“Silly girl,” I said.
Then I saw Nicholas opening the gate behind me.
“Are you all right, Lettie? I thought you were killed,” he said.
Mum came out of the house with Justice and Jasper at her heels. She had been painting. She still held a palette in one hand and her trousers had red paint on them. “What on earth are you doing?” she asked.
“We had a bit of a runaway. Some pigs upset Martini. Nicholas was jolly good and galloped all the way from Grayley. Where’s Tatters?” I said.
“Here he comes,” said Mum, and at that moment a very bedraggled Tatters came panting through the gate.
“Poor fellow, you have had a chase, haven’t you?”
“What actually happened? Don’t be so frightfully mysterious,” said Mum.
“Look, I must bathe Martini. She’s got several nasty scratches. Do you mind if I wait and explain at lunch?” I asked.
“All right, but buck up,” my mother replied.
My parents were at first rather alarmed by the tales they heard of my gallop from Grayley to Cherryford. Nicholas gave a vivid description at lunch while I bathed Martini. Mrs Wise, who helps us out sometimes, came hurrying round at two o’clock to find out if either of us had been hurt, and then told my mother what she had seen.
She said: “I was indoors, dishing up the dinner, when all of a sudden I ’eard their ’oofs come clattering down the road. ‘What on earth is that?’ I called to Arthur. And then I could tell it was ’orses like and I ran outside and there they were tearing down the road like a couple of mad things. Never seen ponies go so fast before, that I ’aven’t. Thought they were going straight through Mrs White’s, ’onest I did. And poor old Nick looked as though ’e was going to fall off any moment. And then they ’eaded for the river. And I thought, they’ve ’ad it. My ’eart leaped into my mouth as young Lettie galloped up the bridge and then I could see neither ’er nor Nick no more. Arthur,’ I said to my ’usband, ‘directly I’ve finished my dinner I’m going down to see what’s ’appened to them Lonsdales – poor little mites.’”
Bob Silver gave his own special version to Dad in the street, and on Monday Jim Hayward and Mrs White compared notes on our doorstep in Mum’s hearing.
But in the end my parents were very decent and sensible. They just said that I was not to hack Martini again until she had benefited from another week’s schooling in the orchard. I was surprised and pleased by their decision, and on Sunday, filled with hope, I rode her for an hour and a half in the orchard.
Then on Monday the weather changed. It rained and rained and rained. And I was sick and had to stay in bed, which was absolutely maddening. Mrs Wise said I was sick because of my gallop and fall on Saturday. “Delayed shock, that’s what it is,” she kept saying. Dad said I was sick because I had eaten too many unripe cherries. Nicholas said I was sick because it was wet and I didn’t want to go to school, and Mum said I was sick because the change of weather had upset me. Meanwhile Martini spent two days resting in the field.
On Wednesday Mum said I need not go to school, but I was well enough to go out so I planned to ride Martini in the morning and afternoon. It was a cold damp day, raw for the time of year and muddy underfoot. The Lynne looked dark and dirty. The trees were still weighed down by the water on the leaves. The skies were dull and grey and threatened rain.
Directly after breakfast I caught and groomed Martini. The rest had made her nervous again. She jumped whenever I put a hand near her head. She must have been struck over the head at some time or other, for she was always frightened of a raised hand or a riding-stick. Mum, Mrs Wise and Nicholas came to watch me schooling and their presence filled me with trepidation. Martini was very excited and some time passed before I managed to make her stand still to be mounted. She jogged through the white gate into the orchard with her head and tail very high. She shied and goggled at Jasper and Justice, who were lying panting in the grass.
“Be careful now,” warned Mum.
I felt as though I was riding on a spring that would suddenly shoot me high up into the skies. Martini simply would not let me into her back and I was sure that I had never felt so insecure in the saddle before.
“For goodness sake be careful, duck. She looks wicked this morning,” shouted Mrs Wise.
“She looks terribly fresh,” said my mother.
