“What did Danny and his mother quarrel about?” I asked.
“Oh, I dunno. He doesn’t have much of a life; no father, mother at work, so, in the holidays, he’s on his own all day. Heather reckons he could be useful to us. Now that Tracy’s always over at Dawn’s helping with the baby we’ve no one to school the little ponies and though he hasn’t ridden for long, Danny’s quite good. He’s plenty of nerve. Trouble is Dad takes so long to make up his mind about things…”
Heather’s pupils came riding into the yard at that moment and Mick broke off as he went to help them water and unsaddle their ponies.
“Hullo, have you come to search?” asked Heather, looking pleased.
“Not on Spider,” said Louisa firmly. “Look, my feet are nearly touching the ground. It’s cruelty to ponies, so unless you’ve one that needs exercising…”
“We have,” Mick interrupted, “take your pick; they’ve all to be got fit for the summer.” As he and Louisa vanished into the long stable, I tackled Heather about our horse situation and asked her to ask Mr Jackson to see what he could do. She said she would, but I didn’t think she was really listening, and as soon as I stopped talking she went back to the subject of Danny.
“If you and Louisa would do West Moor it would be great,” she said. “Mick and I are sick to death of riding there and Middle Moor will make a change. No one knows which way he went.”
I agreed to search West Moor, but a bit reluctantly because Penhydrock, where the Hamiltons lived, and Chilmarth, the Mitchell’s house, were on opposite edges of Middle Moor and I would have been quite glad of an excuse to ride round and see if they were back for the holidays yet. Felix, Toby and Huw all went to a very progressive school in the Home Counties near where they used to live, and the Mitchells, whose father had a large and prosperous farm, went to conventional boarding schools at vast expense. The rest of us went to local schools in Tolbay or Baybourne.
“What about Jane?” I asked. “Will she help?”
“I doubt it. Now she’s made friends with Marion Brewster she’s gone right off riding.”
“Well, we’ll start as soon as we’ve collected some lunch and a first-aid kit,” I told Heather as Louisa emerged from the stable mounted on Crackers – black, strong and obviously as fiery as ever. I quite liked riding him, but he didn’t suit everyone and Mr Jackson had failed to sell him at the end of the last trekking season.
“Will you lead Spider home?” asked Louisa, already sounding breathless as Crackers, refusing to stand still for a second, twirled her round the yard.
Mick gave me Spider’s reins and said, “Ring the post office and the Tolbay police station if you have any luck.” I set off after Louisa, who had vanished down the lane.
At home, we left Crackers twirling in the stable while we put Spider in the field and found some lunch. We packed bread, cheese, apples and biscuits into the first-aid rucksack and left a note for our mother, explaining what had happened.
I held Crackers down while Louisa mounted and then we were off again.
Two people couldn’t possibly search West Moor properly, but we decided that if we rode out along the Old Dog side and home along the Black Tor side we’d have a fair chance of seeing or hearing Danny if he was lying in the heather with a sprained ankle or a broken leg.
We had just separated and were riding along parallel to each other when we heard a voice calling “Danny”, and saw a figure coming towards us along one of the small, winding sheep paths. We trotted to meet her.
“Hullo,” I said. “Are you looking for Danny Kyle too?”
“Yes, I’m Cindy Kyle, his mother.” We looked at her with interest. She was very pretty in a gypsyish way, with curly dark hair, fairly long and tangled, and brown eyes; and she wore gold earrings and a longish green dress with strange patterns, that I guessed was Indian.
“We’re going right down to Tolkenny Castle and then back up the other side,” I explained. “The Jacksons are doing Middle Moor. How far have you been?”
“I’ve only done this top end, across to the farm and back. I’m not supposed to go too far from the post office in case there’s any news. I’m sorry Danny’s causing all this trouble. He’s usually so sensible and though he’s run away before he’s always come back in two or three hours. He’s not a sulker, that’s why I’m afraid something may have happened to him.”
