Trixie and the Dream Pony of Doom

by Ros Asquith

  When they saw us, you could see they were thinking “snack”.

  Even Dinah quailed. “Erm, we’ve come about the pony,” she squeaked.

  Bullet Head leaned towards us, showering us with spit as he hissed, “Anybody with you?”

  “My dad’s parked in the lane,” Chloe lied. “You know, the one who told us about you.”

  “Anyone else know?” grunted Bullet Head.

  “No,” said Chloe. “Dad thought you might want to keep it secret.”

  My feet felt as though they were dissolving. I looked down. My pink trainers twinkled cheerfully up at me, but that was no reason to believe they still contained my feet.

  “Got the money?” Bullet Head then asked, looking as if he might kill us if we hadn’t.”

  “Show him the money,” Dinah said to me, talking in Old Hedake’s deep voice to give herself confidence. “Show him the money,” she repeated, giving me a nudge.

  Of course, she said “show” not “give”, but that didn’t mean much to Bullet Head. I pulled out my £250 cash and before I knew it, Bullet Head had whipped it out of my hand to count it, which he did in a blur, like someone who is used to counting Very Extremely Large amounts of money.

  I stood there in shock, thinking. Suppose he just keeps it and then says he doesn’t know what we’re talking about? Or murders us and feeds us to the pigs? I’ll never be able to face Grandma Clump or Mum or Dad or even Tomato and Harpo and the puppies EVER AGAIN. Maybe I will be forced to wander the streets, begging for a crust from passers-by, or maybe get sent to jail for stealing Battling Glamorous Granny’s winnings …

  OK, I know all you sensible types who have business-like parents and go to school with uniforms and read sensible books are all groaning, “What on Earth did she do that for?” And if you ever find yourself in this position, it’s a good question. Me and Dinah and Chloe stood there with our mouths open like a row of fish. We’d given a total and Very Extremely terrifying stranger all Gran’s winnings. How insane is that?

  Bullet Head counted the money again then pocketed it. I felt my heart miss a beat. Then he said, “Pony’s out the back,” and it missed a beat again.

  The door slammed shut and the bolts clanged into place.

  “But we don’t know anything about it! How old is it? What’s it’s NAME?” shouted Dinah, aiming a ferocious kick at the door.

  Chloe pushed her before she could land the kick. “Don’t,” she hissed. “He could murder us.”

  This seemed like wise advice even to the furious Dinah. “But there probably isn’t even a pony there,” she grumbled.

  “Fungus,” came a voice from behind the door.

  “What?”

  The bolts clanged again and Bullet Head peered out.

  “It’s called Fungus. You can change it if you like. Dunno how old it is but I think it won a bendy race, or maybe jumping. Now get a move on because Tweety Pie and Fluffykins here haven’t had their supper yet. And don’t tell nobody about this, or I’ll set ’em on your trail.”

  The Rottweilers set up an ear-splitting howl and we ran round the back of the bungalow as if our trousers were on fire. I have never seen Chloe move so fast.

  My stomach was somersaulting. I knew there would be no pony. Maybe there would be an army of Rottweilers … But these thoughts only coursed through my brain for a couple of seconds because then I got my first sight of Fungus, my Dream Pony.

  Fungus was what I think is called Past His Prime. If the yard he was standing in had been bigger, we’d probably have missed seeing him altogether. When I got closer I was put in mind of a very small, very badly stuffed sofa. He was caked in mud and twigs and he was barely bigger than Harpo. Basically, he was two big brown eyes staring out of a sooty bird’s nest. We gaped. Even Dinah was stunned into silence.

  It was the yowling of the Rottweilers plus the cursing of Bullet Head that made us get a move on.

  Dinah approached Fungus and patted what she hoped was his neck. He looked pleased, I think. She felt around a bit and located a halter. I pulled a carrot from my pocket and poked it in the direction of his mouth, which I assumed must be under his eyes somewhere. He looked very pleased and made a Very Extremely loud crunching sound. I pulled out another carrot and there was a little flurry of movement at the top of his head.

