The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories

by Christine Pullein-Thompson

Our village is very interested in the movements and behaviour of its inhabitants. Nothing goes unnoticed. As I rode down the old and lovely street, people came to their windows and doors to watch me on my way.

  Tatters, my wire-haired terrier, was waiting for me in the yard. He’s a disreputable character, always rabbiting and tearing his ears and getting stuck in holes. But he is very brave and very sporting. One winter he had quite a battle with a fox in an earth in Duke’s Wood.

  He’s fond of horses and I was glad to see that he took a liking to Martini.

  My mother came running out of the back door. “Here you are at last! We wondered if you were ever going to get here. Push her into the loose box. Nick and I have put some hay and water ready. And then come in and have some supper. There’s ham and salad and cider.”

  At that moment my seven-year-old brother, Nicholas, leant through the open window.

  “She looks jolly good. I expect Pablo will be pleased. Why did you ride her without a saddle?” he asked.

  “Because Pablo’s wouldn’t fit her,” I said.

  “Why wouldn’t it fit her?” asked Nicholas.

  “Because it is too small.”

  “Why’s it too small?”

  “Oh, do stop asking questions. Why are your old clothes too small for me? Because I’m larger than you, being older,” I said, feeling exasperated.

  “Is Marty older than Pablo? And will Pablo grow bigger like me?” asked Nicholas.

  “No. Now do stop. I want to settle Martini,” I told him.

  “When are you going to introduce Pablo to her?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Because I’m not.”

  “Why’s she sleeping in the stable? It’s so hot.”

  “Because she’s been in since the autumn.”

  “In where?”

  “A stable.”

  “Which stable?”

  “Pip’s and Lydia Pike’s stables.”

  “Who’s Lydia Pike?”

  “You know perfectly well, Nicholas. We’ve been talking about Lydia Pike for days.”

  “I've never heard you.”

  “That’s because you never listen to what people are saying.”

  “I do.”

  “You know, it’s your bedtime,” I said hopefully.

  “No, it’s not. Mummy said I could stay up ever, ever so late tonight.”

  “All right. Let’s go in to supper now,” I suggested, giving Martini a last pat and turning towards the house.

  “You’ve forgotten to say goodnight to Pablo.”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ll do it later when I shut up the hens.”

  Indoors we all talked about Martini. At least my mother and I talked and Nicholas asked questions and my father listened.

  Riding back from Stringwell I had laid my plans. I knew that Lydia Pike’s rough handling had made Martini frightened of her mouth, constricted and excitable. I would start to cure these faults by hacking her quietly in a snaffle on a loose rein.

  It was term-time and I had to go to school every weekday, but my homework was not difficult and I could spare an hour for riding in the long summer evenings.

  “If you get into real difficulties you can write to Pierre,” said Dad.

  I think I must explain now that Monsieur Pierre de St Denis, the well-known French horseman, is a friend of my father. Last summer he asked my parents and me to stay at his estate on the outskirts of Fontainebleau. He lent me a little grey mare called Chiffon to ride, and instructed me in the art of equitation. It is from him and the books he recommended me to read that I have learned most about riding and schooling. And I shall never forget those six wonderful weeks in France.

  After supper I paid a call on Martini and then wandered out into the orchard to say goodnight to Pablo, the little black pony on which I first started to ride. He was lying against the hedge in a corner, looking very snug and sweet. The night was cool and clear. The moon sailed high amongst her stars, touching the cherry boughs with silver and casting great pools of silver by the gate. I could see the Lynne, drifting before the breeze with barely a ripple, and I could see the noble outline of Martini’s head above the loose box door.

  “Pablo,” I said, “one day I’m going to be a famous equitation expert. I’m going to jump for England, in Dublin, in Nice, in Rome, in New York. All over the world.”

  I put an arm round the little black neck and looked at the moon and stars, so clear and lovely in the evening sky. I wished that I could express my feelings in oil on canvas. The pools of silver and darkness … the cherry boughs … the dead elm, sharp and naked, etched against the sky … the stillness and the winding river … the old pink house silent amongst the trees … the stable roof … the curving lawn … the sleeping flowers. The beauty of it almost hurt me. My ambitions faded. I patted Pablo and then wandered slowly to bed.

