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Trixie and the Dream Pony of Doom
Ros Asquith


Trixie is a fun and fiesty free-thinker who never seems to hear the word ‘NO’!Trixie has a heart of gold and a love of animals so big it even includes nits! She’s passionate about vegetarianism, music and Building a Better World.All Trixie has ever wanted is her very own horse – and when her gran wins money in a competition, Trixie's dream finally comes true. But the pony turns out to be more of a nightmare than a dream come true – after all, where DO you keep a pony in a suburban house? In the bedroom? Worth a try, maybe. Trixie's brain will have to work overtime to solve this one!With fun and quirky illustrations throughout and laughs on every page, the Trixie stories are guaranteed to entertain.















Table of Contents


Cover (#ue69d2617-aa6e-5e78-af6f-c5e5abd9b7fa)

Title Page (#ue85ea12e-8b4c-5383-aad1-33cc79937ba2)

Chapter 1 (#u55fd5a74-76e2-578d-aab8-6faa96d0d9c8)

Chapter 2 (#u3042fca9-84a6-56f0-b22c-bf54400f1e5d)

Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)







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Have you ever ridden a palomino stallion in the clouds? I have. I’m doing it right now.

Of course, I realise you might not know what a palomino stallion is, so I’ll tell you and then you’ll know what you’re missing. (On the other hand, if you’re always riding a palomino stallion in the clouds then I look forward to cantering into you any minute and we can compare notes.)

A palomino is a beautiful horse, and a stallion is a beautiful boy horse. Sigh. Mine is called Merlin. He doesn’t have wings, so I don’t know quite how he does it, but he can fly – we’ve just hurtled out of a cloud and you can see the rivers and mountains below, looking about a million miles away. His mane is flying out in the wind and I’m holding tight to it, my face close to his straining neck …

“HOW DARE YOU, PATRICIA TEMPEST?!!”






I realise pretty quickly that this is not the voice of a palomino stallion. Nor is it the Voice of God, rebuking us for playing in clouds usually reserved for Higher Spiritual Beings and all, whatever. It is the voice of Warty-Beak, the Teacher From Hell. I am dreaming my favourite dream again, the dream where I actually own a real live horse. Trouble is, I made the mistake of dreaming it in Warty-Beak’s classroom, in the middle of a lesson. And when Warty-Beak calls me Patricia instead of Trixie I know something is Very Extremely wrong.

“Sorry?”

“How DARE you?!!”

It was like those Itchy and Scratchy cartoons where they run straight out of a top-floor window and keep on running in the air until they realise – help! There’s nothing underneath! As soon as Warty’s yell broke the spell Merlin and me fell like stones, and the only sounds were a rushing wind and a long Warty cackle: the grisly sound of Warty-Beak’s laughter, like a rusty saw trying to cut through a tin can.






“Sorry, Warty … er, Mr Wartover, but what’s the matter?” I ask with a sigh that Warty takes to be annoyance but is actually me still half in my dream, seeing Merlin land neatly on his four shiny hooves and gallop off out of my life.

“THIS … THIS … is the matter!”

The class gets the joke long before I do, and of course Warty doesn’t get it at all. My two best friends, Dinah Dare-deVille and Chloe Caution, had been looking anxious when Warty started going on at me. (Well, Chloe always looks anxious. Dropping her pencil on the floor so other people can hear it is a major disaster as far as she’s concerned.) Now Dinah was stuffing a fist in her mouth to stop herself spifflicating with laughter and Chloe had gone red-as-a-postbox. Splutters and giggles were breaking out all over the room. Warty-Beak was droning on like an alligator gargling concrete, about how he couldn’t even bring himself to show it to the head teacher, Mrs Hedake. How it would upset her too much. What a disgrace it was. How a five-year-old would be ashamed of it, and on and on.

