* * *
The week before the show passed slowly but comfortably in the penthouse of the Chadwick. Jack installed fans so the bright aerie was kept nicely cool, and was very particular about keeping the water buckets fresh. Phin’s good behavior had made him pleased with himself, and when he was pleased with himself he was quite jolly. Instead of whickering whinily when Jack came by with his oats, he went back to his old carnival trick of picking up his bucket with his mouth and bringing it over for his friend to fill. Jack seemed inordinately touched by this, and instead of hurrying away to finish the rest of his chores, he often stayed a while, lounging on a hay bale and singing vaudeville tunes, accompanying himself with the battered harmonica he’d won in a dice game.
Lena, the queen of the uptown arena,
is the girl that I adore.…
Phin chased his last oats down, licking the bucket with satisfaction, and half closed his eyes. He loved it when Jack sang.
I love her half nelson, there’s nobody else in the world who’s so divine.…
The sky above the city faded to lavender and an evening breeze touched the leaves of the petunias in their window boxes. Jack was still singing when the first streetlamps blinked on, and he was still singing when the chimney swifts began flying home. Van der Luyden (whose depth of disapproval for any vestige of Jack and Phin’s carnival life was profound) feigned sleep. The bells of the Episcopal church chimed softly as the smell of after-dinner espresso wafted skyward from the café and the sleepy voices of children were exchanged for the murmured conversations of lovers, sauntering hand in hand in the eternal romance of the city in spring. And still Jack sang in his low, sweet brogue, until Phin, full of oats and an undefined, melancholic longing, fell asleep.
* * *
The morning of the pony show dawned hot and hazy. Phin opened an eye just as the sun’s orange yolk crested the single spire of St. Peter’s. He might be out of training, but the pony knew how early show mornings started, and he liked to be alert and mentally prepared before Jack appeared with halter, lead shank, leg wraps, fly mask, and the other necessities for making the three-hour trip to the country club comfortable. Last year, the year of the silver bowl (“Miss Isabella Ingram on Dauphin!”), Hilda had had Jack rig a small speaker to pipe classical music to the trailer, and Phin had indeed found it soothing. He hoped for a similar selection this trip … perhaps Vivaldi.… That was Van der Luyden’s favorite.…
Phin was still contemplating the journey ahead, doing a positive visualization exercise that he’d heard Hilda talk about (I see myself cantering on the right lead … I see my neat turns and precise halts) when he heard Van der Luyden’s soft “Good morning, Phineas.”
“’Morning,” Phin mumbled, eyes closed. He wanted Van der Luyden to see that he was engaged in mental preparation and not to be disturbed. The Friesian, nothing if not perceptive, politely lapsed back into silence, which he broke only when Phin took a deep cleansing breath and fully opened his eyes.
“How are you feeling this morning?” the black stallion asked kindly. Phin’s heart warmed at the obvious concern in his friend’s tone. Of course Van der Luyden would remember that today was the pony show.… The old gentleman was thoughtful, in that noblesse oblige sort of way.
“Honestly, I’ve been a little worried,” Phin confessed.
Van der Luyden bowed his head and gave his tail a gentle swish. “Perfectly natural, dear boy, perfectly natural.”
“I’m glad that Isabella has such faith in me, and I did try to, erm, learn from my exercise riders. But, you know, I just have the jitters.”
Van der Luyden was silent for a moment. “Yes, I’m afraid I did not entirely understand the situation before. I … commend your attitude, Phineas.”
The pony ducked his head with pleasure. Van der Luyden’s approval was not given lightly. Phin tried to resist the temptation to draw out the moment, and failed.
“Well, you see, I took your advice to heart. About learning. And even if I’m not quite as conditioned as I might be, it won’t…” Phin searched for proper, modest words that the stallion would appreciate. “I daresay that if we don’t bring home another silver bowl, it won’t be from lack of effort on my part.” What a mouthful.
A look of consternation came over the Friesian’s face. Oh no, did that sound braggy? Phin groaned inwardly. Should I have left out the part about the bowl? Did it seem too … greedy?
