Show Jumping Secret

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  “He didn’t ride Oriole,” I pointed out, for I hate the Darlsworths’ meek acceptance of Jackie’s idea that she is the best rider in the family.

  “Well, if he’d ridden Secret, he’d have told you that she was never likely to have a mouth and that she was a wretched old bag of bones,” said Jackie, turning on me furiously.

  “Now children,” said Aunt Una. I decided that I had better depart, so I said that I must find a practice jump and fled to Secret, who didn’t look at all like a bag of bones to me, though I inspected her closely from all angles, before deciding that Jackie was suffering from an optical illusion.

  Secret was fresh, despite having hacked to the show, but I rode her round all the time the juveniles were jumping; not that they took very long for being Bank Holiday there wasn’t a very large entry. I didn’t see Jackie’s round, but I gathered that it wasn’t very good, because they all referred to Oriole as “that little beast.”

  This show didn’t seem to be nearly so well organised as the agricultural show had been; there was no practice jump provided, but a tough-looking woman who’d come in a horsebox let me jump hers, and, apparently, one wasn’t allowed to walk the course. Not that it needed much memorising for one just jumped round the outside and then up the middle. The jumps weren’t at all exciting. Except for the wall, the gate and the brush fence, they were all made of the spindliest white poles, which you could hardly see, and they were all placed miles from each other; there wasn’t a single combination fence in the whole course. There weren’t many entries in the local Grade C and one felt that if only one could jump a clear round one would have a chance. The fences weren’t high; it all looked easy enough, but when the class began it soon became obvious that it wasn’t as easy as it looked. The stile was falling to practically everyone and so were a great many of the other spindly jumps.

  When it came to my turn there had only been one clear round, jumped by a fairly elderly man, who rode at a very slow canter and only let his horse go on at the very last moment. I rode in, cantered my circle and set off. The brush was O.K. but it seemed miles to the next fence and I could feel Secret coming off the bit. However, she cleared the fence, flattened a bit more and then skimmed over the next one somehow. I managed to get her more together for the wall and the gate, but, when we turned for the stile, I lost her. I knew that she was wrong, but I couldn’t put her right; I heard it fall behind us. Despair enveloped me. I forgot to use my legs, we came hopelessly wrong at the spindly triple and that fell too. I felt very dreary as I rode out of the ring, but I gave Secret a pat, for after all, it wasn’t her fault; it was my job to keep her together and on the bit.

  I avoided everyone. I hid from my parents, from my relations, from Claire and her other pupils. I hid, watching the rest of the class, round the corner of the beer tent. My despair increased when I realised that there were only two clear rounds and that people who had only hit one fence were going to get rosettes. Why had I given up so easily?

  I watched the winners collect their rosettes; the man with the cantering slowly tactics had won. He took his horse off madly, I thought bitterly. It did seem the limit that wrong riding should have such rewards.

  Next was the Fault and Out Class. I rode back to the collecting ring. The steward was explaining that if one jumped a complete clear round, one then jumped the wall, the gate and continued round the outside fences until the judge blew his whistle;. which meant that one had used up all one’s time; one then jumped the next fence and left the ring. Mr. Slow-cantering-tactics was the first competitor and he jumped eleven fences, but after him no one seemed able to get far and quite a few people came out at the first fence. I didn’t feel a bit inspired as I rode into the ring. I jumped round without much hope and heard the stile fall behind me again, but this time I pulled myself together and went on to clear the triple, which pleased me though it didn’t count. I rode out of the ring feeling a little less dreary and having watered Secret I began to take her studs out. It took quite a lot of indistinct and angry noises on the loudspeaker to make me realise that they were calling my number. I hastily rebridled Secret, mounted and rode, rather un­believingly, to the collecting ring.

  “You’re second,” said the steward crossly. “Please hurry. The judges are waiting.”

  “I don’t see how—” I began, but he waved me in. Slow-cantering-tactics seemed to have won again and the tough woman, whose practice jump I had borrowed, appeared to be third. “I don’t see how I can be second,” I told her, “I hit the stile.”

