by K. M. Peyton
Ruth, quiet and tired, went down into the garden and Fly came up to her, for the first time. She guessed that the change in his life was as much a shock to his system as actually owning a pony was a shock to hers. He stood, and she stroked his neck, and he lipped at her fingers.
‘We shall get used to each other,’ Ruth said to him. ‘And you will be good. You must be good,’ she added fiercely. She wanted to join the Pony Club and jump round the course at Brierley Hill. She did not want just a rough pony; she wanted a pony that would be obedient to a touch, that would turn on his forehand at a brush of her heel and canter figure-of-eights on the right leg, like a show pony, and jump anything she asked of him, without running out or refusing. Like the ponies in the photographs and diagrams in the horse-books — always beautifully collected, the riders with their knees and elbows in the right places, smiling calmly. She did not know, then, how much she was asking. She only knew that she wanted it, and that she would try. She looked at Fly, at the way he stood, restless, ears pricked up, his rough coat shining over the contours of his muscly shoulders, and she thought, ‘I will do it. Even if he isn’t quiet. I will.’ It occurred to her that she could, indeed, start at that very moment, by leading him round the field, and getting him to stop and start when she wanted. Then she remembered that she had not got a halter. ‘Not even a halter,’ she thought, and all the things she wanted for Fly (expensive items, for all the horse-books agreed that cheap tack was to be deplored) floated in a vision before her eyes, looking like the interior of a saddler’s shop, and all her agony came back.
She told herself, ‘A halter is only a bit of rope and canvas,’ and that evening she made Fly a halter out of some canvas her mother found in her ragbag and a bit of old washing-line that was in the garage. The next day she led Fly round the field, and he was suspicious, but he went, curving his thick mane to the pressure on his nose, snorting delicately. Ruth was entranced.
‘He is as good as gold. He did everything I asked him,’ she told her mother.
‘I thought he just walked round the field. That’s what it looked like to me.’
‘Yes, that’s what I asked him to do.’
Mrs. Hollis gave Ruth a bewildered look, but did not pursue the subject.
Ruth fetched a pencil out of the kitchen drawer and a piece of her mother’s writing-paper, and sat down at the kitchen table. She headed her paper ‘Things Fly Must Have’.
Underneath she wrote:
Hay
Bridle
Saddle
Dandy-brush
Hoof-pick
Round these five items she put a bracket, and printed ‘At Once’ beside it. Then underneath she wrote ‘Things Fly Must Have When Possible’. This was a long list, in three columns, to get it all on the paper:
Headcollar Hay-net Curry comb
Rope for tying up Feed-bowl Saddle-soap
Body-brush Bucket Neatsfoot oil
Shoes Stable Pony-nuts
Its length depressed her slightly. The item ‘Stable’ she wrote without pressing very hard, so that it was nearly invisible. Its ghostliness seemed appropriate. When her father came in she asked him about the saddle and bridle.
‘You see, I can’t ride him unless I have a saddle and bridle,’ she pointed out.
‘Yes, I do see,’ her father said. His expression was guarded. ‘I think the best thing, Ruth, is if we decide on a sum — say, ten pounds — and you can buy whatever it is you want. The day-by-day things will have to come out of your pocket-money, or your paper round, but I will give you the lump sum to buy the saddle and bridle and suchlike. After all, you used your own money to buy the animal with. Ten pounds — oh, say twelve. What do you say to that?’
‘Oh, thank you!’ Ruth said. ‘Thank you very much! That will be wonderful.’
The next morning, in a state of nervous excitement, Ruth cycled eight miles to the nearest saddler’s shop.
‘I want a saddle and a snaffle bridle, for a pony about thirteen hands,’ she said to the man, who looked politely in her direction.
‘Certainly, madam,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you what we have.’
Ruth looked. The saddles were all golden new, pungent with the sour smell of stiff leather, utterly desirable. She stroked one happily.
‘Is this a thirteen-hand one?’
‘Sixteen inches,’ said the man. ‘It should fit a thirteen-hand pony. You can try it, and if it’s not suitable you can bring it back and try another.’
‘I like this one. I’ll try this first,’ Ruth said.
