Fair Girls and Grey Horses

by Christine Pullein-Thompson

  Mamma had decided that the twins, with their Dresden shepherdess complexions and their Scottish noses, were more marriageable than I was – Denis and I had inherited the squashy Pulleyn nose. Once she looked at me sadly and said, paraphrasing Yeats, ‘You’ll have to find someone to love the pilgrim soul in you.’ I quite liked the idea of having a pilgrim soul, it seemed even more desirable than a Dresden shepherdess complexion.

  As Diana and Christine have written, ponies usually loved living at The Grove, but I remember one, Mingo, who was miserable. She hated the noise and bustle, and when we sold her to an introverted teenager it was soon apparent that the solitary life suited her, and the change in her expression told us she was happy.

  Physically and emotionally horses vary so much that they can never be fed or handled in a completely uniform way. There are also huge variations in their intelligence. Later, when Diana owned one of Basa’s daughters, Favorita, she showed her how to undo the bolt on her stable door, and rewarded her when she pulled it back with her teeth. The clever horses and ponies watched with interest and then copied Favorita. Suddenly the yard was full of loose horses and barking dogs, and we had to hurry into Reading to buy a bolt for the bottom of every door. The less intelligent horses and ponies never learnt the trick, but their very lack of brain was useful as it made them more suitable mounts for novice riders. It was always difficult to persuade non-riding parents to buy old ponies for their children. They hankered after three-and four-year-olds, convinced that it would be ‘nice for them to grow up together’, and ignored our warnings that, while older horses are consistent in their faults, young ones try out some new rebellion every day. Leaving an inexperienced and solitary child to cope with a young pony was akin to landing him or her with a juvenile delinquent. We learnt never to take young horses out on their own when we had an important appointment, because, like small children, they sense that you are in a hurry and play up. We also learnt that it was better to miss a train than to lose a battle. Of course we made mistakes. When Shandy, at his very first show, jumped a clear round, we allowed him to jump off. He jumped clear again; and then the injudicious judge had the triple raised to an enormous height for a twelve-two pony. We should have withdrawn, but we foolishly took a chance – and Shandy went in and refused three times. After that he never jumped in a show again. He had learnt his lesson: if he jumped well he would be asked for more and more, if he refused three times he could leave the ring. So, though he would jump at home or at the pony club, at shows he invariably came out at the first fence.

  We learnt a lot about the children too. Some of our pupils were brought by nannies and at different times Berrys, Guinesses and Clores were having lessons, and the present Aga Khan, aged three. We always tried to persuade parents that seven was the perfect age to start. We felt that when children began too early, they became bored on the leading rein, before they had developed the brain and muscle to control a pony on their own. But, if parents insisted, the very small ones would be led out for half an hour with the instructor on foot. We found that it was important not to let small boys have frights or falls as, under twelve, they were much more nervous than girls. At puberty this seemed to change; the boys who had kept up their riding would grow in daring while some of the girls became more cautious. Boys invariably gave up if they were unsuccessful; they had to be taught well and provided with accomplished ponies. Some girls were equally ambitious, but for others the actual riding was not so important, it was loving and looking after the ponies that mattered and presumably satisfied their budding maternal instincts.

  My childhood was over and, as I approached the age for war work, we began to discuss what I should do. Cappy had discovered that the Royal Army Veterinary Corps ran a remount depot at Melton Mowbray and was looking for women over eighteen to groom and exercise its horses. Half of me hankered to join something more adventurous and to wear a uniform; but it was rumoured that, with no need for further expansion and very few casualties, the Women’s Services had grown top-heavy and new recruits were condemned to years of scrubbing floors. At least the Remount Depot seemed more exciting than that, or than the Land Army, which Aunt May suggested – I had had my fill of picking brussels sprouts with the frost on them and haymaking with a bleeding nose. Leaving the sixteen-year-old twins in charge, I settled for horse housework and set off for Melton Mowbray. In my suitcase was the typescript of It Began With Picotee, which still needed a tidy-up and an illustrator; I was soon to find one, Rosemary Robertson, among my fellow workers.

  Epilogue

  Diana

  My sisters say some of my contributions are too gloomy. Yet I remember my childhood at home as extremely happy, so is it this very happiness that causes the cruelties of humans, nature and chance to stand out in my mind? And was I more conscious of my failures than my sisters were of theirs?

  I have forgotten to mention much: the joy of waking to cocks crowing and a dawn chorus which was surely one of the finest in the country; the pleasure of running early across dew-wet grass to let out my bantams, to watch them tripping one by one down the little ladder from their hatch-door. Or the excitement of helping wet chicks break from their egg shells before handing them to a clucking mother to tuck under her wing. Nor have I described the sheer, unforgettable physical pleasure of being one with a pony, of jumping a difficult fence or, better still, a double in perfect unison; and the contentment which steals over me even now when I sit in the grass with ponies around me. And the scent of flowers wild on the Oxfordshire banks or splendid in The Grove’s garden, and the smell of new-mown hay and apples freshly picked. And I only have to see whiteheart cherries for sale to be back in those golden days in our own tree, legs astride a branch, eating as many as I wanted.