  “He’s pricking his ears! Oh, he’s so SWEET,” said Chloe.

  I think that was the moment we all three fell in love. Or maybe I should say all four.

  The Rottweilers sounded closer.

  “He’s going to let them out,” shrieked Chloe.

  We grabbed Fungus’s halter and ran for it.

  Or tried to. But Fungus wouldn’t budge.

  “Come on, Fungus, you’re going to a lovely new home,” I wheedled. But he seemed to want to stay in the mud with the mangy hens.

  A horrible gurgling sound came from the bungalow, mixed with the growling and snarling of the Hounds of Hell. Slowly we recognised it as laughter. Bullet Head’s bullet head appeared from a back window.

  “Give it a thump on one end and wave a carrot at the other. It can go like the clappers when it wants. Used to win prizes. Now get moving. I want that nag off my property. He’s yours now. You got five minutes.”

  So that’s what is meant by “carrot and stick”, I thought.

  We didn’t like to thump poor old Fungus on the rump. You can’t really be doing passionate projects about Animal Rights and then go on and thump your only Beloved Pony, can you?

  A mixture of shoving and coaxing got Fungus down the lane and out of the gate. As we heaved it shut, we heard the bolts clanking on the bungalow door and the Hounds of Hell were unleashed. Fluffykins and Tweety Pie hurled themselves down the lane, scattering terrified chickens, and flung themselves at the gate, barking.

  I thought Fungus looked a little wistful as we led him away. I suppose home is where the heart is, even if it’s a Rottweiler-infested swamp.

  “We’re going to give you a grand new life,” I whispered to him. I fancy myself as a bit of a horse whisperer, one of those magic people who can communicate with the beasts and birds of the forest and all, whatever. Fungus kept his head down and plodded on, lost in thought.

  “First thing we should do is change his name, you know, something a bit more exciting, like, er, Zorro,” said Chloe, thinking of the only horsey name she knew.

  Fungus’s head shot up and biffed me on the nose. He squeaked and shook his sweet long face quite violently.

  “I don’t think Fungus likes that idea at all,” I said.

  “Exactly,” said Dinah firmly. “Fungus is his name. He’s used to it. Imagine being taken away from everything you know and then being given a different name on top of it.”

  Chloe flushed. “Well, couldn’t we give him a name that sounds like Fungus?” she asked timidly.

  “That’s up to Trixie,” said Dinah. “He’s her pony.”

  Yes! He is! He’s mine! I thought.

  “I can’t think of anything that sounds like Fungus,” I said, so as not to dampen Chloe’s spirits too much, “but I’ll try. Bungus … Humongous … Isn’t there a Mungus in Harry Potter? I said doubtfully. “Anyway, Fungus is a sweet name in a way. It kind of suits him.”

  “More to the point,” Dinah said, “how are we going to get him to the stables?”

  “Er … walk?” I said. It dawned on us at that moment what a slow trip it was going to be. Our progress through the backstreets of Bottomley took forever and I couldn’t help hoping we wouldn’t bump into anyone from school. I was forced to admit that lovable as Fungus already was to me, he did seem to be a figure of fun to everyone else.

  “Nice doggy,” said several passing toddlers.

  “Derby winner? Doing a victory tour?” said a waggish lorry driver.

  “Please remove your animal from the road,” was said by several ill-tempered drivers. Except they used very different language.

  “I’ll go in first – they know me,” said Dinah when we got
to the riding stables.

  She marched into the yard and we could hear cheery shouts of “Hi Di” and “How’s your old man?”

  Then there was a very long silence.

  Chloe and me and Fungus stared at our feet and hooves. I stroked Fungus’s neck and at last he looked round at me as if he knew I cared about him. “What’s happening. Fungus?” I said.

  He shook his long fluffy head slowly, as if to say, “Not a lot.”

  Eventually Dinah mooched out looking low. “Um, I made a bit of a mistake. They haven’t got any room here,” she said.

  Chloe burst into tears.

  As you know, I never ever cry, but I think it must have started raining because I had to wipe quite a lot of damp off my cheek. Fungus nuzzled me as if he wanted to help.

