The Wish Pony

by Catherine Bateson

  ‘Delicious,’ Dad said, clearly not meaning Magda’s husband, but the food. ‘Did he pass away recently?’

  ‘Some years ago. Long before I moved here. Of course, I miss him. I miss them all, but what can you do? Married three times – loved them all. He’d been in a home. It was high time he died, poor man. He didn’t know who he was, half the time.’

  ‘Sad,’ Dad agreed. ‘Ruby’s grandmother was a little – you know – at the end. But cheerful. At least she was cheerful.’

  ‘Pop just keeled over,’ I told Magda. ‘It was his heart. Now I have only one grandparent – Mum’s dad who lives in North Queensland and doesn’t come south because it’s too cold.’

  ‘Eccentric,’ Dad said, ‘totally eccentric.’

  ‘The best kind of people,’ Magda helped herself to another serving of spaghetti.

  After dinner we both saw Magda to the door. She wouldn’t let Dad walk her home – ‘Across the road, I don’t think so, Edward! Don’t make me feel more ancient than I am! It is good to meet you both properly at last. I look forward to more conversations, Ruby.’ She shook Dad’s hand – which looked pretty funny – gave me a little wave and vanished into the night.

  ‘Interesting woman,’ Dad said, following me inside. ‘Magda, eh? European name. Sounds exotic. I wonder what her background is. She talked a lot but didn’t really say much about herself.’

  ‘I thought she said a lot. I mean, not everyone tells you they were married three times.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Dad said, ‘no real small talk.’

  ‘What’s small talk?’ I imagined all the letters coming out of Magda’s mouth in very small print. I agreed with Dad, Magda’s words were big! Then he explained it really meant polite conversation – which was kind of what I’d imagined and kind of not. But he was still right. Whatever it was, Magda didn’t do it.

  Magda was vivacious. If you had to choose a colour for her, it would be red, post office box red. Emergency red. The colour of her lipstick.

  ‘Vivacious,’ I whispered to myself that night. I wished Mum was home so I could tell her how Magda had described the word. The house didn’t feel the same without her in it. It felt as though it wasn’t quite full. Dad and I weren’t enough for it. Was she red, like Magda? Without her the house was just a little bit colder and a bit paler.

  ‘She’ll be home tomorrow,’ Dad said, bending to kiss me good night. ‘Don’t you worry, Ruby, soon things will be back to normal.’ But his voice sounded wobbly and uncertain in the dark and I knew he wasn’t exactly sure of that.

  It was midnight and Magda was cleaning, humming as she did. She was wildly out of tune. She dusted the three ornately framed portraits in the hallway, but stopped humming for the second one. George, her second husband, had never enjoyed her renditions of anything. Old stick in the mud. Still what do you expect from an opera buff? She polished his face silently but with affection.

  Then she moved into the small lounge room where she dusted around the three little urns on the mantelpiece, taking care not to move the urns themselves. It would be quite upsetting if she mixed them up. Next, she turned her attention to the first of the display cabinets.

  She removed everything carefully. There were the five little red glasses from Venice – a sixth had been smashed by the opera buff in a fit of pique. She put the wobbly clay penguin clearly made by a child gently down on the coffee table. Wouldn’t do to break that! A curled marble cat with sharp ears followed, then a little horse with a rippled glass tail, a millefiori paperweight and a small music box. When she’d taken everything out, she cleaned the glass shelves and then replaced it all, patting each little ornament tenderly as she did.

  It was nearly two before she finished the third display cabinet and had polished the little silver teaspoons which went with the tea service, also dusted, and very like Ruby’s mother’s tea cup. Not that Magda cared about the time. The only working clock in the house was the little one on her mobile phone. The grandfather clock had stopped, rather ominously, a day before poor George’s death. The others had probably run out of batteries, like the kitchen clock, shaped as a tea pot, the bright blue hands stuck permanently on 10.30 – a perpetual invitation to morning tea.

  At 2.30 the possum couple, surreptitiously fed bread and jam by Magda, galloped across her roof. But Magda didn’t stir until 6.30 when the first kookaburra woke her instantly.