I tried to focus on the big piece of paper Warty had unfolded and was holding up in front of me. It looked like this:






I stared at the picture. I could feel a BAD giggle starting. It was one of those snuffly, snorty giggles that start in your toes and tickle your legs all the way up to your tummy until your tummy just has to let them explode up your chest and out of your mouth with the sound of a thousand squealing piglets, otherwise you will die.

It would have been a desperate moment, except that the whole class was laughing so much because by now they’d realised what I hadn’t at first – that this was a picture of Warty-Beak snogging Mrs Hedake, the head teacher! So I turned the monstrous giggle into a very convincing sounding fit of coughing. Dinah flung her arms around me and did her best to look concerned for my life as the coughing got louder. This look is difficult to manage when you’re helpless with laughter, but somehow Dinah managed it, just about.

“Maybe you’d better call an ambulance, sir,” Dinah said, hysterical tears streaming down her face. I nodded furiously, between coughs.






“I’m sure there’s no need for that,” Warty-Beak said, but rather anxiously now. “Take her to the toilets and get her a drink of water. We’ll discuss this … this ABOMINATION later …”

In the horrible toilets I leaned over the basin and splashed myself with freezing water.

“Why ever did you do it?” whispered Chloe when I finally came up for air.

“To stop myself dying laughing,” I said.

“No, I don’t mean the drowning yourself in the sink bit,” Chloe said. “I mean the drawing. Well, not just the drawing, the writing your name on it. Why did you do such a rude drawing and then leave it lying around where anyone could see it, and with your stupid name on it?”

“I didn’t do it,” I said. “And what do you mean, my stupid name?”

“I don’t mean your name’s stupid, I mean why did you sign it? It’s signed. In your writing,” she mumbled, looking at her feet.

“I know that, but I didn’t do it. Someone’s trying to get me in trouble.”

“Why didn’t you say?” Chloe’s eyes were wide with astonishment.

“I couldn’t say. I was laughing too much.”

“You have to go back in and tell him it wasn’t you!”

“He won’t believe me.”

“You’ve got to try.”

“Yes. But honestly, why did he show it to the whole class? Isn’t he embarrassed?”

“Well, it might seem strange, since it’s such a good likeness,” said Chloe, “but I don’t think he realised it’s a picture of him. He doesn’t know he’s called Warty-Beak, does he? He was going on about how unfair it was on Mrs Hedake. I think he thought it was just a rude picture of her with a man.”

“It wasn’t that rude,” I said. “Not compared to those magazines you see in the newsagents.”

I didn’t know there was a brighter red than a postbox, but Chloe has now proved there is.

Back in class I told Warty I didn’t do the drawing.

He turned to the class. “Patricia …” (He said this with a disgustrous sneer as though I was something he was wiping off the sole of his shoe.) “Patricia says this drawing, which is signed in her own hand, is not by her, so would the culprit please own up?”

Dinah’s hand shot up at once.

“There’s no point in pretending, Dinah,” he said, rather nicely for him, “unless you know who it really was.”

“It was me. It was just a joke,” said Dinah. “I can do Trixie’s handwriting with both hands tied behind my back.”

Warty was not convinced.

“She didn’t do it. I did,” piped up a voice from the back of the class. Everyone turned to look. It was Martha Marchant, the new girl who is Very Extremely keen to be Dinah’s Best Friend, so we have to keep including her in our games.

“That’s not true, is it, Martha?” said Warty, and poor old Martha went even pinker than Chloe does.

“I didn’t want Dinah to take the blame for Trixie,” she mumbled.

Warty turned his gimlety gaze back to me: “I’ll be writing to your parents. Meanwhile, you can tell them you’re in detention after school tomorrow, writing I will not make disrespectful drawings of my teachers out a hundred times. That will represent a much more productive use of a writing implement than this disgusting doodle.”

A horrible chill went up my spine when I took in what he had said.

“Oh, but… I can’t do that,” I stuttered. “Not … not tomorrow.”