  Dinah introduced us to the stable girl who’d followed her out. “Clara, this is Trixie. It’s her pony. And this is Chloe.”

  “I remember you – you came for a riding lesson once, didn’t you? Very promising, very nice seat,” said Clara.

  I blushed. “I had four lessons, but we couldn’t afford any more …” I trailed off, embarrassed.

  Clara peered beyond us at Fungus and burst into giggles.

  “I see what you mean,” she said to Dinah. “He could fit almost anywhere. You ought to get him a kennel.”

  Dinah perked up. “See? He could go in with one of the big horses, couldn’t he? Just for a while?”

  “I’ll do all the mucking-out and everything,” I said.

  “Sorry, we can’t do it. If your dad had warned us, we could have fixed something up for a week or so, but we just don’t have the space. And our riding ponies might catch something off him. No offence.”

  It’s funny how when people say “no offence” it is always when they are being Very Extremely rude. But the hot wave of anger I felt was not with Clara, who was just trying to do her job, but with Dinah. She is so confident and carefree that she doesn’t think. She is used to having everything she wants. She told me it would be OK with her dad and she hadn’t even asked him!

  “Well, I’ll just have to get him a kennel,” I fumed. But I gave it one more go. “The last owner said he was a champion in the bendy race …” I started to say.

  “You mean bending race, don’t you?” Dinah cautioned.

  “Oh, yes, bending race. So wouldn’t that be a good addition to the stables?”

  “Well, yes, we’re always on the lookout for good gymkhana ponies,” said Clara. “But personally I doubt it. He looks like he might have been strong once, but a long time ago. Still …” she thought for a minute, running her hands expertly over Fungus’s flanks and sturdy little legs “… if you give him a good clean-up and regular meals, it might make a difference. Tell you what, we can keep him in the small paddock for a week or two while you sort something out. How’s that? He looks like he hasn’t seen a stable for years anyway and he’ll be perfectly happy out to grass.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” I squealed.

  Dinah flung her arms round Clara’s neck. “’Dad’ll be back by then. He’ll know what to do,” she said.

  “But only two weeks now,” repeated Clara.

  “Two weeks is enough,” I squeaked. “The Bottomley Gymkhana’s a fortnight on Saturday and he’ll win the bending race and then you’ll let him stay, won’t you?”

  Clara looked Very Extremely doubtful. “I can’t guarantee anything. He may not even be able to stay in the paddock for a whole fortnight. Not if Mr Whippet decides to come back early …” But all I could think of at that moment is that we had a home for Fungus. As for the rest, Dinah’s Dad and Whippet would be sure to sort something out.

  And so Fungus was allowed to stay in the dear little paddock full of buttercups. We took about a million photos of him and Clara let me make him a bran mash, which is a sort of horsey treat made of warm water and bran. She even gave me a few oats, “to cheer him up, but don’t tell Mr Whippett.”

  She was shocked at how quickly Fungus gobbled the bran mash though. I felt a bit embarrassed, as if Fungus was a child who didn’t know how to behave and I was his mum. “Sorry, he seems a bit greedy,” I stuttered.

  “He’s been badly neglected,” said Clara sternly. “We’ll have to feed him up.”

  Dusk was falling. “Do you think he’ll be OK, all on his own?” I asked. “He’s used to company.”

  “What? Mangy chickens and raving Rottweilers?” said Dinah. “Don’t be daft.”

  I gave Fungus a big hug and told him we’d be back in the morning, and I think he understood. He looked at me with his big brown doggy eyes and raised a foreleg. It seemed like he was going “whatever”. He didn’t seem to mind what happened to him.

  Maybe he’ll be able to stay in the paddock forever, I thought, feeling a lot better.

  I couldn’t sleep for ages that night. I kept seeing Fungus’s face and I was sure now that he was smiling. After all these years of waiting and longing, I really had a pony of my own! I could give him a new life, show him what it meant to be with somebody who really cared!

