The Wish Pony by Catherine Bateson

Molesworth’s The Cuckoo Clock . And pay attention when you read it, Ruby. If you can read it – it’s so ancient. That was one of the first books ever given to me when I was a young girl. Now I must lie down. Close the door behind you.’
    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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜So do you think she’ll wear Indian turbans until the colour fades?’ I asked. ‘That will look very odd, Mum.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 .
    â€˜Takeaway for dinner? Do you mind? I don’t think I could face pizza, but noodles sound pretty good.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Of course. Homework?’
    â€˜No, I’ve done it all. I’m going to read this,’ I showed her the old book, ‘Magda lent it to me.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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