We separated again and rode on, calling “Danny” at intervals and then waiting for an answer, but only the sad voices of a pair of curlews wheeling overhead replied. We rode on and on, past Old Dog, past the dark conifers of the Barley Bog plantation.
The day had turned out well; warm and fitfully sunny. Redwing’s long stride beneath me made the boredom of the search quite bearable, but I could see that Louisa was having a rough time on the jogging, over-fresh Crackers. I was wondering if I ought to offer to change with her when, to one of our shouts of “Danny”, there came a faint answering cry.
We shouted again and searched the miles of brown moor with our eyes. Suddenly Louisa pointed. Far away on our right something moved. We turned and began to ride over the rough, stony, boulder-strewn ground looking for a path that led in the right direction. We tried to hurry but the paths kept petering out, leaving us to make our way as best we could across the treacherous, pony-tripping stones and heather.
As we drew nearer we could see a small, toiling figure, apparently bent double under some burden, and followed by a pony. As we got closer still we saw that it was a boy carrying a young foal over his shoulders and we knew that the little bay mare who followed him must be its dam.
“Are you Danny Kyle?” we both asked at once.
“Yes, look at this. He’s got a great cut on his leg and he looks dreadfully ill.”
“They’re Jackson ponies, aren’t they?” I said, trying to remember.
“Yes, it’s Poppy.” Louisa dismounted and flung me Crackers’ reins. Carefully she helped Danny lay the foal down. He was obviously very ill for he made no struggle or protest. Poppy nuzzled him anxiously. Redwing, who loves foals, gazed at him with a worried maternal face, but Crackers began to twirl round impatiently and trod heavily on my toe. I was trying to struggle out of the first-aid rucksack so I slapped him hard and told him that this was an emergency and he must behave. He looked surprised but stood quite meekly while I opened the rucksack and searched for cures. “It’s not bleeding,” said Louisa. “I think it’s an old cut that’s become infected; his leg’s all swollen up and very hot. Here, you look, Frances.” She took the ponies.
“You’re the expert,” I told her, because she meant to follow in Daddy’s footsteps and be a doctor, but I looked all the same. The leg was huge and hot, the wound gaped open and was yellow round the edges.
“He’s going to die,” said Danny, “I know he is. We must get him to the Jacksons’ quickly; help me get him on my back again.”
“No, carrying him will take hours. We need Mick and the Land Rover.”
“And an antibiotic injection,” said Louisa. We looked at each other. “Do you want to go or stay?” I asked.
“Stay, only Crackers is such a bore to hold.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you Redwing. And food. Danny, have you had anything to eat?”
“Not lately, but it doesn’t matter.”
I divided the bread and cheese into three and started on my share as 1 let down Crackers’ stirrups and mounted.
“We could carry him to meet the Land Rover,” suggested Danny. I looked at the foal lying on his side with glazed eyes. “I’d put the antibiotic ointment on and let him rest,” I answered. “I’ll be as quick as I possibly can.”
“Don’t forget to tell the police and the post office,” Louisa shouted after me.
I found a small path heading north and let the ever-eager Crackers break into a canter. I knew that we weren’t far from the track that led along the Black Tor side of the moor and right up to the Jacksons’ farm.
When we joined it, just below Black Tor its
elf, I was able to give Crackers his head and we shot off at a tremendous speed. He wasn’t quite as fast as Redwing and he thundered rather than glided, but his fire and enthusiasm and his rough knee action give a great feeling of speed. It was a pity Louisa didn’t like him, I thought, as I took the wall into the Jacksons’ land at its highest point. He hurled himself over. The next one was tame in comparison. As we came towards the yard gate I could feel Crackers sizing it up. He was quite willing to jump it too. I decided against such recklessness; it was well over a metre and Mr Jackson would be furious if we demolished it.
I called for Mrs Jackson, Mick, Heather and Tracy as I rode into the yard. A lean cat fled, chickens scratched, ponies whinnied, but there were no people and no Land Rover. I tied Crackers in the long stable, head collar over his bridle, and ran to the house.
The kitchen was empty except for a row of dogs and cats warming their backs against the Aga.