  Sometimes, other thoughts strayed in: that I didn’t really know enough about ponies; that Mum was going to have something long and grown-up to say about all this, and that maybe it wouldn’t all turn out quite the way I planned. But then I thought about Fungus looking at me in that gentle, inquisitive way and raising his foreleg, and finally I drifted off to sleep.

  I was right about Mum and Dad.

  They had a long go at me the very next day and said I must remember Harpo and the puppies came first and they hoped I wasn’t going to neglect them now I had a new pet and to remember that even if it was half term I still had a lot of homework to do and the dentist on Wednesday and visiting Grandma Clump and helping with Tomato, and on and on … I have perfected a Very Extremely good way of nodding and smiling and saying “Yes, of course” and “Certainly, Mum, you’re so right” whenever they go on like this, but all I could think about was Fungus.

  I did feel a bit guilty when Bonzo and Harpo asked to go walkies and I told them, “I have to help Fungus, you see. He has been very neglected and this is an act of Charity.” I think Harpo agreed with me and understood the needs of a fellow animal in suffering. But Tomato definitely did not and moaned and whinged on about how I had said I would take him to the playground during half term. But even with all these Very Extremely unfair demands on my time, I was still able to spend most of every day of that brilliant half term up at the stables with Fungus. The days were a blur of happiness.

  After three days of stuffing himself with food, Fungus looked much chirpier and quite a bit younger too. Clara thought we could try him out on bending and lent us a saddle and bridle.

  Dinah and me spent all Tuesday trying to get Fungus to do bending race stuff so we could enter him in the gymkhana. I knew if I could prove Fungus could DO something, kind Clara would relent and persuade Whippet to keep him in the stables forever.

  A bending race, for you un-horsey folk, is where you ride the pony in and out of a series of poles. We used old broomsticks, but Fungus wasn’t interested. He was perfectly happy to stand absolutely still while we hugged and kissed and fed him, but the minute we tried to saddle or bridle him he looked quite offended and trotted away as if to say, “It’s half term for me too. Why should I do any work?”

  He looked at the poles and then looked at his empty bran-mash bucket and you could see which he preferred, even when it was empty.

  “Martha could make him do it,” said Dinah. “But she’s got chicken pox.”

  “Oh, poor Martha,” I said, thrilled. I didn’t want old moaning Martha Marchant to spoil my time with Fungus and tell me all the things I didn’t know about having a pony. I was sure she’d laugh at Fungus, who seemed a very far cry from Zorro.

  “All he seems to want to do is eat,” said Chloe, munching a vast Toffee Twister.

  “He’s been neglected, that’s why,” said Clara. “And he’s pretty ancient.”

  “H
ow ancient?”

  “About fourteen, I’d say.”

  “That’s not old,” I huffed.

  “It is for a pony,” she said. “You don’t know much about horses, do you?”

  I was embarrassed. I’ve spent my life dreaming about having a horse, but that was all about being an Apache chieftain and riding a palomino stallion across the wild prairies, or maybe winning the Grand National like National Velvet.

  National Velvet is a brilliant book you should read if you like horses, all about a girl winning the Grand National. It was written zillions of years ago, well in 1935 actually, and no girl has won the Grand National yet, which only goes to show how much there is for us girls still to do. I don’t see why a girl rider shouldn’t win. What do you have to do to be a jockey? All you have to be is small and stay on, surely? Well, I’m small and that will now be my big ambition as well as Trumpet Player Extraordinaire and First Child President of the World.

  I went to Bottomley library and took out their entire collection of looking-after-horses books, which was two. But one of them was Very Extremely good. It had the parts of a horse, like fetlocks and so on (which is more or less the horse’s ankles) and withers (which is the top of their neck where they would have shoulders if they were a different shape) and stuff about bran mashes and grooming and hoof care and all, whatever.

  I read the books as if my life depended on it, amazed by how much hairdressing posh ponies need. I’m surprised there aren’t salons in every High Street. It gave me a Very Extremely good idea for my Animal Rights project though. I am going to do a magazine for animals. Written BY animals. Like Hello for animals. I’m going to start with hairstyles for ponies and an Agony Aunt column.