by Ros Asquith
“Glamorous Granny Clara Clump has won through! She has ONE THOUSAND POUNDS! Now, Clara, you can’t lose that thousand now—but you can …”
“SWOPPITT!!!!” shouted the audience.
Grandma now had to go into a little plastic booth thingy and sit on a very high stool. Her little plump legs dangled and she couldn’t reach the leg rest. She looked so uncomfortable. I thought what it might have been like to do my SATS tests sitting on top of a big plastic mushroom and felt really sorry for her.
Now she had to answer some questions. The first was a stupid one about lettuces.
“Which of the following is type of lettuce?” Micky Swoppitt asked Grandma.
“Is it …
a) Valley?
b) Mountain?
c) Iceberg?”
I breathed out because I KNEW Gran would know that one. The only reason I know what an iceberg lettuce is because she told me in a greengrocers.
But she said mountain!
Bikini Girl now played a horrible BOINGGGG noise on the keyboard.
“She’s panicking,” Mum whispered.
“Never mind, Clara,” bounced Micky Swoppitt. “You have two more chances in the first round to double your money.”
The second question was brilliant. I just KNEW she would get it right.
“Which of the following was a famous character in the Beatrix Potter stories?
a) Roger Rabbit?
b) Peter Rabbit?
c) The March Hare?”
Grandma said, “The March Hare.”
Eeek! Wrongggg!! But Grandma read Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit to Tomato only last week! How could she have made a mistake? Then I thought, It’s all my fault. I always used to ask Grandma Clump to read the Mad Hatter’s tea-party from Alice in Wonderland to me when I was six. I liked the dormouse going to sleep in the teapot. So that’s why she got muddled.
“Take a deep breath, Clara,” chirruped Micky Swoppitt, who I was beginning to hate with a Deadly Venomous Hatred. I wished I could turn into a python and squeeze him till he coughed up all the answers all the way up to one million squid.
Grandma Clump was looking hunted. It was like one of those wildlife programmes when the lion is chasing the nice caribou, and you don’t care about the lion and her hungry cute cubs, you’re just shouting at the TV to let the caribou escape. That’s how it felt watching Grandma Clump in the horrible plastic booth.
But we were powerless to prevent the Swoppitt of Doom mouthing the final question that would get Grandma onto round three and another £1000.
“Name the famous mop-topped sixties band from Liverpool. Was it …
a) The Beatles?
b) The Tweetles?
c) The Rolling Stones?”
I don’t believe it! It was back in prehistoric times but even I know it was The Beatles because Dad goes on about them!
But Grandma said, “The Rolling Stones.”
This only goes to show what TV can do to a normal person. I will never laugh at a TV quiz contestant ever again.
Then Micky Swoppitt was asking the audience for a big hand for Battling Glamorous Granny Clara Clump, and poor old Gran was staggering off the stool. Mum and Tomato and me leapt up and pushed past the enormous snoring lady and her enormouser snorting husband to get round the back to rescue Gran.
“It’s so unfair, Mum,” said Mum, scooping Grandma Clump up in a huge hug. “You can’t think without your glasses.”
“Oh, what a palaver,” said Gran. “But, you know, it wasn’t my glasses—it was that booth. It made me feel claustrophobic.”
“Whassat?” said Tomato. And I was glad he did because I wanted to ask too.
“It’s when you feel uncomfortable in a small space,” said Mum. “Like in a lift. Or a stupid quiz booth.”
“Yes,” said Gran. “I left my brain outside that booth. It knew better than to go in there with me. And when I got out, there was my brain waiting for me and suddenly I knew all the answers!”
“That’s just what happens to me in tests,” I said.
“But look on the bright side,” said Gran. “I’m getting TWO new pairs of glasses from Micky Swoppitt.”
“It’ll be the TV company that pay for them, not him,” growled Mum.
“AND I’ve got £1000. I’ve never earned £1000 in twenty minutes before!”
“Was it only twenty minutes? It felt like a week,” said Mum.
“I think we should celebrate,” said Gran. “Cheer up, Trixie, you’ve got a face like a sack full of haddocks.”
