The Wish Pony by Catherine Bateson Page A

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I wanted chicken!’ I said. ‘How come we’ve got steak and black beans?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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