Fly-by-night

by K. M. Peyton

  They walked and trotted up and down the top of the field, out of the way of the course. Ruth felt Fly-by-Night eager and bouncing beneath her, and herself stiff with nerves, her fingers like wood. Peter did not appear to be at all concerned, but he was riding Woodlark with considerable attention, not just passing the time away chatting, like most of the girls. When they eventually went down to the collecting-ring Ruth noticed several curious glances sent in her direction, and it occurred to her that being with Peter had given her a sort of standing already, although she had not done anything yet. It frightened her, and yet was a comfort at the same time. Being with Peter, she did not have to think for herself, just follow Woodlark, stand still when she stood still, and walk about when she walked about. Only, when her number was called by the steward, she would be on her own.

  ‘I wish I could go first and get it over!’ she said miserably to Peter, as the steward started checking them over. She knew she was about three-quarters of the way down the list, five behind Peter. This would be the longest hour of her life. The first girl was already away, cantering crabwise down the hill.

  ‘We’ll walk round a bit more,’ Peter decided. ‘It’s too cold just to stand.’

  Walking round a bit more, Ruth remembered all sorts of things she didn’t know.

  ‘Does the fastest round win?’

  ‘No. Speed doesn’t matter, unless you’re so slow you exceed the time allowed. I shouldn’t think that would happen to Fly-by-Night.’

  ‘How do they score then?’

  ‘Five for knocking anything down, ten for first refusal, twenty for second, thirty for falling off, ten for not shutting a gate, two for hitting a marker.’

  ‘Oh.’ The words went out of Ruth’s mind as soon as Peter had spoken them. She could see Pearl, looking very elegant in jade-green tweed, with her long hair blowing in the wind, talking to Mr. McNair; she could see Jane Withenshawe out in the country going at a terrific lick on the bold Clipper; of her parents there was still no sign. The wind was cold and it looked like rain. Ruth felt very sick.

  ‘I’d better go back. There’s only three before Woodlark now,’ Peter said.

  Ruth followed him back. Mr. McNair came over with the Pymms and Peter had to be polite. Ruth was under no such obligation, which was fortunate, as Pearl said to her, ‘Golly, you don’t think you’re going to get him round, do you?’

  Ruth glowered at her. She had no wits to think of a reply, so rode off to the other side of the collecting-ring. Peter came past to go to the start, and for one awful moment Ruth could not stop Fly-by-Night from following Woodlark.

  ‘Not you!’ the steward shouted at her, and she managed to turn Fly-by-Night round just in time, before Peter put Woodlark into a canter. She hustled him furiously back into the ring, and saw Pearl grinning.

  All the parts of Peter’s round that she could see were faultless, and he came back very fast down the hill and flew the jump at the bottom as if it were six times its actual size. When Woodlark came back she was very excited, and Peter had to take her away and walk her about to cool her off, so Ruth did not get a chance to hear how he had done. Mr. McNair was looking very satisfied, and smoking cigars with Mr. Pymm, so Ruth assumed that all was well.

  Several of the rounds, from what one could see from the collecting-ring, appeared to be faultless, but what went on in the wood, where all the tricky bits were, was not revealed. The steward, a smart woman in sheepskin and suede, said to her, ‘You’re the next. Don’t go away, will you?’ She checked out the next departure, which was Cat’s Eyes’, and said, ‘You’re new, aren’t you? I haven’t seen your pony up here before.’

  ‘Yes — er — no —’

  ‘Don’t look so frightened!’ the woman said. ‘Your pony looks as if he could do it standing on his head.’

  Her few kind words wrung a grateful smile out of Ruth. She watched Cat’s Eyes’ grey gelding canter very slowly down from the start to stop at the first fence. She realized that she probably would not have to wait much longer, for the grey did not look as if he intended to go any farther. The steward apparently thought so, too, as she said, ‘Are you ready, dear?’

  Ruth nodded. At the same moment, a yell of ‘Ruth!’ rent the air, and she turned round, startled, to see Ted and Ron standing at the ropes, looking very out of place in their motor-bike gear and crash-helmets. Ted did a boxer’s hand-clasp over his head and shouted, ‘Attagirl!’

