Nicholas was cheerful. “Never mind,” he said. “I expect I shall win something one day. P’raps when I’m an old, old man. And now you’ve got enough to buy Martini a bridle, haven’t you? With the money you’ve won?”
We rode very slowly because the weather was so hot, and it was past teatime when we reached home.
Towards evening the telephone rang. I answered and a voice the other end said Miss Fipps wanted to speak to Lettie Lonsdale.
“This is Lettie speaking,” I replied.
“Oh, yes, well,” said Miss Fipps. “You know the older of the two judges today? He’s my brother-in-law.He’s got all sorts of crazy notions about riding – always did have them. Thinks you should lean forwards downhill … simply ridiculous … But he’s supposed to be an expert on this dressage stuff. So I told him to come today and judge and tell me who was best to ride in a team for this Dressage Championship – Branch Competition or whatever it’s called. Never could remember the name of the wretched thing. Anyway, he picked on you, first of everyone. Likes your pony. Says she’s well-schooled and can jump and he’ll train you. Are you interested? Seems to me simply ridiculous – all this bothering about angles and flexions and cadence. What does it all matter as long as the horse goes?” She paused for breath.
“I should love to be trained,” I said quickly.
“He says we must enter a team even though the other two won’t have a chance. But you can ride as an individual as well. He thinks you might have a chance – might get high marks or something.” said Miss Fipps.
“When do I start being trained?” I asked.
“He’s staying with me and you’re to come the day after tomorrow.”
“By the way, what is his name?”
“Peter Venten. He’s Belgian, you know. I suppose that’s why he has such odd ideas.”
“Not the author of The Training of Mount and Man?” I asked.
“Yes, I think his book’s called something like that.”
“But that’s wonderful!” I cried.
“Well, he will give you three weeks’ teaching. Goodbye,” said Miss Fipps, and she rang off abruptly.
For a long moment I sat perfectly still, holding the telephone. Peter Venten, I thought. The Belgian expert! It’s too good to be true… Three weeks’ training – and he thinks I have a chance… It’s like a dream, a marvellous dream.
Mum’s voice came to me. “Anyone interesting?” she called. I ran upstairs and told her all.
“The Pony Club Inter-Branch Competition! It’s marvellous,” I finished.
“Some people are born with silver spoons in their mouths,” said Mum.
Nicholas came out of his bedroom in his pyjamas. He said, “Who was born with a silver spoon? Not Solomon Grundy.” And of course he had to chant:
“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.”
“I’m going to tell Martini,” I said.
“Give Pablo an apple and a pat from me. It wasn’t his fault we were last,” said Nicholas.
I went outside and looked down to the river. The last pale light of day lay on the water meadows. A solitary swan, white as snow, paddled by our lawn. The scent of hot earth and burnt grass lingered on the evening air.
I wandered into the orchard and found Martini and Pablo grazing side by side. They raised their heads at the sound of my voice and, while they ate apples from my hand, listened to my story of days to come.
“You see,” I finished, “I’ve lots to learn. But this is the beginning. When I am seventeen or eighteen I shall compete at Badminton. Later I shall jump for England on a horse that I have trained myself.”
I saw a show ring in Paris, by Auteuil. The white jumps with green shrubs either side; the stands decked with flowers; the chic Parisian spectators with exotic hats and gay accessories. I saw Rome, as I had read of her. The great quiet churches; the priests with long robes and sandals on their feet; St. Peter’s; the jangling trams in the main streets; the Tiber, hot and muddy in the summer sun.
“I shall take a day off to look at pictures,” I said.
But the ponies were no longer listening. They had left me and were grazing under the white-heart tree.
The air was cooler and night was falling. The sky was a dark and inky blue with one brave star shining high above our tallest elms. I thought, For years we strive to satisfy our vanity, to achieve our small ambitions, to shine in the eyes of others or better the world. But all the great things are here without the asking. The silhouette of a tree against the starry sky; early sunlight on hills; the ripple of river water between fingers, springtime in England and the song of the birds. And yet these are not enough. There is for ever the urge to improve and create.