She chose stirrup irons to go with it, and leathers to put them on, and a white nylon girth. Then she chose an egg-butt snaffle bit, jointed in the middle, and a bridle with a noseband and a plain browband. The man laid all this shining impedimenta on the counter, and Ruth added a dandy-brush and a hoof-pick.
‘Is that all, madam?’
‘Yes, for now.’
The man totted some figures up on a bit of paper.
‘That will be thirty-nine pounds, twelve and eightpence, madam.’
Ruth, having pulled out the twelve pounds in an envelope that her father had given her, looked at him blankly. ‘Thirty-nine pounds . . .?’ Her voice faded into incredulity.
‘Thirty-nine pounds, twelve shillings and eightpence.’
Ruth opened her mouth, but no words came out. With a piercing shaft of mathematical clarity, she worked out that the sum the man was quoting her was only seven and four-pence less than she had paid for the pony itself. The man, meanwhile, was looking at her with a severe expression. Ruth looked blankly back at him.
‘You — you’re —’ She thought, for one sweet moment, that he was playing a joke on her, then she looked at his face again, and knew, quite certainly, that he was not.
‘I haven’t got thirty-nine pounds, twelve and eight-pence,’ she said flatly. ‘I — I didn’t know —’ She looked desperately at the lovely, gleaming pieces all laid out for her on the counter. ‘I — I — how much is just the bridle?’
The man totted up the separate parts and said, ‘Four pounds, nineteen and sixpence.’
‘I’ll take the bridle,’ Ruth said. She wanted him to hurry, before she burst into tears. His face was tight and sour. He took the lovely saddle away and put it carefully back on the saddle horse, and hung up the girth and the leathers, and put the irons back on the shelf. Then, slowly, he wrapped up the bridle in brown paper and gummed it with plenty of tape. Ruth gave him a five-pound note and he gave her sixpence back.
‘Thank you, madam.’
Ruth took her parcel and ran.
That same evening Elizabeth arrived, from the Council, to live with them. She was a thin, blonde child of six, who took an instant delight at finding a pony in the back garden, and came out to help Ruth while Mrs. Hollis was still talking to the Child Care officer who had brought her. Ruth had been trying to get the bridle on without any success at all. She was just realizing that to accomplish this small task was obviously going to take time and patience. Fly did not, as yet, take kindly to being tied up, so she was obliged to hold him by the halter and at the same time try to put the bridle on. It was plainly impossible. Fly snorted with horror and ran backwards every time she brought the reins up towards his ears, and then she needed both hands to hold him. She realized that, first, she must teach him to stand tied up; then, gradually get him used to the look of the bridle, and the feeling of having the reins passed over his head. Now, having attempted too much, she could see that he was frightened by the new tack.
She stood holding him, stroking his neck, and hung the bridle over the fence out of the way.
‘All right, silly. We’ll do it very slowly, and you’ll get used to it.’
At this point Elizabeth came up and said, ‘Can I have a ride?’
Ruth looked at her with interest.
‘Are you Elizabeth?’ They had learned about the imminent arrival of a child called Elizabeth the day before, when a woman from the Child Care Department had called.
‘Yes. Can I have a ride? What’s your name?’
‘Ruth.’
‘Can I have a ride?’
Elizabeth, Ruth decided, was so skinny she must weigh just about nothing at all. Acting on the moment’s impulse, she leaned down.
‘Put your arms round my neck.’
One hand holding Fly’s halter, with the other she scooped up the eager Elizabeth and slid her gently on to Fly’s back. He tossed his head and twitched his shoulder muscles as if an insect was worrying him, but otherwise made no move. Elizabeth patted him.
‘He’s good.’
Ruth grinned.
‘He’s wonderful!’ she cried. Had ever ‘backing’ a pony been so easy? she wondered.
‘Go,’ said Elizabeth.
‘No, not tonight,’ Ruth said. She put her arm up and lifted the child down again. ‘Tomorrow you can sit on him again. Nobody has ever sat on him before. You are the first person, in all the world, to sit on this pony.’
It was a great privilege, in her eyes, and Elizabeth took it as such, and opened her eyes very wide.
‘And again tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
The next day Fly walked round the field with Elizabeth on his back, but it was over a month before Ruth was able to get the bridle on him. It was a week before she could pass the reins up over his head without his running back and looking horrorstruck, and another week before she managed to get the bit between his teeth.