“Of course, I know winning isn’t everything,” Phin said hastily. “It’s the … spirit that counts. The, um, effort and, you know, doing your best for your mistress, and, erm, not expecting sugar all the time.…” Phin trailed off uneasily as the look on Van der Luyden’s face turned from perplexed to sorrowful. I’ve put my hoof in it now, the pony thought with some exasperation. Didn’t mean to break the old man’s heart by saying the wrong thing. My goodness but he’s sensitive! Luckily at that moment Jack’s tousled head appeared around the door, and Phin was able to turn his attention away from the stallion without causing any further embarrassment.
The pony didn’t expect a grooming—that would be done at the grounds of the country club, in the Ingrams’ usual rented stall, third closest to the arena. It was, therefore, nice of Jack to give him a once-over with the soft brush, just for fun. But Jack himself didn’t seem much in a mood for fun—his face was almost as long as Van der Luyden’s. I suppose they think things are going to go badly. Some faith they have in Dauphin! The pony tossed his head in a marked manner as Jack attempted to comb his tumbling forelock. Won’t it be fun to see their faces when Isabella puts the new bowl—or perhaps this year a cup?—in the trophy case? Phin glanced at the case in question, and then quickly looked away. There was something depressing about the faded blue ribbons, bleached by the sun, and the bowl, which didn’t gleam in the light but instead looked rather dirty. Well, they’ll give it a good cleaning after the show, no doubt. No use resting on past laurels, after all.
As Jack slowly packed up his brushes, Phin grew impatient.
“We’ll hit terrible traffic if we don’t leave soon … everyone going to the country for the weekend,” he grumbled to Van der Luyden, who persisted in gazing at his neighbor in a gloomy fashion. Then Phin felt Jack’s arm slip under his neck as he pushed his muzzle through the halter and reached around to fasten the buckle. The halter felt oddly light and it didn’t have the rich smell of oiled leather of which all the pony’s tack was redolent. But it was comfortable—probably a new sort of lightweight summer fabric, Phin guessed. His eyes misted a bit at the Ingrams’ thoughtfulness.… There would be Vivaldi, now he was sure.
Jack clipped an old nylon lead shank to Phin’s (old nylon) halter, collected his brushes, and slid open his stall door. Then, seeing that Van der Luyden had his head over his door, Jack stopped and allowed the friends to touch noses.
“We’ll miss him, won’t we, old sir?” Jack stroked the noble stallion’s Roman nose.
“Good-bye, Phineas,” Van der Luyden murmured. “And best of luck to you. If you’ve … taken my advice to heart, I’m gratified. If I may be so presumptuous, your father and grandfather would be gratified as well.”
Poppy? Phin reeled a bit.
“A pony can find honor … in many situations, as your forefathers were well aware,” Van der Luyden explained. “That island of Shetland breeds very valiant creatures.”
“Well, um, thanks, Van der Luyden,” Phin said bewilderedly.
“And remember, Phineas…” But the old stallion didn’t finish. It was the first time Phin had ever seen him at a loss for words.
“‘We endure, even without sugar?’” Phin hazarded.
“Yes, son. I suppose that will have to do.” Van der Luyden sighed and touched Phin’s small, rosy muzzle with his own aristocratic nose and then retreated to the back of his stall.
Downstairs, the bustle of last-minute preparations for the pony show consumed the small riding ring. A line of trailers stood double-parked and waiting on the street like taxis at a
stand. Isabella and her mother would be somewhere nearby, although it was possible that they’d driven ahead; Phin was always delivered to shows in one of the Chadwick’s trailers (hunter green with a large C and O monogrammed in cream on the side). Phin could see the back of a trailer now, and his ears pricked in anticipation.
As Jack led him toward the stable’s entrance, Phin looked around for Isabella. It wasn’t unusual for the Ingrams to go straight from home to the country club, but Phin had hoped to see his mistress once before they were engulfed in the bright, noisome chaos of the show grounds. It had been such a long time … and a reassuring pat wouldn’t have gone amiss.… He couldn’t find her, but the pony was touched to see that a veritable parade of the Chadwick’s staff had paused in their work and were moving toward him, forming a kind of receiving line by the door.