“And all my life,” I told the sleeping orchard, “I shall paint pictures and improve horses.”
I’ll Never Pass
Josephine Pullein-Thompson
“What are the most important things to remember about feeding?” asked Jenny as they left the Ridgeway and turned down Ansell Road.
Pippa’s mind went blank.
“Hurry up,” said Jenny.
“Grass in summer, hay in winter and lots of pony nuts and oats if you want to liven them up,” answered Pippa.
Jenny sighed. “You’re supposed to say basic things like, ‘Always water before feeding; feed little and often; allow at least an hour to digest before fast work.’ Now, here’s an easy one: which is the best straw for bedding?”
Pippa’s mind went blank again. “I thought it was just straw, otherwise you use shavings or peat.”
“It’s wheat straw,” Jenny told her impatiently. “You must read the manual, Pippa, or you’re going to fail again.”
“Yes, I know, I’m hopeless at exams. I’ll never pass.” Pippa tried to sound lighthearted, as though she didn’t care, but secretly she cared a lot. Nearly all her friends had passed C test and the last two, Jean and Charlotte, were certain to pass tomorrow, while she would fail for the third time.
“You’d better read the sections on feeding and the aids before you go to sleep,” suggested Jenny, “That’s what I do when I want to remember something.”
Pippa stopped dead and said, “Oh help! I’ve left the book at the stables. Well that settles it, now I’m bound to fail.”
“I’ll go back with you,” offered Jenny.
“Oh, we can’t, not all that way,” moaned Pippa. She looked at her watch. “Besides there’s not time, I promised to be home for tea.”
“Okay, it’s up to you.” Jenny’s voice was cold and hostile. “I may as well go home by the quick way,” she added, and turned into Chadwick Road.
I can’t help it if I’m useless at exams, thought Pippa, walking on alone. I’ve always failed everything. It’s so unfair that I’m the stupid one. Nichola and John were older, but they had always been successful. Sailing through exams, always coming top, passing with honours; getting into teams, winning matches.
Luckily Mum doesn’t mind, Pippa consoled herself. She says I have other virtues. Dad minds a bit, though he tries to hide it with jokes about my being a dumb blonde.
One reason she’d taken up riding was that you didn’t have to be competitive, but now it was going to be very grim if all her friends moved up into the C ride and she was left among a new lot of D plusses.
All through tea the thought of growing older and older and still being in D+ haunted her and, afterwards, she told her mother that she simply had to go back to the stables to fetch the book she had forgotten.
The spring evening was warm. The gardens were festive with flowers and the scent of the blossoming trees filled the air, but Pippa, struggling to remember the aids for everything, barely noticed. It wasn’t until she had crossed the Ridgewa
y and was walking up the stable drive that she realised that the smell had changed and become an autumn one; fallen leaves and bonfires, she thought.
All the horses were looking out, they whinnied urgently when they saw her. That’s strange, she thought. Surely they’ve been fed. She looked over Prince’s door, his haynet hung from the ring, reassuringly full. There was no one about, no sign of the three instructors who lived at the stables: Chris in a converted loft above the office, Maureen and Jane in a shared caravan. The tack room door was locked but she saw that her book had been put on the shelf outside, they had guessed she might come back for it.
As she picked it up and turned to go, she realised that the bonfire smell was growing stronger and she could see a column of smoke billowing up from the lower yard where the small ponies were still stabled, waiting for the grass to grow before they were turned out for the summer.
She wandered down to investigate, holding the book open and muttering the points of the horse, until an extraordinary roaring noise filled her with sudden fear. She ran past the ponies’ stable to the open-fronted forage shed and saw that the stack of bales was alight. The flames had just burst out of the hay and were roaring ferociously as they devoured the wooden walls and found their way into the dry timber of the roof. As she stood watching in horror they spread, engulfing the whole building with terrifying speed.
