The Pullein-Thompson
Treasury of Horse
and Pony Stories
The Pullein-Thompson
Treasury of Horse
and Pony Stories
by
Christine Pullein-Thompson
Diana Pullein-Thompson
Josephine Pullein-Thompson
AWARD PUBLICATIONS LIMITED
ISBN 978-1-78270-087-6
Text copyright © Christine, Diana & Josephine Pullein-Thompson
Illustrations copyright © Award Publications Limited
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Illustrations by Eric Rowe
Cover illustration by Jennifer Bell
This digital edition first published 2013
Published by Award Publications Limited,
The Old Riding School, The Welbeck Estate,
Worksop, Nottinghamshire, S80 3LR
www.awardpublications.co.uk
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Contents
Hoofprints in the Sand
Hamstrung
A Little Grey Foal
Isobel’s Pony
Green with Envy
Just a Bit Different
Skeleton Rider
Downright Cruelty
The Old Dun Pony
Burnt Rosettes
Firkin’s Ghost
Please Tame Him
Too Much Trouble
The Ponies Must Go
A Ghost in the Family
What a Turnabout!
Life and Death
Only Five Days Left
Shandy
Status Symbol
Lost on the Moors
The Night Coach Comes In
Tarragona
A Sixth Sense
The Gentle Giants
Lettie Lonsdale
I’ll Never Pass
The Runaway Boy
The Failure
Ebony Joins the Circus
The Race
The Bargain
The Storm
Oh, Cobweb, How Could You?
The Trek
A Real Live Ghost
Miserable Wreck
Too Scared to Ride
More Pullein-Thompson Horse Adventures
Hoofprints in the Sand
Christine Pullein-Thompson
I didn’t want to go on holiday, nor did Daniel. The best show of the year was only a week away; the ponies were fit and entered. Our first inkling of such a disaster was when we found Mum cleaning out the caravan, then stocking it up with food and fizzy drinks.
“Yes, we are going away for a few days,” she told us. “And don’t pull long faces, you’ll enjoy it when we get there.”
“But…” began Daniel, who is eighteen months younger than me.
“No buts,” answered Mum.
“We are entered for the Stilton Show, so actually we can’t go,” I said, putting on a posh voice.
“Oh we are, are we?” replied Mum, imitating me. “Well, Dad needs a break and so do I; we’ve been waiting for weather like this all the summer, and we’re not going to miss it now it’s come. Okay?” she asked.
“When do we leave?” demanded Daniel, angrily kicking a stone across the drive.
“Tomorrow at 4 a.m.,” she said.
“And who looks after the ponies?” I asked.
“Susie, okay?”
Susie is Mum’s best friend, a trained vet and one hundred per cent reliable, so we could find nothing wrong with that arrangement.
I imagined an early morning; the sun rising, the towns empty, then a long straight road to the sea.
“How long are we going for?” asked Daniel.
“It depends on the weather, probably about ten days.” Mum is young for her age and looks about twenty-five though actually she’s ten years older. Dad is a self-employed builder. He built our loose boxes and the tack room; also the rail fence around our paddock.
We took our ponies apples and tried to explain about going away. I own Cloud who is dapple-grey and thirteen hands, two and three-quarter inches. Daniel has Crumble who is dun and fourteen hands. They both win family pony classes and sometimes working hunter events as well. They nuzzled our pockets, while we thought of the Stilton Show and of what we were going to miss by being away.
“I don’t even like swimming,” complained Daniel.
“And we’re too big for sandcastles,” I added.
Later Dad came home and we started packing, and then it was bedtime and in no time at all half past three in the morning. Mum shook us awake, and even at that hour you could feel the heat in the air promising a scorching day.
We drank tea and ate bowls of cereal while Mum wrote out a message for the milkman and Dad put our night things in the caravan. Colonel Blimp, Blimpie for short, was coming too. He is half Border terrier, half poodle, and very courageous. He tore round us yapping with excitement as we ran down to the paddock fence. Cloud and Crumble were lying down asleep, their backs towards us and, as Daniel said, it seemed a shame to wake them. Five minutes later we were on our way, Mum map-reading, Dad humming happily and Daniel and I still wishing we could stay behind with our ponies.
Five hours later we were driving on to a caravan site, our behinds sticking to the car seats in the heat, sweat running off our faces like rain. Beyond the sand dunes we could see the sea, stretching away until it met the sky. People were running about like ants in the distance, and a solitary sail was moving gently over the waves.
“It’s nice. Well done, Brian,” said Mum, patting Dad’s knee.
We threw ourselves out of the car onto parched seaside grass. Children were playing ball, an elderly man lay outside a caravan with a newspaper over his face. From another caravan came the sound of pop music. I wanted to be at home. It was an ache inside me which no sea, however beautiful, could drive away or make up for Cloud standing unridden under the trees in the paddock. And nothing could be as wonderful as the Stilton Show.