Now, I know I am not the best-behaved person in our school, and certainly not the best-behaved person in Class 5T, or, to be Very Extremely honest with you, even in my own house, but one thing I can’t stand is injustice. I don’t mind being told off for things I have done (well, I do a bit) but when all I have been doing is sitting Very Extremely quietly dreaming about my Dream Pony, Merlin, that I am going to buy when my grandma wins a million quid, then I am entitled to Justice and Fair Play.






So it wasn’t only injustice that made the chill go up my spine like the touch of a ghostly finger; it was that I had permission to leave school at lunchtime tomorrow, and tomorrow is going to be the most exciting day in my whole life ever, and I have been looking forward to it for three whole months! Why? Because Grandma Clump, the nice round normal grandma on my mother’s side (as opposed to the exciting witchy one on my dad’s side, who has purple hair and wears jump suits and drives fast cars) is going to be on a big TV quiz show, on which she (and everybody else in the family) expects to win a million quid!

And she has said when she does, she will give me some to buy my Dream Pony, which I have been dreaming of for my whole life. My very own granny on a TV quiz show! How can Warty-Beak expect me to concentrate or be on detention when something as amazingly exciting as this is about to transform my life? But try telling teachers like him anything like that.

“My grandma’s on TV tomorrow,” I ended up spluttering. “I’m supposed to be there.”

“How nice for you,” Warty said sarcastically. “You should have thought of that before you decided to make a vulgar mockery of those who are doing their best to turn you into a civilised human being. Not that I hold out much hope for that.”

Horror of horrors. I won’t make the TV show. What to doooooooo?

Dinah tried to cheer me up as usual on the way home and Chloe was unhelpfully sunk in a deeper gloom than me. She kept saying “poor you” which made me feel worse.

I had to thank Dinah for trying to rescue me about the drawing. “You are a true friend, pretending it was you,” I said.

“Well, I didn’t want you to miss your gran’s TV show,” said Dinah. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime’s chance to go to a real TV studio. You might see them making Eastenders or Vera the Vegetarian Vampire. Take an autograph book and make sure you ask if Vera is going Vegan, like it said in TV Titbits.”






“That’s a bit weird for a vampire, isn’t it?” I said. “Anyway, I won’t be seeing Vera or Eastenders or anybody. Whoever did that drawing has blown it for me.”

“Do you think it could have been that new girl Martha Marchant? She seems quite nice, but she was looking shifty and she DID confess …” said Chloe.

“No way,” said Dinah. “I’ve been to her place and she’s cool.”

“You didn’t say …”

“I suppose I am ALLOWED to have another friend? Martha was only trying to protect me cos she knows I wouldn’t do anything like that. She’s really sweet and she’s got about a million brothers and sisters and she’s CRAZY about ponies, in fact…”

“Harrumph,” I said, my mind on more important matters.

“We have to find out who drew that picture and get them to confess before tomorrow afternoon,” Chloe said. “Otherwise Trixie won’t get to the TV studio at all. And she’ll miss the chance of seeing her gran make a billion quid so she can buy herself a million horses.”

“Surely your mum can talk to Hedake and tell her it’s a really special occasion,” Dinah said. “Tell her you’ll do the detention next day, stay after school for a hundred years if necessary.”

“Are you kidding?” I said gloomily. “With that drawing? Maybe if it wasn’t a picture of Hedake herself snogging the horriblest teacher who ever lived, but with my name on that, I’ve had it. She’ll probably hang, draw and quarter me, not just make me do a detention on the most important day of my life.”

The others tried to cheer me up about it.

“Your gran probably won’t get past the first round,” Chloe said. “Maybe it would be a waste of time going anyway.”

“Yeah, do they have a fastest-finger-first thingy like on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?” asked Dinah.

I forgot that Dinah and Chloe had never seen the show because it’s from the USA and Grandma’s one will be the first ever to be shown in the UK. Mum and Grandma Clump have been talking about nothing else for weeks and they’ve been sent a tape of the American show, so I knew all about it. I launched into a description.

