We were very nearly late for the Hurstgate Show, for the horsebox driver had miscalculated the time it would take to get there, and the roads, which were very narrow and winding, would not allow us to hurry.
Prudence said that she and the driver would put Secret’s studs in while I walked the course so I jumped from the box as it drove by the ring and Patience and Jackie jumped after me. There was only one ring and it lay right in the middle of the field where the ground was flat; all around the sides of the field sloped gently upwards like a natural grandstand. There weren’t many spectators, only a tremendous number of horseboxes. Most of the competitors were half-way round the course by the time my cousins and I hurried into the ring. The first three jumps were quite small and ordinary; a brush, a five rail hogsback and a red wall; but after them the excitement began. You had to make almost a complete circle in a corner, right against the ring ropes, and then jump a log wall with hardly any run at all. Actually there was an alternative way of taking it, but the angle was so sharp that I decided one would have to pull right up and that would lose more time than covering an extra bit of ground.
Patience said, “What an absurd place to put a jump. It’s dangerous, you might easily run into the ropes or jump out of the ring.”
But I was already rushing on to the next fence, a wall with rails on top and flowers in pots for a ground line. This was followed by another sharp turn, at least it had to be sharp if you weren’t going to lose a lot of time, and an enormous triple. The fences grew more and more exciting. The stile had a row of small trees in front of it, the combination, orange and red poles on a slant, was crooked—if you jumped on the right there was room for one stride and if you jumped on the left there was room for two. There was a huge wall with pillars and a smaller wall to act as a ground line; the parallel bars had two lower rails and a row of geraniums underneath; a bank, covered in that pretence grass which greengrocers have in their shop windows, was topped with a post and rails, so that you had to jump the whole affair. Fence number twelve, the last jump, was a gate. The finish—I was schooling myself to pay special attention to finishes—was beside the gate, which meant that the moment you landed you had to turn back to go through it.
All the jumps looked more than three-feet nine high and altogether, it was the most twisting course, with the most solid and frightening fences I had ever seen.
People were grumbling loudly. “This isn’t a novice’s course,” they were saying, or, “Thought Foxhunters were meant to encourage people to take up show jumping? This is more likely to put ’em off for life,” or even, “This lot’ll stop any genuine novice.”
“Charles,” said Patience suddenly, “you’ll never jump these, they’re much too big for you; you’ll have to scratch.”
I didn’t feel like that at all. A sort of heady excitement had taken hold of me. I didn’t feel the least afraid. I laughed at Patience. “And how can man die better than facing fearful jumps?” I misquoted. And I turned back to make sure that I had memorised the course, before we ran to the horsebox. Secret was ready and Patience rushed to meet us waving a programme excitedly. “Have you seen who’s here?” she demanded. “Really we might as well turn round and go straight home. Martin Hastings, Colonel Southey, Ann Carstairs, Joan Foss, Captain Ludwick; oh, read for yourselves—it’s practically every single person who’s jumped for England in the last ten years.”
“Gosh, how exciting,” I said. “Do you know them by sight? What’s Colonel Southey’s number? He won a medal at the Olympics.” We snatched the programme one from the other until I suddenly realised that I was no star-struck spectator, but a competitor myself; I mounted hastily and began to exercise Secret. She was fresh and very excitable, but she was going well and remained obedient and light in hand.
Patience appeared with my number and she agreed to put my name down to jump about half-way through the class. I continued to school, watching the early competitors out of the corner of my eye. They weren’t doing very well, but they weren’t the stars. There seemed to be a tendency to collect time faults and two people jumped out of the ring at the log wall.
I soon began to fuss about my practice jump and since Patience hadn’t returned to tell me when I was jumping I rode to the collecting ring. The woman in charge of the blackboard was most agreeable. She said Secret was just the sort of horse she’d always wanted and that we were jumping twelfth from that moment.
I spent a little time gazing at elegant people with Union Jacks on their saddle cloths, until, in fact, I realised that they were making me feel weak and hopeless; then I fled to the practice jump, which was a very solid post and rails. Secret jumped it with tremendous power and flourish; she seemed full of confidence. She assured me that she could jump the moon. Her confidence was infectious and I began to feel brave again. Five more competitors had jumped, but only one had had a clear round. Secret was still fresh so I decided to trot twice round the outside of the ring. My cousins were nowhere to be seen, and my parents didn’t seem to have arrived. I had another practice jump. There were still four more riders to go. Just as my nervous anticipation was beginning to get the better of me, the girl on the tall black horse appeared—she seemed to go to all the same shows as I did—and asked me what I thought of the course. Then there were only two people before me and the collecting steward was calling my number. Martin Hastings was cantering round the collecting ring on the first of his two horses. I noticed how very much on the bit, almost overbent, he rode it. Colonel Southey was up on his good Grade C horse. Someone was saying that it had won at Windsor. Ann Carstairs’s novice, Mountain Mist, was being walked round by her girl groom.
Martin Hastings was entering the ring; I was next. I cantered Secret round the collecting ring. There was a groan from the spectators and the sound of falling poles. Someone said, “Of course that really is a novice. Martin gets his horses upgraded so fast that anything which hasn’t won fifty pounds can only have been out a few times.”