“You can’t expect anything better at this time of the year; everywhere’s crowded,” said Dad.
A van was selling ice cream. Dad bought us expensive cornets. Mum changed into shorts and a bikini top.
“Not a horse in sight,” I muttered sadly.
“Get changed,” shouted Mum. “What are you waiting for? Don’t you want to get into the sea?”
“You’re wrong, Dawn,” said my brother. “There are white horses. Waves make them, didn’t you know?”
“Very funny,” I replied.
We had to step over bodies to reach the sea. The sand was burning hot, the sea full of people screaming and splashing each other. I yearned for home as you yearn for water when you’re thirsty.
There was a camp shop full of frozen food, sweets, balls, surfboards: everything you needed at the seaside.
We went to bed early. Blimpie was happy, Dad said that everything was fine, Mum was making the best of it and Daniel and I were quiet. “Too quiet,” Mum said.
We spent the next day on the beach. The sun shone relentlessly from a cloudless blue sky. The caravan site was full to bursting. Milk and newspapers were delivered while the
ice cream van went ceaselessly round and round the site playing a hideous tune.
“If we were at home we would be practising now,” I told Daniel.
“Or swimming in the Osmans’ pool, which is much better than the sea,” he replied.
“Or seeing friends,” I added.
“I’m missing Stephen,” Daniel said.
“And I’m missing Maureen,” I replied. “And nothing ever happens on holidays. They’re as dull as a wet Sunday.”
“You’re dead right,” shouted Daniel.
“Shut up, you two, you’re spoiling everything,” cried Mum, lying in her bikini beside Dad on the sand.
“Spoiling what?” asked Daniel.
“Our first holiday in years. Why don’t you sunbathe and get a tan, Dawn?” she asked me.
“I hate sunbathing. It’s boring,” I answered.
And then on the next day something did happen.
It was evening. The camp smelt of fish and chips. Everyone seemed to be eating or drinking except us.
“We’re just going to the pub,” said Dad. “You’ll be all right won’t you? Stay by the caravan until we’re back.”
“And how long will that be?” asked Daniel, sounding old and experienced, as though he had seen it all before.
“Not more than half an hour,” replied Dad. But we knew Dad’s half-hours, which turned into hours and hours.
Mum was combing her hair. “We’ll hang around,” I promised. “We may just pop down to the sea, but no further.”
“Don’t talk to strange men,” Mum answered nervously. “And don’t accept sweets. Shout ‘Help’ if anyone stares at you.”
“And don’t swim,” added Dad.
The minute they had gone, we called Blimpie and made for the sea. It was coming in and the sand was almost empty, just one old dear was walking a Labrador. And then three boys appeared running towards us, laughing.
“I never knew you could throw like that, Charlie,” cried one.
“You should take it up, learn to throw the javelin,” shouted another.
“And what a result!” cried the third.
And Charlie laughed, his big mouth open, showing a row of rotting teeth to the whole world.
Then Daniel said, “Look, Dawn, look straight ahead.” There were two horses coming towards us, or rather a horse and a pony. They were trotting with trailing head collar ropes. They looked anxious and surprised to be free, like children just let out of school.
“We had better catch them,” said Daniel.
We held out our hands. They stopped and looked at us, summing us up, deciding whether we were friends or foes. We didn’t move but just waited for their decision.
“We’re all right, we’re horsey,” Daniel said.
“Whoa, steady, where are you going then?” I asked.
Another minute and we were holding them. One was skewbald; solid, kind and about fifteen-two with a touch of Shire in his head. The other was a pony; cream-coloured with large and trusting eyes.
“What are we going to do?” asked Daniel.
“I don’t know.”
“There’s a field next to the camp. It looks fenced,” suggested Daniel.
We led them there; they seemed pleased to be with us. But when we let them go they set off at a trot, heads up, exploring the field.
“What next?” asked Daniel.
“The skewbald was being ridden,” I answered.
“How do you know?” Daniel asked.
“He had the imprint of a rider on his back. That’s how,” I said.
“We can follow the hoofprints then,” answered Daniel.
“If we hurry – remember the tide’s coming in,” I said.
We started to run and Blimpie ran ahead of us, yapping. The hoofprints continued and led across wet sand, then round a corner to another cove where red rock met chalk, topped by grass, and a notice read BEWARE OF FALLING ROCK. The hoofprints petered out here but we could see a path winding up the side of the cliffs. I thought of Mum and Dad drinking, then returning and looking for us. “We’d better hurry,” I said anxiously.
“We should have brought the horses with us; it would have been more sensible,” said Daniel.
There were more hoofprints on the path, and the sand was now pale and dry – sand-dune sand.
“They can’t have escaped from a field because they’re wearing head collars and ropes,” I reasoned. “And you don’t turn horses out with ropes on.”
“Look at Blimpie!” shouted Daniel. He was running ahead of us now, yapping excitedly, while across the sea the setting sun was turning the clouds into golden islands.
