“Poor Oriole indeed. You didn’t have to struggle with her and get your best breeches dirty.”
“Or have your toes trodden on.”
“Or miss your class.”
“Will you really miss it?” I asked. “We’ve still got an hour; how many miles is it to Carlbury?”
Nobody knew so I couldn’t work out whether we were likely to be in time or not, but they wouldn’t leave the subject alone. They chewed over it again and again all saying practically the same thing except for occasional attacks on each other or joint ones on me if I ventured to say a word. In the end I went to sleep and didn’t wake up until we were bumping across the show ground.
“I’ll get the numbers,” Patience was saying. “Prue, you and Charles had better help Jackie.” Helping Jackie was no joke. She wanted Oriole’s rugs, bandages, knee caps and tail guard all off at once and her saddle and bridle on in the same breath. She wanted her own coat brushed and Oriole’s feet oiled and she panicked all the time because the loudspeaker was calling for her class to go to the collecting ring.
Jackie’s panic upset Oriole. She wouldn’t stand still, but kept barging into me as I fumbled with knots and straps, and all the time Jackie was screaming at me for not being quicker.
Prudence remained reasonably calm, but as her instructions were always different from Jackie’s she wasn’t much help to me. When at last Jackie was ready she certainly looked very smart. She wore a navy blue coat, her best jodhs, gloves and a bowler and Oriole was wonderfully groomed and turned out. It was just Oriole’s fussy mouth and undeveloped neck, which spoiled the picture, but, when she was in the ring with the other ponies, I realised that she wasn’t out of place; they all went in the same way. All the riders had their legs too far forward, all of them kept their ponies together and obviously had them under control, they all looked as though they had won hundreds of prizes and yet not one of the ponies was on the bit.
I wasn’t allowed to watch for long. Patience and Prudence were both in the next class and they both wanted their rugs, bandages, knee caps and tail guards off at once. After a few moments I suggested that I held both horses and that they undressed them, which worked a little better though screams of exasperation were directed at me every time one of the horses moved an inch. I was glad of a moment’s respite when they were safely in the collecting ring, but it did not last for long; there were screams of horror. Jackie was in the front line of the showing class and apparently needed me with a rubber at once. I rushed back to the box for a rubber and hurried into the ring.
“What on earth am I supposed to do?” I asked Jackie in a hoarse whisper. It felt very nerve racking to be out there in the middle of the ring with ferocious-looking judges all round me.
“Help me take the saddle off, of course,” said Jackie. “I’ve given my show and in a minute I’ve got to trot her up. Do hurry, Charles. Oh, look, you’re hopeless; you hold her and I’ll unsaddle. Now rub her down,” I was told when the saddle was off. “No, not like that, like this. Oh, give it to me.” Jackie rubbed frantically at the saddle mark and then at the bits. Then she gave the rubber back to me. “Now you keep out of the way until I’ve run her up and then you help me put the saddle on again,” she told me.
I stood beside Oriole’s saddle, which was in what I hoped was a safe position between the two lines of ponies, and then I was able to take an interest in the class. Oriole seemed to be third in the row and above her were two very smart-looking ponies and riders. Almost at once it was Jackie’s turn to lead her pony out and stand it in front of the judges. They looked at Oriole critically, one of them ran a hand down her forelegs and then they watched as Jackie led Oriole away at a walk, turned and trotted back past them. Jackie came back into the row and the fourth girl—there was only one boy in the class and he was in the back row—led her pony out.
“Quick, Charles, don’t stand there staring,”
Jackie muttered at me. I hastily grabbed the saddle. “There’s no need to bang it down and that’s much too far forward, this is a showing class.” I polished the wretched pony, I polished the bits and then I asked if Jackie wanted any more help. She said, “No, you can go now. But don’t disappear; Patience and Prudence’ll need someone and I can’t help them, Oriole’s too scatty to be left in the box by herself even if the little beast would go in, which she won’t.”
