Usually I love April, but this year my hate spoiled it all. I hated the primroses and the singing birds almost as much as I hated Francey and Jan. I felt out of accord with everyone and everything, even with my treasured golden chestnut, Ripple. I’d been in this black mood for four whole days, since Monday when I had been dropped from the Pony Club mounted games team.
Elizabeth Brent, who trained the team, had done her best to be tactful. “Look, Gillian, it’s not really you,” she had said. “I mean there’s nothing to choose between you and Francey, it’s just that Ripple’s a bit large for mounted games; Ringo and Chippy are perfect.”
But I knew it wasn’t really Ripple’s size – after all he’s only a hand taller than Jan’s Chipmunk. I knew that it was my riding and, if there was nothing to choose between Francey and me, there ought to be, for I was two years older. Eight of us had trained for the team, but Jean’s pony had gone lame and John Morgan was being kept on as reserve. I was the only one to be dropped.
It was towards the end of the previous summer that Francey had first begun to shine. Until then we’d both been the sort of people who were overjoyed at winning a single, pale rosette. The first time she had acquired a collection of firsts and seconds at a gymkhana it had seemed a wonderful piece of luck, and I had been almost as delighted as Francey. But when it gradually transpired that this was no fluke and winning became a habit, my attitude changed. I ceased to be contented with my single third or fourth and only the end of the summer holidays saved me from an outburst of jealousy. Now she was in the team and I was out, and something inside me had burst. Our parents guessed how I felt and tried to comfort me.
“You’re a dreamer, Gilly, not a doer,” my mother said. “One isn’t better than the other, they’re just different and there’s plenty of room for both in the world.”
“Well, I’m delighted that you’re not both in the team,” added my father. “One daughter talking exclusively of regions and zones and finals is quite enough for me. And surely an intelligent girl like you doesn’t want to spend days on end practising garbage collecting or racing up and down with flags?”
But it wasn’t any use. I wanted to be in the team and I couldn’t bear the thought of having to watch my sister being successful while I moped at the ringside.
It was just jealousy. I realised that, but realising didn’t help, in fact it made things worse. I hated myself for being so ignoble and for spoiling Francey’s fun. She did her best to be tactful. She tried hard to subdue her elation and to avoid all mention of the team, but the better she behaved the more my feelings shocked me, and the more miserable I felt.
The next team practice had been arranged for Wednesday. “Do come along if you feel like it,” Elizabeth had told me. “I can always do with some help.” But I had no intention of going near them. I pretended to sleep through Francey’s alarmclock and kept up the pretence until she made a really determined effort to wake me. Then I snarled disagreeably that I didn’t feel like getting up and demanded that she should mind her own business and leave me alone. Later I heard the sound of Chippy’s hoofs on the road and Jan’s voice calling from the gate and then Ripple’s indignant neighs when he found he’d been left behind.
Presently my mother came to ask if I was all right, or if I felt ill or anything. This filled me with unreasoning rage. “Surely a person can stay in bed late in the holidays without a lot of stupid fuss,” I demanded angrily.
When she had gone, I tormented myself with mental pictures of the championship at Wembley. I visualised huge rosettes, Francey and Jan holding the Prince Philip Cup aloft; television cameras. I was crying angry tears into my pillow when I heard my mother calling that Ripple was out.
He had jumped the paddock railings and by the time I had pulled on jeans and a sweater and shoes, there were hoofmarks all over the garden. I caught Ripple quite easily, and then I spent the rest of the morning with a fork, lifting his hoofprints out of the lawn.
When my father came home that evening he only complained mildly about the state of the lawn, but he said that in future I must take Ripple out at the same time as Ringo.
“You don’t have to go with Francey,” he told me, “but obviously the pony can’t be left in the field on his own. It’s not only the garden, he could easily damage himself.”
So on Friday I had to get up. I hadn’t meant to ride with the others, but Jan nagged me. “Oh, come on, Gillian. You may as well ride over with us even if you don’t stay. If you go on like this everyone’s going to think you’re sulking. Anyway, what does it matter? We’re not even going to get to the Zone, we’re certain to be knocked out at Denley.”
