Philippa, who was tall and thin with long brown hair, and quite pretty, led a very different life. Her parents had divorced and her mother had married again, so she had a stepfather and a younger half-brother and sister. Both her mother and stepfather worked, so in the holidays she looked after Charles and Minty.
Philippa’s pony, Chocolate Soldier, Choccy for short, was a dark-brown gelding, twelve hands high and brilliant at bending. He had been an eighth birthday present from her grandmother, but now Philippa’s long thin legs dangled round his knees and it was nine-year-old Charlie who really fitted him. Her parents were always promising her a new pony, and her grandmother had offered to pay half, but somehow life at Orchard Cottage was always a rush, and there just didn’t seem to be time to drive round the countryside trying the ponies that were advertised for sale.
Except for Pony Club gymkhanas, Hayford was the only show that the Scotts went to and it was a great day in their year. Despite the fact that Minty’s hamster had been ignored by the judges and that Pip, their spaniel, had been seized by shyness and refused to wag his tail at all, the whole family were enjoying themselves tremendously. Minty and Choccy had come second in the leading-rein class and though Charlie had been hopeless in the egg-and-spoon, he had won the ten- and-under bending.
Philippa had decided that she was really too large and heavy to ride Choccy in all the senior gymkhana events, so she had only entered for the bending and when, after three tough heats, Choccy was second by a nose, she tied him up in a shady spot and went to watch Fiona jumping. Lately, Cobweb hadn’t been doing as well as usual, and the Eastwood parents’ confidence in their daughter’s ability to win had been shaken, so when Philippa joined them, just as Fiona cantered through the start, they both seemed very tense and anxious.
“She’s still off form,” said Mrs Eastwood, giving agonised gasps as Cobweb cleared the fences by only millimetres. “She’s not the pony she used to be; the sparkle has quite gone out of her.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with the animal. We’ve tried everything,” added Mr Eastwood angrily. “We’ve changed the bit, the bridle, the saddle. We’ve given her more oats, less oats, six different brands of pony nuts. We’ve given her a rest, we’ve exercised her hard and we’ve bought Fiona spurs, but there she is heaving herself over the jumps like any old crock at the Pony Club instead of a JA jumper.”
As Fiona cantered out the public address system announced a clear round.
“Talk about stale, the pony looks half asleep,” complained Mrs Eastwood. “Do for goodness sake go and tell Fi to wake her up before the jump-off,” she told her husband. “She’d better give her a gallop and then put her over a really big practice fence just before she comes in.” Mr Eastwood strode away muttering angrily.
The clear rounds were announced, there were only six. As the stewards raised the course, Philippa watched Fiona’s efforts to wake Cobweb up. Several sharp whacks and a gallop round the field did no good at all, you could see that it was only obedience to her rider that made Cobweb heave herself over the practice fence. All her spirit and energy had gone and she, who had won so often for Fiona in the past, no longer had any pleasure in jumping.
The jump-off course looked enormous and Philippa felt very sad for Cobweb; whatever was wrong it hardly seemed fair to force her round these fences.
The first four riders each had one down and Mr Eastwood began to look more cheerful. Mrs Eastwood was signalling to Fiona to keep the pony on her toes as she waited in the collecting ring.
“If only she can go clear,” Mrs Eastwood murmured through gritted teeth as her daughter cantered in.
“Come on, you lazy lump,” growled Mr Eastwood, as Cobweb heaved herself dutifully over the brush, the gate and the wall. “For heaven’s sake give her a whack, Fi, you haven’t the speed for the combination.”
Fiona was riding as hard as she could, but Cobweb had no impulsion at all. Mr Eastwood groaned, Mrs Eastwood covered her eyes with a hand as the pony refused.
The combination was a huge treble. All three fences were wide as well as high, and built solidly of countless heavy poles. Fiona had turned and was trying to get up the speed she knew she needed, but Cobweb didn’t respond. She cantered up slowly and stopped.
Fiona took her back for a third try but the same thing happened. Then the bell rang.
“Oh, Cobweb, how could you?” said Mrs Eastwood with a choke in her voice. “To be eliminated and at a local show.”
