The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories

by Christine Pullein-Thompson

  Mum and Nicholas were very decent and helped me make fences out of some wood I had bought for very little, with my pocket-money, from a nearby wood yard. I found some three-ply in the garage and made letters, and marked out a dressage arena, like Pierre St Denis’s arena.

  Towards the end of July I received my Pony Club’s fixture list. They were holding a show and gymkhana on the first of August. I decided to enter Martini for the equitation and jumping classes. I told Megan of my decision when I returned her martingale – I was still using the drop nose band – and she said I could ride over one day and practise over her jumps. I accepted the offer and a week before the show I had a rehearsal at her place. Her fences, built by her father’s men, were solid and formidable, but well winged. I was able to take them fairly fast and Martini jumped magnificently. Megan was riding a green youngster which bucked between the fences and tried to run out. However, she only laughed at his misbehaviour. She was not interested in schooling or dressage or showjumping. She was only interested in riding with the hunt and point-to-pointing. Her great ambition was to win a point-to-point.

  Then July the thirty-first arrived and I took Martini for a quiet hack in the morning. It was a very hot day.

  There was hardly a ripple in the river, so slight was the summer breeze, and the flies buzzed ceaselessly round the ponies’ heads. The dogs would not venture from the shade of our garden except for a dip in the Lynne. Mum set out early with her easel, canvas, brushes, paints and palette to start a landscape: a picture of the rolling fields of corn by Grayley; a picture of blue and gold, of sunshine and the clear hot skies.

  Nicholas was riding in the egg and spoon race for children under ten at the show, so after lunch I helped him groom and trim Pablo and clean his tack, on the condition that he asked no riddles or questions. Pablo and Martini were encouraging ponies to groom because you could get a wonderful shine on their coats. Soon Pablo shone like polished ebony and Martini shone like polished oak, and by teatime we had finished grooming them. We kept them in the stable till dusk because the flies were so awful, then Mum, who had insisted that I should go to bed at half past seven, turned them out.

  The night was so stiflingly hot that I slept little, and I felt so sleepy when I woke at six in the morning that I had a swim in the river before catching the ponies.

  It was a wonderful morning. An early haze lay over the fields and the sleeping cottages of Cherryford, but above the sky was blue and in the east a great golden sun rose slowly, lighting the treetops and the rooftops with gold. A summer breeze, rich and warm, stirred the grasses. In the boughs of the elms and in the green hedges the birds sang their welcome to the day.

  And so, I thought, another August begins. A month of holidays and hopes, a month of fetes and horse shows, of crowded trains and coach parties. For me, this year, a happy and exciting month. And then at once my mind was filled with doubt… Would it be happy? Might I not disgrace myself today? Gallop like a mad thing from the ring? For a few moments I saw myself as I had seen Lydia at the Stringwell Show, and then, in my imagination, I heard my father say, “The pony must go, Lettie. She’ll only break your neck. I’m sorry, but there it is,” and I felt a wave of disappointment and sadness, a sickening tug at the heart.

  And then I remembered that this was only make believe. The show was not over but soon to begin. I must hurry, not waste time in dismal daydreams.

  I ran indoors and changed from my swimsuit to my shorts and T-shirt and trainers. A moment later I was in the orchard catching the ponies, which were damp with dew and sleepy-eyed. There were two rabbits nibbling the short, sweet grass under the white-heart cherry tree, and Tatters, yapping wildly, chased them to their burrows. It was the first sharply-penetrating noise to shake the morning air, and it made me wide awake at last.

  I washed the ponies’ tails and presently Nicholas came out from the house.

  “I say,” he said. “I’m awfully sure I shall be last. My hand’s shaking. I shall never hold a spoon.”

  “Nonsense. Come and help me groom. Grooming will make your hand steady again,” I told him.

