mean. Come here, fellow!’

  I followed Dad’s example and held out my hand for Grinder to sniff. It was immediately engulfed in a wet tongue and
dog spit. Ugh! He certainly wasn’t a designer dog. But after he’d given me a thorough licking, he looked up at me and his tail thumped on the kitchen lino and he almost seemed to be grinning.

  ‘Good boy!’ I said, the way I’d heard a television dog trainer say it. ‘Good boy!’ The tail thumping got faster and louder.

  ‘Okay, here’s the Halti. Instructions to put it on are here somewhere. Hmm, tricky.’

  Finally, I walked Grinder out of the house, leaving Dad and Tom having a cup of tea. He was a happy slobbery dog. It was true what Magda had said, he was probably just bored and lonely. Every time he wanted to go and sniff in the bushes, he’d look up at me first as though asking for permission before suddenly lunging across, his nose twitching furiously. I was very pleased I had the restraining lead. Tom was right, I’d have had no arms left. Grinder was a big dog and most of it seemed to be chest and muscle.

  ‘Well,’ Dad said when we walked home again, ‘this new, ahem, business venture of yours will certainly keep you fit.’

  I glanced sideways at him and he was grinning as though he’d been told the funniest joke ever.

  ‘One of the side benefits,’ I said haughtily. ‘We’re doing Healthy Minds, Healthy Bodies at school. I might use Prancing Pooches for my project.’

  ‘Ruby,’ Dad said, ‘I am proud of you taking initiative like this, but next time, before you apply your initiative, can you please let me or your mother know? Just as a safeguard.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘no problem.’

  The rhubarb tart was delicious. Magda ate it with thick cream poured over the top of the crisp pastry. She sighed slightly as she remembered how much her second husband had loved rhubarb. That big patch he’d grown! Rhubarb sponge every Sunday for weeks. She finger-combed her orange hair. He wouldn’t have approved of the colour. Didn’t like anything that called attention to itself. Ah well, mustn’t think uncharitably of the departed. She’d be departing herself soon enough and she wouldn’t want anyone remembering her worst points.