“It has loads of rounds. It’s called SWOPPITT OR DROPPIT! This smarmy guy Micky Swoppitt is the compere and he’s going to do the British version too because he wants to enjoy our fab ‘old traditions’. He thinks we all wear Union Jacks and have cream teas with the Queen. All the contestants have to sit around nodding and smiling as if they don’t care whether they win or not, while Micky Swoppitt asks them cosy questions about their families and jobs and pets. Then, just when they’re really relaxed, everyone shouts ‘SWOPPITT OR DROPPIT!’ And Tricky Micky makes them do five things very fast, testing all their senses.”

“What do you mean?”

“They have to touch something and guess, you know, if it’s spaghetti or intestines.”






“Yuk. Do you mind?” said Chloe, who was munching at her usual vast amount of sweets and turning a pale shade of green.






“They have listening stuff, smelling stuff and seeing stuff and, er, I forget … What’s the fifth sense?”

“Taste,” said Chloe, thoughtfully licking the remains of a Toffee Twister off her cheek.

“But won’t your gran be at a disadvantage? Because of her age?”

“Yes, of course she will! That’s why she needs my support. And I need her to win so I can buy my Dream Pony. She’s promised.”

“But you can’t REALLY have a PONY,” said Chloe, as if she’d only just cottoned on to the fact that I was serious. “You’ve nowhere to keep it.”

“You sound just like Mum,” I said.

I didn’t want to tell her that I hadn’t really talked it over with Mum. I was convinced that as long as we had the money everything would be OK. “Anyway, stables won’t be a problem,” I went on. Dinah’s dad is best mates with old Whippett. You know, that guy who looks like a boomerang and owns the racing stud and the riding school. He says they’ll keep it for free as long as I let them use it as a riding pony sometimes.






“Oh, I see. You two have got it all planned. You don’t need me,” huffed Chloe.

“Shut up, Chloe,” said Dinah, giving her a playful poke in the ribs. “You know it’s been Trixie’s dream since she was seven. Now there’s a real chance of it coming true! Don’t make her feel bad about it.”

Appealing to Chloe’s kind side always works. This is because she doesn’t have an unkind side. “Do your folks know that’s what you’re planning?” was all she said.

“Um, not exactly,” I admitted. “Last time I mentioned it they weren’t too keen.” (This was what is called the Understatement of the Century.) “But they’ll be fine about it when they know I can keep him at the riding stables,” I added with what probably looked like confidence.

Chloe looked at me sideways, but she just said, “Let’s go to yours for tea. We can plot how to uncover the Dread Drawing Culprit.”

I realised it was Tuesday, the day my little brother has his little fiends from nursery back to tea. “If you can face the Invasion of the Killer Tomatoes,” I said.

Tomato is my little brother. Completely round with a scarlet face. I have no idea why we call him Tomato.






Sure enough, when we got home there were fairy cakes flying around the kitchen and the floor was awash with orange juice and pasta. My poor mum, who races home early from the school where she teaches every Tuesday so she can be a Good Mother, was frantically scrubbing the floor at one end while trying to soothe a small crazed toddler who was screaming as if his whole family had been eaten before his eyes by a T Rex or something.

“What’s up?” I squeaked.

“Tomato stole his bun,” snapped Mum.

What is it with toddlers? Why are they so emotional?

Me and Dinah and Chloe grabbed a few fistfuls of fairy cakes and raced up to the comfort of my room. My humungous dog Harpo and her puppies were flat out on the bed, so we heaved them off.






Flat out is never a very good description of Harpo since she is the fattest dog in the universe, and Bonzo (her cutest little puppy and the one I am begging my parents to be allowed to keep) is threatening to go the same way. I think it’s because Mum feeds them a diet of Fidoburgers instead of expensive Plumpy Pooch, which would be much better for their health but, as Dad likes to point out at every opportunity, which would be much worse for the health of his wallet. Mrs Nosey-Parker-Next-Door feeds her dog, Lorenzo, on Pooch de Luxe, “a whole other canine experience”. Lorenzo’s the father of Harpo’s puppies, much to Mrs Next-Door’s disgust. Not that he lifts a paw to support them, which only goes to show that posh food does not always make for posh manners.