  I gave Martini one day in which to settle down and then I started schooling her in earnest.

  At half past four each day I would return from school, gobble my tea, do my homework and then ride till darkness fell. The weather was perfect; the evenings warm and fine. Those last hours before nightfall always passed too quickly.

  My efforts were well rewarded. Each day Martini seemed quieter and more confident. She shied less often, she became steadier on the bit; she learned to trot on a loose rein. But I had vowed not to canter her for a fortnight. I wanted the rides to be as peaceful and calming as possible. Often I would stop and, dismounting, let her graze while I admired the sunset – golden sands and red-tipped rocks and a darkening sea of blue.

  Sometimes when we turned for home all the world seemed asleep. Dusk had fallen and the birds’ last songs had faded. The wild flowers in the woods and at the roadside were shut in slumber. The fields lay silent in the gathering darkness. The trees loomed dark and eerie, watchful sentinels of the night. Far away beyond the river an evening star was shining and a great stillness descended on the land.

  Presently May turned to June and all Cherryford was bright with blossom and sweet with the scent of hay. Old Bob Silver, the boatman, did some trade with his boats and Nicholas started to learn to swim.

  I cantered Martini during the first weekend, and a few days later I started to school her in a corner of the orchard. I was disappointed to find that balancing exercises excited her. She seemed to forget all that I had taught her on those evening rides and would barely walk a step.

  Nicholas was exasperating. He made a point of watching me from his bedroom window, which looked out on the orchard, and he asked endless questions.

  “Why doesn’t she walk?” he would call.

  “Because she’s overexcited,” I would answer.

  “Why’s she excited?”

  “Because Lydia knocked her about when she schooled her.”

  “Who’s Lydia?”

  “Lydia Pike.”

  “Why did Lydia Pike knock her about?”

  “Because she is a horrible girl with a bad temper.”

  “If I was Lydia Pike’s mummy I would hit her ever so hard. I would make her black and blue. Wouldn’t you, Lettie?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Now stop asking questions and let me school in peace.”

  But it needed Mum to stop Nicholas. He would never take much notice of me.

  During June I schooled Martini four times a week and hacked her twice a week. I kept strictly to a programme when schooling. It was as follows:

  Ten minutes walking and trotting on a loose rein, to loosen her up. Thirty minutes balancing exercises at the walk and trot, including work at the ordinary walk; the ordinary, and slow and extended trot, reining back, halting, turning on the forehand and circling. Five minutes cantering and five minutes walking over a pole on the ground.

  Her halting was very bad. She tried to swing her quarters to the right, she snatched at my hands instead of accepting the bit and relaxing her lower jaw, and she stood with her legs all anyhow. Hacking, her tempo seemed go
od, but in the orchard she was nervous and jumpy and there was no cadence in her trot. At first she had only to see the pole lying on the ground to start bucking and plunging. In fact she became so upset that I had to dismount and lead her over it in the first two lessons. But gradually she became more sensible and eventually she paid no attention at all. Cantering, she was difficult to control, and several times she tried to take me over the orchard hedge. She was very fussy in the mouth and at times I found it impossible to stop her in a plain snaffle.

  The people at Cherryford were very interested in Martini. The baker and the blacksmith gave me advice, and Bob Silver told me to stick to boats. And many were the compliments passed on her appearance. Each day I was encouraged by her improvement. And then something awful happened, which gave Cherryford a topic of conversation for weeks.

  It was a Saturday in the third week of June, and for the first time Nicholas was allowed to come riding with me. He could canter now and Pablo, although obstinate in the orchard, was very good and obliging on the roads.

  It was a bright, windy morning. There were little rustles in the hedgerows and the elms round our house creaked as the wind tossed their branches to and fro. The Lynne sparkled with dancing waves and in Duke’s Wood a cuckoo called.

  “We will go for ever, ever such a long ride, and when we get home we’ll be so hungry that we’ll eat all the lunch,” said Nicholas.

  “Don’t tire him, Lettie,” said Mum.