‘The books say roll the bit in brown sugar. Or jam,’ Ruth said to Elizabeth. ‘Go and ask Mummy for some brown sugar.’
Elizabeth disappeared at the gallop and came back with a bowl of sugar and a pot of strawberry jam. Ruth took a dollop of jam out with a finger, wiped it over the bit, and rolled it in the sugar for good measure. Then she held it on the palm of her hand and approached Fly, who was watching with great interest, tied to the fence by a halter. Ruth put the reins over his head, held the headstall in her right hand, in the approved manner, and put the bit under his nose hopefully. Fly clenched his teeth hard. Ruth, feeling very sticky, pushed the bit against his teeth, gently, but most of the jam and sugar now seemed to be on her rather than on the bit. Somehow, Fly managed to take several crafty licks, and still the bit was not between his teeth. The bridle was sticky all over. Elizabeth was sitting on the grass, eating the jam by scooping it out on a finger, as demonstrated by Ruth.
Ruth flung the bridle down crossly.
‘Oh, he’s so stubborn!’ she said. She looked at Fly, tied to the fence, and he looked back at her. He arched his neck, licked his lips curiously, and pawed the ground with a neat round hoof. He would stand tied up if she stayed near him, but if she went away he would pull back and whinny and churn about. Ruth would tie him up and potter about where he could see her, or disappear round the side of the garage just for a minute or two. Gradually she persuaded herself that he was improving. Once he pulled the fence out by its roots — Ted’s fence — and once the halter broke, but, these crises apart, progress in this direction was fairly satisfactory. But not with the bridle.
‘You need a dozen hands,’ Ruth said. She picked up the jammy thing and considered it. Then, experimentally, she unbuckled the bit from one side of the headstall. Then the other. She went over to Fly, and put the bridle on over his ears. She pulled his forelock out over the browband, and did up the throatlash. Then she fetched the bit and buckled it on, on one side.
‘Fetch the saucer of sugar,’ she commanded the willing Elizabeth. ‘Hold it up. Higher. That’s right.’
With both hands to work with, Ruth eased the bit into the saucer of sugar and slipped it between Fly’s teeth before he knew what she was about. She buckled it on to the other side, and stood back, triumphant. Fly mouthed the strange thing on his tongue, bending to it, tossing his head, curious but not frightened. Ruth was elated, warm with achievement. She stood smiling, utterly happy.
‘How’s the nag?’
Ted’s friend, Ron, having called into the kitchen for some rags, paused on his way back to the garage, wiping his oily hands.
‘New bridle, then?’ he remarked.
‘Yes. I bought it a fortnight ago, and this is the first time I’ve managed to get it on.’
‘Sets you back, horse gear,’ Ron said. ‘Worse than parts for the bike.’
‘Oh yes!’ Ruth had given up the idea of ever riding on a saddle, since she had discovered that even second-hand saddles were generally more than the whole sum her father had given her. She looked at Ron with interest, wondering how he came to know about the price of what he called horse gear. Nobody in her family knew about it, and she had not dared to tell her father how much he would have to give her if she was to have her saddle. Encouraged by Ron’s interest, she told him about her experience in the saddler’s.
‘Cor, stone me! I know that bloke. Calls you sir. I bet he called you madam, till he found you hadn’t any cash?’
‘Yes, he did!’
‘Sew their saddles with gold thread, at that place,’ Ron said. ‘Mind you, new ones are never cheap. Lot of work in a saddle.’
‘Yes, but what shall I do? I daren’t tell my father how much they cost!’
Ron considered, pursing his lips. He had a thin, amiable, rather spotty face, a lot of untidy hair and, like Ted, smelt of motor bikes. He wore filthy jeans and a black leather jacket with various badges stuck to it and had the same sort of bike as Ted, a twin-cylinder 650 c.c. B.S.A. After they had spent a week polishing their camshafts, they used to ride out and have races along the nearest suitable stretch of road. At week-ends, when they weren’t tinkering, they would ride out with their gang. When Mrs. Hollis complained about Ted’s obsession, her husband would point out that all his friends were pleasant, well-mannered boys, he was never bored, did not break the law (excepting, on occasion, the 70 m.p.h. speed limit) and wasn’t it better than girls? Mrs. Hollis would agree, dubiously.