  “So did everyone else who got that far,” she explained, “ but you were the fastest. You beat me by six seconds.”

  I suddenly realised that I was being offered a rosette so I snatched off my crash cap and assumed a false smile.

  “Well done,” said the judge in weary tones. He sounded as though his legs were aching, unless he was depressed by the standard of jumping. “Well done,” he said again as he handed the tough woman her rosette.

  We cantered round the ring. Secret was very pleased with herself. She bounced about and tried to pass the slow canterer; he was cantering slower than ever and his horse was completely crooked. Surely Claire had told me that one of the most important things in equitation was that the horse should go straight?

  I didn’t feel particularly enthusiastic about our first rosette. I felt that we had won it because everyone else was worse, rather than because we were good. However, it was nice to have it on Secret’s bridle and it seemed to please my parents and Mrs. Barnes, who rushed up to pat Secret and congratulate me. When I had finished saying “We didn’t deserve it,” and “It was just a fluke,” I rode across to Claire.

  “Did you watch?” I asked. “We weren’t going at all well, but I couldn’t make out why.”

  “It was the course,” answered Claire. “It’s always the course or the going if all the horses jump badly. Nearly everyone brought down the stile, which shows that the stile was a bad jump. None of the fences was solid enough,” she went on.

  “There were no ground lines, which there ought to be in a Grade C class, and there were no combination fences to test the handiness and obedience of the horses.”

  “But that wretched slow-cantering man could jump it,” I complained.

  “Yes, he used old-fashioned methods for an old-fashioned course,” answered Claire with a smile, “but don’t copy him; this sort of course is dying out and you must admit that he wouldn’t do very well in a Foxhunter. You see,” she went on, “very few horses will jump well over flimsy fences and so, to be certain of a clear round, show after show, people began to rap their horses, put tin tacks in their bandages or rub turpentine into their legs; it made show jumping all rather horrid. But now the courses are being built to encourage the bold jumper and the well-schooled horse and so, gradually, all these horrid practices should die out.”

  “I should jolly well hope so,” I said, conjuring up horrible visions of poor Secret having tin tacks stuck into her legs. “Do you think the slow­-cantering man does things like that?”

  “His horse jumps as though it had been rapped,” answered Claire. Then she gave a cry of horror, “Look at Edward, his girths are in loops,” and she rushed into the collecting ring where Edward, a vague boy, who was bending Barnacle, sat awaiting his heat.

  I stayed to watch the Bending race. It was won by a pupil of Claire’s riding Feather, and Jackie was second. Then the Potato Race began and I was rather bored and Secret began to fidget madly so I found my parents, who were talking to Aunt Una and Uncle David and told them that I was going home.

  Aunt Una tried to persuade me to wait for my cousins but my parents supported me; they said that I had the farthest to go.

  I threw all my possessions into the car and Secret and I set off unencumbered and alone. As I rode along I began to feel quite pleased with our undeserved rosette. I reminded Secret of the Haddenum show; we were entered for both the Foxhunter and the Local. It was on Saturday week, only eleven days to go before we ha
d another chance to jump a clear round. Secret wasn’t interested in my conversation, she had her eager expression on; she was being very brisk, so brisk that she didn’t shy at a single imaginary snake; I knew that she was thinking of her tea.

  13

  Between Bank Holiday and Haddenum I had three jumping practices and all of them at Claire’s. Not only were her jumps much better than my cousins’ and miles better than mine, but I liked to have her eagle eye upon me in case I started any new bad habits.

  Though we were only fourteen miles from Haddenum as the crow flies—which is the way they measure the radius of the Local classes—we were twenty-two miles by road and this meant a horse­box. Luckily I was able to share it with Jackie, which made it much less expensive. Jackie had been uplifted by her Bank Holiday successes—she had won the Potato Race as well as the showing, and had been second in the Musical Poles as well as in the Bending; now she was determined to ride in more shows. Patience and Prudence, on the other hand, had been cast down by their low placings and by Aunt Una’s horrid remarks; they said that they hadn’t a hope in the hack class and left their horses at home. My parents weren’t able to come, which pleased me rather, because nice though they are, they make one more worry at shows.