“Mrs Jackson!” I yelled up the stairs. There was no reply. I decided to telephone. I rang the post office and told Mrs Merton that we’d found Danny trying to rescue a sick foal on the moor; she agreed to tell the police as well as Mrs Kyle.
Then I dialled the Hamiltons’ number; the Jacksons would have called in to ask for their help and might still be somewhere near. Huw, the youngest of the boys, answered. He said that they had only arrived home from school the night before and they were waiting for Charlie Cort to come and shoe the ponies. Then he called Felix. It’s always a bit unnerving at the beginning of the holidays when you have to meet people, especially boys, who have been away for a whole term and may have changed completely, but now I was too fussed over the foal to worry.
I explained that I was at the Jacksons and needed transport for the sick foal, that if I could get hold of Heather or Mick they would know where their father was with his Land Rover or they might be able to send their Uncle Geoff with his Land Rover or even Dawn’s Chris with his van.
Felix said, “Hang on a minute, I’ve an idea. We’ve just bought a Range Rover. It’s about third-hand and it costs a fortune in petrol, but it’s meant for this sort of emergency. The trouble is I can’t take it on the road. Hang on a minute, I’ll see if my mother can help.”
I liked Mrs Hamilton but we didn’t see much of her in St Dinas because her husband was Stewart Hamilton who explored and travelled in remote places and then made television programmes about his journeys. In fact, they only seemed to live at Penhydrock in the school holidays and even then they were always dashing up and down to London.
Felix came back. “We’ll be with you in five minutes. You did say you were at Black Tor Farm, didn’t you?”
I said “Yes” and began to thank him, but he’d rung off. Then I telephoned Mummy and told her what had happened so far. She said Spider was neighing indignantly and what was Louisa riding? I explained.
There was still no sign of the Hamiltons so I wrote a note for any Jackson who returned, explaining about Danny, Poppy’s foal, and the urgent need for an antibiotic injection.
If it had been one of our ponies I would have telephoned for the vet, but the Jacksons have so many animals that they can’t afford too many vet’s bills and usually doctor theirs themselves. Then I went out and sat on the water trough until I saw the green Range Rover coming slowly up the lane. Felix was at the wheel looking very serious and intent. Mrs Hamilton and Toby sat beside him. I ran for Crackers, mounted, and waving at them to follow, opened the gate into the fields. After that there was one of Mr Jackson’s maddening arrangements of sheep hurdles and barbed wire to be dismantled before we were out on the moor.
Toby came to help me. He’d grown enormously and looked very strong. He’d always been broader than Felix, though he was two years younger.
“Felix drives like an old lady of ninety,” complained Toby. “He dithered so much it took him ten minutes to get up the lane. I’m not allowed to start until next year; it’s not fair, I know I wouldn’t be as hopeless as he is.”
“No, you’ll be tearing round the moor roads killing ponies and squashing hedgehogs,” I said disagreeably.
“I won’t. Fast drivers are more efficient, it’s the ditherers who cause all the accidents.”
The gateway cleared, he ran back to the car and I cantered on ahead of them, annoyed that I hadn’t crushed him with some brilliant reply.
I cantered until Crackers began to flag, then I slowed him to a walk and let Felix, who seemed to me to be driving at a very sensible pace and quite fast enough for a rutted moorland track, come alongside. I explained where the foal was and that they would have to leave the Range Rover on the track and walk the last bit. Then they went on ahead. After a bit I took a small narrow path, hoping that it would lead me diagonally to Danny and Louisa. It did, with a few diversions, and I reached them just before the Hamiltons arrived.
Louisa was sitting on a boulder, holding Redwing and looking very worried. The foal still lay on his side with glazed eyes, but he seemed to have shrunk while I was away and I could see by the rapid rise of his flank that his breathing was very fast. Poppy stood with her head hanging over him and an anxious look in her soft brown eyes. Danny knelt in the heather, tears trickling down his face as he gently stroked the foal’s neck.
“Oh dear, he does look sick,” said Mrs Hamilton. “We ought to have brought a rug to carry him on.”