  ‘Well, well,’ she murmured aloud, apparently addressing an old teddy bear propped up on the pillow next to her, ‘I wonder what today will bring us, hey?’ Then she lay in bed as she did nearly every morning, her bright knitted patchwork blanket pulled cosily around her, and listened to the sounds of her small street waking up as the occupants began their different days.

  In the first lesson, Sarah passed me a note. It read, I’m Bree’s best friend now in big blue texta on the front and on the back, in pencil, So you’ll have to sit next to Sharnie.

  Nobody sat next to Sharnie. She was the meanest girl in the whole school and her chinese burns hurt for hours and hours. It wasn’t fair. Sarah and I had been best friends for years – I couldn’t even remember when we hadn’t been. We’d had arguments. Best friends always did. It was true that our last argument had been big and Sarah had said that I’d done something unforgivable. Which wasn’t really true. I’d just wanted to do well for once in the maths test. That’s why I’d cheated. Or tried to, except that Sarah wouldn’t move her stupid arm. I thought if I did well and took it home for Mum to see, she’d smile at me and tell me I was her best girl.

  I thought Sarah was over that. But then Bree butted in.

  I’d wanted to tell Sarah about Magda but now she’d ruined everything.

  I wrote a note back. You’re a bum-faced toad, Sarah MacPherson and everyone thinks your mum is a fat pig. It wasn’t really true. Sarah’s mum was what my mum called plump and when she smiled there were dimples. She and Sarah’s dad, who wasn’t really her dad, used to walk their dog near our place and I’d often catch them kissing, Rajah sitting patiently waiting for them to stop and get on with the walk. It wasn’t even yucky because they always looked so happy.

  I waited for Waddle, Ms Wardel, to look the other way and passed the Sarah the note. ‘And no returns,’ I hissed. That was my mistake. Waddle turned around and pounced on the note. She read it out aloud. My whole face burned. The one thing you never ever say about anyone’s mum, even if it is true, which it wasn’t, was that they are fat. It’s a rule. You just don’t say it. Ever.

  The other problem was that Waddle was a bit fat. But we would have called her Waddle anyway, even if she’d been as skinny as a supermodel.

  The whole class booed me. Waddle shook her head sadly.

  ‘You’d think with your mother so sick, you’d be really trying your best, Ruby Logan. This is not what I expected from you.’

  ‘She tried to cheat in the maths test last week, too.’ Sarah said, ‘but I wouldn’t let her Miss. I kept my arm around my work but she nudged so hard I almost got a bruise on my elbow.’

  ‘Is this true, Ruby?’

  ‘I didn’t nudge that hard. Sarah’s exaggerating. She’s being ... melodramatic.’

  Waddle wasn’t impressed with my new word.

  ‘I’m not talking about the nudge,’ she said icily. ‘I’m asking if it’s true that you tried to cheat.’

  This called for desperate action. Years ago, by accident, I’d discovered that if I coughed long and hard enough, I could make myself throw up. It was not something I liked doing but it was distracting. I started coughing, as though I had a tickle in my throat. I thought about the worse thing you could eat – as a back-up measure. Maggots. I remembered the roast chook bones that had been left on the back deck table and how the next day they were crawling with maggots. I kept coughing. The tickle I’d imagined in the back of my throat became more and more real.

  ‘She’s faking,’ Bree said. ‘What a loser.’

  Maggots poured out of my chicken. I thought of them c
rawling out of the chocolate donut I’d had for recess. I thought of eating slime. I coughed and coughed and then suddenly, I started retching.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Outside, girl. You are not throwing up in my classroom!’

  Waddle dragged me out. I was bent over, doubled up and my stomach was beginning to hurt the way it does before I’m really sick. Then I was. All over the hallway floor. Chocolate donut mixed with a kind of grey sludge that was probably my breakfast cereal. It was disgusting. Waddle shuddered.

  ‘Go to sick bay!’ she ordered. ‘I’ll get the office to ring one of your parents. But don’t think I’m forgetting this, Ruby. Sick or not, your behaviour has been reprehensible.’

  I lay down on the sick couch. My head had started to hurt a little bit and my face was hot and felt red. My tears slid out and trickled towards my ears. No one even popped in to give me a glass of water, which they usually do if you’ve been sick. Waddle had probably told them I was a cheater and a loser who wrote notes telling people their mothers were fat pigs.