  Haddenum was a much bigger show than Eastbridge and Jackie was only third in the pony class, but from my point of view it was much nicer; the jumps were lovely. Not all the fences were rustic as they had been at the agricultural show; there were a lot of green and white and blue and white poles and the course designer had been lavish with ground lines. There were two walls and three gates—two of them rustic ones—and I was glad to see that the stile had a really thick pole. When I walked the course I inspected everything carefully. I found that all the jumps had the sort of cup fittings which prevent the poles falling unless you give them a really hard knock, and the poles themselves were about three times as heavy as those used at Eastbridge.

  In the local class, which was before the Foxhunter, the maximum height of the fences was three-feet six and the absence of three inches gave one a nice frivolous feeling.

  To my immense delight Secret jumped a clear round. It wasn’t a perfect clear round; she gave one or two enormous and unseating leaps when she came at a fence wrong, but she didn’t hit anything, so we were in the jump-off. However there were nine other clear rounds so I didn’t feel very optimistic about being placed, especially when I saw the great height to which the fences were being raised.

  “They mean to settle it this time, they’re not risking another lot of clears,” remarked one of my fellow competitors. “Of course they’ve got a big entry for the Foxhunter. I expect they’re afraid of getting late.”

  I began to panic. How awful if I overfaced Secret. Supposing she refused?

  My cousins did nothing to calm me. Patience harped endlessly on the size of the fences; Prudence moaned about the impossibility of beating the nine other riders, who were mostly well known though not top class. Jackie said that it wasn’t fair that I should have to compete against people who went to millions of shows and were practically professionals. Suddenly I felt cross with them. I told Patience that none of the fences was over four feet; Prudence, that it was more fun to be beaten by a well-known rider than a bad one and Jackie, that since all the horses fitted into the local radius and were in Grade C it was perfectly fair for Secret to jump against them. In fact I was so annoyed with their tiresome remarks that I became quite calm; all my misgivings vanished and I rode into the ring in a very determined state of mind.

  We had to jump the whole course again and two competitors had already jumped clear rounds, which made the course seem easier and belied the words of the pessimists in the collecting ring. Secret jumped marvellously, but she just hit the stile. I was terribly pleased with her. I patted her madly; dismounted and stuffed her with sugar.

  My cousins were slightly less gloomy now, though they kept saying, “What bad luck!” and “Oh, what rotten luck!” in a chorus. They told me that I stood third.

  “Not for long,” I answered, “there are still two people to jump.”

  The first of these people jumped a clear round, but the second was clear until the last two fences and then brought both of them down.

  “You’re fourth, you’ll get a rosette,” exclaimed Jackie in triumph.

  I wasn’t so sure. “You’ve probably missed out someone,” I said. “I expect we shall find that there are more than three clears.” My cousins ignored my doubts and Patience told Prudence to look up and see if there was a fourth prize.

  There were only three numbers called for the final jump-off so I stayed around in case my cousins were right and they were. I felt very proud riding into the ring and lining up; my fourth rosette gave me much more pleasure than my Bank Holiday second had done.

  The Foxhunter Competition was the next class, but I hadn’t put my name down to jump early, so Secret was able to have a rest. I had to walk the course again for the stewards had altered it. They had made it longer—one now jumped several fences twice—and much more twisting. The fences were now slightly lower than they had been in the jump-off of the Local and this, I felt, gave Secret and the other horses which had jumped off, a slight advantage.