“So,” said Dinah, “Plan A: we find the culprit by tomorrow afternoon so Trixie’s off the hook, or she pretends to be ill tomorrow and doesn’t go to school at all.”

“That’s a Plan A and a Plan B,” Chloe said very seriously. “It’s two plans.”

“Oh, why do you have to be so lame?” Dinah snapped. “However many plans it is, those are the only options.”

“Just trying to help,” Chloe muttered.






“Whoopee!” I shouted, and did a little cartwheel. This is a mistake in a room the size of a nit’s lunchbox. All the books on my bedside shelf clattered on to the floor to join my socks, underwear, old Barbies, bus tickets and so on. Harpo got slowly up and thought about barking, then realised what a big effort that would be and sat down again.

“Don’t you ever tidy your room?” said Chloe.

“You’ve got a problem about bunking off ill,” Dinah said. “Warty-Beak said he’d write to your parents. He never forgets anything like that. He’s bound to have done it right after school. They’ll get the letter in the morning. As soon as they read it they’ll know you’re lying.”

“And your mum’s a teacher too,” Chloe advised. “She’s not going to go along with you making up stories to get off the hook at school, whatever the reason.”

“I could intercept the letter before my mum picks it up. I know when the postman comes,” I said.

“But supposing they find out?” Chloe was scandalised. That’s how hard she finds it to do anything against the rules. She will definitely grow up to be a World Leader. On second thoughts, no. Politicians are always going against rules and have no idea, according to my dad, about community or good honest old-fashioned values – they just hope people won’t find out before the next election. He says teachers are the only decent people left in a cruel world. Perhaps that is because:

a) he is life-long partners with a Very Extremely nice teacher, my mum, and

b) because he hasn’t met Warty-Beak.

“They won’t find out. How could they?” said Dinah. “And I’ll call the school saying you’re sick.”

Dinah won’t have any trouble with this. She’s the best mimic in the school, or possibly the world, as any of you who have read my story about my Amazing Doggy Yap Star will know.

“Dinah, you’re the cat’s pyjamas!”

“I still think it would be better if we could find out who really did that rude drawing,” said Chloe.

“Yes, well, I’d bet it’ll be either of my two archenemies,” I muttered.

“You mean Orrible Orange Orson or Ghastly Grey Griselda,” said Chloe, naming the two kids who’ve made school life a misery for our generation.






“Yes. But how do we discover which …?”

That night I dreamed I was up in the clouds riding Merlin again, my perfect palomino stallion that I am going to buy with Grandma Clump’s prize money. Then I heard Warty-Beak’s laugh coming from somewhere, but I woke up sweating before we plummeted down and hit the ground.

One good thing about dreaming is you always wake up before you die. It would be nice if real life was like that.







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“Is it April Fool’s Day?”

“No. Why?”

“Normally at this hour you would be sleeping like a forest full of logs and I would be beating a tattoo on your door to get you to stir,” said my amusing father, who had appeared by the front door (where I was crouched waiting to catch the post) and was, as usual, carrying a plank. I say as usual because he spends all his spare time trying to fix things around the house. It’s also usual that after a while the fixed things fall to bits again, so yet another plank is needed.






“What do you need a plank for at this time of day?” I asked, to change the subject.

“Don’t change the subject. Are you expecting a letter from school?”

“How did you know?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. This only goes to show how although I am Tricksy Trixie to my mates, I can’t seem to get away with it at home.

Dad smiled. “It’s just what I used to do at your age.” And he went off to the kitchen, whistling.

