The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories

by Christine Pullein-Thompson

  “Everything is going to be all right,” Andrew said, as though talking to a nervous animal. “Don’t worry.”

  “Famous last words! Touch wood!” I yelled back. What happened next was, I suppose, inevitable. A barrage of lights came towards us through the pouring rain. There was the blaring sound of a car horn and the muffled noise of tyres screeching on wet road. Then the terrifying moment, which seemed so long and yet was only the fraction of a second, while we waited for the impact of the crash and Andrew screamed, “Put your heads down.” There was a thundering, shattering noise which shook us to the marrow of our bones and then the sound of splintering wood and, at the same moment, the crackly sound of shattering glass. There followed an awful second when we pitched forward and were held with a sharp jerk of pain by our seat belts, followed by a feeling of terror as we turned over – the whole of us, trailer and Land Rover, and then the unbelievable sound of hoofs tearing into wood, which shook my inside and twisted it.

  “Everyone all right?” shouted Andrew.

  “The horses!” I screamed. “The horses are hurt!”

  We were in a heap, but alive, as we struggled to undo our seat belts, panic gnawing at us, making our hands clumsy and our heads feel on fire. A moment later we knew we were wedged against a bank. But soon faces were peering at us, wet-faced and anxious. “Are you all right? We’ve sent for an ambulance,” said a man who, in the circumstances, seemed grotesquely calm.

  “The horses! Where are the horses?” I cried, wedged between Andrew and the bank, like someone in a strait-jacket.

  Later, I was to discover that my knees were bruised and one hand was bleeding, but now I felt no pain, only a terrible anguish, as I shrieked, “Get us out! Please get us out!”

  “Steady there, steady, don’t get excited. You are going to be all right.” The man’s voice was calming and his calm seemed like an insult. Then someone was helping Mum out, and I could see Earnest held by a man, his rug askew. Andrew got out next, then it was my turn, and someone kept saying, “Steady, take it easy. Easy now,” as though I were a horse.

  In the road a Mini lay upside down. For a terrifying moment I thought I was going to collapse. Then I was shouting, “Where’s Seagull?”

  There are some moments you never forget, moments which haunt you for ever. This was to be one of them. A plump woman with a shiny handbag hanging over one arm was leaning over Mum, who had fainted. Andrew was holding Earnest who was staring into the distance, his eyes wild and panic-stricken. Several people were talking loudly, at the tops of their voices. All this I took in automatically, without any of it really registering. Then a police car drew in behind me and, at the same time, I noticed that the Land Rover’s wipers were working again as it lay in the ditch, started no doubt by the crash, and this seemed the maddest thing of all. Then I was running, past the ACCIDENT sign just erected by the police and on past a line of angry, fuming drivers, with the rain splashing against my legs and hammers going in my head, my eyes hardly focusing, imagining only Seagull injured, Seagull dying, Seagull dead.

  Soon cars were swerving to avoid me. A driver hooted, another put down his window to shout at me, “Fool!” Let them hoot, let them yell, I thought insanely. Let me be killed if need be, but please God let Seagull be alive, not lumps of meat on the road. And as I ran, I remembered Seagull arriving at our place on my birthday, with a card tied with ribbon round his neck, reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY VIRGINIA. From that moment he had been everything to me: friend, confidante, my greatest joy. Tears were running down my cheeks now, unasked. My stomach was tied in knots, my legs as flabby and weak as jelly, yet still I ran. And then, suddenly, I stopped and I seemed to be waking from a dream as I stood looking at the traffic, knowing that if Seagull was still alive he could have gone the other way anyway. Then someone leaned out of a car to call, “Are you all right, dear?” and I saw for the first time that I was spattered with blood. I didn’t answer but stood like an idiot in the rain, with tears pouring down my face, tortured by indecision, not knowing whether to go back or carry on, lost in a deluge of grief and uncertainty.

  A couple approached me now and gently led me to the side of the road. “You look shocked. Where are your parents?” the woman asked.

  “I’m looking for my horse. We’ve been in an accident,” I said and my voice was shaky and seemed to be coming from a long way off.