Mr Eastwood swore and Philippa followed them as they hurried through the collecting ring.
Fiona was scarlet in the face and struggling with tears.
“Beastly pony,” she said as she flung herself off. “I’m never, ever going to jump her again. She just made up her mind she wouldn’t jump; I whacked her as hard as I could and I spurred her like mad, but she didn’t take any notice.”
“You did everything you could; we could see that, pet,” Mrs Eastwood told her soothingly. “The pony’s just packed up on us, goodness knows why, but we’ll just have to cut our losses and buy a new one.”
“Yes,” agreed Mr Eastwood, “we ought to have done it before. We’ve hung about all summer waiting for her to come back on form and now she does this to us.”
“It’s simply not fair on Fi,” Mrs Eastwood went on. “It’s not good enough, after all you’re only young once; the pony will have to go.”
“Can we start looking for a new one tomorrow?” asked Fiona, perking up.
Philippa had been stroking Cobweb’s neck. She was such a lovely pony, so gentle and good and obliging, but now all the energy seemed to have gone out of her.
“Do you think she could be ill?” Philippa asked the Eastwoods.
“We had the vet to her a couple of months ago, when she started to go wrong,” Mr Eastwood answered.
“He couldn’t find anything wrong. And you can see for yourself, look at her eyes and her coat; that’s not a sick pony.”
“She’s never been the same since last summer. She was turned out for three weeks when we went to the Costa Brava,” Mrs Eastwood explained to Philippa. “We sent her to that very pricey stable near Foxley, where they’re supposed to take great care of them, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she had picked up something there, a virus or something.”
“It might be her legs,” said Philippa, crouching down. She looked for swellings, for bowed tendons, over-reaches and speedy cuts. Cobweb blew in her hair, the pony seemed to understand that she was trying to help.
“Who cares what’s wrong with her; we’ve been going over and over it all summer,” said Fiona in an exasperated voice. “She won’t jump and that’s all that matters. Let’s get rid of her quickly, before she gets worse. And she’ll have to go to a sale; it’s no use people coming to try her when she won’t jump.”
“Yes, Fi’s right. It looks like we’ve come to the end of the road,” agreed Mr Eastwood.
“I wonder if my parents could afford to buy her,” said Philippa diffidently. “She’d be lovely to hack with Charlie and Minty and I could gymkhana her.”
The Eastwoods’ faces brightened and their voices changed.
“What a brill idea.” Fiona sounded enthusiastic. “She’d be just the pony for you.”
“Perfect,” agreed Mrs Eastwood. “She’s absolutely safe with small children; I’ve never seen her kick or bite. And it would be nice to know she’d gone to a good home.”
“I’d better have a chat with your parents, hadn’t I?” suggested Mr Eastwood, looking round. “Are they still here?”
“Yes, they’re looking after the stall in aid of the church tower,” Philippa explained. “They promised to take it over for an hour so that the Baxters could have tea.”
She watched Mr Eastwood vanish into the crowd. Her heart seemed to be missing beats and her stomach was behaving oddly too. Oh, please let them say yes, she thought. She had always loved Cobweb but it had never entered her head that one day she might possibly be her owner.
; “I’m hot, I want an ice cream, Mummy,” said Fiona.
“All right, pet, you shall have one. Would you like to ride the pony round, Philippa dear?”
“No, I don’t think I will. It may be just the heat that’s affecting her, but she seems so tired,” answered Philippa. “But I’ll look after her, if you want to go for ice creams.”
Left alone with Cobweb, Philippa led her across to where Choccy was tied in the deep shade of a chestnut tree and, sitting on a log, she held the pony who, with head hanging and tail swishing lazily, drifted off into sleep.
Presently Mrs Eastwood and Fiona returned, bringing Philippa an ice cream. “I really do think she would be the perfect pony for you Scotts,” said Mrs Eastwood between bites. “I mean, you really don’t jump at all and Cobby’s one hundred per cent in traffic and never any trouble to catch or shoe.”
“Yes,” agreed Philippa, freezing her mouth as she bolted the rest of her ice cream, for she could see her mother and Mr Eastwood coming.