Dial 999, she thought, but the telephone was in the office and it was bound to be locked. And, looking from the inferno of red and roaring flames, and black acrid smoke to the pony stable, she knew there wasn’t time. It was only a matter of moments before the stable was ablaze, and with seven helpless ponies tied inside.
They stood in stalls. Pippa ran to the end of the long, narrow building that was nearest the fire. Grey Sixpence was frightened, he whinnied nervously. She grabbed his rope and pulled the end. The release knot undid smoothly; dropping the wooden block she pulled the rope through the ring, turned the pony and hurried him out.
The air was full of smoke and sparks and Pippa wondered what to do with him. Then, looking back at the stable, she realised that there wasn’t a moment to lose. The hungry flames were already darting across the small gap between the two buildings, licking at the wooden wall of the stable. She swung open the gate into the jumping paddock and left Sixpence to look after himself.
Patrick, a narrow little bay, was trembling, and the stable was hot and full of smoke. Pippa decided to try and take two at once. Tansy, the skewbald Shetland, was already tugging at her rope and the moment she was free she trotted down the passage ahead of Patrick. Outside they hesitated, but then, from the paddock, Sixpence neighed and they went to join him.
Pippa turned back. Now it was the turn of the stout cob, Blackberry. She stood on Pippa’s foot in her rush to get out, but there was no time to feel pain for the crackling and roaring of the flames was growing terrifyingly loud and near.
Suppose the roof falls? thought Pippa and forced herself to say calming words in an unconcerned voice, for chestnut Minty was panicking, rearing and plunging wildly in her stall.
“Whoa, whoa. It’s all right. We’ll have you out in a second,” she soothed as she struggled to snatch the wildly swinging wooden block. The moment the pony was free she turned and fled, crushing her rescuer against the side of the stall.
The stable was dark with smoke now and the heat was intense. Wracked with coughing and almost blinded by the tears that poured from her smarting eyes, Pippa told herself that there were only two left.
“Only Pepper and Carlo,” she cried aloud as she fought with her desire to run. She couldn’t go on. Why didn’t someone come? Where were the instructors? She needed help.
Pepper was easy. Though shaking with fear, he stood calmly and she had him through the door in moments, but Carlo’s frantic struggles had pulled his knot tight and, jammed in the block, it refused to release. Pippa pulled at it with all her strength, but it wouldn’t give. Blindly she tried to loosen the knot itself. Then there was an appalling crash. The far end of the stable had collapsed, an orange glare dazzled her stinging eyes, the roaring grew louder and nearer. The fire was almost upon them.
Carlo gave a terrified whinny. Pippa fumbled for his head collar and managed to unbuckle it. She took hold of his mane and tried to lead him out. He stood stock-still, afraid to move.
“Come on, quickly,” she screamed at him. The heat was growing unbearable, they were going to be burned to death. She must leave him. Petrified with fear, the pony stood rock-like and immovable. Pippa struggled with her own terror. She produced a small handful of pony nuts from her pocket. “Come on, good boy, a few steps and you’ll be in the paddock with your friends,” she told him in a coaxing voice. He didn’t take the nuts, but the normality of her manner seemed to calm his terror, and then mercifully one of the ponies in the paddock called to him and he found the courage to follow Pippa out.
She steered him into the paddock and, checking that the other six were there, slammed the gate. Then, mopping her streaming eyes on her sleeve, ran to the office. The door was locked. She kicked and banged, and then looked round for a shovel or a brick; something to smash the window. She was crying again, this time they were tears of frustration. She had to get help before the fire spread, before one of that mass of flying sparks found its way into the main yard.
Then suddenly a car raced up to the gate, it was flung open, and Chris and Maureen and Jane came running across the yard.
“I couldn’t telephone,” cried Pippa desperately. “The office is locked.”