Grudgingly I agreed to ride with them. At first Jan tried to talk to me, but growing tired of my bad temper and monosyllabic answers she gave up, and, dropping back, chattered to Francey instead.
At the end of Chorley Wood the track crossed a couple of fields and then brought you to a gate into a lane. As I opened the gate Francey said, “Look, there’s that ghastly child we met on Monday, the one who can’t control her pony. What does she think she’s doing?”
I remembered the small girl. The pony had tried to follow us and in the end the girl had to dismount and drag him away. She had dismounted now, but this time the pony was winning the battle and dragging her towards us. She began to shriek and whack at him with her whip. He was a dear little grey pony and he was holding his head as high as he could to escape her blows.
“Stop that!” shouted Francey as she and Jan turned into the lane. “You’re not fit to have a pony if that’s how you treat it.”
“You should be reported to the RSPCA for cruelty,” added Jan in threatening tones.
By the time I had shut the gate the little grey had dragged his owner right over to us and was sniffing noses with Ringo. The girl – she looked about nine – was red in the face and large tears were trickling down her cheeks.
“I can’t help it,” she wailed. “He won’t do anything I want. He’s a horrible, obstinate pony and I wish we’d never bought him.” Her sobs grew louder, and we sat on our ponies feeling rather embarrassed and wondering what to do.
Jan spoke first. “Oh, come on,” she said. “We can’t do anything and you know Elizabeth asked us not to be late for the practice; she’s going to a show this afternoon.”
The little girl sobbed louder. She had obviously hoped for help. The grey pony was nuzzling Chippy, and he didn’t look horrible or obstinate. He had large brown eyes, a wide forehead, a slightly cheeky expression and a tiny mouth.
“Yes, come on,” agreed Francey. “You hold him until we’re out of sight,” she told the small girl, “then you’ll be all right.”
“But I couldn’t get him to go home for hours after we met you on Monday,” wailed the small girl. “I kept turning him round, but he kept cantering after you. We went right up to the main road and then a man on a bicycle helped me. And yesterday he bolted with my brother.”
“Well, we can’t stay. We’re in the mounted games team,” said Jan importantly, “and we have to get to a practice.”
Suddenly I realised that there was absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t stay. “I’ll ride home with her, I don’t have to practise,” I reminded Jan.
Then I dismounted and took the pony’s rein. “We’ll wait,” I told the small girl, “until the others are out of sight.”
Jan and Francey looked at me. “Are you sure?” they asked.
“Yes. It can’t be more boring than watching you practise.”
“Okay. See you later then,” said Francey and they trotted away looking relieved and happy.
The grey pony was nose to nose with Ripple and the small girl was searching her pockets for a handkerchief.
“What’s your name?” I asked as I held the pony while she mounted.
“Joy,” she answered, “Joy Fraser.”
I looked at her critically. She didn’t seem old enough to be a villain or the sort of person who should be reported for cruelty to animals.
She wore jodhs, a blue anorak and a riding hat; she had long, straight, fair hair, blue eyes and a worried expression.
“What’s your pony’s name?” I asked as I mounted.
“Dream,” she answered. “It’s a silly name, but Mum chose it.”
Dream was obviously delighted to be with another pony. He copied Ripple’s actions carefully, trotting, cantering and pulling up exactly when he did. I pointed this out to Joy, who had stopped tugging and kicking and was beginning to look more cheerful.
“Yes, it’s much nicer now you’re here,” she told me. “Usually he won’t do a thing.”
“I think he’s very young and I don’t think he’s obstinate; if he hasn’t been taught the aids he can’t have any idea what you mean when you use your reins and legs.”
The Frasers lived in a very modernised cottage, newly-painted white. Chorley Wood was on one side of it, a field on the other and an overgrown orchard at the back. A new wooden loose box had been erected close to the garage; it looked a lovely place to keep ponies.