I shortened my reins and Martini tugged impatiently at my hands. Then she heard a rustle and shot into a gallop. I used my legs and pulled at her mouth, but she stuck her nose in the air and took me to the gate into the stable yard.
“Do be careful, darling,” said Mum,
“That pony will be the death of you, that she will,” called Mrs Wise.
“Why did you go to the stable yard?” asked Nicholas.
I turned Martini round, but she didn’t want to go back to our schooling corner. She bucked and plunged and ran backwards and pawed the ground.
“Lettie, I think you had better dismount right away,” shouted Mum.
“Else you’ll ’ave another accident,” added Mrs Wise.
Suddenly I felt angry. “I’m certainly not going to give in to her. She’s going to do as I say,” I shouted.
“Ride a cockhorse to Banbury Cross,” said Nicholas.
“Don’t be silly, Nick,” said Mum.
I hit Martini, and she bucked and dug the ground with each front hoof in turn, almost kneeling at the same time.
“You mark my words, that pony’s wicked, that she is,” called Mrs Wise.
I used my legs and hit Martini again, and she swung round with a half-rear and faced the gate again. I turned her once more, thinking, This is awful. I must win or they’ll make me sell her, and I set into her with my legs. And then suddenly she trotted forward.
“Oh, well done, Lettie. Jolly good. You’ve won!” cried my mother.
But she spoke too soon. For the next moment Martini heard another rustle in the hedge. She bucked, dropped her near shoulder and then swung round and galloped back towards the gate. The buck unseated me a little and I lost my stirrup, and the swing round threw me on to her neck. I mustn’t fall off, I thought, I mustn’t. Then the gallop threw me off all together and I landed on the wet, cold grass in a sprawling position.
The next moment Tatters was licking my face, and Jasper and Justice were looking at me with doleful eyes and wrinkled, worried brows.
I leapt to my feet at once, saying, “It’s all right, dogs. I’m not hurt.”
“Gracious, child, are you sure you’re not ’urt?” cried Mrs Wise.
“Are you all right, Lettie?” asked my mother in calmer tones. “You landed awfully neatly. It was the devil of a buck.”
“Yes, I’m all right, thank you,” I replied. Then I saw Nicholas had caught Martini (he’s always good in an emergency). I mounted her again and started to trot her round the orchard. She was thoroughly excited now and very awkward. Her back was up and she either tugged at the reins or stuck her nose in the air to evade the bit. Again I met with disaster. This time Minnie, our tabby cat, frightened her and she gave three bucks instead of one. I landed on my feet and wrenched my little finger trying to hold on to the reins.
“Lettie,” said Mum, “you’ve done enough riding for today, and that’s flat.”
“But I can’t give in to her,” I cried.
“No arguing,” said Mum.
“But you don’t understand,” I said.
“Yes I do. I understand terribly well. And you are to turn that pony out into the orchard and come indoors at once. It’s nearly lunch-time anyway.” The firmness of my mother’s voice depressed me.
“Oh, Mummy, don’t be mean,” whined Nicholas.
“And you can come in and help me fry the omelettes, Nick,” she added.
Of course I had to do as I was told. I caught Martini and scolded her, and then I turned her loose and leaned on the gate and looked at the dripping trees and the monotonous grey sky.
It’s a miserable day, I thought, an
d I should hate to try and paint it. I don’t wonder Martini was in a miserable mood. You shouldn’t ride when the weather is so awful and you’ve only just recovered from a bilious attack. It shows a lack of sensibility.
Then I fell to wondering why Martini was getting worse instead of better. What was I doing wrong? Should I change her bit? She ought to enjoy being ridden. Perhaps I was too rough with my hands. I mused until my toes and feet and nose were cold, and then I remembered that I should be having lunch, and hurried indoors feeling very apprehensive about what my mother would say about Martini’s behaviour.
She actually said very little and could offer no practicable suggestions, and I felt very depressed.
It started to rain really hard after lunch. There was a leak in our roof and the water came dripping through the ceiling in the passage upstairs, and downstairs we could hear it rushing madly into the well under the scullery floor. Nicholas said:
“Rain, rain go away,
Come again another day,
Nicko wants to make some hay.”