  They started to talk to one another then as though I were not there. They appeared to be discussing hospitals, so I told them, “I’m not going anywhere. I am perfectly all right. My brother and mother are just down the road. I was just looking for my horse.” My voice was steady but sounded unusually belligerent.

  “You’ve been thrown, haven’t you?” demanded the woman, who was dressed in a polyester dress which showed her rather large knees.

  I shook my head, which made the hammers start again, bang, bang, each blow hurting more than the one before. “I tell you I am all right!” I shouted, unnecessarily loudly. “I am simply looking for my horse.”

  Another car had drawn up now and a voice called, “Can I help?” I imagined myself being taken to hospital and kept under observation. And I hadn’t found Seagull.

  Then, like something in a dream, I saw him threading his way through the traffic, his grey head high and his eyes nervous. He was dancing rather than walking and for a terrible moment I thought, It isn’t true. I’m seeing things and in a moment he won’t be there.

  A voice called “Ginny, are you all right?” and I saw that leading Seagull was Sophy, dressed in an old school mackintosh and Wellington boots, her riding-cap on her head. She was soaked to the skin and her pudgy, red cheeks were glistening with rain. Her mother followed, pushing her old-fashioned upright bike.

  “He stopped when he saw Pixie. He’s all right. There’s nothing but a few scratches,” called Sophy.

  They had straightened his rug, but part of his headcollar was broken and his bandages were twisted. I threw my arms round his neck and at the same moment Dad drew up behind us in the BMW.

  “For God’s sake, Ginny, you’re covered with blood,” he shouted as he got out. “Get off the road at once! Are you all right?”

  “I thought Seagull was dead, but he isn’t,” I cried, burying my face in Seagull’s mane. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you at work? And where are Mum and Andrew?”

  “My customer failed to show up. I was on my way to watch you win your class,” Dad said. “Hop in, you need to see a doctor.”

  I saw that Mum was lying in the back of the car.

  “I can’t. I can’t leave Seagull,” I answered, my eyes suddenly full of silly, wild, happy tears.

  “We will take him home for you, don’t worry,” said Sophy, sounding quite grown- up.

  “Where’s Pixie and what about the show? You can’t miss that!” I cried. “Not after you’ve got ready and entered.”

  We had drifted into a lay-by to talk and it felt strangely peaceful after the road.

  “Pixie is tied to a GIVE WAY sign. Sophy will fetch him, then we’ll lead Seagull home for you – no problem,” replied Mrs Stevens, leaning her bicycle against a convenient bank before taking hold of Seagull’s head collar rope.

  “But you can’t miss the show and it’s three miles to our place,” I cried.

  “We don’t care about the show. I wouldn’t have won anything anyway, you know that,” insisted Sophy, looking at me with her pale amber eyes. “And it is the least we can do considering how you’ve helped us time and time again.”

  “Exactly. A friend in need is a friend indeed,” agreed her mother.

  “And Earnest? What about Earnest and Andrew?” I asked.

  “Andrew wasn’t hurt at all; he’s leading Earnest home already. Now hop in and stop making a fool of yourself,” said Dad, holding the car door open.

  Hesitating, I shouted to Sophy who had already set off to collect Pixie, “But will you be all right?”

  And Sophy answered, “Yes, of course.” And I knew they would to
o, because they were not such fools after all – just a bit different.

  Skeleton Rider

  Christine Pullein-Thompson

  “My, you have done well! Just look at your rosettes!” exclaimed a tweedy lady holding a bull-terrier on the end of a lead.

  The Melletts were accustomed to compliments. Derek, the eldest, raised his crash-cap and said, “Thank you, madam.”

  Felicity patted her grey pony and smiled. Lucy, who was only seven, pushed the cup she had won into her coat pocket. Simon leaned forward to count the rosettes on Hercules’ bridle.

  The show was over and the judges were standing together, drinking whisky. Ponies were being loaded into trailers. A weary steward was taking down the ring ropes.

  “We always win a lot but today we really swept the board,” said Derek, to no one in particular.

  They had come to the moors for the holidays, bringing their ponies to the old farmhouse which Mr Mellett had recently bought as an investment. It stood in a valley, completely alone.

  “If you’re going back to Hellsbottom Farm,” a man shouted to them, “you had better get going because it will be dark soon.”