Mrs Fraser came out of the cottage at the sound of our hoofs and with her was a boy with red hair and freckles.
“That’s Mum and my brother Ian,” said Joy.
“How did it go this morning? Was he any better?” called Mrs Fraser anxiously as she came down the path.
“He was really awful until we met Gillian. Since then he’s been brilliant,” answered Joy. “Gillian says he’s only a baby and hasn’t been taught the aids,” she went on. “That’s why he doesn’t do what we want; he’s not obstinate.”
It was a bit embarrassing to be quoted like this, but I was glad, for Dream’s sake, that my lecture had sunk in.
“It’s been such a disappointment to us all,” said Mrs Fraser. “We called him Dream because we’d always dreamed of having a pony, but it’s more like a nightmare, really. You see, my husband and I are both fond of animals, but we’ve no experience of horses.”
I dismounted and looked in Dream’s mouth. In the centre of each jaw he had four shining new teeth, but the four comer ones were shabby little milk teeth. “He’s only just four,” I told the Frasers. “He must have been three when you bought him.”
“We knew he was young but we thought he’d grow up with the children,” Mrs Fraser explained. “The dealer assured us that he was used to children and absolutely trustworthy, but Joy and Ian don’t seem able to manage him, yet they rode the pony at the farm in Wales last summer with no problems at all.”
“I’m going to show you just how obstinate he is,” announced Ian, scrambling into the saddle. “You put up the jumps, Joy.”
I followed them into the field. Joy erected a few flimsy beanpoles on small piles of bricks, while Ian, trying to urge Dream into a canter, was horrible to behold. He kicked and flapped his legs with such energy that his whole body contorted. This made his elbows wave madly and caused his hands to jerk at the poor pony's mouth. When Dream trotted over the beanpoles, dragging his legs through them and knocking them down, Ian began to use his whip.
He was older and stronger than Joy and one particularly hard blow was too much for Dream, who stopped dead and bucked him off. Ian got up, red in the face and very angry. He looked as though he intended to set about Dream, so I stopped him quickly.
“It’s no use your getting in a rage with him,” I said. “You might as well get angry with a Russian boy because he doesn’t understand English. A trained pony doesn’t need kicking and hitting, but Dream isn’t trained; he hasn’t been taught to answer the aids and you and Joy don’t ride well enough to teach him.”
“They ought to be born knowing what we mean. And I’m sure he does know; he’s just obstinate,” argued Ian.
That made me angry. “He can’t possibly understand what you mean, because you ride so badly that you give the aids to go faster and the aids to stop at the same time,” I said sharply. “Do you pedal your bicycle with the brakes on? Because that’s how you ride your pony.”
Ian looked rather crushed by my words but, having re-erected the bean poles, Joy asked brightly, “Will you show us how to jump on Ripple?”
“Not over those, they’re far too flimsy,” I answered, looking round for something solid. “I could jump the hedge into the orchard, if that’s okay.”
Mrs Fraser assured me that it was, so, when I had checked for wire, I cantered a circle and jumped the hedge and then came back over a post and rails in the comer. Ripple loves natural fences and he jumped them both smoothly and easily. The Frasers seemed impressed. “What a beautiful jumper,” said Mrs Fraser.
“Isn’t he brill?” added Joy.
And Ian said in dissatisfied tones, “I wish Dream would jump like that.”
“But Ripple’s eight,” I told him. “He already knew how to jump when we bought him and we’ve been practising together for two years. You can’t train a pony in five minutes.”
“You wouldn’t give Ian and Joy lessons, would you?” Mrs Fraser looked at me anxiously to see if I minded being asked. “But I expect you’re very busy,” she added disconsolately.
I thought. No team practice meant that I had time on my hands, I didn’t like Joy and Ian much, they were so foul to their pony, but then they were unhorsey; they couldn’t be expected to understand, and most of us become bad-tempered and horrible when things go wrong. Then there was Dream, he was a sweet pony, I’d like to help him.
“Yes,” I said, “I think I could manage that.”
Joy gave a little skip. “Oh, when?” she asked.