  At eight o’clock I started plaiting the ponies’ manes. I am not nimble with my fingers, and my plaits looked loose and floppy. Martini made matters worse by constantly shaking her head. Nicholas asked questions until in exasperation I sent him in to breakfast, and Tatters yapped and yapped because Minnie was up a tree and for some unknown reason he didn’t think Minnie should be allowed to climb trees.

  By nine o’clock I was nearly demented. I vowed secretly that I would never again enter for a horse show and I snapped at my mother when she called “Breakfast” for the fourth time.

  At long last I was indoors eating and dressing. I recited poetry to take my mind off the equitation class.

  “I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.

  Nature I loved, and, next to nature, Art:

  I warm’d both hands before the fire of life;

  It sinks and I am ready to depart.”

  I felt that I had already striven too long. Why do I strive? I wondered. Why not stay at home whenever possible, in peace and quiet?

  I wondered how other children felt before horse shows. Did they wish they had never entered?

  And then it was time to go.

  It was a long, hot ride to the showground, and the ponies were very quiet. We had two miles of roadwork at the start, and very dusty miles they were too, and then we took a bridlepath that led us through fields high in corn and pasture that smelt of burnt grass and hot clover, and a fir wood that smelt dry and harsh as all fir woods do.

  After a little while we reached a rough hillside dotted with gorse and broom, and we dismounted and rested the ponies, for Pablo was showing signs of weariness. There came to us the scent of thyme and the hum of bees, and, from the tall bitter grass, the burr of grasshoppers. We looked down into the valley where we had ridden only a few moments before, to the rolling acres of gold and the brown pastures, to the winding track, dusty and grey, which had guided us so faithfully towards our destination. And we looked to the horizon of blue, to the deep blue sky.

  “What colours!” I cried. “They are like van Gogh’s Provence. Never have I seen such gold before. How I wish I could paint! Or even write.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. Do you know this one, Lettie? Why is an author a peculiar animal?” asked Nicholas.

  “I don’t know,” I said without troubling to think. “Gosh, it’s a quarter to eleven and we’ve two miles to go. We must push on.”

  “Because his tale comes out of his head,” said Nicholas.

  “Whose? Oh – the author’s – sorry. That’s quite a good one. Come on. Hop up.”

  A mile of grassland and twenty minutes’ ride down lanes and roads bought us to the showground, where the first class, an equitation competition for children under ten, was in progress. Our mother and father had arrived. I could see our three dogs and our battered car over by the collecting ring. Bob Saunders, who was a Pony Club member though he never attended rallies, was cantering Nobby Boy in circles. Nicholas dismounted.

  “Poor Pablo’s tired already,” he said.

  Mum appeared panting at my side.

  “Lettie, you are terribly late. Do hurry. Your class is next,” she said.

  “We had to stop on the way, ’cos Pablo was tired. We’ve had a lovely ride, Mummy, through corn and hay fields. We’ve come ever, ever such a long way,” said Nicholas.

  I loosened Martini’s girths, took her to the car and brushed her over and oiled her feet. When I mounted the megaphone was calling all competitors for class two, and then I realised that I was riding in a snaffle and drop nose band instead of the double bridle as I had intended. I cantered back to the car and, with Nicholas’s help, changed my bridle, and then it was time to enter the ring. Miss Fipps was at the entrance.

  “What’s that you are riding? Not a bad-looking brute, is it?” she asked.

  I paused. “Yes, I think she’s quite nice-lookin
g, but I don’t know how she’ll behave,” I answered.

  “What have you done with that dreadful little black animal?” she called, but I was walking into the ring and, because I thought her remark about dear little Pablo rude, I pretended not to hear.