“In you go,” the collecting steward called to me.
“Start,” I reminded myself, and “Finish.”
I cantered a circle. I saw the judges wave and galloped through the start. Then the familiar feeling of excitement possessed me. I could only try to keep my head and remember the course. Secret was full of enthusiasm; she was carrying me over. She turned beautifully for the log wall and was so full of impulsion that the shortness of the run didn’t matter. The next wall was easy, but the triple was difficult to judge. If I turned too soon we would have too short a run, if I turned too late we ran a risk of time faults. “Quite adequate,” Secret seemed to say when she saw the run I had provided, and we sailed over. She stood back yards from the stile and then I rode at the middle of the combination fence and let her work out the distance. The huge wall, the geranium-decked parallel bars, passed by. She was a little suspicious of the post and rails on the bank; I pushed and heard a small rattle behind us. Now the gate. I steadied her. We flew over and turned for the finish. The spectators were clapping. The microphone announced that the last competitor had no jumping faults and no time faults. I dismounted and Secret bowed her head, asking politely for sugar. I produced some, but I told her and myself that we needn’t rest on these laurels. It was the jump-off which counted and today we’d certainly need another clear round to be in the money.
The collecting steward told me that there were still twenty-five people to jump, which would take, roughly, fifty minutes. I decided to box Secret. I loosened her girths and put her rug and head collar over her tack. By the time she was boxed my parents and cousins had found us; they all seemed very excited. Secret loved the praise and attention, but I was feeling hungry and asked about lunch. No one else seemed interested in food. They would only talk about how marvellously Secret had jumped. “Such good style,” Mummy said. And the cousins kept on about my beating Martin Hastings until, in desperation, I told them that his horse had never been in the ring before. My father said that Secret looked as though she enjoyed jumping
which was more than he could say of some of the horses. Finally I announced that if I didn’t have something to eat soon I should have no strength for the jump-off and that had some effect.
Though the early part of the class had produced very few clear rounds—mine was the third—the later part, being filled with stars, brought the number up to ten. Colonel Southey and Ann Carstairs both had clears, as was to be expected, and so did Captain Ludwick, Joan Foss and Martin Hastings on his second horse.
I was up on Secret before they had finished and then I realised why the experts all jumped at the end of the class. The jump-off was jumped in order of clear rounds. I was third in, but of course it was the last person who had an advantage; he knew exactly what he was up against, for as always in Foxhunter classes, we were jumping off against the clock. The course was shortened to six fences, one and two, then nine, ten, eleven and twelve. The turn from two to nine was very sharp and I resolved to jump two at the corner in order to make things easier. The fences were raised to between four feet and four-feet three and I rushed to have a higher practice jump. The two competitors before me both had disastrous rounds. The first one refused three times on the course and the second fell slap through the parallel bars and came running out of the ring in pursuit of his horse.
“It’s jolly slippery,” he called out, as he passed me.
I rode in. We were galloping long before we reached the start, Secret seemed pleased with my sudden desire for speed; it matched her mood. We hurtled over the first two fences, my corner and angle idea didn’t quite come off, but there was no time for regret, we made the turn somehow, jumped the enormous wall, galloped at the parallels and then made a short turn for the bank. Too short, I thought, and listened for a rattle of falling poles, but Secret gave an enormous leap; she’s got me out of that one. Now the gate and the turn for the finish.
“Well done,” I told Secret, as we walked back into the collecting ring.
“Well done,” said the other competitors.
“You’ve won, I should think,” said the girl on the black horse. “No one’ll ever beat that time.”
“Oh, yes, they will,” I answered. “Ann Carstairs will.”
“Well done,” said some complete strangers in the collecting ring entrance.
“I shan’t be anywhere,” I told them, “there are too many good people left to jump.”
I felt very queer and peaceful now that our efforts were over. Whatever I did now could make no difference. I must just wait to learn our fate. I loosened Secret’s girth and her drop noseband and fed her on sugar. The competitor in the ring was trying to beat my time; he was riding too fast for his horse and several fences fell.
The next rider had a clear, but it seemed slow and when the time was announced it was ten seconds slower than mine. Joan Foss was the next competitor, but she brought down the gate, and her time was two seconds slower than mine. Now Ann Carstairs was going in. Her jaw was set in a very determined way and she started at a tremendous pace. Her angle at the second fence came off, her turn for the bank was quite as short as mine and, taking the gate at a fantastic angle, she landed right beside the finish and only had to nip through, instead of turning back as I had done.
When the microphone announced her time she had beaten me by three seconds.
Somehow I didn’t feel at all cast down. I suppose that all along I had known that she would beat me, and it was so exciting to be riding against such good riders that holding my own was enough of a thrill.
Captain Ludwick was jumping now. Well known as a speed rider, he is the sort who either wins or makes a hopeless mess; this time he made the mess. He took fence nine at such an angle that his horse stopped and he went on and landed on the wall. Martin Hastings made a mess too; his horse didn’t seem experienced enough to be ridden fast. Now there was only Colonel Southey and he had a very determined look on his face. His speed was terrific, he seemed to be going faster than Ann Carstairs, but his riding was wilder; he lost several seconds when he turned for the bank, his rein aid was so strong that his horse stopped altogether. It was very nerve racking waiting for the microphone. At last it spoke. Colonel Southey had beaten me by one second.