“I carried him over my shoulders,” Danny told her.
“He looks to me like a stretcher case,” said Felix, taking off his anorak. “He’s very small. Do you think we could carry him on this?”
It was one of those huge, loose anoraks and the foal fitted on it easily; with four people, one at each corner, they lifted him without any effort and set off towards the car. Louisa and I followed, leading our ponies.
They loaded the foal in the back and decided to leave the lower part of the tailgate open so that Poppy could see him as she followed them home. Toby said he would sit beside the foal and restrain him if he suddenly revived and tried to jump out, but I could see that Louisa didn’t trust him and wanted to go too, so I offered Danny a ride home on Redwing. He jumped at the offer, so Louisa lent him her crash-cap, which was only slightly too big, and when we’d watched the Range Rover move steadily away up the track with poor Poppy trotting behind, I legged Danny up and insisted that he put his stirrups at the right length before we started.
With so many competent people looking after the foal there didn’t seem any need to hurry and even Crackers seemed happy to amble along at a gentle pace. Danny cheered up and seemed very pleased to be riding Redwing. He patted her several times and said she had a very long stride. He looked, I decided, almost exactly like his mother. The same dark, tangled gypsy hair, the same brown eyes, the same pretty nose and mouth; in fact he was too pretty for a boy. The only difference lay in their expressions. Danny had a very determined look.
After a bit, I suggested a trot and then a canter. I didn’t risk a gallop because, though as Heather said he was a good rider, he was too small to control Redwing if she really got going.
When we were walking again I asked, “Why did you run away? Don’t you like it here?”
He looked embarrassed. “I had a quarrel with Mum.” He changed the subject. “That foal looks really bad. Do you think he’s going to die?”
“We might be just in time. He would have died if you hadn’t found him. Quite a lot do every year; the farmers don’t look at them often enough, they’re too busy. Where did you sleep last night?” I asked after a pause.
“In the shed in the churchyard, where they keep the watering cans and things; it wasn’t locked.”
“The police thought you might have gone to Reading to see your grandparents. Your mother and the Jacksons thought you might have fallen and hurt yourself. People do on the moor; it’s not a very good place to go wandering on your own.”
Danny stared straight ahead with a fixed expression. I could see he wasn’t going to talk about it, so I suggested a trot. When we reached the fa
rm we found that Heather and Mick were back. Poppy and the foal were bedded down on fresh straw in one of the little stone houses meant for sheep and Sam Parsons, the vet, was on his way.
“We’ve got a cow that’s poorly as well,” explained Mick. “Dad’s been dosing her for a week with no results whatever. He was talking of getting Sam to take a look at her yesterday so now we’ve done it.”
“We’ll show him Juniper’s warts while he’s here,” added Heather, “and he could take a look at that old ewe. I know Dad says it’s just age with her, but you never know.”
I watered Crackers at the trough and Louisa took Redwing from Danny while Heather pushed him firmly towards the back door, saying that his mum was in the kitchen having a cup of tea. At that moment the door opened and Cindy Kyle appeared.
“Oh, Danny!” she shrieked, holding out her arms. As she hugged him we could hear her saying, “You’re a real meany. You had me worried stiff, Danny, absolutely petrified. We all thought something really dreadful had happened to you. It wasn’t a very kind thing to do, was it?”
In the end her reproaches dragged a muttered sorry or two from Danny.
“Never mind, my dears,” said Mrs Jackson, who seemed unusually calm and motherly. “He’s saved the life of Poppy’s foal, so it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Come on in, now, Danny, and have something to eat.”
Louisa and I took a last look at the foal and wondered if it was going to survive and then, agreeing to take it in turns on Redwing, we set off for home.
The Failure
Josephine Pullein-Thompson
We rode through the newly-green woods: Jan Mason, my sister Francey and I. I was hating them because they were happy and successful and I was a failure.
It was spring. There were primroses in the clearings and along the banks of the stream; the pale blue sky showed patchily through the trees, the sun shone and after the rain the countryside smelled warm and earthy and sweet.
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 25