  There were two judges, both men. They were not the usual ones we had for our Pony Club show, in fact I was sure I had never seen them in my life before. There were about fifteen competitors in the class, which was open to members of ours and our neighbouring Pony Clubs; nearly all of them rode with their legs well forward. Presently we were told to trot and then to canter. We were going round to the right and three riders were sent out of the ring because they were leading with the wrong leg. Fortunately Martini was calm, and when she is calm she never makes a mistake when told to canter. Presently we were sent round on the other rein and four more riders were asked to leave the ring because they led off on the wrong leg. Then the eight of us that remained were lined up. The oldest judge, who wore spectacles and looked too old and decrepit to ride, explained that he wanted each of us in turn to trot up to the brush fence and canter back on the off leg, and then halt in front of his co-judge and himself, and rein back three steps.

  Maureen Fielding, a red-haired girl who, according to Miss Fipps, had a perfect seat, went first. She bent her pony’s head outwards when she turned at the brush fence and pulled on the reins when she backed, relaxing her hands for a second each time the pony took a step.

  Next a boy on a piebald tried the test and was sent out because he could not make his pony canter. He was followed by a tall, elegant girl on an obviously schooled and balanced hunter. I thought she rode well, with a style that would have pleased Pierre St Denis. Her horse gave an excellent show. He carried himself with an air; he flexed his head inwards when he turned the corner and led straight off at the canter. Someone whispered that the tall girl came from a Pony Club in Oxfordshire or Berkshire and that she had been placed in dressage tests. Now it was my turn. A steward beckoned to me. For an awful moment I panicked; I could not remember what I was supposed to do. I looked helplessly at the judges and then suddenly the test came back to me. I collected my thoughts, shortened my reins and trotted up to the brush fence. Martini was nervous and hesitant and, as a result, she was not trotting straight. I used my legs and then, as we turned, I lowered my outside hand and used my outside leg just behind the girth and my inside leg on the girth. She led off correctly, and with a feeling of tremendous relief I cantered back to the judges. Although I used my legs, she was rather on the forehand when I halted and she did not back quite straight. However, the old judge looked fairly pleased and said, “Well done,” which was heartening.

  Only four riders survived the test. The others were sent out for not cantering at all or for leading off on the wrong leg. Presently we were told that we were to trot and canter a circle to either hand. I began to feel sick so I didn’t watch my fellow competitors. Instead I looked at the spectators. They were a drab crowd on the whole. Mum was the only brightly-dressed adult that I could see. She was wearing a plain, yellow-checked dress and a blue jacket and a large straw hat from Sorrento. Miss Fipps was wearing a very dreary coat and skirt; it drooped terribly and its colour bore a strong resemblance to mud. I fell to wondering why she liked such dreary shades. And then the tall girl said, “The judges want you to go next,” and with horror I realised that I had been sitting gaping at the ringside while the decrepit judge had been speaking to me.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I said, hurrying Martini away from the other ponies.

  “All right,” the younger judge said. “Take it easy. Don’t get fussed.”

  Martini went well with a nice even tempo at the trot, but cantering she rushed a little and my circle became larger than I intended. She was a little worse to the right than the left, and at one moment she was very heavy on my hands. I decided that I might be placed fourth and wondered vaguely whether my rosette would be white or green and whether it would say fourth or reserve. Then I looked at the judges and noticed that the other riders were moving.

  “Come on,” said the tall girl. “You’ve got second.”

  I hurried forwards and stood beside her, making Martini look as nice as I could.

  “Your pony goes well into her bridle. And her tempo’s good. Give her some more schooling and then try her in some elementary or novice dressage tests later on. She might win something. Where did you learn, by the way?” said the decrepit judge, handing me a blue rosette.

  “Thanks awfully. Pierre St Denis taught me all I know about dressage. I think he’s frightfully good,” I told him and wished I hadn’t said awfully and frightfully.

  “You lucky girl!” said the younger judge.

  “Couldn’t find a much better instructor,” remarked the decrepit judge.

  “Thanks frightfully,” I said, and then, as I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I turned and followed the tall girl who had won first and cantered round the ring. I had an awful desire to grin broadly, but I quelled it because I did not wish to appear triumphant or smug or self-satisfied.