“Oh, you are wonderful, being so positive,” said Mum. “I thought you’d be so disappointed.”
But it was me that was disappointed. All I could think about was how I would never be able to buy my Dream Pony. I had been so sure that Grandma Clump would win, and I didn’t know how to tell Dinah and Chloe.
“I’d like to give the children £200 each,” said Grandma. “But don’t tell Tomato. Put it in a savings account for him, otherwise he’ll spend it all on sweeties.”
“That’s too generous; you can’t possibly,” said Mum.
“My mind is made up,” said Grandma. “And Trixie can buy her pony at last.”
I couldn’t find a hug big enough for her. Maybe I could find a pony for £200. Not the pony of my dreams, of course, but—
My daydream was rudely interrupted by a sound like a parrot meeting a chainsaw: “WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATT?”
It was Mum. Although I had talked endlessly about getting a pony to Grandma Clump, I hadn’t mentioned it to Mum recently because last time I did there was a stream of, “Where would you keep it? How would we look after it? They’re very expensive …” and blah blah, on and on.
“It’s OK, Mum. Dinah’s dad says the stables will have it. It’s all sorted.” But I knew it was going to take weeks of whining and pleading to make her see sense.
Chloe and Dinah came round to celebrate after school. But the first thing I wanted to know was how they’d sorted out Grey Griselda.
“We cornered her in the loos and said we knew she was a Lefty,” said Dinah. “And then Chloe was brilliant.”
Chloe beamed and took up the story. “I told her I could help her confess in a way that wouldn’t stop her being Teacher’s Pet forever. I said she could come out of it looking good.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know about you,” said Chloe, “but I don’t fancy Grizzie and Sniffles and Pineapple Hairdo lurking for me every morning for the rest of the year …”
“True. So how’d you do it?”
“I told her to say she knew who did the drawing, but she couldn’t say who it was because it would be Betraying a Friend. Of course, I had to mention that we’d tell on her if she didn’t confess …”
“And old Grizzly jumped at it,” said Dinah. “She was off to Warty-Beak quicker than a whippet.”
“Now she’ll just look like an even bigger goody-goody,” I said, frustrated.
“Hmmm,” said Dinah. “It’s annoying, but it’s achieved two things. First, we know she DID do it …” she grinned a wicked grin “… which gives us an advantage over her in the future, because she thinks we have proof. And secondly, Trixie Tempest’s name is cleared!”
Phew. At least it meant I wouldn’t get more Lines and staying in at lunchtime. But I was annoyed to think Grizzie was a left-hander. I always thought Lefties were nice people like me and Paul McCartney (well, I like him even if you don’t) and Bart Simpson and the Queen.
Next day at school I was nearly exploding with excitement telling everyone about all the money I was going to get, until Martha Marchant plunged me into gloom boasting about her pony, Zorro, who cost £1500. “And then there’s all the tack—that costs a lot too, you know.”
“Tack?”
“Saddles and bridles and halters, you ninny,” said Dinah, raising her eyebrows at Martha as though I was a complete fool.
“And oats and bran and coats and farriers.”
I wasn’t
going to be caught out again (I found out later a farrier is a blacksmith who does horse’s shoes).
“And be sure not to get one with four white socks; you know the old rhyme?”
I knew she was going to tell me it anyway so I just stood there while she triumphantly recited:
“One white sock, buy a horse.
Two white socks, try a horse.
Three white socks, do well without him.
four white socks, forget all about him!”
I never even knew horses wore socks.
“You never told me your new best friend Martha had a pony,” I said to Dinah on the way home.
“I tried to, but you wouldn’t listen,” said Dinah. “Anyway, she hasn’t got a pony any more—it’s soooo tragic. Zorro was stolen just after Martha’s family moved to Bottomley. She’s too heartbroken to get another pony just yet. She keeps hoping he’ll turn up again. And they’re not rich, you know. They sold their car to buy him and they trained him themselves to be a champion jumper, and she shared Zorro with ten brothers and sisters and he was the love of her life …”
“Oooh,” sighed Chloe, “poooor Martha. I suppose that’s why she seems a bit of a …”
“Wimp?” I asked.