“O.K.,” I said. I was too exhausted by all the hurry and bustle to put up any resistance. All I wanted to do at that moment was to get out of the ring and sit down. I did sit down, but not for long; I soon observed that Patience and Prudence were making signals at me, but I pretended not to see them until they became frantic and there was nothing for it, but to go and see what they wanted.
“Oh, Charles, we’ve been trying to attract your attention for ages; just look at Count’s bits, they’re filthy. Rub harder; stroking at them won’t get them clean.”
“Charles, dust my boots for goodness’ sake, I can’t go in like this.”
“Now pull off our tail bandages.”
“How’s Jackie doing?” I asked as my eyes were not allowed to turn towards the ring.
“She’s still in third place. She won’t beat Gulf Stream, but she ought to beat Playmate, only Oriole gave an awful show; the little beast napped.”
Oriole was third and Jackie wasn’t too pleased about it, but I was too intent on the hack class, which was now entering the ring, to listen to her complaints. I had had strict instructions from Patience and Prudence not to dream, but to hurry in directly they reached the saddle-removing stage. There were only nine horses in the class and some of them didn’t look very hack-like to me, however, the judges put them all in the front row: Patience and Copper Count stood second, Prudence and Hat Trick fourth.
Directly Patience had given her show, and I must admit that it was so bad that I felt a cousinly shame sweep over me, I hurried into the ring clutching my now rather dingy rubber.
“Not yet,” said Patience in a cross whisper. “The judges haven’t ridden them yet.”
There was one other groom in the ring and he was giving a professional-looking rub to the bits of the horse standing at the top of the line, so I copied him and polished Count’s, despite an angry look from Patience.
Prudence’s show was just as bad as Patience’s. She started with a kick and stopped with a pull. She cantered a circle with Hat Trick’s head bent to the outside and she reined-back with his head in the air and mostly in four time. It was true that no one else was doing much better and the judges didn’t look as though their teeth were on edge, which mine were. However, when they mounted the first horse and Count and began to ride round, I knew why; they rode with their legs stuck forward and their hands in the air just like all the competitors.
It was a horrible sight and I was glad when Copper Count came back and I was able to avert my eyes, and get on with the polishing. I was very energetic this time as I didn’t want Patience snatching the rubber from me. No sooner was Count polished than I observed Prudence making frantic signs; evidently the judges had ridden Hat Trick. I don’t know whether my energy had waned or whether Prudence just demanded better service than Patience, but she soon snatched the rubber away from me and told me to hold the horse.
I was fed up with showing classes by the time all those horses had been trotted out in hand and I had saddled my two charges. Then, just when I expected them to present the rosettes the judges made the first five horses walk round again in a small circle and when they lined them up again Count had gone down one and stood third; Hat Trick remained fourth.
My cousins didn’t notice me when they came out of the ring so I was able to stay and watch the next class—the hackneys—come in. They were fun, but I soon became bored with them and then I began to wonder when the jumping would start. Suddenly I remembered that Patience had said something about two rings and a working hunter class. I leapt to my feet; I was probably meant to be polishing at this very moment; I hurried to the horsebox.
; “Oh, here he is,” cried my cousins when they caught sight of me. “Where have you been, Charles? We thought you must have fainted or got lost or something. We wanted the rubber too. Count and Trick are in the next class and we must have a practice jump.”
“Do working hunters jump?” I asked.
“Of course. Don’t you know anything?”
“Shush, Jackie. They’re judging it thirty per cent jumping, thirty per cent conformation and presence and forty per cent ride and training at this show,” Patience explained.
“We must have a practice jump. Jackie, Charles, go and look for one,” commanded Prudence.
“Go and look for one yourself,” said Jackie, “You’ve got hours of time, the Foxhunter isn’t half over yet.”
“What’s the Foxhunter?” I asked.
“One of those speed jumping competitions,” Patience answered, “they’re enough to spoil any horse.”