  We went out in high spirits, taking Tatters with us. For a couple of miles we rode quietly by the river. Then we went through the treasured, old-world village of Ferryfields, climbed a long, steep hill and entered the large, overgrown woods that lie between Ferryfields and Grayley. Martini was walking well with a long free stride, and every now and then I had to wait for Pablo. It was a new piece of country to Nicholas and he was so interested that he would not hurry. It was very quiet in the woods; only our hoofs on the hard pathway and the whispering of the wind amongst the trees broke the stillness. Tatters was in heaven. Far below us in the valley he hunted rabbits, but the sound of his barking drifted away from us to the river. Presently we trotted and Martini shied at shadows and birds. On two occasions she all but unseated me. Nicholas thought her very silly.

  “Silly old Martini. Fancy being frightened of little things like that. Pablo isn’t,” he said, and then he started to chant his pet nursery rhyme:

  “Solomon Grundy,

  Born on a Monday,

  Christened on Tuesday,

  Married on Wednesday,

  Fell ill on Thursday,

  Worse on Friday,

  Died on Saturday,

  Buried on Sunday,

  That was the end of Solomon Grundy.”

  And at the same moment Martini began to misbehave. We had reached a windy part of the wood, in full view of a magnificent roll of downs. There was an exhilarating freshness in the air and the great stretch of uncut hay before us rippled like a summer sea. Little clouds raced madly in the deep blue sky. Martini began to sneeze and pull and kick up her heels. I sat down hard in the saddle and tried to collect her, but in a plain snaffle it was difficult.

  Nicholas continued chanting the rhyme.

  Our pathway ran beside the downs. If we started galloping we could gallop for miles over all those rolling acres of grass and wheat, oats and barley. I could feel Martini tingling as she sniffed the air. I sympathised with her, but I dared not canter in the open country with Pablo and Nicholas. Nicholas, of course, did not realise that I was in difficulties. After he had repeated the wretched nursery rhyme several times, he began to ask me riddles.

  “Lettie,” he shouted, “how can you say hungry horse in four letters?”

  “I don’t know and I haven’t time to think,” I shouted in reply.

  “I’ve got you! You don’t know. Silly old Lettie. Shall I tell you?”

  “Later, when we get home.” I used my legs and raised Martini’s head to prevent a buck.

  “MTGG,” called Nicholas triumphantly.

  “Oh, jolly good,” I said.

  “Why does a thirsty woman carry a watch?” he asked.

  “I haven’t a clue,” I yelled, trying to straighten Martini, who was dancing sideways, with my legs.

  “You might try,” pleaded Nicholas.

  “Well, catch up. Then I might be able to hear you,” I said, hoping that Pablo’s presence would calm Martini.

  “Okay. Now,” said Nicholas, when he had caught up, “why does a thirsty woman carry a watch?”

  “So that she knows when the inns are open,” I replied.

  “Wrong. Wrong. I’ve got you! You don’t know, do you? Because it’s got a spring in it. Now I’ll ask you another.”

  “No,” I said. “Please don’t. Can’t you see that I’m having a job with Martini? She’s bucking and playing up.”

  “Why is she bucking?”

  “Because the open fields make her want to gallop.”

  “Why? Why do the open fields make her want to gallop?”

  “For goodness sake, be quiet for a minute or I’ll never take you for another ride as long as I live,” I said, as Martini gave a whopping buck which nearly sent me over her head.

  The remark silenced him for a few moments, and then luckily the pathway turned back into the wood and Martini became calmer. Soon we entered a lane and turned for home through Grayley, which is a little hamlet with a few thatched cottages, a tumbledown farm and a well.

  It was here that Martini first became really frightened; a child was rolling a metal hoop along the lane. It made an awful rattling noise. Martini stopped dead and watched, with quivering nostrils and fast-beating heart.

  Nicholas, of course, didn’t notice her fear, shouting, “What are you stopping for? I’m hungry. Come on.”