Tatters returned soaking wet from a ratting expedition. Jasper and Justice gazed dolefully out of the window. I was sunk in the deepest despair. What was I to do with Martini? I collected all of my books on schooling horses and, shutting myself in the dining room, tried to solve the problem.
It was Difficult Horses that first gave me an idea. I found that James Findlay, the author, in his chapter on Bucking – The Causes and Cure, gave the following advice: “Several weeks in a drop nose band and running martingale will often work wonders with a bucker. Used with a plain egg butt snaffle with two reins – the martingale should be fixed to the bottom rein – this combination will put the rider at an advantage and gives him more control than he would have in a double bridle without any danger of the horse becoming constricted or afraid of his mouth.”
It was food for thought. I sat thinking in the dining room till teatime. The first question which arose was, from where could I borrow a running martingale and drop nose band? Most children in my predicament would approach their Pony Club, I decided, but I had a guilty conscience where my branch was concerned because I had not attended any rallies during the past year. To tell the truth, I was disheartened by previous experience. You see, I was always put with the “little ones” and instructed by Miss Fipps, a hard-faced, elderly lady with grey hair permanently encased in a most unbecoming net.
Miss Fipps was one of the old school. “Lift him, Lettie,” she would cry, as I approached a fence. And, “Put your legs farther forward and your stirrups right home, and bend your wrists,” as I was schooled in the field. And she would tell my parents that my position in the saddle was absolutely incorrect. Once she pulled me out in front of the other “little ones”, who were all under ten, and said, “Now, this is exactly how you shouldn’t sit. You see how Lettie rides. Her reins are too short; her legs are too far back; her feet are not far enough in the stirrups and she sits too far forward in the saddle. If she had to ride a more difficult pony she would come to grief in no time. With her position she couldn’t hold a pecking horse up for a moment.”
I didn’t really mind these criticisms very much because I had complete faith in Pierre St Denis, who had spent hours correcting my “terrible English seat” and teaching me all that Miss Fipps objected to so strongly. If only I could have been put with the “bigger ones” I think I might have improved, for sometimes they had fairly well-known horsemen to instruct them, but Miss Fipps was sure that neither Pablo nor I were up to cantering circles or jumping anything above one foot high, and so we seemed doomed for ever to her class and I became disheartened.
Sitting now in the dining room, I recalled long hacks home from rallies, when I had dreamed of the day when Miss Fipps would see me winning the Open Jumping at the White City, or the Prix Caprilli or the British Dressage Championship.
But these reminiscences brought no solution to my problem, and presently I fell to thinking of all the people I knew. And then I remembered a girl at my school called Megan O’Connor. She was Irish and her father owned several horses, including some youngsters, and most Irishmen use running martingales.
During tea I told my mother that I had found a cure for Martini.
“All right, darling,” she said, on hearing my plan. “Try it by all means, but be terribly careful. I simply can’t bear all this falling off.”
“Why did Lettie fall off?” asked Nicholas. “Because she wanted to hit the ground. That’s a good one! Mummy, Mummy, don’t you think that’s a good one?”
“Oh, Nick,” said my mother. “You really are too senseless.”
“Lettie, why did the chicken cross the road?” asked Nicholas, quite unperturbed.
“Can’t remember,” I said.
“Got you! ’Cos it wanted to get to the other side, of course. Do you know this one, Lettie? Why did the cow look over the wall?”
“Because it wanted to get to the other side,” I replied.
“No, silly. ’Cos it couldn’t see through. I told you that one yesterday. Do you know this one?”
“No,” I interrupted, “and I’m going to go and wash up and make the dogs’ dinners.”
“Oh, Lettie, you are too mean,” wailed Nicholas. “It’s such a good one too.”
After tea I rang up Megan and she promised to bring a martingale and drop noseband to school next day, which was very generous, since we were really no more than acquaintances.