First a crowd of grooms flocked around him, tousling his forelock with mock ferociousness, stroking his neck, and even kissing his cheeks. Then Mr. and Mrs. Brandish, the owners of the Chadwick, patted his back and told him to be a good boy, and a few of the stable’s other clients came forward to stroke his mane and to say good-bye. Phin was utterly overwhelmed by the send-off. Never had a pony gone off to the fields of competition with such support, such admiration. Isabella and Hilda might not be there, but Phin felt the warm arms of the grand Chadwick Ostlers embrace him, and he knew that with such friends, he couldn’t help but be ready for anything.
And then he saw her. Isabella, round and rosy and fragrant Isabella, fawn-jodphured and pink-manicured Isabella, was standing by the Chadwick’s trailer, her hand on the gleaming leather halter of a leggy, silver-dappled Connemara mare who, unlike the girl at her head, was looking curiously at Phin. That’s not like her, Phin thought. Holding another girl’s pony … and who is that, anyway? Some new first-floor tenant, I suppose. Approaching his mistress, Phin put a bit of spring in his stride and looked alert. It was the perfect end to a perfect morning to have her there for a quick cuddle and conversation before the trip ahead.
But to Phin’s surprise, Jack led him straight past the Chadwick’s trailer and straight past Isabella, turning left toward a dirty, off-white, two-horse trailer hitched to an idling pickup truck streaked with mud and bird poop. Jack stopped abruptly and then half turned to Phin and muttered something too low for the pony to hear. Phin looked at him curiously. Jack turned him back around, took a deep breath, and again pulled him back toward Isabella.
“Wouldn’t you like to say good-bye to your old friend, Miss Ingram?” he called out, and his normally melodious voice sounded harsh and strained. That’s right, Phin sighed with relief. Jack’s been in a mood all day, and he can’t even remember which trailer I go to or that obviously I should say hello to Isabella!
Isabella didn’t appear to have heard him, though they were standing only a few yards down the sidewalk from her.
“Miss Ingram?” Jack called again. Isabella appeared to be deep in conversation with another of the stable’s riders, a redheaded boy named Tate who was looking admiringly at the fine-boned mare who stood quietly by Isabella’s side. Phin couldn’t understand it. He gave a low whicker of inquiry.
Isabella’s eyes flickered in his direction at the sound. Their gazes met briefly, and then she turned back to the silver pony, clucking as she asked her to step up into the trailer, which the mare did with a dainty hop. And then Phin’s mistress was gone.
CHAPTER 4
Phin had several long hours in the trailer, which smelled strongly of goats, to try to convince himself that nothing was wrong. It was an uphill battle.
I’ll see her at the country club. That’s why she didn’t feel the need to say hello. (Then why did Jack call it “good-bye”?)
That was Tate’s new pony—she was just being helpful. (When has helpfulness ever been one of Isabella’s primary, or even secondary, traits?)
This is a spare Chadwick trailer. There was some sort of problem with overbooking. (Why does it smell of goats?)
On and on, his mind spun futilely as the miles ticked by and the breeze from the half-opened window blew in first the smell of traffic and then the smell of cut grass and hay. Phin racked his brain trying to remember if this felt like the route to the Fairmont Country Club, but he couldn’t be sure. He was alone in the trailer—also not a promising sign if he was here in the first place because the trailers were overbooked—but at least Jack was driving. True, Jack had never driven him to a show before—his work at the stable claimed most of his time—but knowing that he was only a few feet away in the cab of the poopy pickup was comforting.
The route may or may not have been familiar, but one thing was, and discomfitingly so: the trailer itself. The livestock smell; the cramped, swaying interior; the way the trailer clattered over each small bump in the tarmac; and, most especially, having Jack at the wheel … the only thing missing was a grumpy, one-eyed Shetland hellion, aka Poppy, in the neighboring stall. This was once my life, Phin thought. How depressing.
There was a sharp jolt as the trailer hit a bump—and then another, and another. The pickup seemed to be dragging its cargo over a road laid out along the lines of the wooden roller coaster at Coney Island, and Phin staggered as he tried to keep his balance. He heard Jack shout something out the window of the cab, but it was lost in the series of metallic shrieks and groans that the trailer gasped out like a wounded animal. Phin prayed it wouldn’t self-destruct before they arrived at the Fairmont. Fairmont Country Club—he could picture the soft velveteen swell of the fairway and the blindingly white fences that edged the riding rings, and he smelled the leather, clover, and organic fly spray smell that was the essence of summer luxury. He gave a tentative sniff out the window … and got a nostril full of the pickup’s exhaust and scorched grass.