There was a letter from Warty-Beak, but of course I had wasted an hour’s precious health-giving snooze for nothing because Dad had sussed out what I was doing. Although he seemed so laid back with all his whistling and planks and whatever, he had in actual fact chosen to tell Mum that I was trying to intercept a letter from school.

“What’s this about a letter from school?” Mum asked.

I explained about the drawing.

“Trixie,” said Mum fiercely, but I could see a smile just at the very edge of her mouth. The smile tried hard to cling on, but she forced it away by wiping her hand very firmly over her lips. I think I saw the smile landing near Harpo’s basket. Maybe if the basket could get full of smiles it might entice Bonzo and Harpo and the rest of the puppies to use it at night. (Instead of smothering me by insisting on sleeping on my bed like a vast furry duvet full of eels, like they usually do.) I tried to drag my thoughts back to being Very Extremely serious.






“Trixie, it’s not funny,” Mum was saying. “You know how hard teachers work and Mrs Hedake is really trying to improve standards at St Aubergine’s.”

“Yes, by making us do millions of tests so the league tables look better,” I muttered. “We’re all being tested to destruction,” I added, because I know that’s what she thinks and I was trying to Butter Her Up. (A Grandma Clump phrase which means flattery, I think, but I’ve never understood why – something to do with bread feeling happier with butter on? Surely not, because it would be one step closer to getting eaten, wouldn’t it?)

“You know I don’t agree with that,” said Mum, who although she is a teacher is the very Nicest Kind and believes that children should be Creative and Free and not herded in little boxes and given billions of stupid tests. “But doing a rude drawing of the head teacher and Mr Wartover really is very disrespectful and, more importantly, unkind.”






“Twixy wude! Twixy wude! Eats her clothes and wears her food!” chanted Tomato. I could see that Dad was trying Very Extremely hard not to laugh.

“I know,” I said.

“Well why did you do it?”

I realised I had spent so much time describing the drawing that I had forgotten to say it wasn’t by me.

“I didn’t do it. That’s the whole point!” I explained. “Someone else did it and signed my name to it, but Warty-Beak …”

“Please don’t call him that, his name is Mr Wartover” said Mum. “You wouldn’t like it if everybody called you spotty botty.”

“Spotty botty, spotty botty, Twixie’s botty vewwy gwotty,” chanted Tomato. He is perfectly capable of pronouncing his “r”s when he likes, but he thinks it makes him sound cute. Or maybe he’s trying to imitate my trumpet teacher, Danny Vibrato, who talks just like Jonathan Woss and makes my name sound like a chocolate bar.

“You’re missing the point,” I said, kicking Tomato under the table. Mistake. Tomato shrieked and threw his bowl of rice popsicles at me.






I ducked. It was a slow-motion moment that I would like to rewind because most of the popsicles and a lot of milk and something pink went all over Mum’s nice new suit. (She has been in a Very Extremely grumpy mood all month anyway because her school is going to have a thing called an Ofsted, which Mum says is horrid, because vile inspectors come and poke around in all the teachers’ lessons and make sure they are doing a Good Job.)






So now Mum had cereal and strawberry jam (which is Tomato’s latest eating fad – he will turn into one of those hyperactive kids on Supernanny if he doesn’t watch out) all down her smart suit and no time to offer sympathy to her one-and-only daughter.

“That’s the last straw. Now I’ll be late!” she hissed and ran upstairs to change.

I looked at Dad for support. “Warty didn’t believe me, Dad. And he’s going to stop me leaving early today for Gran’s TV show.”

“That’s between you and your mum,” said Dad. “Leave me out of it. I’m worried already that I might not be able to go myself because of this ghastly job. Now hurry up else you’ll be late too.”

“Well, why do you do the job if it’s so ghastly?” I asked. I know Dad is really happiest when he’s sawing up planks and whistling, but now his job is driving for about five different companies and sometimes he has to work all night.

“Three reasons. No, four: money, money, money and money,” said Dad.

“You’re too interested in money. Why can’t we just live like Free Spirits?” I asked.