  It wasn’t fair because I wasn’t really like that. I just didn’t want to sit next to Sharnie and have horrible chinese burns for the rest of the year. I thought of all the things Sarah and I did together – like SingStar on her PlayStation, playing tug of war with Rajah and how we’d gone to Phillip Island last year and spent a whole weekend down there with Dad and Mum.

  Waddle would tell Dad. She’d tell him I tried to cheat at maths and she’d tell him about the note. She’d kept the note. She’d folded it up and put it in her pocket. Or she’d tell Mum. Mum would be home when they rang. She’d be home from hospital, resting like she had to, but now she’d have to come and get me. That would make Dad angry mad. He’d shout, which he didn’t normally do. Mum would feel so sick she’d cry.

  It was all my fault. I hoped Mum was still in hospital. That way Dad would know, but Mum wouldn’t find out until much later. Maybe never. Maybe she’d be in hospital for long enough for everyone to have forgotten about it.

  ‘I hope she’s still in hospital,’ I whispered and then felt horrible.

  I was still crying when Miss Phillips from the office came in.

  ‘Someone to get you, Ruby,’ she said, and by the tone in her voice I knew that she knew everything that had happened.

  I got up and put my shoes back on, sniffing up my tears as I tied the laces. My nose was running but I didn’t have a clean tissue. I wiped it on my sleeve instead.

  ‘Oh dear, Ruby! Well, I suppose a sleeve is as good as a handkerchief in an emergency, which this clearly is.’

  It was Magda! I couldn’t believe it.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to get you, of course. Your mother’s still in – under observation. Your dad’s stuck at work. That leaves you with me, I suppose. Someone had to come.’

  I felt instantly relieved on the one hand and terrible on the other.

  ‘She’s still in hospital?’ My wish had come true. I hadn’t meant it. Okay, I had meant it, but only for a second or two. Or a minute. Now, I didn’t mean it at all. I wanted to take it back but it was too late.

  ‘Yes. Poor Rita. Still, it’s not going to make her feel any better us drooping around like wet chooks. Let’s go.’

  ‘Are we walking?’ I suddenly felt really cranky. How come Dad couldn’t leave work? How could he just dump me with this crazy old woman? We would have to walk right past my classroom and everyone would see me with Magda. Today, Magda was wearing red lipstick, a bright red cardigan, purple – purple! – velvet pants and red plastic clogs.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, holding out her hand to take mine.

  I shoved my hands quickly in my pockets. Magda might be vivacious when she was at home but I didn’t want anyone thinking she was related to me. I hoped everyone remembered that I didn’t have grandparents. I hoped everyone remembered that my grandmothers didn’t come to Grandparents morning tea because they were all dead.

  Magda looked at me oddly.

  ‘I’ve been sick,’ I said. ‘I can’t walk home. You’ll have to ring Dad. He’ll have to come and get me.’ Maybe she’d just leave, by herself. ‘Or,’ I said, getting craftier, ‘I could just stay in sick bay until he finishes work.’

  She put a hand on my forehead.

  ‘No temperature,’ she said. ‘A walk will do you good. Blow the cobwebs out of that furrowed brain. Come on.’ She pulled my left hand from my pocket and took it firmly in hers. I felt her rings. I’d have to be sick for the rest of the term. There was no way I was going to live down Magda and cheating and breaking the fat rule. I’d have to fake sick for weeks and weeks or be chinese-burned until my arms dropped off.

  I was tempted to close my eyes as we walked past the classroom, but I didn’t. I just hoped everyone would be too busy with their work to notice us. Ha! As if. We were halfway down the length of the classroom and Magda stopped suddenly and wheeled me around.

  ‘Is that your work?’ she asked, pointing to a cellophane stained-glass window stuck on the real window. It had my name clearly written on in silver pen, so I didn’t know why she had to ask.

  ‘Yes,’ I said tugging at her hand, trying to keep her moving. Sarah and Bree had already seen us and were poking Jane.

  ‘And this?’ Magda pointed to a crayon with watercolour wash – golden cloud castles and pink dragons in a dark blue sky.

  To my horror, Bailey looked up and stared at us. I could see his mouth open wide when he saw Magda and stay that way for what seemed an awfully long time.