  I felt quite cheerful now that I had jumped round once and I was able to eat some lunch, which was more than Secret could do; she was too excited. When my turn drew near, we unboxed her and I rode round until she was loosened up. Then I had just one practice jump before going to the collecting ring. There had already been seven clear rounds when I entered the ring. Secret felt very purposeful: she took the first fence rather fast, but then she realised that the course had been changed and that she didn’t know the way so she steadied a little. We cleared jump after jump. My spirits rose at each one, but I was determined not to lose my concentration. We finished over the combination post and rails and I heard the burst of clapping. Feeling terribly pleased, I galloped out of the ring. There was a confused shouting from the collecting ring. “Go back,” the other competitors were calling, and “Finish.” Suddenly I understood, I had failed to pass through the finish. I turned back, but it was too late now; I had left the ring. The judges waved their arms in a final manner and the microphone announced that the last competitor had been eliminated for failing to ride through the finish.

  I felt terrible. Poor Secret. She had taken all the trouble to jump a clear round and then I had let her down utterly. All that work for nothing—I did feel mean. I patted her and tried to console her with sugar. Then as if I wasn’t depressed enough already, my cousins appeared and began to berate me like three Aunt Unas at once.

  “Oh, Charles, how could you? Of all the silly things to do. How could you be so senseless?”

  “She was going so well, you would certainly have been somewhere in the jump-off; you had much the fastest time.”

  “What a waste of an entry fee, and of a horse­box.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said rudely, when I had stood all I could. “Anyway, it’s probably a good thing really. After all, Secret’s jumped three rounds; I expect she’s tired.”

  “What an excuse,” said Prudence.

  Really I could have murdered my cousins. And I wasn’t making excuses; I was only trying to look on the bright side, if there was one. I led Secret away to the horsebox and asked the driver to hold her while I took her studs out. Then I rugged her up, bandaged, watered, boxed and fed her. We couldn’t go home yet for Jackie was entered for some gymkhana events that were being held in Ring Two at 4 p.m., or at least so the schedule had said, but the show was already three quarters of an hour behind time so it looked as though we were going to be very late home.

  They were still jumping when I wandered back to the collecting ring. Several competitors called out, “What bad luck,” to me, and the girl who rode a black horse and who’d spoken to me at the agricultural show, came up to tell me that everyone did it at least once in their show jumping career.

  But, actually, now that my disappoi
ntment and shame were wearing off, all that remained was a feeling of great delight. Secret had jumped wonderfully. She had jumped two, very nearly three clear rounds and the next show I would keep my head and I would be in “the money” as they say in show jumping circles.

  Suddenly I felt determined to win a Foxhunter and qualify for Harringay. I had such a good horse that my silly leg couldn’t stop me and, anyway, it was behaving so much better now, that I could forget it whenever I was enjoying myself or when something exciting happened.

  I hardly noticed the long wait while Jackie’s gymkhana events took place. My cousins’ ill humour had ceased to affect me; all I could think about was my new ambition.

  I was going to win a Foxhunter. The very thought made me sing the whole way home. Jackie, who had won two seconds in the gymkhana, sang too, but Patience and Prudence assumed superior grown­up airs and complained that we sang out of tune. My parents were very pleased by my stories of Secret’s success. But they were not so pleased when I began to curse the whole fortnight which had to elapse before the next show. It seemed an age to wait. If horseboxes and entry fees were not so expensive, I told myself, I would go to a show every week. But perhaps, one day, I should start winning and if one could only win a prize at every other show one would more or less pay one’s way; at least one would at the big shows and they were the expensive ones.

  14

  Our next show was the F.E.I. jumping show at Hurstgate on August 27th. Of course Foxhunter classes are always held under F.E.I. rules, so I didn’t have to worry about it being an F.E.I. show or to start studying tables B and C or anything frightful.

  In spite of having seemed such an age, the fortnight between the shows passed quickly and it wasn’t long before I found myself shampooing Secret’s tail and glamouring up the tack.

  This time my parents were coming, but by car, so I suggested that my cousins, who insisted that they wanted to watch, should go with them. The cousins wouldn’t. They said that I needed them and that half the fun of going to shows lay in travelling with the horses, though, if they thought it such fun, the reason for their perpetual grumpiness at shows was beyond me.