“Because however free your spirit is, your house and food and trumpet lessons are not,” said Dad.

“But when Gran wins a million squid she’ll give us loads,” I said.






“Yes, and there will be flying pigs eating pie in the sky,” said Dad confusingly. I wish he and Grandma Clump didn’t always talk about kettles of fish and pies in the sky as if I know what they’re on about.

Dad doesn’t care, I thought as I rushed to get my school bag. And if he wasn’t able to come to the TV studio, it was even more important that I did. Poor old dad, I thought. He never gets a day off and he hasn’t got time to do the work he likes, which is making things out of wood. Having both my parents Very Extremely stressed about work and money just when I am on the brink of getting my Dream Pony is not helpful. Which is why I haven’t mentioned the Dream Pony thing to either of them, only to Grandma Clump. I know they’ll be pleased when I get him, of course they will. But they don’t realise how important it is for me to be there at the TV studio to cheer Gran on.

Chloe and Dinah were waiting for me at the school gates. We had five minutes to form a plan to trap the evil-doer.

“It’s got to be Grey Griselda,” said Dinah. “The drawing’s too good for Orange Orson.”

“Yeah, I think that too. Orson uses all his available brain cells in his bullying muscles.” I remembered the times Orange Orson had held my head down the toilet. “He’s too busy duffing people up to bother with anything so clever as forgery.”

“Yeah, and Griselda’s been smirking even more than usual,” said Chloe. It was true. Griselda is the worst kind of bully because she is also a Teacher’s Pet. She wears ribbons in her plaits and has fairies on her lunchbox, and she always comes top in tests and wins sack races and is a Good Sport, and has a gaggle of girls in Year Three who follow her around and hold her hand and admire her. She is a truly sickening person because she does all this and conceals her evil side, which is always telling on other people and getting them into trouble whenever she has the opportunity.

“We must put on our thinking caps,” said Chloe, looking teachery. “But we need some brain sugar. Er, although of course the best brain sugar is from, um, fruit,” she said, producing three Toffee Twister bars from under her jumper. I never stop being amazed by Chloe’s stash of sweeties – she is truly the Main Munch for our school. Then she smiled shyly and said, “I’ve got an idea.”

I made myself look Very Extremely excited about it. Chloe always needs a lot of reassurance about things like whether she is your friend or not. I sometimes think it would be easier to be a boy; they don’t seem to need to be Best Friends in the same way as girls do.

“OK, what’s your idea?” said Dinah, looking huffy.

“We could fingerprint her.”

“What?!”

“I’ve brought in this detective kit that’s got fingerprint powder.” Chloe rummaged in her school bag and pulled out a six-year-old’s Super Spy set.






“Chase after Griselda with a fake Sherlock Holmes hat on and a plastic magnifying glass hoping she’ll give you a finger print? VERY clever. Not,” said Dinah.

Chloe looked as if she was about to cry.

“Wait, it’s brilliant,” I said. “We don’t actually have to DO it, we have to PRETEND we’ve done it!”

“Eh?” said Dinah and Chloe.

I scratched my head in what I hoped was a professor sort of way (actually, I think I was worried about another invasion of Dreaded Nits) and patiently explained.

“We confront Griselda with the dread evidence. We TELL her we’ve got her fingerprints from one of her own exercise books and we say they exactly match the ones on the drawing! She’s BOUND to confess!”






At break we all strolled over to Griselda looking like we hadn’t a care in the world. She was sitting with a crowd of Year Threes, who all looked at her adoringly except for Little Thomasina, who she had pinched. She always picks on one so that poor person will feel all left out and forlorn and the others will all feel they are the favourites. It makes you want to throw up. Her bully-buddies – Big Barbara with the pineapple hairdo and Sniffling Sophie who always has a drip on the end of her nose – were with her, mocking the weeping girl.

“Hi, Griselda. I have to take my hat off to you. You are an absolute genius,” said Dinah.