“Oh, gosh! I must look,” I said. Ignoring a cry from Prudence and abandoning the rubber, I hurried towards ring two.
Ring two had none of the bored superciliousness of ring one. The spectators looked interested, the competitors waiting in the collecting ring looked cheerful and the horses looked excited. The loudspeaker was explaining that six fences had been raised for the jump-off and that the nine competitors who had had clear rounds would jump again, this time against the clock, which meant, apparently, that if there were any more ties the fastest person would win.
The first competitor was a man on a chestnut. He cantered a circle, accelerated as he passed through the timing equipment and galloped at the first jump. I didn’t think he was a very good rider; he went fast, but not smoothly and he brought down one fence.
Almost at once the next competitor started—a grown-up-looking girl on a bay. She jumped a clear round in a very fast time and after that everyone was trying to beat her; they were riding faster and faster. It was terribly thrilling to watch; some went clear right to the last fence and then brought that down. No one else was clear until the very last competitor, a boy on a grey. He went round at an incredible speed and didn’t hit anything. The spectators clapped like mad and the loudspeaker announced his time, which was the fastest of every one’s.
I couldn’t watch the jumpers coming in for their rosettes because my cousins had caught sight of me. “Charles, Charles,” they called, and “You really are the limit dashing off like that,” they told me. “We needed you to hold one end of the practice pole.”
“Why on earth didn’t you enter for the Foxhunter?” I asked. “It was marvellous, I’ve just been watching.”
“It’d ruin any horse, it’s simply a race,” Patience told me with a look of disapproval.
“Look, we’re having those six rustic fences,” said Prudence. “They’re quite big enough, aren’t they?”
“Quite big enough,” agreed Patience. “Oh, good; look, they’re putting down the gate.”
One of the working hunters jumped well, but most of them, my cousins’ horses included, were horrible to watch. It was all the fault of the riders, of course. They really were terrible; they hung on to their horses’ mouths, they stuck their legs forward and got left behind. Their hands were in their stomachs, or sometimes up to their chins. Copper Count refused the first fence twice and brought down the gate. Hat Trick refused the first fence once and brought down the gate and the stile; so it was with long faces that my cousins went in for the judging of conformation and training. I was soon rushing about with my rubber and thanking heaven that it was the last class, for my leg was hurting and I felt that I would soon drop down dead with exhaustion. Only my excitement over the Foxhunter class kept me going. In spite of their awful jumping my cousins each acquired another rosette; this time Hat Trick was fourth and Copper Count highly commended. Patience and Prudence still had long faces when they came out of the ring and they seemed just as anxious to get home as I was. They began to chivvy me again and putting on three rugs, three blankets, twelve leg bandages, three tail bandages and guards and six knee caps was a wearisome business and took ages. It wouldn’t have been so bad if my cousins had been cheerful, but they weren’t, they were all in moods. They cursed their horses and the horses got upset and trod on me and a thin cold rain began to fall. I thought of Secret, but I knew that by this time she would be safely in her loosebox. We were all wet by the time we had boxed the horses, but we had plenty of lunch left to eat and three Thermoses of tea to warm us on our journey home; we even had five rosettes, but nothing would cheer my cousins; they remained in the blackest of moods. They discussed their horses. Why this one had napped and that one refused. All the errors belonged to the horses; the riders weren’t going to take any of the blame themselves. They discussed the judges and apparently none of them knew what they were doing.
“Why don’t you show jump?” I asked at length. “That can’t be so unfair; the judges don’t have opinions, they just add up the faults.”
“Because we don’t want to,” Jackie told me. “There are too many people show jumping already. Look at the size of the classes; it’s almost impossible to win,” said Patience.
“And look at the price you’ve got to pay for a good jumper,” added Prudence. “Six hundred pounds is nothing for a Grade C horse.”