  ‘Go down to the start now, dear,’ said the steward. ‘Mercy is eliminated.’

  Ruth gave Fly-by-Night a panic-stricken kick with her heels and he bounded forward into a fast trot, nearly cannoning into the returning grey, who came home at a far more eager pace than he had left.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

  She steered Fly-by-Night for the flag where Major Banks was standing, and managed to pull up in the right place. He checked her number, glanced at his stop-watch, and said, ‘Off you go, then.’

  Ruth, having somehow expected a roll of drums and a flash of lightning to herald her performance, was amazed to find herself cantering down the hill, completely on her own. The short grass was smooth and inviting, the rails at the bottom looked piffling; beyond, the hill stretched up to the tall elms on its crest where the rooks were cawing and a gleam of sunlight was passing. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Ruth no longer felt frightened. She felt excited, and fantastically happy.

  She knew Fly-by-Night was not going to refuse the rails, by the feel of him. She knew, too, that when she felt like she did now refusals did not happen. She had not waited two years merely to refuse the first fence. Fly-by-Night went over it like Woodlark herself, so big and bold that Ruth almost lost a stirrup, and had to take a clutch of mane to steady herself.

  After the jump he steadied himself, and Ruth could feel him wondering what he was up to, galloping across this strange countryside with no Woodlark beside him.

  ‘Come on, Fly. This is in earnest,’ Ruth said to him happily, and he flicked an ear back at her, from deep in his thick mane, and Ruth saw the steam of his breath and the shining edge of his eyes, and leaned forward in the saddle, feeling invincible.

  The tiger trap into the wood was solid, and Ruth felt the pony’s momentary surprise, and instant’s doubt. To dispel it, she closed her legs hard. Fly gave a little grunt, and jumped it in a rather unpleasant popping style, which left Ruth up in the air when he was already down. But Peter had said nothing about marks for style. Ruth had a glimpse of a man on a shooting-stick making a mark on his score-sheet, then the roof of the wood closed over her, and Fly-by-Night’s hoofs were muffled by the thick, soft ground. She looked up, and saw the marker flag for the left turn just ahead. She pulled up sharply, in a soft smother of leaves, and Fly-by-Night turned on to the narrow detour that led to the fallen log. He was at home in the wood, after all his pounding round the McNair estate; he had learned to do sharp turns through the trees, and scramble under the scrub while Ruth leant close over his withers, ducking for the branches. They came upon the log suddenly. Fly had no time to hesitate; he was over, and Ruth swung him round for the open ride beyond. She had forgotten the tricky jump at the end of the ride, and after the pleasant ease of the canter down the wide path she came to the bank with a lurch of fear. Fly-by-Night went up on the top with more of a scramble than a jump, and then stood there, boggle-eyed, staring into the ditch. Ruth unashamedly took a large bunch of mane in both hands, gave him plenty of rein and drummed hard with her legs.

  ‘Come on! You must!’

  Her urgency communicated, for after a moment’s uneasy pawing at the ground, he jumped out over the ditch and rail in one almighty bound, with such suddenness that only her handfuls of mane kept Ruth aboard. With only a slight pang at her lack of professional poise, she headed Fly-by-Night out across the open grass, and as his shining hoofs flung out beneath her she was full of a sense of exhilaration at what they had already achieved. Even if she did not look smooth and calm like Peter, she got there just the same — so far. At leas
t Ted and Ron and Pearl would see that she had managed half-way; she was not disgraced, whatever happened.

  Fly-by-Night seemed to have understood what it was all about now, as if he was enjoying himself, for he flew the first jump out in the open without a moment’s hesitation. There was a short stretch across the corner of a field, a jump out over a gap and a bundle of brushwood, then round in a circle, over some straw bales and back towards the wood again. The gate was the next obstacle, and Ruth felt a moment’s qualm. She thought perhaps Fly-by-Night wouldn’t fancy anything fussy now, after his unimpeded progress over the countryside.

  He pulled up in front of the gate because he had to, coming to a halt in long skidding slithers where the ground was already cut up and slippery. Ruth slipped down and took the string off the gate, shoving it open with her foot. Her legs felt all trembly.

  ‘Come on, Fly!’