The sun cut a diagonal across the line of pasture, telephone pole, pasture, telephone pole, and pasture that seemed to stretch without end. Phin had lost track of time. And still the trailer lurched on.
It’s a new route to the club.
The pony show changed locations.
His rationalizations grew weaker with every mile, but when the pickup finally moaned to a stop and the trailer settled into silence, Phin’s ears still tried to make out the sound of girlish laughter, the tinkling neighs of blooded ponies, and the firm, ringing tone of the announcer, who would … soon, oh, let it be soon!… call out, “Miss Isabella Ingram on Dauphin!”
Instead he heard the sound of crickets, interrupted by a long complaint from a cow. Then he made out the crunch of Jack’s boots on gravel as he swung down from the cab of the truck. Another squeal of rusty metal, and Jack was back in the truck and they were moving forward again—he must have stopped to open a gate, Phin reasoned. The next stretch of road was the bumpiest yet, and the pony’s teeth chattered in his head as the trailer jackhammered along. Finally, after ten minutes of feeling like an oat rattling around in an empty bucket, the truck and trailer collapsed to a halt and Jack killed the engine.
There was, if he was honest about it, almost no chance that this pockmarked road led to the Fairmont. But Phin clung to hope till the very end, conjuring an image of the immaculate grounds so vivid that when Jack swung open the trailer door and backed the Shetland slowly out, he thought he saw, for one blissful moment, the verdant, shady lawns of the country club stretch before him. Then he blinked, and they were gone.
* * *
“Is this the city slicker? Haw! Turn him around, lemme get a look at him.”
Jack placed a gentle hand on Phin’s halter and guided him toward the rough voice. Phin blinked in the glare of the evening sun slanting down on the shadeless gravel lot onto which he’d been deposited, and when his eyes found the giant leering down at him, he flinched.
“That’s all right now, Phinny,” Jack murmured. “Easy does it, laddie.”
It was most certainly not all right, as far as Phin was concerned. The hulking man who stood before him looked like the worst kind of carnie—he was missing a front tooth, both arm
s were blue with full-sleeve tattoos, and his ripped, dirty tank top exposed rippling muscles that looked quite adequate to tear a Shetland pony in half just before devouring him. Phin’s eyes showed their whites as he stared up at the monstrous being who appeared to be … chuckling.
“Haw, haw! Ain’t he cute? Hey there, sweet pea, ain’t you a little dolly? Huh? Ain’t you just the prettiest thing?” The giant reached out one hand the size of Isabella’s thigh and gave Phin’s head a vigorous rub. The pony relaxed a bit: The giant might be uncouth, but at least he had eyes in his head.
“‘Sweet pea,’ eh?” Jack still looked depressed, but he managed a small smile.
“What’s it to ya?” the giant snarled, rounding on Jack like a caged bear that had just been poked.
“Nothin’, mister, absolutely nothin’,” Jack said mildly. “I call him ‘laddie’ myself, or Phinny. His original name was Phineas, which his little girl changed to Dauphin—French, you know—but he’s always been Phinny to me.”
The giant, pride soothed, relaxed his shoulders and stuck out the ham attached to his wrist.
“I’m Frank.”
“Jack.” They shook and Jack winced. “So,” he continued, wringing out his hand, “you take care of the animals?”
“Yah, I come by once a week, more in the winter, but in the summer they got plenty to graze on. Check on ’em, make sure the water troughs are full. I got a nephew who stops by, too, an’ feeds the ones that don’t eat grass. Wish I could come oftener, but I got another job … and I gotta stick around where my parole officer can check up on me.” Frank gave another, grimmer “Haw.”
Phin saw Jack swallow hard. Parole officer? He cast a pleading glance upward. Surely Jack wasn’t going to leave him alone with an ex-con the size of Van der Luyden? Plenty of former felons had worked the carnival, but Phin and Jack had always given them a very wide berth.
Frank the felon broke the awkward pause that had followed his words.
Little Prince - The Story of a Shetland Pony Page 3