“We’ve sent for the fire brigade. We saw from the hill,” shouted Chris. They ran towards the fire.
Maureen was crying, “The little ponies! Oh the poor little ponies!”
“It’s all right, I got them out,” Pippa shouted. “They’re all in the jumping paddock.”
She could hear the sound of sirens blaring along the Ridgeway.
Suddenly she felt deadly tired. I came for my book, she remembered, and realised that it no longer existed – she had put it down as she untied the first pony. Well, I’m certain to fail now, she thought, as the leading fire engine swept into the yard; but it didn’t seem important.
She watched as the hoses were run out and torrents of water began to sluice down on the burning ruins of the lower yard.
The instructors came back. “The ponies are all okay, except for a few minor burns,” said Jane.
“Pippa, how did you do it?” asked Chris. “How on earth did you get them all out on your own?”
“You’re all black, your hair’s singed and you’re probably suffering from shock,” said Jane.
“It must have been terrifying,” added Maureen, giving Pippa a long hug. “I was so frightened, I thought all the little ponies were dead.”
They sat Pippa in the office, her burned hands in a bucket of water, while they moved the horses out of their boxes and the fire brigade damped down the roofs of the stables. Then an ambulance came.
“You have to go to hospital for a check-up. Nothing serious, but you swallowed a lot of smoke, as well as burning your hands,” Maureen explained. “I’m coming with you and your mum will meet us there.”
As she listened to Maureen telling the ambulance crew how brave she, Pippa, had been, a mild pride began to fill her. It was certainly a really scary test, she thought, far worse than any exam, and I didn’t fail the ponies.
The Runaway Boy
Josephine Pullein-Thompson
It was a dampish April day with the sun making feeble attempts to shine and the green, earthy smell of early spring that fills the air before the primroses take over and the sun gets really warm. We walked along the road, with the moor still brown from the winter’s frosts and snow, stretching away on either side of us. We passed Chapel Cottages, the church, the chapel and the post office, which is just about all there is of St Dinas, and then we turned left along the lane to Black Tor Farm. It’s a small farm with poor land that was once barren moor and the Jacksons all have to st
ruggle hard to make a living.
The notice board announcing BLACK TOR TREKKING CENTRE had been retrieved from the nettles where it had lain all winter and nailed back on its post. It must be Mick’s work, we decided; Mr Jackson never mends anything. He was a real muddler who drove his children mad. He was always booking more trekkers than they had ponies, mixing good riders with complete beginners, buying saddles with broken trees and ancient, rusty bits and stirrups because they’re cheap.
We could see Heather instructing some pupils in the school – a patch of moor from which they’ve cleared the stones, building them into a low wall in the traditional way – and we found Mick standing in the middle of the yard looking worried. His face brightened when he saw us. “Have you come to join the search party?” he asked.
I groaned. “Who’s lost?” I asked. The visitors and tourists in our part of the world were maddening. They were always going out on the moor in the wrong clothes and without maps, they fell down, they lost themselves and then the locals were expected to stop whatever they were doing and go out in search parties.
“Danny, Danny Kyle,” answered Mick. “He’s not exactly lost, we think he’s run away; he had a bit of a dust-up with his mum and walked out last night. Hasn’t been seen since and she’s getting worried.”
“He’s the boy Heather’s been teaching, the one she said was a natural, who’s just come to live at Chapel Cottages?”
“That’s right; they’ve rented Mrs Grant’s two rooms. I’m waiting for Heather to finish and then we’re going out on the moor to look for him. If he fell in the dark and hurt himself he could be lying out there somewhere; that’s what his mum’s afraid of. The police think he may be trying to get back to Reading, where they came from.”
“I can’t imagine leaving St Dinas for Reading,” said Louisa, “especially if he’s horsey.”
“His grandparents live there,” explained Mick. “It’s his grandma who pays for his riding lessons.”
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 24