by Kate Lattey
Pony Jumpers
#1
FIRST FENCE
Kate Lattey
1st Edition
Copyright 2015 © by Kate Lattey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Pony Jumpers
Preview of Pony Jumpers #2 : Double Clear
More Books by Kate Lattey
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Find & Follow
* * *
“It’s not about the social accessories,
the money, the ribbons.
It’s not about the winning;
that comes easy.
It’s about the horse:
how to care for the horse,
how to ride the horse,
and how to look after this great animal -
the horse.”
- George Morris
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
My bike skidded across the dirt, spattering my jodhpurs with flecks of mud. Goodbye turnout points, I thought sadly as I leaned my bike up against the tin shed at the edge of the Pony Club paddock. Our head coach was a stickler for correct and spotless turnout, and week after week she tutted over my patched and stained jodhpurs, which refused to look clean no matter how many times I washed them.
I dragged the shed’s reluctant door open, and checked the time. Twenty minutes behind schedule. Of course today was the day that my bus got stuck in traffic after school, which meant I had no time to grab a snack before changing into my Pony Club uniform and biking down here as fast as I could. I scrambled over the fence and walked across the big paddock, looking for my pony. And of course he’s on the other side of the ten-acre paddock. I would hardly expect anything less today.
Mud sloshed around the edges of my jodhpur boots as I strode across the paddock, heading towards the most likely location for the ponies to be. I felt a cold trickle seep into my sock as I walked, the buckles of the halter I was carrying clinking merrily. Despite the fact that I was late, and that my left sock was now soaked half-through, and the mist sitting low over the hills was hinting at more rain to come, I was on my way to catch my very own pony. For so many years, I’d dreamed of a pony of my own. Mum and Dad had no interest in horses, and couldn’t understand why I wasn’t happy with hockey or soccer, why I couldn’t play a sport that they understood and that didn’t involve the complete care and responsibility of another life. But I wore them down eventually, escaping to the stables every weekend to ride, earning my lessons through hard work, and eventually they’d been persuaded.
The ponies appeared in front of me, half-hidden in the trees at the bottom of the gully, and I walked down the slippery hill towards them, casting my eyes across our small herd. Cobber, the solid chestnut with a big white blaze, and gangly dark bay Duke were both grazing on the side of the hill. A small bright bay pony with a bushy forelock and a white face peeked out from behind a tree with a slender roan standing behind him. Oscar and Rebel, whose young owners were either not coming to our Pony Club rally today or were even later than I was. I gave Oscar a quick scratch under the forelock as I passed, and then I saw Squib.
More accurately, I saw his butt. He was standing in a thick clump of flax bushes, with just his rump and tail sticking out towards me. My grin at the sight of him faded when I saw the dark brown streaks in his supposedly white tail, and I groaned. He was about to make my filthy jodhs look good.
I heard a shout from behind me, and turned to look. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Squib’s head fly up on high alert as Carolina came running towards us, skinny legs flashing in bright pink gumboots.
“Oscaaaaaaaar!” she cried, her shrill voice carrying across the paddock.
Her pony raised his head an inch from the ground, still chewing, and observed her calmly. Carrie’s sister Alyssa trudged along behind her, dragging her own halter and being chivvied from the gate by their mother Sandra as Rebel gave his rider a wary look. They hadn’t owned the sensitive roan pony for very long, but he was already giving nervous Alyssa palpitations every time her mother legged her into the saddle.
Squib had backed out of the flax bushes and was staring at the commotion, his ears pricked right up and his big dark eyes bright. I could read the mischief on his face as he watched Carrie run up to Oscar and fling her arms around his neck. Her small pony didn’t flinch, just kept eating while his young rider attempted to halter him with his face on the ground.
I chirruped to Squib and he looked at me, muscles still tensed beneath his dark grey coat. I dug quickly into my pocket for something to tempt him with, but there was nothing there except a scrunched-up tissue. Better than nothing. Maybe he’ll be fooled. I held it out, trying to kid him into believing that it was a piece of bread or apple, but Squib was no fool. With a snort and a toss of his head, he spun on his heels and trotted away from me. My heart sank as I watched him bound into a canter, kicking up his heels as he passed Alyssa and delighting in her shriek of alarm. There’d be no catching him now.
By the time I finally caught Squib, I was well and truly late. Eventually tiring of watching me follow my bucking, farting pony around the paddock, Sandra had marched into the tin shed and thrown a handful of pony nuts into a bucket, then rattled it at Squib as he raced past her. Skidding to a halt, my pony spun on his rounded quarters and trotted back over towards her, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. With his head in the bucket, he was easy to catch, and when I finally got him haltered he led back to the gate as gently as a lamb.
“You should leave a halter on him if you’re going to have that much trouble catching him every day,” Sandra scolded me as I latched the gate behind us, chivvying Squib sideways with a poke at his round side.
“I don’t want it to get caught on the trees,” I replied.