Next day I gobbled my tea even faster than usual, and at five o’clock I was adjusting the martingale and drop nose band in the stable yard. I measured the martingale to the withers and adjusted the nose band so that it was just below the bit and I could fit three fingers between it and the curb groove. Then, full of hope, I mounted and rode into the paddock. I had only Tatters to watch me this evening, for which I was glad.
Martini was fresh, her back was up and she was nervous. She was listening for rustles in the hedge and her eyes were searching for unfamiliar and frightening objects. Presently I told her to trot and then the trouble began. She bucked and swung round and tried to gallop me to the gate. But previously she had succeeded by sticking her nose in the air and opening her mouth, whereas this time I brought the martingale, which forced her head down, into action and the nose band prevented her opening her mouth as wide as she wished. I lost a stirrup when she bucked, but I quickly regained it, and in a couple of strides I had brought her to a standstill. I was convinced that Martini was not really afraid of anything. She was just playing up. So I made the most of my triumph and, turning her, used my legs and stick and drove her forwards in the direction I had first told her to go.
We trotted twice round the orchard and then she tried her bucking trick again, but I was ready. I managed to prevent her swinging round, and sent her into a brisk trot. I kept her trotting in the orchard for twenty minutes and then I started schooling her in earnest. I practised transitions from the slow trot to the ordinary trot and the ordinary trot to the extended trot. I practised halting, and circling, at the walk and trot. I practised trotting over a pole resting on two boxes and walking in a straight line. She did not attempt to buck again. She responded to the action of the drop nose band and I began to understand a little how it worked. She would open her mouth to resist the bit when I used the reins, and the nose band would immediately press on the front of her nose and on the curb groove. She would then drop her nose and relax her lower jaw, and the nose band would automatically stop pressing her.
I was delighted and, as though sharing my happy mood, the sun came out and a bird high amongst the apple branches burst forth in a song. A window in the house opened and Nicholas’s untidy fair head appeared.
“She looks lovely, like the horse in the circus. Look at the sun. I don’t see why I should go to silly old bed, it really is too senseless…
“The sun has got his hat on,
Hip, hip, hip, hooray.
The sun has got his hat on,
And he’s coming out today.”
I thought of coming shows and then I thought of Lydia Pike, who had made Martini so difficult. I remembered that she looked a bad-tempered, lazy girl and I knew she was a very rough rider. Mum said she was a selfish girl, the sort of daughter who would leave her mother all the washing-up to do. I thought of Pip Cox, whom I had met at a children’s party and at a gymkhana a year ago.
“Poor Martini,” I said, “you’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you? Never mind, you’ll be all right soon.”
Then Mum called that I had forgotten to make the dogs’ dinners, so I left the sunlit orchard and turned Martini loose, and went indoors.
From that day onwards Martini began to improve. She must have had some concentrated schooling at some earlier time in her life. Perhaps her breaker-in was a wise man, for now she learned very quickly. She stopped fighting against the bit. She became more supple and more attentive to the aids. My parents were very pleased, and soon I started to hack her again.
Then a marvellous thing happened. At the beginning of July my school had an epidemic of measles and had to close. I had all day and every day free for riding.
I was sure that Martini needed plenty of quiet work, so I gave her an hour’s schooling and an hour’s hacking a day, and within a fortnight she was jumping two feet six out of a trot. She was nervous of triples and parallel bars, but I knew this was Lydia’s fault. Lydia had strapped her head down so that she could not extend herself, making it terribly difficult for her to clear any broad obstacles. And Martini had developed a cat-jumping habit because Lydia did not give her enough freedom over the jumps, and she had become afraid of her mouth. So now I jumped Martini on a very loose rein and soon discarded the martingale, and gradually she became more confident. She lost the habit of kicking whenever she hit a jump, and she lost the habit of rolling back her eyes to see what my stick was doing. She began to look more at her fences when she approached them, and as a result she hit them less often. We had one or two quarrels, but if any difficulties arose or she started to excite herself and plunge and paw the ground, I always lowered the jumps at once. I found this method very successful.
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 22