For all these reasons, Ruth was surprised that Ron knew about saddles — apart from bike saddles.
‘Reckon I could find you a saddle,’ Ron said.
Ruth stared at him, frightened to say anything.
‘There used to be one in an old shed, up Mr. Lacey’s place. Pony saddle it was. I remember seeing it, when I used to cut his grass. The lawn-mower was in the shed, and the saddle was stuck up in the rafters. I used to live in Wychwood, you know. Down Mud Lane. Two along from Mr. Lacey. That’s why I used to cut his grass.’ He looked speculatively at Fly. ‘Nice pony.’
‘Yes.’ Ruth let her breath out.
‘When I’ve finished tonight we’ll go along, if you like, and see if it’s still there.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Mmm. When I’m through.’
‘Oh!’ Not only was the bridle actually in Fly’s mouth, but on the very same day it seemed as if she was going to acquire a saddle. To Ruth, after several days of getting nowhere at all, it was as if the day was charmed, bewitched. It was a sort of week described in the horoscopes as: ‘Try to be patient. The beginning of the week will be full of minor irritations. But Thursday promises to be an outstanding day, bringing good news and the fulfilment of a long-desired ambition.’
‘About an hour,’ Ron said.
‘Yes.’
Ruth danced back to Fly, still mouthing his bit in exactly the way the books said was to be desired. She hugged him round the neck, smelling the heavenly scent of his thick mane in her nostrils.
‘Oh, you are lovely! I adore you! You are good!’
‘Do you want any more jam?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Not now.’
‘Can I lick the sugar?’
‘Yes. Tomorrow, perhaps, you can ride on a proper saddle!’
‘Can we use more sugar and jam?’
‘Yes, if it helps him take the bit.’
‘I like doing it like that.’
Ruth, having very carefully taken the bridle off, giving Fly time to drop the bit, and not pulling it against his teeth, untied him and took off the
halter. He walked away across the bare grass, blowing out through his nostrils. Ruth watched him, glowing with a deep satisfaction.
Her deep satisfaction was shattered when her mother saw the state Elizabeth was in, which Ruth had not noticed, but, after a slight unpleasantness, she was able to escape and join the boys in the front drive. Soon she was up on Ron’s pillion and they were scrabbling and roaring through the pot-holes of Mud Lane. The lane, overhung with elms, led down to the creek, and a few tatty weatherboarded cottages sat back from it behind overgrown hedges. Mr. Lacey lived in the last one, just before the lane degenerated into a field track, and the marsh grass took over from the last decaying orchard.
‘I reckon no one’s cut the old boy’s grass since I did it last,’ Ron commented, when he stopped the bike on the rutted garden path. Ruth’s eyes were already straying to the conglomeration of old barns and sheds behind the cottage. ‘What a nice place,’ she was thinking. ‘Like Mr. Marks’s. A “me” place.’ She could not take to their smart new house, however hard she tried, when she compared it with the romantic wilderness of Mr. Lacey’s abode.
Mr. Lacey came out and recognized Ron, and, after some few minutes of reminiscence and inquiry, he issued a very satisfactory invitation to ‘Root out what you please, lad. It’s all rubbish.’ Ron led the way to one of the sheds, skirting banks of stinging-nettles.
‘It was this one, as I remember it.’
The shed was gloomy and full of dust drifting through shafts of the late evening sunlight. Ruth crossed both her fingers and prayed silently, gazing into the dust: ‘Please, God, let it be there.’
‘Ah!’ said Ron.
He was climbing up on an old packing-case, reaching up. ‘Look, here we are.’ There was a shower of cobwebs and woodrot. Ruth sneezed. Ron swung down and held out his prize, smiling. ‘Look, it’s no showpiece, but it ought to fit.’
Once, many many years ago, Ruth thought, it had been a good saddle. She took it gingerly, afraid it might crumble in her hands. The leather was dry and cracked, the lining split and spewing stuffing. There were leathers and irons, but the leathers were cracked by the buckles beyond repair, and the irons were rusty.