Oh dear, I thought. I must be nicer to Martha, I thought. “But of course I’ll let her have a ride on my pony,” I added quickly.
I spent the weekend nagging and moaning and wheedling my folks. In the end, the fact that Granny was up for it and that Dinah’s dad had said the stables would keep it did the trick. But all the time in the back of my mind I was thinking. How on earth can you buy a pony for two hundred measly squid?
Me and Dinah and Chloe spent the next week looking at ads for ponies. I fell in love with all of them, but they were all stupid prices. On the Internet there were countless sneering ads saying things like “Our ponies don’t come cheap” and “What did you expect, if you got a cheap pony?” with horrible stories of crazed horses biting toddlers and all, whatever.
This is what it’s like being poor, I thought. Everyone always sneers at you.
Then an amazing thing happened.
The Friday before we broke up for summer half-term, Chloe was late for school. It may not seem an amazing thing to you, but Chloe is never ill and she’s also the most law-abiding person in the Universe, so if she isn’t there four minutes before registration, you know she is dead. We were going to ring up her house at lunchtime, expecting her mum to be sobbing at the other end, but Dinah got a text from her saying:
Dinah and I were so excited we ran from school at the end of the day, but no sooner had we got round the corner when we bumped into Chloe, who was waiting there and looked just as excited as us. She didn’t have a pony with her though, which was a bit of a disappointment.
“Where is it? Where is it?” I chattered at her. “Where’s the pony?”
“Here,” said Chloe. She gave me a scrap of paper with a phone number scrawled on it.
“Chloe, you noodle!” wailed Dinah. “Just tell us what happened!”
Chloe didn’t stop talking now for about ten minutes as we walked home. The night before last, her dad, who works for the local garage, got called out to help a man whose van had broken down. Chloe’s dad towed him back to Fairfield Park, which is a lot of abandoned fields full of broken-down caravans and rubbish, a bus ride away from us.
Chloe spent a long time telling us all this. She doesn’t like to leave anything out. We stamped and squawked a bit, so she finally got to the point.
“There was a pony in the van,” Chloe said, like a magician pulling a few dozen rabbits from a hat. “The guy asked my dad if he knew anyone who might want it. Said he had to sell it fast so it was going cheap. Dad didn’t know about you and said he couldn’t help. But of course, when he told me all this, I told him the whole story about you wanting a pony more than anything in your whole life. So this morning he offered to take me up to look at it, in case we missed it.”
Dinah and I realised what this meant to Chloe. She’s never pretended to be ill and bunked off school in her life, and now she missed a whole morning of lessons for me. And her mum and dad went along with it!
“We saw the guy,” Chloe said, rather nervously. “He was pretty weird and scary, but he had a pony all right. And he does want to get rid of it quick. I got his number and said you’d call him today.”
Dinah and I both squealed. I got Dinah to call the number; my hand was shaking so much I got it wrong twice.
Bending close to Dinah, I heard a man’s voice: “Ullo?”
“Ullo,” said Dinah, doing a cross between her impression of Old Hedake and the mad school caretaker. “My friend’s dad says you’ve got a pony for sale.”
There was a silence for a moment. Then: “D’you mean the mechanic?” Well, that’s right. £1000. No questions.”
Dinah looked horrified and stood gawping.
“He says it’s a £1000!” she whispered to me. Then she shrugged and handed me the phone.
“Hello,” I said, “I’m Trixie. It’s me that wants the pony. But I haven’t got £1000.”
“What have you got?” came the voice.
“£200,” I said, meekly.
“You’re havin’ a laugh,” said the man.
I remembered the £48 in my Merlin fund and the £2 in my pocket.
“OK. £250,” I said.
There was another silence and a sigh. Then: “Cash?”
“You mean real money?”
“Yeah. Bits of crisp paper. Tomorrow.”
And that was how it happened.
I told Mum and Dad a whopping porky pie about how Dinah’s dad was coming to check out the pony with us and how ponies were always sold for cash, and I am ashamed to say they believed me. I took advantage of the fact that Mum is running ragged about Ofsted and Dad is driving for this loony new firm for about eighteen hours a day. And of course, they don’t know one end of a horse from the other, as I tactfully pointed out.