  In many ways it is easier to be a good loser than a good winner. I have so often lost in races and competitions that I never expect to win, and therefore I am never disappointed or annoyed when I lose.

  My parents were very surprised by my success. Dad had not watched all the equitation class, and he was amazed to see my blue rosette.

  “Good lord!” he said. “You don’t mean to say you’ve won something? Janet, Janet, Lettie’s actually won something. Old Miss Fripps will die of shock.”

  “Not Fripps, Fipps. I think Martini’s been very clever,” I said.

  Mum gave Martini six lumps of sugar, and then the megaphone called me into the collecting ring for the children’s jumping. There were nine entries in this class including Bob Saunders with Nobby Boy.

  Pierre St Denis would not have approved of the course. The jumps were narrow and flimsy and fell too easily. But the Pony Club members liked them because they were well- winged. Because the Pony Club members rode with their legs too far forward, they could never keep their ponies straight at unwinged obstacles. Two of the older members were complaining now about the judges.

  “Can’t think why Miss Fipps asked such awful judges. One of them is not even English. And he learned at some cavalry school in France. Like to see him hunting in this country.”

  “Don’t worry, Jane, he wouldn’t. He would be scared of the fences. But I know why Miss Fipps got them here. It’s this Pony Club Inter-Branch Competition. They are experts on that sort of thing and she wants to know what they think of us.”

  The standard of jumping was very low, and the first two competitors each had three refusals and were disqualified. Then Bob Saunders jumped his usual clear round with Nobby Boy. He’s a very rough rider, but he’s fairly successful with his cobs. Then it was my turn. Martini was nervous and up to now I had kept her walking about. She was trembling when I entered the ring. I remembered Lydia’s dramatic exit at Stringwell and decided to take her slowly. The first jump was a brush fence. I took it from a trot and then increased to a canter for the second – a pair of hurdles – and then slowed down for the third – a gate – which was the nearest to the exit and entrance.

  As Martini landed she tried to put on a spurt, but I was ready and collected her in time. We passed the entrance at a slow canter and knocked the stile, which was the fourth jump and very flimsy indeed. Only three more remained: some rails, a very poor imitation of a red brick wall and a narrow triple. We cleared them all, and faint applause accompanied us from the ring.

  Outside, I dismounted and patted Martini. Mum came hurrying across the showground. Nicholas was waiting for the egg and spoon race, which was the next event. I could hear him talking to the tall girl, whom he admired tremendously. He was saying, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” I wished he would not bother people with his silly riddles.

  “Well done, Lettie,” said my mother. “You were terribly go
od.”

  “I took her too slowly at the stile. It was my fault she hit it,” I said.

  Presently I loosened Martini’s girths and lay in the long grass looking at the cloudless sky. I thought, I mustn’t forget this day; it’s one of the happiest in my life. I don’t mind if I don’t win anything in the jumping. I know she’s improving, and that’s all that matters. One day I’m going to school some of the best horses in England. I’m going to be an expert. Today is the first step up the ladder to success.

  And I gazed at Martini and thought, She’s lovely. Look at those long forearms and those neat, short cannon bones. Look at her head, so well-bred and intelligent. I wish I could paint horses… I am really the luckiest child here. No one else has such a marvellous pony.

  I was so hot that I couldn’t watch the other competitors, but I had seen most of them jump at rallies and I knew they were not particularly good. I was not unprepared when I heard my number called over the megaphone. This time I was half expecting to win second or third, though I was surprised when I was handed the blue rosette and I realised that I had beaten the tall girl, who told me that she had knocked the rails and stile. We cantered round the ring and then Bob Saunders, the winner, shoved Nobby Boy into a cattle truck and dashed off to another show.

  I ate lunch while the egg and spoon race was in progress. Nicholas was last in his heat because he dropped his egg three times.

  Then, after Nicholas and the ponies had eaten – Martini waited for Pablo – we left for home.