  Of course there was a down side too: bleak mornings when you fought the rain or snow to reach your bantams, or, soaked through, rode ponies bareback from the fields. Above all there was the endless circle of birth and death: the burial of a little bantam one day and the chick breaking from the egg the next, a good preparation perhaps for life itself.

  People, particularly academics, ask me whether I was handicapped by a mismanaged education. I don’t know. We began adult life more literate than most, thanks mainly to Mamma, but embarrassingly ill-informed on many subjects and with no pieces of paper to help us get jobs. But when TB ended my career with horses, I had no difficulty in finding work with a literary agent, on the strength of a letter and an interview, and subsequently better-paid part-time work with other agencies and with publishers. Later, level pegging with graduate contemporaries, I turned down further opportunities, because I wanted more time for my addiction to writing. Would a conventional education have turned me into a better writer or would it have crushed the small talent I possess? These are, I think, unanswerable questions, and I do not resent my parents’ decision, although reading Josephine’s last piece I am staggered to think that the continuation of Christine’s and my education, which ended when we were fourteen, may well have depended on whether or not there was a place for Josephine at a veterinary college.

  Sometimes, if I wake in the early hours, I wonder whether I should have made more effort to understand Cappy. We were brought up to be brave, stoical, merry-hearted and physically tough, but not to be especially sensitive to others’ feelings. The Pullein-Thompsons said what they meant and expected everyone to do the same. ‘Don’t hint,’ was my mother’s frequent cry. So I grew up without realising that not everyone is capable of saying what they mean first time round, without grasping that hints can signify a wish, a longing or a commitment which needs encouragement if it is to be voiced. Cappy, who suffered so many disappointments, didn’t hint, but some of his actions were, I suspect, unheard cries for help. ‘Stress’ and ‘counselling’ were not words in our vocabulary. The stiff upper lip, although mocked in theory, was in practice expected of us all. And so it’s quite possible that Cappy would have been insulted and infuriated by any attempt of mine to understand him. As I grew older I d
id try to breach the gulf between us. ‘Have a good time,’ I would foolishly say as he set off to shop in Reading and, hating what he saw as condescension, he would tell me how utterly stupid my remark was.

  The stiff upper lip had seen our parents through two world wars and one of the worst financial slumps England has known. They only went abroad together once – in 1946, to reinter Granny, repay Silvio and holiday in the south of France – but they believed in enjoying life. Henley Regatta, Wimbledon, riding, foxhunting, golf, films, plays, books, drinks with friends at the pub, cocktail parties, gardening – their life was far from dull; they never got up late or rested in the afternoons. Mamma was nearly always in the process of writing her next book. Cappy was looking for more challenges. He restarted the Kenton Theatre in Henley, organised fêtes and celebrations for VE day, ran the local cadets and more. After retirement he became a County Councillor and, when infirmity ended his golfing days, he learnt croquet and played in a tournament in Oxford shortly before his death, a hard example to follow.

  There were two older girls I admired immensely for their style and sophistication when I saw them once or twice at children’s parties. The first, Anthea Hodgson, married the publisher Michael Joseph; the second, Amaryllis Fleming, became a famous cellist. Gauche and untidy, I coveted their clothes, their hair and what I saw as their self-confidence. Nearly half a century later, I had reason to write to Anthea, who was by now a widow. ‘You may just remember me,’ I began by way of introduction, ‘as one of three rather scruffy girls.’ And writing back Mrs Joseph said she did remember us, but ‘on the contrary, how we envied you your Bohemian way of life’. That I suppose sums up the normal longing of almost every child at some stage to lead a different life. I think I loved Mamma, The Grove and the animals far too much to want to swap places with anyone, but sometimes I simply longed to be a different me.

  Josephine

  It is fascinating, but probably a waste of time, to speculate on what one might have been like if the circumstances of childhood had been different. I always assumed that perfect parents were an impossibility, as each generation is either repeating, or reacting against, the imperfections of its own parents – ‘Glands!’ I hear Mamma’s voice mocking – and, consequently, no childhood could ever be perfect.

  We were lucky to have a lively and witty mother who, though often critical, was never boring and never nagged. I believe poor Cappy wanted to be a good and jolly father, but his upbringing, his innate jealousy, and the five years spent in the trenches, followed by years of almost constant pain, seemed to have filled him with anger. It was, I think, our awareness of this volcano waiting to erupt that made a trusting relationship with him impossible. His physical disabilities also influenced us, but in a constructive way. Having a father who could not fetch and carry for you and occasionally needed your help – if Denis wasn’t at home I would be stood on top of the refrigerator to fix the electrical fuses – encouraged self-reliance. Growing up in the war, with all the able-bodied men away in the services, called for yet more self-reliance, and Mamma’s admiration for those who were ‘good’ on a desert island ennobled it into a virtue.

  Without the twins my childhood would have been very different and I suspect that I would have been more of a bookworm, less of a doer. The challenges of two very enterprising younger sisters forced me to compete, and I had to learn to lead by stealth; this has proved very useful in later life when chairing committees. There is no doubt that numbers generate courage and as a three we did much more than any one of us would have attempted on her own.