“Are you sure Mr Dare-deVille has the time?” was all Mum said in the end. “Well, it IS your money to spend, I suppose. And I suppose if it does work out then half term is a good time to do it, so you can help the pony settle in … And I must say it’s lovely to see you so happy,” she added, which struck a doomy note of guilt into my otherwise cheery heart.
I went to bed knowing I would not sleep a wink (whatever that means).
How right I was. I did not sleep a wink, and neither did Tomato (who was in my bed) or Harpo or the puppies (all sleeping on his head).
I thought, Maybe I should go and curl up in Harpo’s basket. I think that’s what she is aiming for, in fact.
Soon the whole family will be in a kennel, and Harpo and Bonzo and the other puppies will have the house to themselves and occasionally throw us scraps from their table.
Could I survive on Fidoburgers?
Saturday morning I was up at first bird-croak (Well, it was the merry cursing of the postman. He likes dogs, luckily, but the puppies all love him and try to eat his dreadlocks.) and realised it was the BIG DAY that I was going to buy my DREAM PONY.
I tumbled downstairs in time to stuff my pockets with apples and carrots before Dinah and Chloe were beating at the door.
“Your father IS coming?” said Mum anxiously to Dinah.
“He’s in the car,” said Dinah, jerking her thumb over her shoulder and going only a teeny bit red.
“Maybe we should ask your dad to come?” said Chloe as we ran down the road for the bus to Fairfield Park.
“Nah. I know a good pony when I see one,” said Dinah. “He’s in Brazil just now on business, anyway.”
Dinah’s dad is always miles away on business trips, which is I suppose why they have so much dosh. But a chill wind of worry ruffled my soul.
“Er, Dinah, how long has he been gone?”
“A month. Why?”
“So, um, you DID ask him about the stables?”
“Well, not as such. But he won’t mind. There’s
plenty of room there.”
The chill wind of worry was now settling on my tummy.
The bus drew up. I tried to keep my spirits up by fantasising about my Dream Pony. “I know he’s not going to be like Merlin,” I said. “I know I’ll have to wait before I can get a palomino steed with the speed of light that can jump like a flea and run like the wind.”
“You’d need more than four riding lessons for that,” said Dinah meanly.
“Yes, you can barely ride,” said Chloe, but she meant it in a kind, worried way. “Suppose he’s a mad bucking bronco? Or supposing he kicks?”
“Dinah can train him, can’t you?” I said hopefully.
“Course I can,” said Dinah. It is at times like this that I really value Dinah’s confidence. She has what Grandma Clump calls a “can-do” attitude.
When we got off the bus at Fairfield Park, the first thing we saw was a huge poster advertising the
“It’s a Sign,” said Chloe.
“Of course it is. They have to use signs. People can’t find that stuff out by telepathy,” I snapped, because the chill wind of doubt had now spread down to my toes.
“I think she means it’s a Sign that you’ll win first prize in the gymkhana on your new pony. It said he was a gymkhana champion in the ad, remember?” said Dinah. But all I could think was that now I understood the true meaning of the phrase COLD FEET. What in the Great God of Horses’ name was I doing going to a stranger with £250 in cash?
We tramped down Fairfield Lane. Well, it wasn’t a lane as such, and it certainly wasn’t a fair field. It was a muddy track with a few mangy hens croaking gloomily. The Manor House was a bungalow with two boarded-up windows. No sign of a stable.
“Let’s go home,” said Chloe.
“Wimp,” said Dinah, ringing the bell.
There was the sound of several bolts being drawn back and a rattling of chains. Seemed like a lot of security for a rubbishy beat-up bungalow. The door opened a crack then flew open, revealing one of the biggest blokes I have ever seen. His small shaved bullet-head was perched on shoulders the width of two barns. His biceps bulged like cannonballs out of a heavy-metal T-shirt. He made the Incredible Hulk look like Angelina Ballerina. There was a fearsome yowling and yapping and growling and whining as he held back two Rottweilers who looked as though they hadn’t seen a square meal for days.