  “We’re just off,” replied Derek. “Anyway, we like the dark. We’ve got cats’ eyes.”

  “You’ll need them, mate,” shouted the man. “And keep off Devil’s Pike. It’s no place for kids at night.”

  “Silly old fool,” muttered Derek rudely. “We’ll go where we like.”

  “He’s drunk,” said Felicity.

  “We’ll take the short cut,” said Derek firmly, taking a map from his pocket. “It will save at least five miles.”

  The ponies were in a hurry. Derek led the way on his skewbald, which was called Mousetrap and had pale hoofs and a wall eye. Felicity followed on the grey, Socrates. He was kind and wise, and had just won the under-fourteen jumping with three clear rounds. Simon’s Hercules was quick-tempered and excitable. He wore a pelham with a running martingale on the bottom rein. Lucy’s little brown Flyaway had a white star and made a noise when he galloped. They were all in a hurry to be home. They jogged and tossed their heads, while dusk came slowly over the wild countryside.

  After a time the Melletts decided to sing. They began with “Ten Green Bottles,” Lucy shouting louder than anyone. Then they sang “She’ll be Coming Round the Mountain”, “John Brown’s Body” and “This Old Man”. And then, because they were out of breath, they started to discuss the show again.

  “I’ve won the most. I’ve got seven rosettes, one for each class I entered,” boasted Simon.

  “Well, I’ve got six firsts,” cried Felicity. “And the Jumping Championship rosette; so I must be better. And what about Derek? He won the Gymkhana Championship.”

  “And I’ve won a cup, and it’s going to have my name on it,” cried Lucy, bouncing up and down in the saddle.

  “We really showed the locals. They won’t forget us in a hurry,” said Derek, his voice full of pride, as he halted Mousetrap and took the map from his pocket.

  “We should be on the front page of the local paper,” suggested Simon.

  “We turn off here,” said Derek, stuffing the map back into his pocket. “We go over Devil’s Pike.”

  “What a name!” replied Felicity, shuddering slightly.

  “I don’t like devils. I hope there are none around,” Lucy said with a giggle.

  They cantered along a track, Felicity looking back to see that Lucy was all right, while the boys raced ahead, yelling and whooping.

  Flyaway puffed and shied at rocks. Lucy kept one hand on the cup in her pocket. She was beginning to feel afraid. The night was almost upon them and it made the scattered bushes look like monsters, and ahead lay Devil’s Pike: a long, dark ridge with nothing on it save two twisted trees, looking grotesque in the gathering darkness. But she did not say anything, because the Melletts never admitted to being afraid. You had to appear brave, however frightened you felt. It was a matter of pride, and the Melletts were a proud family.

  Felicity was feeling nervous, too. The boys were still ahead. She was glad to be riding Socrates, who did not mind waiting for Flyaway. In the distance, Devil’s Pike appeared unwelcoming and hostile. She thought the trees along the top looked like tortured people, begging for mercy, and she wished that the moon would rise so that she could see what lay on each side of them.

  But now the boys were coming back. “There’s someone else riding. We heard hoofs and a neigh,” explained Simon. “It wasn’t an ordinary neigh.” His voice was shaking.

  “You’re not afraid? Oh, Simon!” exclaimed Felicity.

  “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I just thought you might like to know.”

  “I hope it’s not the Devil,” said Lucy, giggling.

  “Do hurry up,” Derek shouted impatiently. “It’s getting later and later. Do you have to dawdle?”

  He sounded on edge and suddenly they all felt uneasy, and the ponies sensed it and jibbed, refusing to go on. They ran backwards into each other. Stirrup banged against stirrup. Derek swore. Lucy started to cry. And now the night seemed darker than ever, and twisted trees looked weird and blighted, and a bird hovered overhead, calling like a voice of doom.

  “For goodness sake, can no one ride?” cried Derek, beating Mousetrap with his whip. And then, at last, they were riding forwards again towards the pike, while the first glimmer of moonlight made a pool of yellow in the sky.

  “I wish we had gone the longer way,” said Felicity.

  “So do I. Those trees look like devils, real devils,” said Lucy.

  “What’s the matter – scared?” asked Derek in a mocking voice.

  “No, but I don’t like it here. Can you hear the wind moaning? It’s saying something. Listen!” cried Felicity.