  She was in front of him, pulling him, which he (as if knowing that this procedure was captioned ‘Bad’ in Ruth’s book) did not like. He did not move, but stared at her, his nostrils all wide and red with galloping. Ruth came round to his side and led him properly, and he went through, with a snort of suspicion. Ruth had to heave at him to stop, and managed to get the string back over the post by stretching both arms out to their fullest extent, one holding Fly and one dropping the string. It was not a polished performance, but they had been quite quick.

  When she came to mount again she realized immediately that her girths needed tightening, as the saddle started to slither round when she put her weight on the stirrup. She cursed and struggled, with Fly-by-Night going round in circles, heaving up the inch of loose with her clumsy, excited hands. Fly-by-Night trod on her foot, and lunged away into some brambles, and she half hopped, half fell after him, trying to keep him still. The mud was up to her ankles.

  ‘You beast! Wait!’

  He waited long enough for her to get half-way back in the saddle, but while she was still in mid-air he set off. Ruth pitched back on the cantle, the reins slithering through her fingers. A branch knocked her cap down over her eyes so that she could not see where she was going; she only knew that there was a great crashing of undergrowth all round her and that twigs and brambles were clawing at her like live animals. Suddenly there was a sharp blow and a pain down the side of her face that made her cry out. A branch seemed to break off with an explosion right in her ear. She thrust her cap back, but could still see nothing but a blur of clutching branches through which Fly-by-Night was forcing his way in a series of excited bounds. Whatever had hit her face was agonizing; she realized that she could not see for blood. When she put her hand up it came away all red.

  ‘Fly, stop it!’

  She pulled him to a halt by brute force, tears of sheer rage adding another impediment to her reeling vision. She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, and peered round for a way out of the predicament Fly had landed her in. There was no sign of a track anywhere, only impenetrable jungle.

  ‘Fly, we’re lost!’ she sobbed. She was outraged — nobody got lost in a Hunter Trials! She thought of Pearl, and choked with grief.

  ‘You idiot pony! You beastly idiot pony!’

  She mopped frantically at the blood and tears in an effort to see, and kicked Fly on into the thinnest bit of her surroundings that she could find. He crashed through and she bent down, choking and muttering, looking desperately for the salvation of a yellow flag. Suddenly, they were in the open. There were no flags, but at right-angles to their wild stampede through the bush a hoof-churned track appeared. Ruth’s sense of direction had become so confused since her blow on the head that she did not know which way to follow the path, but with what she afterwards thought of as a stroke of genius, she thought to look at the hoof-prints. Sunk deep and fast, they showed the way.

  Fly-by-Night set off at a canter again, and Ruth tried to sort herself out. She could feel nothing in her face now, and had no idea what had happened, but she did not seem to be feeling in any way indisposed. Rather she felt humiliated and a trifle damp, more with baby tears than blood. ‘Oh, you fool!’ she said to herself, cantering along the path, ashamed and angry. Getting lost, and crying . . . she was so incompetent it wasn’t true. Reviling herself for her stupidity, she came to the bank without expecting it. Fly-by-Night skidded to a halt and teetered on the lip of it, snorting. Ruth had a glimpse of a startled face staring from the far side, then Fly-by-Night went down in one bound, landing with a great splash in the stream. The person scoring shouted something, but Ruth had no idea what. She was too busy keeping her seat. Fly went through the brush, scattering it with a cracking and a crunching all across the ride, and they were flying away towards the jump out into the open. ‘The lovely open!’ Ruth thought. She felt as if she had been in the wood for ever, carving her way through, and wondered if she had been given up for lost. All sense of time had left her. She felt she had taken well over the time allowed already. Her eyes stung, and she still could not see very well, but she no longer knew why.

  Fly-by-Night, going now as if he would never stop, flew over the fence out into the field. Ruth had to turn him down the hill, but otherwise there was nothing to do, only sit there, and see the people in the collecting-ring on the opposite slope, and think, ‘Here I come! I’ve done it!’ She felt wonderful. She did not feel as if she belonged to earth at all. She felt that nothing in the whole world could ever worry her again, nothing could possibly go wrong, nothing could detract. Fly-by-Night went over the ditch at the bottom as if he was Woodlark herself, and then she was back beside Major Banks, who was clicking his stopwatch. ‘Steady on!’ called the Major.