“Tomorrow morning?” I suggested. “I could be here by half past ten.”
“Could you really? That would be wonderful,” said Mrs Fraser. “We’d all be so grateful. You’ve no idea how frustrating it is to stand by and watch everything going wrong and not have a clue how to put it right.”
I told my mother and Francey about my adventures at lunch.
Francey said, “You’ve certainly let yourself in for something. Can you teach riding? I mean I know what to do, but I couldn’t explain it to someone else.”
“Of course she can.” My mother spoke confidently. “Gill’s very good at explanation. I never understood dressage until she took me in hand, now I’m an absolute authority on correct bends, rhythm and impulsion.”
“The point is,” I said, ignoring this flattery, “that it’s going to take ages to improve them if they have to take turns on Dream, and anyway, they need to ride a reasonably well-schooled pony so they get some idea of what it feels like. Do you think the Bedlows would lend me Pip?”
“Yes, I’m sure they would. Even Annabel’s outgrown him now. Give Mrs Bedlow a ring,” my mother encouraged me.
When I explained about the Frasers’ desperate need for lessons, Mrs Bedlow said that she would willingly lend Pip. “You wouldn’t be an angel and teach Annabel at the same time?” she asked. “I think she’s finding the change from Pip to Crumpet a bit frightening. She doesn’t seem to enjoy riding like she used to. And Liz is in France for the whole holidays so she can’t take her out and Juliet and Annabel don’t really get on.”
So, on Saturday, I found myself standing in the centre of a hastily marked out school and instructing three pupils. The Frasers were very uphill work at first. I spent my time saying, “Don’t kick, press.” And, “You’re pulling, you must only feel the reins.” Sometimes I shouted, “Sit still, you’re not whirlwinds!” Or, “Keep your legs back! Your toes mustn’t be in front of your knees!” in Elizabeth Brent’s voice.
Annabel cheered up when she saw how badly the Frasers rode and when the lesson, which had to be sedate, calmed Crumpet. She was a gentle rider so I soon had her demonstrating the aids for the halt and the turn on the forehand to the Frasers.
When I thought my pupils had had enough schooling, I arranged bending and potato races at the walk. And, when the Frasers controlled themselves and gave up kicking and tugging, we graduated to the trot.
Dream seemed to be enjoying himself, he watched the other ponies carefully and
trotted up and down with pricked ears and a smug expression.
After that I found myself booked for a lesson five mornings a week and I acquired two more pupils: friends of Annabel’s called Toby and Harriet. They were boring sometimes, especially Ian, but it was tremendously exciting and rewarding to watch them improving. In a way it was a voyage of discovery. I corrected what I thought was wrong with them and sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t and I had to try something else. I found that in teaching, I was also learning a good deal about riding.
I was so busy that I forgot about the mounted games and the day of the regional competition came almost as a surprise. A huge gang of us went to watch, including my five pupils. We cheered ourselves hoarse and were delighted when our team qualified for the next round.
As the teams were given their rosettes Ian, who was standing beside me, said, “I want to be in the team. In two years I ought to be good enough.”
“You might make it,” I agreed. “You’re competitive and good at vaulting; you might be just the type if you improve your riding.”
“I’ll never be in a team,” said Annabel despondently. “I’ve been riding since I was five and my only rosette was third in a leading-rein class.”
“But winning doesn’t matter,” I told her. “You can get masses of pleasure from riding without going near a show. You just have to discover what suits you; it may be schooling horses or teaching people, it could be long distance riding or dressage or jumping, or just having a pony to look after at home.”
Sour grapes? I wondered as I ran to congratulate Francey and Ringo. No, just the truth, I told myself, for I didn’t feel jealous at all.
Ebony Joins the Circus
Josephine Pullein-Thompson
When I left Clarendon Mews I wasn’t the clean and elegant horse that I had been on arrival. In fact I was dirty and unfit, with a staring coat and a mane and tail that needed pulling, when Percy put an old rope halter on me and led me to the horse sale.
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 26