I’d read that in the Pony Club Manual, and there were a lot of low-hanging branches in our paddock. I’d rather take half an hour to catch my pony every day than come down one afternoon to find him hanging from a tree, and I was about to tell Sandra that but she’d already scurried off to finish grooming Alyssa’s pony for her, because she was having another of her tantrums and was refusing to touch Rebel’s quivering coat. Carrie was sloshing copious amounts of hoof oil onto the ground as she attempted to polish Oscar’s hooves, blithely ignoring the large piece of manuka stuck in his tail or the big patches of dried mud on his hindquarters.
I tied Squib up with a quick-release knot and went to fetch my tack. The corner of the shed that held my gear was spartan compared to everyone else’s. Sandra had never been a rider, or even a horse person, but she’d thrown herself whole-heartedly into being a Pony Club Mum, and her daughters had enough tack between them for a dozen ponies. Their gear was always spilling out of their area and encroaching on my small space, so before I could even get to my corner I had to move one of Carrie’s bright pink buckets. It overflowed as I lifted it, and I grabbed the former contents up in handfuls and dumped it back in. Brushes and baby wipes and b
ottles of tail conditioner, plaiting bands and mane combs and some weird-looking grooming tools that I didn’t even recognise, let alone have the first idea what they’d be for. I was pretty sure that nine-year-old Carrie didn’t either, but if it was for sale at a tack shop, Sandra would buy it, and so their collection grew.
I picked up Squib’s small bucket of brushes that were purchased as a cheap bulk lot when I got him last year, and slung his second-hand Wintec saddle over my arm, unable to stop myself from looking at my tack critically. The girth had cracks along the plastic edges, my stirrup leathers didn’t match, and the Velcro on his banged-up tendon boots barely stayed closed anymore. But I grabbed his bridle last, and smiled in satisfaction as I slung it over my shoulder. I’d saved up all winter for it, and it was worth every penny. Soft brown leather with a padded headstall, plaited reins and a grackle noseband with a fuzzy bit of sheepskin in the middle. It made him look really flash, and the noseband has helped me to keep him under control a bit better, although most of my control still went out the window when he was faced towards a jump.
Jumping has always been Squib’s favourite thing in the world – aside from food, that is. He’d attack any jump with gusto, bounding towards it with his head in the air, flinging himself sky high and kicking up his heels on the other side. I couldn’t be sure whether the adrenalin I got from it was excitement or sheer terror, but we almost always ended up on the other side, so at least we weren’t a total disaster.
Or so I’d thought. By the time I got Squib presentable and tacked up, the rally was well underway, and I was reprimanded for my lateness by the head coach Donna.
“It’s not as though you’ve got far to come,” she told me, reminding me that I grazed on the adjacent grounds and only had a thirty-second ride to get to rally. “Some of our members live half an hour away, and they’re always on time.”
I wanted to tell her that their parents probably didn’t work night shifts or have a sister who needed constant supervision, but she was already waving me towards a group of riders in the far corner.
“You can join in with Deb’s group. She’s here as a favour to us today, so be respectful and try to keep that mad thing under control,” she said, casting a doubtful glance at Squib as I nodded and turned him away. He bounded forward, squealed at a small pony who was coming too close for his liking, pretended to buck, then trotted off towards our group with his nose in the air.
“Mad,” I heard the coach saying behind me, and I knew she was shaking her head. “I’m telling you, that pony’s a menace.”
The woman named Deb was standing in the middle of a group of riders, all circling around her at a walk. I walked Squib into the middle of the circle and managed to halt him right before he flattened her.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Faint lines appeared around Deb’s eyes and mouth as she smiled at me. She was middle-aged, probably in her forties, with dark hair in a short ponytail and a gorgeous orange windbreaker that I immediately coveted.
“That’s all right, hun. What’s your name?”
“AJ. And this is Squib.”
My pony pricked his ears and did his best to look cute and likeable as Deb rubbed his forehead. It seemed to work, because her smile broadened as she looked him over.
“He’s very cute. How old? Have you had him long?”
“Six. And I’ve had him for almost a year. He doesn’t know much,” I admitted. “But he’s a really keen jumper.”
“That’s what we like to hear. Join into the group behind Katy,” she told me, pointing to a girl I’d never seen before on a gorgeous flaxen chestnut pony.
I let Squib jog out onto the circle and reined him back to a walk behind the chestnut. The pony swished his immaculately clean tail, his round hindquarters rippling with every step of his long, flowing stride. His coat gleamed, his mane and tail were perfectly pulled and even his short white socks were clean as he strode confidently across the grass. We picked up a trot, and I watched his rider, sitting tall and appearing to be doing nothing at all, her hands still and her legs immobile as her pony flexed gently at the bit. Oh, to be able to ride like that. To have a pony that well-schooled…
“Canter on,” Deb said and the pony in front of me stepped smoothly into a supple, active canter. Squib grabbed the reins and followed, tossing his head as I fought to keep him from crowding the chestnut pony’s heels.
“AJ, sit up and half halt him,” Deb called to me. I wasn’t quite sure what a half halt was or how to do one, but I tugged at the reins so it would look like I was at least doing something. As usual, Squib did the exact opposite of what I wanted him to, grabbing the bit and charging into the hindquarters of the pony in front of us.