  Ruth heaved, wondering if Fly-by-Night was all set to go round again, but the pony got the message, and dropped into an unseating trot. Ruth bounced and pulled again. Someone came up and took Fly-by-Night’s rein and said, ‘Whatever have you done to your face?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t say it, but she didn’t care either. She felt wonderful. She saw Ted and Ron coming towards her, and grinned at them idiotically.

  ‘I say, whatever have you done to your face?’ Ted said. Major Banks came up with the woman out of the collecting-ring and said to her, ‘Mrs. Marshall will take you to the First Aid, dear.’

  ‘I think she ought to be put down,’ Ted said. ‘It’s the only humane thing to do.’

  Major Banks stared at Ted, and Ted said hastily, ‘She’s my sister. I’ll take her to the First Aid, if you like.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said the Major. ‘We can’t really spare Mrs. Marshall for a minute or two. It’s that van by the Land-Rover. There’s a St. John’s man there. He’ll see to her.’

  He looked at Ruth again, rather doubtfully, and went off back to the start. Ruth looked round for Peter, but saw that he was trapped by the Pymms once more, over by the horse-box, so decided she had better get the First Aid chore over. She slid off Fly-by-Night on to her trembly legs, and patted his damp neck.

  ‘Wasn’t he marvellous?’

  ‘You did jolly well, from what we could see,’ Ron said. ‘No more than we expected though. I’ll hold Fly if you like, while you go with Ted.’

  ‘Yes, come on, you’re losing gore like a stuck pig,’ Ted said. ‘Come to St. John, where Mercy is eliminated.’

  ‘Where what?’

  ‘That’s what that woman said. Mercy is eliminated. Didn’t you hear her? We liked that, we did.’

  Ruth could see that Ted was in one of his dotty moods. They all went to the St. John’s Ambulance van, where the man looked very pleased to have something to do. Ruth discovered that her borrowed jacket and tie were all spotted with blood, which worried her more than the wound itself, which, when she was cleaned up, was discovered to be a small but deep cut just below her right eye. It was swelling fast, which was the reason she couldn’t see very well.

  ‘You’re very lucky, my dear,’ said the St. John’s man. ‘Very lucky it missed your eye.’

  Ruth thought it a matter of opinion as to why, as the only injury of
the day, she was to be considered lucky, but did not say so. Ted said, ‘Very lucky. Mercy is not eliminated after all.’

  Ruth was decorated with a sticking-plaster that obscured her vision still farther, and given a cup of tea, then she went back up the hill with Ted and Ron, leading Fly-by-Night. The sun, having struggled hard all morning, was just coming out. It had a summer warmth in it, which fitted in: Ruth knew that this was a day when nothing now could go wrong. She was in a stupor of warm, deep-seated bliss. The excitement and the sickening nervousness had given way to a radiance she had never experienced before. She could feel her face smiling idiotically. She could not stop it.

  They were almost back at the horse-box when Ted spotted their parents coming across the grass towards them.

  ‘You’ve missed the act of the century,’ Ted greeted them.

  ‘Oh, whatever have you done to your face?’ Mrs. Hollis said to Ruth. ‘What happened? Did you fall?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You got round all right?’

  ‘Yes. A branch hit me, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh dear. Never mind. I suppose it was lucky it wasn’t your eye. We’re terribly sorry we missed you, dear —’

  ‘But you won’t be sorry when you hear the reason why,’ her father interrupted. Ruth looked at him. He looked quite different from how she had ever seen him before. He looked just like she felt. And she knew the reason why.

  ‘The house?’ she said. ‘It’s all right? She said we could have it — Mr. Lacey’s house?’

  ‘That’s right. She made up her mind at last. We can move in whenever we like.’

  Ruth said nothing. All she could see was the two acres under its covering of snow, the sun shining on it, and the bird marks making lace patterns. She saw Fly-by-Night turned out there, and another, shadowy pony, a companion for Fly. In her dreams, it was Milky Way, in foal to an Arab stallion, never to be hauled about by Pearl again. (Because she knew now that miracles happened.) There was a stable for Fly-by-Night, and a yard paved with bricks . . .