I picked the book out of Magda’s book basket on the way out and looked at it curiously. It looked old, but smelt even older. When I opened it up, a dead earwig fell out. There were pictures inside it of a little girl wearing an old-fashioned dress staring up at an old clock. It certainly didn’t look like the most exciting book in the world. But Magda’s words stung a little – if you can read it – as though she expected me to just give up. So I tucked it under my arm vowing to start that night and read at least five pages every night until I finished it. Five pages was nothing. I’d still have reading time left over for something ... for something more ... interesting.
When I got home I put the Wish Pony back on my dressing table. ‘I’m sorry,’ I told him, ‘I did mean to show you your old friends, the Red Soldiers, Egypt and Emperor, but I just forgot. Next time?’ It seemed to me that he bowed his head just a fraction of a millimetre, but it was probably just the afternoon light sliding through the holes in my curtains.
‘I wish I had a secret garden, new curtains and a new best friend,’ I told the Wish Pony, ‘and I wish you worked. Maybe you still only work for Magda. And, let’s face it, that didn’t go entirely to plan.’
Mum had stopped throwing up and was sitting in the kitchen, reading the paper. She looked up. ‘Thanks for the note,’ she said. ‘How was Magda?’
I told her about the hair and she laughed, right out loud, the way I remembered from before she became pregnant and sick.
‘So do you think she’ll wear Indian turbans until the colour fades?’ I asked. ‘That will look very odd, Mum.’
‘Not Indian turbans,’ Mum said, grinning at me, ‘old lady turbans. Here, bring me a piece of paper and I’ll show you.’
She drew a kind of Magda face, topped with a turban that she coloured in green to contrast with the orange hair.
‘Oh,’ I was disappointed. I had imagined Magda in an Indian turban, maybe covered with jewels, like something out of Mary’s India in The Secret Garden.
‘Takeaway for dinner? Do you mind? I don’t think I could face pizza, but noodles sound pretty good.’
‘Sure,’ I said. I was so sick of noodles but I didn’t tell Mum that because she still looked pale. ‘Can I get chicken and something, though – not black beans?’
‘Of course. Homework?’
‘No, I’ve done it all. I’m going to read this,’ I showed her the old book, ‘Magda lent it to me.’
‘Good heavens,’ Mum said, ‘I’ve never heard of it. Are you sure you’re going to like it? It’s very old-fashioned. Look at the illustrations. They’re gorgeous! But old.’
‘Oh, I expect I’ll like it,’ I lied, skimming the first few lines, ‘anyway, it’s something to do.’
I couldn’t go on MSN – everyone I knew had blocked me. There was nothing on television I was interested in – it was no use watching any of the soaps because I only did that so Sarah and I could talk about them together. It wasn’t any use asking Mum to go to the DVD shop and when Dad got home, he’d fuss over her, the way he always did. Also the book, while it smelt old, felt soft and smooth under my fingers. I liked the girl in the illustrations. She was pretty in an old kind of way. Her name was Griselda which was a cool witchy name.
I meant to read only five pages but by the time Mum called that Dad was home and the noodles had arrived, I’d already read up to the part where Griselda, in a temper, throws a book at the clock and the cuckoo vanishes back inside without sounding the last cuckoo for eleven o’clock. Poor Griselda. I knew just how she felt – I’d felt so awful about the banana peel. And the note to Sarah – even though she deserved it. I took the book into the kitchen with me.
‘If something says to the memory of someone does that mean that person’s dead?’ I asked Mum, who was dishing out the noodles and not looking terribly green yet. I could tell they were steak and black bean. Again.
‘I wanted chicken!’ I said. ‘How come we’ve got steak and black beans?’
‘Your dad picked them up on the way through. He must have forgotten. Don’t make a fuss, Ruby. And yes, it does mean someone’s dead and you want whatever it is – a plaque or something – generally, to tell everyone about them, to remember them by.’
‘Oh.’ I looked at the very beginning of the book again. It read:
To Mary Josephine
And to the Dear Memory of Her Brother Thomas Grindal Both Friendly Little Critics of My Children’s Books.