Mrs Eastwood immediately began to recite a catalogue of Cobweb’s virtues.
“Yes, well of course, living so near we feel that we’ve known her for years,” interrupted Mrs Scott, “but I just wanted to make sure that Philippa has thought this through and really doesn’t mind having a pony that won’t jump. I mean if Fiona can’t get Cobweb jumping there isn’t the smallest hope that we will.” She looked hard at Philippa.
“I would like a jumping pony,” Philippa admitted, “but they’re terribly expensive; you’re never going to afford one. Cobweb’s perfect in every other way and it’ll be lovely to go out for proper rides with Charlie.”
“Well, if you’re certain, Richard’s agreed to us buying her provided she passes the vet. We’ll ring Mr Smythe first thing on Monday,” she told the Eastwoods, “and ask him to come over as soon as he can.”
“Great,” said Mr Eastwood, shaking Mrs Scott’s hand. “And I’m sure Philippa can’t wait to have her new pony, so we’ll turn her out in your orchard when we get home.”
“And would you like to borrow our tack, just for a couple of days till you get your own?” suggested Mrs Eastwood, obviously delighted to have disposed of Cobweb so easily.
Philippa couldn’t believe it. Cobweb is mine, Cobweb is mine, she told herself as she ran across the showground looking for Charlie and Minty. They were overjoyed, too.
“She’s the second nicest pony in the world,” said Minty.
“She’s the nicest mare in the world, and we’ll be able to go for decent rides at last,” added Charlie.
So long as she passes the vet, Philippa reminded herself.
The thought of Cobweb waiting in their orchard, and of Choccy’s surprise when he found she had come to live with him, made Charlie and Minty quite willing to go home the moment the open jumping was over; there were no arguments about whether they should stay for the scurry and consolation classes.
The orchard was large with high, overgrown hedges, a few very old apple trees and a hollow where Choccy liked to shelter from winter winds. Cobweb was grazing. She seemed very content with her new surroundings.
They stayed with the ponies while they ate their feeds and then they left them grazing side by side. Philippa decided to take Fiona’s tack up to her bedroom; it was very new-looking, not a mend anywhere, and she didn’t want anything awful to happen to it.
Her stepfather came home later. “Well, I’ve given the Eastwoods their cheque,” he told her, “but don’t get too starry-eyed, love. I had a beer with one of the judges and he thought there might possibly be something wrong with Cobweb’s heart, or that she could be starting ringbone, both of which would make her a useless buy, even for us.”
“It’s all right, I won’t count on it,” lied Philippa.
“Oh, I do hope she is okay,” said Charlie anxiously, “because Choccy’s looking over the moon now he’s got a girlfriend at last.”
“We must keep our fingers crossed and hope,” said Mrs Scott. “She really is the sweetest pony and I don’t know how the Eastwoods could part with her so easily.”
On Sunday morning Philippa woke early and with a great feeling of happiness. Then, suddenly, she remembered; Cobweb was hers. She jumped out of bed, dressed quickly, and ran down the garden to the orchard gate. Choccy was standing alone on the hump by the hollow. He looked strangely alert, with his head high and his ears pricked, as though he was on guard. He whinnied to Philippa, but he didn’t move; there was no sign of Cobweb.
Suddenly afraid, Philippa ran towards him, “What’s the matter, what’s happened, Choccy?” she asked. Then they both looked down into the hollow where Cobweb, with a proud face and shining eyes, was nuzzling a small, dark-coated foal.
The Trek
Josephine Pullein-Thompson
We hated each other at first sight. Mrs Cale, the District Commissioner, introduced us with woolly kindness.
“Fiona Ross, June Harper, both new members, almost the same age, both riding greys. You must get on together,” she said. And then, as we stood in silence hating each other, her voice trailed away and she scurried on to the next pair. It was too late to change now; the trek was about to start.
I was relieved to see my mother deep in conversation. What on earth would she say when she saw June’s jeans, her loud red-and-black checked shirt, the huge antique-looking ring on her right hand, her lavish eye make-up? I could tell that June was hating my appearance; my correct riding-kit, including a white shin and Pony Club tie.
