Pony Club Cup (Woodbury Pony Club Book 1)
Page 2
“Ah, this is it, Waterford Farm,” said Aunt Margaret, slowing down and turning in at an open gate. As the car sloshed its way up the muddy lane Alice took a look at her aunt’s unsmiling face. It always seemed rather grim and aggrieved, pale against the dark red of hennaed hair. She didn’t look a bit like Daddy, thought Alice sorrowfully, but then of course she was much older.
While her aunt went to the farmhouse to look for Mr Crankshaw, Alice searched the farm buildings for Saffron. She found him tied in a stall and her first feeling was a shock of disappointment.
She’d been imagining a beautiful pony, with a shining dun coat and a bright eye, but Saffron looked rough and unkempt, his ribs showing through his patchy, half moulted winter coat, his neck and quarters thin, his eye wary. As Alice gave him a piece of bread and half a carrot she fought with her disillusionment. Aunt Margaret reappeared, accompanied by a very tall, thin man. Alice looked up from gumboots, corduroys and macintosh and came to a small face with sticking-out teeth topped by a tweedy cap.
“I’m afraid he’s a bit poor,” admitted Mr Crankshaw. “He didn’t winter too well, but he’ll soon pick up now that the grass is coming. I’ve wormed him and I’ll drop in a couple of bags of pony nuts with the hay so that you can feed him up a bit.”
Mr Crankshaw looked as though he needed feeding up too, thought Alice, as she patted Saffron and said, “He’s lovely.”
“I bought him for my younger daughter. She was always moaning that the country was dull and she had nothing to do, but she didn’t take to riding. Always hankering after the bright lights, is our Sandra.”
“Two of mine were pony-mad for three or four years, and then they lost interest,” complained Aunt Margaret. “That’s what I keep telling Alice. I’m not going to all the expense and bother of buying a pony just to find that she’s off on some new craze.”
Mr Crankshaw produced a saddle and bridle. “Need a good clean, I’m afraid,” he said, looking at them disapprovingly. He handed Alice the snaffle bridle and standing martingale. “He carries his head on the high side so we’ve always ridden him in a martingale. Do you know how to put it on?”
“Yes, I think so,” answered Alice, fumbling nervously. Though she had ridden large horses in covered schools, trekked across plains and climbed rocky hillsides on wiry ponies in foreign lands, she hadn’t done much saddling and bridling. Three fingers in the noseband, she reminded herself, and a clenched fist in the throatlash.
“Now, you know the way,” said Aunt Margaret when Alice had mounted. “Out of the yard, through the back gate and follow the track straight down to the river. It’s fenced most of the way and you can’t miss it because it was the old road. You cross the river at the ford. I suppose the pony’s used to water?” she asked, turning to Mr Crankshaw.
“Oh yes, no problem there. We’re up to our knees in it the winter.”
“Then you can see our woods,” Aunt Margaret went on. “You follow the track for about three-quarters of a mile before you bear left and take a smaller path that’ll bring you out in Darkwood Lane. If you don’t get lost you’ll be home before I am, fighting my way through the town and hanging about at the bridge.”
Alice waved goodbye and set off. It was lovely, she thought, as Saffron squelched down the muddy track towards the river, lovely to be riding again, to have a pony as a friend. You didn’t miss people so much if you had a pony for company. She patted the thin, dun neck. Saffron seemed very willing. He walked briskly with pricked ears and didn’t seem at all worried about setting off into the unknown with a complete stranger. Life on the farm must be very dull, thought Alice. Dull and lonely. Perhaps Saffron was also longing for friends, hoping for some sort of change in the dismalness of his day-to-day life.
The Brunstock show was turning out to be even more of a misery than Hanif had feared. Jupiter, his handsome liver chestnut pony, was almost delirious with excitement and completely uncontrollable. The riding school’s instructions were having no effect. Hot and exhausted, with arms which felt as though they had been pulled out of their shoulder sockets, Hanif longed to give up and go home, but he could hear his stepfather’s voice calling for him. Tall, fair and very English-looking, Charles Franklin had driven the hordes of gymkhana children away from the practice jump and built it into a solid, three feet six high hog’s back.