I wondered how old Thomas Grindal had been when he died. Would it be awful to have a brother and then lose him, maybe just when you’d both got used to each other?
I eyed my mum’s baby bump – which was more like a small baby balloon these days. He had done nothing to make me feel friendly towards him. In fact, it was pretty hard believing that the balloon was a baby. It was just this ... this thing that was making Mum sick all the time. Quite honestly, I was fed up with it. I much preferred being an only child. I much preferred lasagne, meatballs and pumpkin soup to old noodles with black bean sauce. I didn’t like black bean sauce any more. I’d ordered them once because I thought the noodles would be black and spectacular. Which they weren’t – it was just beans, like baked beans but not as nice. Why didn’t Dad ever listen?
When the balloon was born I was going to tell it exactly what I thought about it, how sick it had made my mother and how it had ruined my life.
‘I wish,’ I said to the Wish Pony that night, ‘that the balloon was just a memory of written on something. I’m not going to love it at all. It can forget that right away.’
The Wish Pony said nothing, of course. If he talked at all, he only talked to Magda.
‘I should give you back,’ I told him, crankily, ‘because you’re no use to me at all.’
His head drooped a little as though he’d heard me being mean. Unexpectedly my eyes filled with tears.
‘I can’t help being mean all the time,’ I said angrily, ‘it’s just that no one loves me. I’m like Mary even though Mum’s still alive. I’m like Mary because no one takes any notice of me and Dad doesn’t even remember that I wanted chicken. It’s not fair.’ A tear tickled down my cheek and plopped on to the Wish Pony and then another tear fell. The Wish Pony seemed to shiver in my hand, or maybe it was just because a cold wind whisked under my window at the same time. I put the Wish Pony down on the dressing table and closed the window. Outside the street was bright with moonlight. Small shadows moved in the trees and ferns. Possums, probably.
‘I wish,’ I said, ‘I just wish ...’ but before I could say what I wished a voice said, ‘Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes it’s too late to take these things back.’
I swung around but my room was empty. The nightlight was on and there was nothing to be scared of. The voice had sounded oddly familiar. I carefully opened the wardrobe door and peered in. It was a good place to hide in because it was big enough to even have a small bookcase inside, but it was scary at night, because if it was big enough for me to hide in, other people could too. It seemed empty but I shut the door quickly just in case and leaned a chair against it so that if someone was inside and tried to get out, I’d hear them first.
I stayed awake for hours, with my eyes glued to the wardrobe but I didn’t hear the voice again and eventually I must have fallen asleep because I woke up when Mum tapped on my door.
Dad had to leave early, she didn’t feel well, we were running late. Could I just eat the yoghurt in the car and take an extra tub for lunch? There was sleep sticking my eyes together and I didn’t even have time to wash my face or brush my hair properly. I barely had time to grab my bag.
‘I wish ...’ I said and stopped. There was no voice exactly, but I thought I heard something else. A noise I didn’t know. A kind of thudding noise as though someone – no something – was running. Or galloping?
‘Oh dear,’ the Wish Pony shook his mane as soon as Ruby left the room. What was he to do now? She’d done it. It was her fault. It had nothing to do with him, but who would believe t
hat? He longed for Magda’s safe lounge room and the company of Egypt, who always knew the right thing to meow.
‘That’s the problem,’ he thought, ‘she should never have called me that. What’s in a name? Let me tell you what’s in a name – a whole life and more. Lives, going right back. She should have changed my name when she had a chance.’
People could be so stupid. That was the pity of it. Horses, now horses could be cantankerous, yes, if mishandled. Some were sensitive and needed jollying along. But mainly horses – and particularly ponies, although the Shetlands could give some trouble, he had to allow – mainly horses were an easygoing lot. Fond of company, affectionate and playful.
Not that she’d believe that any more. Oh dear, what was he to do?
I’d found the ideal place to read down near the Preps/One playground. No one from the older grades would be seen dead around there, and provided I stayed on the edge everyone left me alone. There was a bench there, but the Preppies didn’t use it – they were too busy building sand tunnels and mines in the sand pit or trying to swing all the way across on the monkey bars.