Griselda looked surprised, but pleased. “Which particular bit of my genius are you referring to?” she asked.

“That drawing of Hedake snogging Warty you did. Hilarious. It’s exactly like both of them. Fantastic copy of Trixie’s handwriting on it too.” Dinah looked as if she was about to split her sides laughing about it.

But Griselda’s not dim. Flattered or not, she could smell a big fat rat. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” she said, looking haughty.

“Oh, go on, Griselda. No one in this school is clever enough to pull off a stunt like that except you. And me, of course.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Griselda again, only this time she had turned from haughty to flustered.

“Perhaps you’d like to discuss it further, somewhere private,” said Dinah. She can sound quite menacing when she wants to. “So all your little fans won’t hear about it.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Oh yes there is. We have fingerprints to prove it.”

Griselda made a faint gurgling sound. Then she said very loudly, “Oh well, if you really want me to help you sort out your little problem, I suppose I have to. Everybody needs me all the time,” she added theatrically for the benefit of her fan club. “I’ll see you later, sweeties. Come on.”

She gestured to her two sidekicks, and Big Barbara and Sniffling Sophie got up. Big Barbara aimed a sly kick at Little Thomasina, who burst into a fresh bout of weeping, and they followed us round the back of the caretaker’s hut.

“What do you mean, fingerprints?” asked Griselda.

“Chloe’s uncle’s in M15 – he always lets her play with his kit: invisible ink, fingerprint stuff, false beards, poison, high-velocity rifles, that kind of thing,” Dinah said.

Griselda shuffled uncomfortably and her mouth fell open.

“We nicked one of your exercise books and compared the prints on it with the ones on the Hedake drawing. They were identical. It was you. Confess all. If you don’t tell Warty it was you and clear Trixie, we’ll tell him ourselves.”

Griselda’s mouth fell open further, and then she burst into tears.






“I don’t know what you mean,” she wailed. “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t!”

“You’re lying,” Dinah hissed. “Of course it was you; it has to be!”

Sniffling Sophie and Big Barbara got in on the act. “Lay off her,” Big Barbara said. “She obviously didn’t do it and she can prove it.”

Dinah and Chloe and me looked at each other. Griselda’s lot so rarely say anything honest that somehow it sounds different when they do. “What do you mean, prove it?” I asked, doubtfully.

“Look at her hand, sucker,” Sniffling Sophie said.

Griselda held up her right hand. There was a huge plaster binding up her first two fingers. “Got bitten,” she said triumphantly. “I was trying to tie a Halloween mask on Sally Campbell’s cat to frighten her, and it bit me. Poisoned and all. I can’t even write at the moment, let alone draw.”






Big Barbara and Sniffling Sophie started to close in on us. We’d blown it. There was nothing for it but to beat a retreat.

Disaster! Granny Clump abandoned to her fate! I knew I just had to get to that TV studio, even if I was expelled.

“I’ll have to break out of school, there’s no other way,” I said. “Just tell Warty-Beak I fell in a cement mixer or something.”

I headed for the gates, but just as the bell rang Warty-Beak loomed from nowhere to shoo us all inside. I thought for a second of diving through his legs, but I could see Ms Dove was already locking the gates.

I doubled back, desperate, to a dismayed Chloe and a mischievously grinning Dinah.

“I know a way,” she whispered, grabbing my hand.

“Where are you going? Is it a new game? Can I join in?” said Martha Marchant, who appeared from nowhere like the Ghost of Gloom.

“Distract her, Chloe,” Dinah hissed in Chloe’s ear.

Chloe can be a bit slow at this sort of thing, but she did her best. She started off by standing up like a lamppost, putting both arms straight up above her head and sticking her hands up in a point.

“What am I being?” she asked Martha Marchant, who just shook her head and then looked at us for a clue. Phew. Some distraction this was turning out to be.






“A carrot,” Chloe said in the end, looking disappointed.

But Martha clapped her hands and giggled. “Be another one,” she said.




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