“Come on, Harry,” he called. “Don’t mess about, put him straight over.”
Hanif abandoned an attempt to circle. He pointed the pony at the fence and, accusing himself of cowardice, took a firm hold of the mane. Jupiter raced for it at terrifying speed and hurled himself over, clearing the top pole by a couple of feet.
“Well done. That’s the stuff,” shouted Mr Franklin encouragingly. “You’ll be all right.”
Circling wildly and tugging with all his strength in a hopeless attempt to slow Jupiter down, Hanif knew that his stepfather was being stupidly optimistic.
“Do you know the course? You’d better take another look at the board. You went wrong last Saturday, remember.”
“I know the way. The problem is persuading Jupe to take it. I can’t stop him except by circling,” said Hanif in a despairing voice.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! You’ve got a double bridle and two nosebands. If you can’t stop him in that lot you must be as weak as water. Now keep him walking round until they call you. There are two to go, including the girl in the ring.” Hanif sighed with relief as his stepfather strode away to join Mrs Franklin who was watching from the ringside car park. She wasn’t like the English mothers, who, with jeans tucked into gumboots, warm in their uniform of headscarves and green husky coats, sloshed through the mud of the collecting ring, thought Hanif. In her pink and gold sari and flimsy little shoes she had to watch from the car. He was wondering what it would feel like to have an English mother when he heard the collecting steward shouting his number impatiently. “Come on, sixty-three. We’re waiting for you and we haven’t got all day.”
Flustered, apprehensive and with his hands uncomfortably full of reins, Hanif trotted into the ring. He didn’t see the watching faces of the spectators, only the twelve, huge, brightly-painted fences and the impossible twists and turns he was supposed to make between them. Jupiter’s head had disappeared into his chest, but at any minute he would see the jumps and there would be no holding him. Never mind, it’ll soon be over, Hanif comforted himself as he turned Jupiter for the brush. With one determined tug the pony snatched control and flung himself at the first jump. Then he raced on, sailing over the gate and parallels with careless contempt. He steadied himself for the combination at the top of the ring, and Hanif hauled him round and pointed him diagonally across the wall. They hurtled on, clearing the red wall and rustic gate with ease, but now they had to turn again and they were going far too fast.
“Whoa, boy. Steady,” shouted Hanif, tugging on the reins. But there was no response. “Whoa,” he called again, pulling on one rein with all his strength and hoping to turn the pony, but they were heading straight for the ring rope at full gallop.
“Look out!” he shouted at the single line of spectators. “Look out, I can’t stop!”
For a moment he saw the frightened faces, then Jupiter took off, sailing high into the air. People and ponies scattered, leaving a clear path as they raced on down the showground. It was in the horsebox and trailer park that Hanif finally managed to circle to a halt. He waited for a little to get back his breath and calm his pounding heart. Jupiter, prevented from grazing by his two bits and two nosebands, twirled restlessly.
He’ll be furious, Hanif thought despairingly of his stepfather. He won’t lose his temper, he won’t shout and rage, but he’ll be furious inside. He bought Jupe so that I could be a success. He wants to see me beating other fathers’ proper English sons, and I’m turning out hopeless. No good at riding or any other sport. It was no good putting things off, he told himself with a sigh, and, turning Jupiter, he rode back slowly.
As he came to the collecting
ring he saw a small crowd gathered round an elderly man who was sitting on the ground. Hanif pulled up. “Oh Jupe, don’t say we hurt someone,” he said aloud.
“You didn’t kick him or anything, I think he just fell over trying to get out of the way and he’s rather ancient,” answered a voice, and a thin girl in jeans and a green polo-necked sweater came up and patted Jupiter’s neck. “You are an awful pony, jumping out of the ring like that when you were going so well,” she told him. “You’re a terrific jumper, the way you sailed over those people’s heads.”