  With so much space we enjoyed the advantages of growing up in a family without too many of the disadvantages. Meals could be claustrophobic, but otherwise it was easy to escape to solitude or to commune with the animals. The presence of Bowley and then Joan as part of the extended family was important, as we were sadly deprived of grandparents.

  Though we were encouraged to be endlessly active, contemplation was permitted. ‘A poor life this, if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare’ was an unanswerable retort to anyone complaining of your sloth or procrastination. As we grew older, Mamma’s ‘I don’t care what you do as long as you’re not non-entities’ acted as a spur, partly because the shame of failure or of making a fool of yourself was rated so low. Her ‘Well, it’s not the end of the world,’ or ‘Where’s your sense of proportion?’ helped one to accept trivial defeats and go on trying.

  Possibly we would have been better writers if we had had less happy childhoods. The loneliness of the remittance child, or the inhibitory rule of the convent school, seem to offer more fertile breeding-grounds for imagination than bucolic happiness. But there was always a pony-book flavour about The Grove: Cinderella, Ugly Duckling, Rags-to-Riches themes abounded. Beginning without skill, wearing the wrong clothes and riding untrained ponies, we failed for a time and then succeeded beyond all expectations. We bought ponies with bad names which became prizewinners, and in the role of the hard-up scruffy child, we managed to beat the richer, well-dressed children on their expensive ponies. We became convinced that skill, courage and determination could triumph over almost anything and we tried to pass this on in our books.

  In a television programme a psychiatrist spoke of our influence on the girls of the ’fifties and ’sixties and the feeling we gave them that they could succeed. Certainly our heroines were always equal and sometimes superior to the boys; they might suffer from doubts and indecision but by the last page their courage, patience and talent were rewarded. We have boy readers too – they often complain that the book jackets invariably depict a girl – and at a comprehensive school I was introduced to a male fan. Aged thirteen, he had read one of my books eleven times: it was Showjumping Secret, a story told by its hero, who is recovering from polio.

  I think our lack of education would have been a disaster if we had not learnt to read and write fluently, if we had not lived in a house full of books and been taught that all knowledge was accessible to those prepared to look things up.

  Of course the final report from Wychwood was right, ‘gaiety and high spirits would not find us jobs in life’. But I think they equipped us to deal with life itself and certainly we all grew up feeling that we were the Captains of our Fate and the Masters of our Souls.

  Christine

  So with time we did become ‘Fair girls on grey horses,’ for we each had a grey – the Grove Greys, we called them. We whipped in to the Woodland Foxhounds and Henry Wynmalen was heard to say once that he had never seen anyone cross country like the Pullein-Thompson sisters. We bought ourselves the right clothes: boots from Peal & Co, breeches from Savile Row, coats from Moss Bros. While we had grown up, old grooms had faded away and girl grooms had taken over. And riding had ceased to be a pastime for a few and – how ugly it sounds – a leisure industry. I have been told that our books changed the way people treated horses. I hope so. Certainly we considered horses individuals and friends rather than animals to be exploited. Perhaps that is why we were so successful with supposedly wicked and ruined horses.

  By the ’fifties we had two stables and forty-two horses, but life without crippling business rates was easier then. Clients demanded less; they happily rode quietly when the ground was hard, and dismounted and led their mounts when the roads were slippery with ice and hard-packed snow. I think we were lucky to have spent our childhood so free from fear, free from child-snatchers and cars travelling at ninety miles an hour; so free that as we grew older we could ride ponies bareback a mile along the road to Peppard Common twice a day in headcollars, two on each side of the one we rode in the middle. Who would dare to do that now?

  On the whole there was little acrimony at The Grove. Returning, I would hurry from the bus stop at Gravel Hill, past the Chapel; and then, seeing the tree at the corner and knowing I was almost there, a great sense of joy would sweep over me, and I would run the last few precious yards home. Of course loving it so much I stayed too long, and kept returning.

  Sadly Diana a
nd I have never really escaped from the trauma of being twins. Too often we have heard each other at different ends of a room saying the same thing at the same time. Somehow it diminishes one. I do not know what the answer is. We were alike, we looked alike, and often we were dressed alike. I think we were alluded to as ‘the twins’ for far too long. But really I cannot blame anyone; maybe it’s just the fate of identical twins. And I wish Cappy and Mamma had discussed things more with us. So often I was guessing how they wanted me to be, and what they wanted me to do – Diana too. Sometimes we got it wrong and they said nothing. I cannot tell you why. Maybe it was to do with being free spirits.

  I have never been back to The Grove, not even when I lived within easy riding distance. Too much of me is still there, and I know that without the people who made it what it was, it would feel desolate and full of ghosts. Besides I could not bear to see the house in the paddock now, and the damson trees, where we once hung our dental braces, long gone. But I sometimes wonder if the weather vane still turns with the wind on the old stable roof. And is the Blenheim tree still standing in the orchard? And the spinney full of bluebells in the spring? And is the brick flagged floor still there in the dining room? And the beech tree we could see from our bedroom window where squirrels chattered? And are there horses in the top meadow? And who sits now where Mamma sat writing her novels in the bay window in the drawing room?