“I can see an arm,” said Daniel.
“And I can see a leg,” I added.
“Supposing it’s dead?” Daniel asked nervously, stopping in his tracks.
“It’s a she,” I answered.
We bent over the woman. She was quite old and dressed in baggy cords, an anorak, old shoes and yellow socks.
“She’s not dead,” said Daniel.
“No, I am not, I am glad to say,” replied the woman. “But I can’t move. I think I’ve smashed my pelvis.” She had blue-grey eyes and tangled, greying hair.
“Have you lost two horses?” asked my brother.
“Yes, that’s me,” she said.
“We’ve put them in a field,” I told her.
“Thank you very much.” Her face was pale and she looked ill.
Daniel bent over her. “Are you in pain? Can you walk?” he asked.
“No. I’m done for,” she answered. “Finished. Ready for the knacker’s yard.”
“No, you’re not. We’ll get an ambulance,” I said. “And don’t worry. We’ll look after the horses.”
“There’s a key in my pocket. Hang on,” she said. “Just follow the path. My cottage is at the top. There are three little dogs inside but they won’t worry you. Dial 999. Tell them to come to Drover’s End and follow the path to the sea. They’ll know what you mean.” She handed us an enormous old-fashioned key. “Thank you. You’re marvellous,” she said. “Thank God you came. Some boy stoned us. Groucho came down on top of me. It wasn’t his fault.”
“The boys on the beach,” I cried. “We met them.”
“I think they must be insane,” she said.
“What about a name?” asked Daniel. “Shouldn’t we tell the ambulance people who you are?”
“Jan Williams from Drover’s End. They’ll know,” she said.
We started to run. “I think she’s in great pain. And she’s very brave,” said Daniel.
“I would like to murder that monster called Charlie,” I cried.
The cottage was small with thatch to the windows. Daniel unlocked the door beneath the porch and three little dogs ran round Blimpie, yapping.
“Bags I telephone,” I said.
There were horse brasses festooning the walls, a saddle on the arm of a chair, and bits of hay in the hall. We found the telephone in the kitchen. I dialled 999 and a voice asked me which service I required and I said “Ambulance”. Then I gave the name and address and added, “It’s urgent. It’s a serious accident, please don’t be long.”
I replaced the receiver and we started back towards the sea, but we could not shake off the dogs so finally Daniel stayed behind while I continued alone. “I’ll come with the ambulance men and guide them to the spot,” he called after me. Blimpie stayed with him so I was suddenly alone, running down the sandy path between the dunes, imagining Groucho jumping, stumbling on the hillocks, falling on poor Jan Williams. The boys should go to prison, I thought, but I expect they will get off or be put on probation.
Jan Williams raised herself on one elbow when she saw me returning. “You will look after the horses, won’t you?” she asked. “And the dogs.”
I nodded.
“Then when I’m gone, go to the pub and the landlord will ring my daughter. She lives nearly a hundred miles away but she’ll come,” she said. She had been crying, and I’m not used to grow
n-ups crying. I didn’t know how to comfort her.
“We’ll see to everything,” I promised. “Don’t worry. Worry never changed anything.” It sounded like my mother speaking, not me at all.
“Animals are such a responsibility. You realise it on occasions like this. Have you any?” she asked next.
“Yes, two ponies and our little dog.”
“That’s why you’re so sensible,” she said.
She was shivering violently now, though the sand was still warm and everything was still, without a trace of wind anywhere. I thought of our ponies and the show we were missing and it didn’t matter any more. Rosettes are just cream on the cake, I thought. One can do without them. This is far more important.
At last I could hear voices approaching, then Blimpie appeared and hurled himself at my feet, panting like a mad thing. I could hear Daniel saying, “She thinks she’s broken her pelvis.” He sounded important, like someone in charge.
“You won’t forget will you? You’re my only hope,” said Jan Williams.
“We’ll bring back the horses, feed the dogs, and ask the publican to ring your daughter. We’ll look after everything until she comes, okay?” I said.
“You’ll go to heaven,” Jan Williams answered.
The ambulance men knelt down beside her. They had brought a stretcher. “We’ll do our best, but we could do with a doctor,” one said.
Suddenly I was thinking of our parents, imagining them returning from the pub and looking for us, then calling, “Daniel, Dawn. Where are you?”
“We must go now,” I said. “We’ll see to the horses first, don’t worry. Good luck.”
“Our parents will be furious, you know that, don’t you?” I cried, running ahead of Daniel towards the cove below. “We can see them and smooth things over and then bring the horses back here. Okay?” I continued.
“Okay,” he answered.
I could hear Jan Williams calling something and I shouted back, “Sorry, can’t stop. We’ll come and visit you in hospital.” Then we were at the end of the path and there wasn’t a cove any more, just the sea lashing the rocks, no sand, no way back.
“We’ll have to find another way. Let’s go back to Drover’s End,” cried Daniel, after a moment’s stupefied silence.
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 1