Hanif took a second look at her. She was probably small for her age, he decided. She had a thin, pale face with freckles, faintly red hair that was cut short and curled close to her head, and greenish eyes. She didn’t look as though she was despising him for having no control over his pony. “Is he your own pony?” asked the girl, walking beside him.
“Yes, my stepfather bought him for me at vast expense and now I can’t ride him,” answered Hanif sadly. “I’m just not up to Jupe’s standard. He won a lot with his last owner, so I know it’s my fault.”
He could see his stepfather’s head above the rest of the little group which clustered round the old man.
“Do at least let me drive you home,” Charles Franklin was saying.
But the old man was shaking his head. “My daughter and grand-children will look after me,” he answered, allowing himself to be helped up.
“Ah, here’s the culprit, Harry, come and apologise for yourself,” said Mr Franklin, catching sight of his hovering stepson. “You gave poor Mr Orton the fright of his life.”
As Hanif said how sorry he was and explained that he couldn’t control Jupiter however hard he tried, two of the collecting ring mothers and a very horsey-looking father surrounded Mr Franklin.
“The pony’s too big and strong for a boy of his age. You ought to have got him a thirteen-two.”
“Or have him taught how to ride the pony before you turn him loose on the unsuspecting public.”
“The pony’s won a lot in juvenile classes, I bought him with a good reputation,” Mr Franklin defended himself. “And my stepson’s been having lessons with Mr Foster.”
“He’s still a public danger. Have you tried the pony club?”
“The Woodbury’s not much good. We’re lucky, we’re all from the Cranford Vale.”
“But I’ve heard that David Lumley, you know, the National Hunt jockey who had a crashing fall at Cheltenham, is taking over the Woodbury, so things may improve.”
“And the Secretary’s here somewhere, a lady with glasses. She’s called Mrs Rooke.”
“You’d better get off home,” Mr Franklin told Hanif, “and for goodness sake keep that pony under control.”
Hanif waved goodbye to his mother and set off across the showground. The gymkhana events had started in Ring Two.
“You’re going, then?” The small red-headed girl was beside him again.
“Yes, before I do any more damage. Are you riding in the gymkhana?”
“No such luck. I don’t have a pony. We couldn’t possibly afford one. Besides, we live in a flat. I just biked over with Mr Foster’s riding school. I help there sometimes.”
“I liked riding at a riding school better. At least I could manage the ponies,” said Hanif sadly. “I thought I rode quite well until we moved to Coxwell and I got Jupe.”
“Mr Foster’s riding school’s not much good,” said the girl, looking across at the gymkhana ring. “You can see which are his pupils. They’re all cantering at one mile an hour. They haven’t a hope against the people from the Cranford Vale. What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.
Hanif thought before he answered. He supposed his stepfather was right, Hanif was too complicated for English people, it was better just to fit in with their ways and call yourself Harry.
“Harry Franklin,” he answered. “What’s yours?”
“Tina Spencer,” answered the red-headed girl, “and I live in Woodbury, in one of those little streets by the river, so, if you do join the pony club I may see you around.”
2
A Disgrace to David
Perhaps the rally will change everything, thought Alice, rubber-curry-combing out huge handfuls of dun winter coat. If only I could make just one friend. It’s lovely having Saffron but it would be even more fun if I had someone to ride with.
She had tried hard to fit in, but life at Shawbury really was rather dismal. Aunt Margaret was kind in her way, but was only interested in her dogs. She bred springer spaniels, but they were all kept in kennels with concrete runs and not allowed in the house, so they didn’t have much character. And she’d told Alice not to pet them as she might spoil their manners for the show-ring. Uncle Peter was rather fat and dull. He seemed to be interested in stocks and shares and cricket, and never wanted to talk, but hurried home from work and settled down in front of the television. The Hutchinson children, Andrew, Jane, Nick and Clare, were all years older than Alice. Andrew and Jane were working, Nick and Clare still at college. When they came they talked about their jobs and travels and exams. The three older ones couldn’t be bothered with Alice, but Clare had been friendly and fun. If only she’d stayed, instead of loading herself with an enormous backpack and setting out to explore Turkey with a party of friends. Still, Saffron had certainly improved life. Alice had ridden him on every one of the four days for which he had been hers and had spent hours grooming him and cleaning tack. If only I had had a brother or sister, she thought as she saddled up. It was difficult even to have friends when you moved about the world so much. She had made two at boarding school, but they lived such miles away.