The bench had its back to a raised flower bed filled with grevillea – which I knew because we had it in our garden, to attract birds – and clumps of what looked like green grass but were really flowers in spring time. I could see the whole playground from where I sat and no one could snatch my book or sneak up on me.
I’d already got in trouble for reading The Cuckoo Clock – Sarah and Bree had made cuckoo noises at me all through the morning.
‘The Cuckoo Clock,’ Bree had grabbed the book from my desk, ‘a cuckoo girl reading about old mad clocks! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!’ and she’d rolled her eyes and pretended to be crazy.
‘Give it back, Bree! It’s not my book and it’s really old.’
‘Yeah, sure is,’ Bree dangled the book by its spine and shook it. ‘Eeh!’ she said. ‘Earwigs!’ A gentle scattering of dead insects rained down at her feet. She gave a melodramatic shudder – they were dead after all – and threw the book at me. It hit the side of my face and fell to the floor. It really hurt, but I was more concerned about the book and picked it up quickly, checking the less robust illustrations. The front one, the one Mum told me was called a frontispiece, was okay, but the butterfly one – my favourite – seemed to be a little more unstuck from the spine.
‘I hate you,’ I hissed at her, just as Ms Wardel walked into the room, ‘I’ll get you for this, Bree. It’s not even my book.’ My cheek stung and I could almost feel a bruise forming but I didn’t say anything to Ms Wardel, just took out my spelling like everyone was doing, though I could hardly see a word because I was so angry.
That was what made me find and claim the bench seat at lunchtime. Bree and Sarah walked past a few times with Bree making crazy signs but I could ignore that. I propped my feet up on a bit of flowerbed and read about Griselda and the cuckoo, who really becomes her friend even though she’s thrown a book at it. I fingered my bruise. That wasn’t going to happen to Bree and me. No way.
Bailey walked past with Mrs Stanley. He was carrying the paper stabber. Bailey on yard duty detention! I couldn’t believe it. They stopped so Mrs Stanley could talk to another teacher and Bailey wandered over to me.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked stupidly. It was obvious what he was doing. But he knew what I meant.
‘Detention,’ he said abruptly.
‘But you don’t get detention!’ It was true. Bailey, Joel and Sam were called The Three Geeketeers. They scooped the end of the year awards in all subjects except sport and art. Sam even got the music award. But they were cool with it, kind of, even though they never ever got into trouble.
‘What for?’ I knew I was being rude but I couldn’t help it. I had to know.
‘I hit Joel.’
‘You hit Joel?”
Bailey shrugged as though it wasn’t the most staggering thing in the world. ‘Not very hard,’ he said, but then smiled at the memory.
‘But he’s your friend!’
‘Sarah was your friend and you tried to cheat from her maths test. That’s hardly friendly.’
‘That’s old news,’ I said, flushing.
‘Anyway, I had to hit him. He was bagging another friend of mine.’
‘Sam?’
‘No, not Sam – he can defend himself. He was bagging Magda. Laughing at her hair and that old green turban she’s wearing.’
‘You don’t know Magda!’
‘Clearly I do,’ he said.
‘Well, then, how come she didn’t know you that day she came and picked me up from school?’
‘Maybe my mother hadn’t found her then.’
‘What?’
‘Magda’s like my great great godmother.’
‘Your what?’
‘Great great godmother. She was missing for a while. Not unusual with godparents. But then Mum found her. So is she your godmother, too?’
‘I don’t think I have one.’
‘Probably missing,’ Bailey said nodding, ‘that’s what happens. You’ll catch up with her one day. So how do you know Magda – nice dye job, by the way – your idea?’
‘No, it was not. I was only responsible for putting it in and taking it out. Magda controlled the how-long bit. I knew it would be too long. She’s our across-the-road neighbour.’
‘Ah. Her book?’
‘Yes. From the book basket.’
‘I’ve got one too. They smell good, don’t they, old books – new books just smell of glue but old books smell of overcoats, sand and time.’
‘Bailey Ferguson, stop loitering about. This is a detention, not a talkfest!’