  “Belt up,” replied Simon, shivering. “People picnic here. I bet there’s litter bins on the top.”

  Lucy was trying to think about the show. She remembered winning the cup. She patted Flyaway, then kissed him on the neck, and thought, God will keep the Devil away.

  Then Derek spoke, and his voice was quite different from usual. His words seemed to dribble out in bits and pieces, and all of his arrogance was gone.

  “Look, there’s someone riding behind Lucy,” he said.

  They turned their heads and at the same moment their ponies started to gallop in a mad frenzy towards the pike. Felicity screamed. It was a scream which came from the depths of her being. It went on and on, echoing and re-echoing across the empty landscape. Lucy was frozen with fear. She was like a rabbit mesmerised by a stoat. She wanted to scream, but no scream came. Her hands were limp on the reins; she was incapable of doing anything and seemed to have no strength left.

  Derek simply dug his heels into Mousetrap. It was automatic. He didn’t think. He simply fled.

  Simon screamed. “It isn’t real. It’s an apparition.” But the words never left his throat. He could feel his heart thudding against his ribs like an engine revving up, and sweat, cold as ice, running down his face.

  What they saw was the skeleton of a boy, his teeth protruding, a faded crash-cap pushed down against his eyeless sockets.

  His bones were ivory white in the pale moonlight. He wore an old coat which hung shapelessly on his fleshless bones, reaching to his knees which were encased in tattered breeches. His skeleton hands clutched reins, which led to a skeleton mouth full of ancient teeth – for the horse he rode had no flesh either, though he reached into his bridle as though he had once been a racer, and what was left of his cheek was wide, and his empty eye sockets were large and generous.

  Lucy only looked once. She had no hope of outpacing the skeleton pair. Her sister and brothers had drawn away from her now. Flyaway was roaring, his sides going in and out like bellows. The race was lost before it was begun. She was alone with the apparition, with no hope of escape, no chance, nothing.

  From the skeleton’s mouth came the words, “Beware, beware. Pride comes before a fall.”

  And then L
ucy forced herself to look again at the mouth grinning down at her, and suddenly she could bear it no longer. She let go of her reins, her feet left the stirrups and, screaming silently, her small face contorted with fear, she fell into what seemed like nothingness and rolled over and lay still. And the skeleton laughed, a long hollow laugh, while Flyaway trotted on after the others towards the pike.

  Socrates could not outpace the skeleton pair either. Felicity stared at the skull beneath the hat. “Go away,” she whispered. “Please, please go away.”

  She started to pray. “I will never be nasty again if he goes. Please God, make him go. I’ll go to church every Sunday. I’ll be a nurse. I will devote my life to doing good – if only he will go away.”

  His hands were reaching out for her now, skeleton hands at the end of skeleton arms. “No!” she screamed. “No!” Then somehow she swung Socrates away, dear brave Socrates who never lost his head, and she was galloping away from the pike towards she knew not what, still praying.

  Simon gripped his whip. Hercules could gallop no further. His breath came in gasps, his sides were lathered in sweat. The skull grinned at Simon, his mouth opened to speak. Simon lunged forward and hit the grinning mouth, but he seemed to be hitting nothing, and the mouth only grinned more hideously. Then Simon found his voice.

  “Who are you?” he yelled. “Go away. I’ll fetch the police. Help, help!”

  He felt a bony arm round his neck, pulling him off. It smelt of nothing; it was light, lighter than plastic. It had no real substance. His knees clutched vainly at Hercules’ expensive saddle, his hands tried to wrestle with the skeleton hands; then he was down, lying across a boulder, listening to the skeleton’s laugh and his words which belonged with the wind, “You didn’t win that time.” And Hercules was gone. Everything was black and without hope and he thought, we’re all dead.

  But Derek was still galloping and Mousetrap was fast and agile. He turned the skewbald this way and that, hoping to outwit his pursuers, but still the skeleton pair were gaining. The moonlight was brighter and the trees on the pike were pale gold, and somewhere far away a train could be heard rushing through the night, showing that sanity lived on, that trains still ran, that somewhere people were still eating and drinking, while Derek lived through this horror alone with his gallant Mousetrap.