Mr Cale was handing round exercise books, one for each pair. “Trek diary. Your instructions are on the first page. Read them over and make sure you understand them,” he told us in a schoolmasterly manner.
We dismounted and read them together. The greys nibbled at the hedge.
Our first objective was the summit of Cat’s Tor, right out in the moor. We were to report in the trek diary on what we found there and spend the night in Shepherd’s Cottage. Key with Mrs Copplestone at Cat’s Tor Farm (the only other building in sight), said the instructions. The second day we were to visit Dowberry Pool, Black Moor Cross and the church at Trewester. And we were to spend that night in the Henderson’s barn at Coinworthy, returning to the starting-point by twelve-thirty next morning. Horsemastership will be taken into account, said a note below the instructions. Spot checks may be made to see that horses, saddlery, etc., are being cared for. Marks will be given for the Trek Diary, which should be written up each evening, and for enterprise in introducing objects of interest and for visiting and finding out about landmarks, antiquities, etc., near but not included in the official route.
“Do you know any landmarks, etc., etc.?” I asked June.
“No. I live on the coast. I don’t know these parts at all except that I was with my brother in his MG on the A30 once when the radiator burst or something. We had a hideous time and got home at two in the morning.”
Clueless, I thought angrily. Well, at least I was good at horsemanship. I dragged my map out of the saddlebag and tried to find our route. I could hear Mrs Cale talking to Mum.
“I do hope they’ll be all right,” Mrs Cale was saying. She sounded anxious. “It’s rather hard on the two new ones to put them together, but you know how it is – friends don’t want to split up. We tried threes last year, but it wasn’t a success.”
“Oh, Fiona will be all right,” my mother told her confidently. “We’ve brought her up to be self-reliant. She’ll manage.”
Would I? I wondered, suddenly appalled at the thought of vast, uninhabited moors, bogs and deserted cottages. So far I hadn’t even managed to find Cat’s Tor on the map.
“Can you see this tor?” I asked June.
“Oh, it’s no good expecting me to understand maps,” she answered firmly. “My brother Chris says I’m the most hopeless navigator in existence; worse than any of his girlfriends.”
“Well, since you’ve come on a trek you might try,” I told her disagreeably.
We started, all thought lost in the cla
tter of sixty-four hoofs and the difficulty of controlling excited horses. Mercury was showing off to June’s Valentine, a calmer, stouter sort. Pairs of riders began to leave the main body. They wheeled away at crossroads, calling, “Don’t get lost!” and “Beware of bogs!” The rest of the party shouted remarks like “Don’t quarrel!” and “Remember what happened last year!”
Presently June and I found ourselves alone. It was very quiet; we slowed to a walk. I said, “When we get to this Moor Gate place we’d better stop and look at the map again.”
“And have lunch; I’m starving,” said June.
I felt very irritable. There was I, worried to death about the route and all the rest of it and she just thought about food. I decided that I was going to make her share my forebodings; after all, she was my partner.
“I suppose you realise how risky it is to get lost on the moor,” I said. “Mists come down suddenly and there are bogs everywhere. I’ve got a compass and a first-aid kit and a whistle to blow if we have an accident; not that that’ll be much use if the whole place is uninhabited, though I suppose it might lead a search party to you if you were lying with a broken leg. It might save one from dying of exposure, as that man did in the Lake District the other day.”
“Oh, cheer up! It can’t be that bad. They wouldn’t have turned a hopeless nit like me loose if it was.”
“Mrs Cale was worried about it,” I pointed out. “Didn’t you hear her talking to my mother?”
“Oh, some music will cheer us up,” said June. “Look, don’t you think Chris was brilliant to make this little case for my radio? I always take it riding with me; Val loves music.” She tuned in to Radio One, and the sound of pop music filled the narrow, bank-sheltered lane.
We came to a cattle grid and went through the gate beside it on to the moor. The road lay ahead: a narrow, unfenced, black ribbon stretching out into the desolate waste of green. I knew that presently it ended and only faint tracks would indicate the way. We crossed a stream. Mercury and Val edged towards a convenient watering place, so we let them go down and drink the tumbling water.
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 32