  ‘Magda,’ I said, ‘we should go.’

  ‘This is very beautiful work,’ Magda said. ‘Oh, and look, that sweet boy is staring at you. Wave to him, Ruby!’

  ‘Magda,’ I gritted my teeth, ‘I feel sick.’ And I did for a moment. There was no way I was going to wave to Bailey Ferguson. No way on earth.

  I didn’t have to. Magda gave him a big wave for me. Sarah and Bree laughed so much Sarah half fell off her chair. I wanted to die.

  ‘Magda!’ I practically shouted and dragged her away. My face burned so brightly it felt as though it was on fire and I wasn’t sure if the tears stinging behind my eyes were tears of anger or shame. I would never forgive Magda. I would never ever talk to her again.

  ‘So,’ she said brightly, once we were outside the school gates, ‘I want you to look at this coat, Ruby, and tell me if you think it’s too ... too ... glamorous for an old widow like me.’

  She crossed the road and led me into the hippy clothing shop. I had only ever been in this shop once before with Mum. Sarah and I always looked in the window at all the things – the painted wooden duck, the little notebook with jewels on the cover, the velvety cushions and golden bowls – but we weren’t game to walk in by ourselves.

  Bells tinkled when Magda pushed open the door and a wave of exotic scent wafted over us, tickling my nose.

  ‘Magda!’ the woman behind the counter said and bustled out to meet us, kissing Magda on both cheeks. ‘You’ve come back for the coat!’

  ‘I’ve brought my fashion assistant with me,’ Magda said. ‘Ruby, this is Eve.’

  ‘Ruby, lovely name. Very pleased to meet you. So, you want to see the coat?’

  ‘I guess.’ Why did Magda want my opinion? What had I done to make her think I was any good at fashion?

  ‘Ruby has a wonderful colour sense,’ Magda told Eve, ‘you should see the art work on her classroom window. Extraordinary.’

  My face went hot again, but in a good way. My mum used to look at all the art I brought home from school, but I hadn’t bothered her with it this year. Or only once or twice and then she’d hardly noticed.

  ‘Then I’m sure she will approve of this!’ Eve drew something out from underneath the counter. It was very orange. It looked like a long, velvety fox. She passed it to Magda who shook it out and held it up against her. Shiny green embroidery snaked down the front, which was bordered with creamy-coloured fur. It was a great coat. But maybe it wasn’t su
ch a great coat for Magda. She was an old lady. This was the kind of coat my mum would have thought twice about wearing and she was pretty cool looking when she wasn’t pregnant-fat.

  ‘So?’ Magda spun around as best she could in her red plastic clogs. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said honestly. I wanted to stroke it. ‘It looks like a big soft fox.’

  Magda smiled at her reflection in the mirror. ‘Foxy,’ she murmured to herself.

  ‘But,’ I ploughed on desperately, ‘I don’t know if it’s you, Magda.’ I’d heard Mum saying that about clothes when she went shopping.

  Magda raised her eyebrows. ‘You think it’s too young for me,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Just a bit,’ I said. ‘Like maybe if it wasn’t quite as orangey, or if there was no furry stuff. Or perhaps if there was no green embroidery.’

  ‘Perhaps if it was a plain dark blue coat it would be fine? Or maybe even black?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said, ‘dark blue and black are good.’

  ‘Dark blue and black are good colours for people who don’t want to be noticed. They’re safe colours.’ She said the word safe as though it was an ugly word. ‘Who wants to be endlessly safe? I’ll take it, Eve.’

  ‘It is beautiful,’ Eve said, ‘and Magda ...’

  ‘No, don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. The coat is beautiful. I’ll wear it. Dangerously!’

  Why had she bothered to ask me when she’d already made up her mind? So much for wanting my opinion! I hated the way her voice was all flat and disappointed but it wasn’t my fault. I’d only done what she’d asked me to do.

  We stomped home in silence. Magda carried the coat-bag as though she was nursing a baby, not by its little twisted rope handle. All I wanted to do was to tell Mum what had happened and hear her soothing voice but of course she was still at the hospital.

  ‘I shall dye my hair,’ Magda announced, ‘that’s what I shall do. I’ll dye it to match the coat.’