  I called to the boy to stop rolling the hoop for a minute, but he didn’t hear. Each moment brought him nearer and nearer with the terrifying object turning in front of him. Martini stood stock-still with arched back, raised tail and shaking sides. Then, as it came within ten metres of her, she swung round and galloped back up the lane as fast as her legs would carry her. At the top by the wood she stopped and, turning, gazed down to Grayley where Nicholas and the boy with the hoop were talking. I patted her and lectured her, and then gradually I persuaded her to go back down the lane and walk past the boy.

  “What on earth are you doing? I thought you didn’t like galloping in lanes,” said Nicholas.

  I told him about the hoop and then we walked on in silence. Martini was still nervous. She hesitated at every corner and sidled round every object in the hedgerow.

  “She is a silly horse,” said Nicholas.

  “She isn’t. She’s been knocked about and she’s highly-bred and highly-strung,” I retorted. I was fed up with Nicholas.

  There were fields either side of the lane now, untidy fields with old, rusty water troughs and broken carts and tins lying about. Martini found plenty of things to frighten her. She walked with quick, springy steps. Then suddenly she stopped dead, turned round and uttered three piercing snorts.

  “She’s a wild mustang!” said Nicholas.

  There were a dozen pigs in the field, fat pink porkers. They were grunting and snuffling in the ground. They looked very greedy and very wicked. Martini stood stock-still, her eyes fixed on them. I could feel her heart beating and her flanks heaving. I spoke to her.

  “What’s the matter now?” asked Nicholas in exasperated accents.

  “Pigs,” I said, and, as I spoke, all the pigs saw us and of one accord came racing down the field towards us, making the most hideous grunting noises.

  I shall never know why they made that charge. Perhaps they thought we were going to feed them. They were a monstrous sight and they shattered Martini’s nerves. She gave them one terrified stare and then galloped for home. I sat down hard in the saddle and tried to collect her, but to no avail. I pulled at her mouth. I tried to turn her into the hedge. I said, “Whoa, steady. It’s all
right. Whoa, whoa, walk, silly, walk, Martini. Pigs won’t hurt you,” in what I hoped were calming tones. But everything failed. We galloped on.

  I had never ridden so fast before in my life. The fields flashed by. Each moment brought us nearer home. I was a little worried about Nicholas. Looking back, I could see Pablo was following Martini. Nicholas rode jolly well considering his age, but I was afraid he could not stand a long gallop and the ground was hard here for falling, hard and rough with big jagged stones. I tried pulling at Martini until my arms ached, and then I tried sitting still and talking to her. I especially wanted to stop before I reached Cherryford. But as the minutes passed, and Martini’s gallop was as fast as ever, my hopes faded. I must say she was a beautiful mover, and if the lane had not been so rough and Nicholas and Pablo had not been following at their own breakneck speed, I think I would have enjoyed the gallop.

  Presently we turned a sharp comer and saw Cherryford lying in the valley. Red and brown rooftops, apple blossom, and the river winding silver in the sun. And there was our own pink house, just visible through the trees. What will our mother and father say, what will Bob Silver say, when Nicholas and I go galloping down the street? I asked myself. And of course, I had yet to know the answer. And then the dreaded moment came. I passed the signpost that points to Ferryfields, Longhatch and Grayley, and raced down the street for home. With all my heart I wished our hoofs did not make such a clatter on Cherryford’s partly-cobbled street. But I wished in vain. Doors and windows were flung wide. People ran to the side of the road out of our way. A car stopped abruptly. Jack Hill, the farrier, hurried to his gate. Mrs White, the grocer’s wife, left her counter. John Hayward left his baking and Bob Silver left his boats. All to see us go clattering by.

  “I’m John Gilpin!” cried Nicholas.

  Then there was only the bridge between us and home. A child heard our hoofbeats and ran screaming down the road past our house. Three people in a canoe stopped paddling and watched our wild approach. Martini reached the bridge and took it in three bounds. Our white five-barred gate was shut, but she did not hesitate. She jumped and hit the top and fell. For a moment I saw the drive rising to meet me, then I had hit the gravel and Martini was lying on my leg – I marvelled at her lightness – and then with a flash of silver shoes she had scrambled to her feet and was standing shaking in the drive. I rose slowly. I was not hurt, but I had to collect my thoughts. I took hold of Martini’s rein and patted her. She had scraped her side and one leg.