‘Coming, Mrs Stanley!’ I watched Bailey move off, stabbing at bits of playground rubbish with his paper stabber and then pulling them all off and putting them in the hessian sack he carried. It was too much to take in at once – Bailey on detention, Bailey Magda’s lost great great godson. Bailey hitting Joel to defend Magda’s hair.
I gave The Cuckoo Clock a surreptitious sniff. I couldn’t smell sand but I got a distinct whiff of overcoat and dried insect. I was worried about the butterfly-gown illustration and checked that page again carefully. It wasn’t terribly secure. I wondered whether Magda would be mad at me if it came completely loose. I tucked the book back under my lunchbox.
I hung around the bags at the end of school, hoping to catch Bailey. The Three Geeketeers were usually the last out – busy packing up the chess set or shutting down the computers for Ms Wardel. But today Joel and Sam did that while Bailey, head down and not looking at either of them, left with the main stampede.
‘Hey!’ I said softly.
‘Oh, hi, Ruby,’ he stuffed some homework in the mouth of the bag. It was the biggest bag in the whole grade. Ms Wardel had once joked that Bailey could survive a whole week without going home on the contents of that bag. ‘You want something?’
‘Just wanted to say ...’ I stopped. I hadn’t really planned this – what did I want to say? That I thought he was really cool and interesting? That I didn’t even mind that he’d hit his best friend – not when it was to defend Magda and her orange hair? I had not thought this through at all. Bailey stood there, hugging the bag. ‘Umm … well, if you’re seeing Magda today, say hi, will you?’
‘You can see her yourself in a minute,’ Bailey said, ‘she’s coming to pick me up.’
‘But your mum always ...’
‘My mum’s a bit busy today,’ Bailey dropped his voice and looked down at the tops of his runners, ‘so Magda’s picking me up. She’s my godmother, after all.’
‘Yes, of course. She picked me up and she’s only an across-the-road neighbour.’
We walked out of the bag room together. Bailey still looking at his feet.
‘There she is,’ I said quietly. I didn’t want to draw undue attention to Magda. Her hair had not faded and bits of it escaped from the green velvet turban. She was wearing the orange coat and purple boots. Her coat and her hair were slightly diffe
rent oranges. She was highly visible.
But Bailey dropped his bag, ran to her and gave her a big hug. In front of the entire school. I had to look away – but then I had to look back. Sam and Joel walked past sniggering and a couple of popular girls, you know – those girls – were laughing openly.
I walked up to them, carrying Bailey’s bag. I wasn’t a coward. Well, I might have been but I could change that.
‘Here’s your bag, Bailey,’ I said, putting it down at his feet. ‘Hi, Magda. Love the boots.’
‘Hello, Ruby. Thank you. Fond of them myself. These boots are made for walking. Well, they might be, once I’ve worn them in. At the moment they’re a bit stiff and I might be getting blisters. I do hope your mother has bandaids, Bailey.’
‘Debbie always has bandaids,’ Bailey said.
Debbie! Since when had Bailey called his mum Debbie?
He must have caught my look because he went a bit red.
‘We’re trialling this new thing,’ he muttered, ‘equality, mutual respect, courtesy and all that kind of thing, so I told Mum I shouldn’t call her Mum because she doesn’t call me Son. But I keep forgetting anyway.’
‘Well, come on, you two, if you’re coming. Time to stagger on! If I stop too long I won’t be able to convince my poor feet to start again. Definitely blisters.’ Magda winced as she took a step forward.
‘We have a foot spa,’ Bailey said. ‘Dad bought it for Mum when they were still ...’ He stuttered to a stop.
‘Good, good,’ Magda said, limping along slowly, ‘think of that, feet, spa at the end of the road!’
‘You coming?’ Bailey asked.
I hovered. I wanted – I longed – to see Bailey’s home. I’d heard – from Sam and Joel – that his bedroom was full of computer bits and that there was this huge map of the world across one wall with pins in every place Bailey planned to visit when he was older. On special days when his mum came to pick him up she bought treats for the whole class – like on Halloween last year she’d brought everyone ghost drops, and one Christmas party Bailey had come with an entire gingerbread house with licorice-allsorts tiles on the roof, a smartie door handle and icing snow piled up on the window sills. And she was a doctor!
The Wish Pony Page 5