To Hanif, too, it seemed a very important day. If this Mr Lumley can’t help, I give up, he thought as he oiled Jupiter’s hoofs. Dad will just have to swallow his pride and sell Jupe.
“It’s nothing personal,” he said, patting the strong, liver chestnut neck. “Just that you’re the boss and it ought to be me.”
Mrs Franklin, wearing one of her morning saris, came out to the stable as Hanif finished tacking up, and watched as he led Jupiter into the yard and prepared for the usual struggle to mount. She watched helplessly as Jupiter twirled and pranced, and Hanif, one foot in the stirrup, hopped in pursuit. At last he trapped the pony in the corner by the gate and scrambled into the saddle.
“Goodbye, Mum,” he shouted, setting off at a hammering trot along the road. “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.” He knew that such a fast trot was bad for Jupiter’s legs, but trying to insist on a slower pace would be hard on his own arms and, anyway, they were late starting. He had never ridden on the far side of Woodbury before and his stepfather had said that Hanif would certainly lose himself if he went by the woods and fields and that Jupiter might refuse to ford the river, so there was nothing for it but the long, boring way round by the bridge and the town.
Lesley and Sarah Rooke weren’t speaking. Sarah had won a rosette, only a third, in the Twelve and Under Egg and Spoon on Saturday and Mrs Rooke had been bursting with pride ever since.
“The only Woodbury child to come anywhere,” she told all her friends, “and against the whole of the Cranford Vale Prince Philip B. Team. It was really quite something. I mean, they get to Wembley year after year. But of course Sarah’s a natural, good at everything. Poor old Lesley has to learn the hard way. No natural aptitude at all.”
It had always been like that, thought Lesley, seething with unspoken resentment as she groomed chestnut Stardust for the rally. Sarah was the pretty one, the clever one, best at everything. Julian was the baby, the boy. He was perfect in Mummy’s eyes too. She was the ugly one, no good at anything, the one who didn’t count.
She groomed fiercely, too absorbed in her hatred for to notice Stardust’s gentle nuzzling. Only the unsatisfactory things forced themselves upon her attention. Stardust’s forelock, which she had cut with scissors, still looked stupidly unnatural and like a fringe, her four white socks were grubby and refused to come clean.
Lesley tacked up, and then finding with pleasure that her sister wasn’t ready, started for Garland Farm alone.
Sarah’s little piebald, Chess, hated being left behind. He neighed deafeningly, trod on Sarah’s toe and refused to keep still while she saddled and bridled him.
Lesley’s so jealous. It’s mean of her to be so horrible whenever I win anything, thought Sarah, slapping Chess and shouting at him to keep still. It’s not my fault if I’m good at things, better than she is. And, anyway, she couldn’t win anything when she didn’t even enter.
Tina Spencer was bicycling slowly out of Woodbury. It was uphill all the way to Garland Farm, she thought drearily, but still, it didn’t matter if she was late, no one noticed the dismounted members. It was her mother who had insisted on her joining the pony club and who had paid her subscription. “Then you’ll have something to do in the holidays when I’m working,” she had said. And she’d saved the money out of the wages she earned at Fanny’s Food and Wine Bar in Cross Street. It hadn’t been much fun, standing in cold fields in January and watching other people ride, thought Tina, and she hadn’t been able to afford the extra money for the trip to Olympia, but she pretended to her mother that she enjoyed rallies. She didn’t want her to know that she had wasted her hard-earned cash. Next year I’ll tell her I’m too old, or something, she decided, as the red town houses ended and the fields began.