Katy turned her head and shot me an annoyed look as her chestnut sidestepped nervously, and I quickly apologised as Deb told us to come back to a trot. The chestnut pony transitioned smoothly again, and Squib seized his opportunity to pass, cantering a full lap around the circle of riders before I could convince him to return to a trot.
“Keen, isn’t he?” Deb asked me with a smile, unfazed by my pony’s bad behaviour. Usually by now, Donna would be screaming at me to get Squib under control, and half of the time she would make me go away and school by myself in the corner, which only ever made Squib crazier and harder to control, but I suppose it meant she didn’t have to watch.
But Deb didn’t do that. Instead she had everyone else walk while I cantered on the other rein, giving me her full attention as Squib careened around her in ever-decreasing circles.
“Sit up AJ, use your seat. Bring him back to you. Half-halt.”
I tried again, pulling sharply on Squib’s reins for a moment before releasing, and he did slow down a little bit, but I could sense Deb’s consternation.
“Hang on. Come back to walk for a moment. Katy, pick up a canter and show her what I mean.”
I hauled Squib back to a jog, which was the closest I could get to a walk out of him, and watched as Katy’s pony glided effortlessly into a canter, straight from the walk. He stepped through from behind, his neck was arched and eyes bright, and she sat perfectly balanced in the saddle. Everything looked perfect to me, but Deb somehow found things to correct.
“Lift your hands a bit, get that inside hind leg working,” she called. “Now ride him forward a little bit.”
Once again, Katy’s aids were imperceptible. Her pony’s stride lengthened and sped up slightly, and as she cantered past me, Deb called to her to half-halt, telling me to “watch how she does it”.
I did my best, but other than the fact that Katy sat up a bit straighter, I couldn’t see her doing anything. Her pony responded immediately though, his canter slowing down right away.
“And again, collect him up more,” Deb called, and again I saw nothing except the response Katy got from her pony. Perhaps a slight movement of her hands, but little else.
“Okay, back to walk, give Lucas a pat,” Deb told Katy, then turned back to me. “See that?”
I went for total honesty. “I saw the response. I didn’t see how she did it.”
Deb turns to Katy. “Want to explain your aids?”
Katy turned in her saddle and looked over her shoulder at me. “Sit up, sit back, close your seat, close your hands.”
She recited the aids fluidly, sounding bored by the elementary nature of it, then swung back around in her saddle to face forwards. As though it was just that easy to do, taking no effort at all.
Deb encouraged me to try again, and I heard Jessie in front of me start complaining that if we spent the whole lesson trying to get Squib under control then we’d be there all night. I ignored her and pick up the reins, then nudged Squib into his fast canter. Deb called instructions to me, and after a moment of confusion, I got what she meant and this time it actually worked. Squib steadied his stride and his canter got bouncier, making him even harder to sit on than usual. But for a moment there, for just a moment, I felt a surge of power from his hindquarters, propelling us along.
The kind of canter that you wish could last forever, the kind that would take you over a metre-twenty oxer without even blinking.
Of course, it didn’t last. Within a few strides, Squib was scurrying along at high speed again and ignoring me, and I had to turn him in smaller circles to get him to slow back to a trot. I clapped his sweaty neck and praised him as Deb moved on to coach the rest of our group. Once they’d all managed to canter a circle, we moved on to jumping.
One by one, everyone trotted over the crossbar, then cantered over the vertical. Katy looked bored beyond belief, her pony doing everything perfectly while the rest of us struggled. Jessie’s pony ran out at the vertical, Ashley’s skittish young Thoroughbred knocked both jumps down, and James’ elderly roan pony ran out of impulsion and dribbled to a lazy halt in front of the second fence. Squib, meanwhile, flung himself over both jumps with huge enthusiasm, clearing each one by miles and nearly shooting me out of the saddle.
As I circled him after the jumps, trying to get back under control, I noticed that Katy was watching me, looking interested for the first time as Squib did his best to drag my arms out of their sockets.
“He can really jump!” Deb called to me as Jessie came back around for another attempt at the low fences. “Stand over there with Katy for a minute while I get these guys through.”
Katy’s eyes were still on me as Squib sidled towards her beautiful pony, but she didn’t look as annoyed at me as she had before. She didn’t say anything as Squib sniffed noses with her chestnut, then laid his ears back and squealed.
“Squib! That’s rude,” I told him, and Katy shrugged, a half-smile appearing on her narrow face.
“It’s okay. Lucas is paddocked with mares, he’s used to it.”
“He’s gorgeous,” I told her, unable to tear my eyes away now that we were close up. His copper coat gleamed with good health, his neatly pulled mane laid evenly on one side of his muscular neck, and every inch of both him and his tack was spotlessly clean. Squib’s mane could never decide whether to lie on the left or right, so it split the difference and changed over halfway. I knew there were manure stains on his hocks and in his tail, and his hooves needed to be trimmed again, but I was having the devil of a time getting the farrier to return my phone calls. At least his bridle looks good, I told myself.