I pulled up the girths, did up the noseband and mounted.
“I thought you’d just pipped me,” said Ann Carstairs to the Colonel, as they met in the collecting ring. The Colonel gave a sporting laugh, but I missed his reply as I followed the illustrious backs into the ring.
There were eight prizes so another five riders followed me, and only two of the ten who reached the jump-off had failed to be placed.
I looked a little jealously at the red, white and blue Foxhunter rosette on Mountain Mist’s bridle, but I told Secret that we’d have a chance again next week. There wouldn’t be so many stars at Nealsdon. Only a week to wait, I was telling myself, instead of concentrating and suddenly I found that I was being offered a rosette and an envelope and I hadn’t enough hands for the reins and the crash cap and the prize. When we had cantered round the ring and we were all riding into the collecting ring Ann Carstairs turned to me, “That’s a very nice little mare you’ve got there,” she said.
Of course I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I only mumbled stupidly and then hurried to join my parents and cousins, who seemed to be waving their arms and jumping up and down in an excitable and not very sophisticated way.
They were all talking at once when I reached them so I didn’t have a word to say, but Secret, who was looking very pleased with herself and obviously expected rewards, bowed her head at everyone in turn, begging in the most barefaced way. When they had all calmed down and Patience had opened the envelope and found a cheque for five pounds, we watered Secret, dressed her in her travelling clothes and boxed her. Then, as it was still early in the day, we left her with plenty to eat and went to watch the next class, an open speed contest, for I wanted some more examples of how to gain seconds from the experts.
15
On the Tuesday between the Hurstgate Show and the Nealsdon show there was a Pony Club rally. A celebrated dressage expert was coming to instruct and, though I was rather too taken up with jumping to be really keen on dressage, I was quite looking forward to the rally.
I was whistling cheerfully as I gave Secret an extra good groom on the Tuesday morning when, suddenly, I realised with horror that one of her hocks was much larger than the other. With a queer feeling in my stomach I rushed to examine it. It was very hot and there was a small cut on the joint. I hastily marshalled my small knowledge of first aid and horse ailments and found that I knew nothing. There was something racehorses did called breaking down; there were spavins and curbs and capped hocks, but what they looked like and how you identified them was beyond me; I rushed in search of my mother. She agreed that the hock was hot and enormous and that we must send for the vet at once, so I ran madly indoors again and told the surgery to send a vet quickly. Then I telephoned my cousins to tell them that I couldn’t come to the rally. Secret was very cheerful and ate everything I offered her, but I still had queer feelings inside and a horrid suspicion that she had broken down through too much jumping and would never be sound again.
At last the vet came. He was very nice and reassuring though he seemed rather surprised at being sent for in such a hurry. He said that Secret had either wrenched or banged her hock, probably rolling or perhaps getting up. “We must get this swelling down,” he said. “Hose it for a quarter of an hour twice a day, and I’ll give you a bottle of refrigerating lotion; you can clap some of that on, in between times.”
“How soon shall I be able to ride her?” I asked, for now that Secret wasn’t broken down or irretrievably injured my thoughts were back on the Nealsdon show.
“Oh, you can start walking exercise in about three days’ time, but I’ll come and see her again on Saturday.”
I couldn’t dwell on Nealsdon then for I was handed a bottle of refrigerating lotion and given minute instructions, to which I had to attend. But, directly the v
et departed I am afraid my thoughts were all of Nealsdon and blackest despair descended.
It was the last show anywhere near to hold a Foxhunter. I had searched Horse and Hound for weeks in case there should be another, but there wasn’t; the few that were left were all miles and miles away. I did want to qualify for Harringay. I had set my heart on winning a Foxhunter, but I suppose one shouldn’t set one’s heart on such transitory things. Winning isn’t a noble motive, I reminded myself, and anyhow you probably wouldn’t have won. But of course the point about jumping is that it’s such fun, and one enjoys it so much, at least one does if it’s a decent course, that by the time one’s had the fun one no longer cares whether one has a prize or not; they become extras, an added fillip to all the excitement and pleasure.
By evening the worst of my disappointment had worn off. I was resigned to doing without my Foxhunter. Secret was enjoying her ill-health. She stood with her hock wrapped in cotton wool, which had been soaked in refrigerating lotion and was held in place with a flannel bandage, and she told all her visitors that invalids needed vast quantities of apples and sugar; her appetite grew and grew.
The cousins, or rather Patience, telephoned to ask after Secret, and she told me about the Pony Club rally. “You didn’t miss much,” she told me bitterly. “He decided that the whole Pony Club sat in wrong parts of the saddle, and he made us ride without stirrups for twenty minutes—literally twenty minutes! As if a whole branch could be wrong; the man’s mad. Anyway, you could never have stood it Charles; not with your leg.”
“Oh, yes, I could,” I said contrarily. “I’ve ridden without stirrups dozens of times at Claire’s.”
Show Jumping Secret Page 11