“But you’d get more fun out of it than you seem to out of showing, even if you didn’t win,” I pointed out. “Besides Foxhunter jumps aren’t high, any decent horse could manage those.”
“Of course, you’re an expert,” said Prudence sarcastically.
Jackie said with a giggle, “Wait till you see Charles show jumping, that’ll be funny.”
“I’m jolly well going to,” I answered rashly. “I hope there’ll be some Foxhunters in the summer holidays. I’d rather have them than the ordinary competitions and if I ever had a clear round, I’d love to jump off against the clock.”
“Don’t be absurd. You’re not serious?” said Patience.
“Of course I am. Why not?”
“Well, even if you were anything like good enough, there’d still be your leg.”
“And you haven’t got a decent horse,” added Jackie.
I felt very angry and very determined at that moment. “I’ll get good enough,” I said. “Secret is good enough. And as for my leg, it can go to the devil.”
9
It is all very well to boast, in the heat of the moment, that you will become a good enough rider to show jump, but when you wake up next morning and find that you have no idea how to set about getting good enough, it is far from funny.
Secret having had the day off while I was at the show, was fresher than ever and just to add to my misfortunes, my parents, who seemed to have become deeply attached to her since they put her to bed, came to watch.
I hate to be watched at any time, but when one is all too conscious that one is riding badly and that one’s horse it going like nothing on earth, it is complete misery. My parents hadn’t the tact to go away; they just watched me getting more and more hot and bothered and Secret behaving like a lunatic, shying at everything and shooting into a gallop at the slightest noise.
Then they called to me. “She seems very fresh,” my father observed, and my mother asked, “How many pounds of oats did Claire tell you to give her a day?”
“Oh, six or seven,” I answered evasively.
“I made a few simple calculations last night when I saw the state of the oat bin,” said my father in restrained tones. “You seem to have used one hundred and eight pounds of oats in eight and a half days; according to my reckoning that’s just over twelve pounds a day—about twice the amount Claire recommended.”
“I want her to get fat,” I said.
“But darling, she’ll take it all off again prancing about like that,” said my mother.
“There’s no point in having a horse you can’t manage; besides, even Una admitted that there was nothing wrong with Secret and that she’d pick up directly the spring grass came through,” my father told me.
/>
“You know she’s been wearing you out lately,” added my mother. “She’ll have you off soon.”
“She has; it doesn’t matter; it doesn’t seem to hurt.”
“Well, consider my pocket if not your own neck. I can’t afford more than half a hundredweight of oats a week and that’s two pounds more a day than Claire suggested.” My father, having fired his last shot, they turned away to look at the garden; I could hear their voices as they walked round admiring the spring flowers.
I suddenly felt downcast. Even my stable management was hopeless. Now that they had pointed it out to me I realised that of course twelve pounds of oats a day was too much for a horse that was having as little work as Secret. I remembered Claire feeding boiled oats, because she said she wanted fat and not energy. It was all because I was too proud to take advice, I told myself. I wouldn’t listen to my cousins though they had ridden longer than I had. I looked at my watch; there was still plenty of time before lunch. I would ride over to Underhill Farm and ask if I might try their jumps. If I was being blind over the oats perhaps I was being blind over the jumping. Perhaps, even though they weren’t keen themselves, my cousins would be able to give me some good advice.
Secret was fresher still when we left the field. All through Hampden End she shied at cars and even bicycles and through the woods she started at imaginary snakes in the undergrowth and fled from squirrels. I nearly fell off several times, my crash cap was permanently over my eyes, and my leg was in a state of indignation.
My cousins seemed pleased to see me despite the coldness with which we had parted the day before. They seemed even more pleased when I explained that I wanted to jump and would like their advice. They all came down to the field where they had the jumps, and they put the whole course up at about three feet. Then they suggested that I should jump round. Secret took them at a tremendous pace; her jump felt very powerful but rather stiff, it jarred my leg, and we brought down three fences.
Show Jumping Secret Page 6