“I don’t think she likes camp life,” said Noel.
“Well, nor do I, at least not for its own sake, but I don’t take it out on the Greens. However, I admit they were a trifle inefficient so we’ll give them one bad mark and scrap the rest. She’s given James a good mark, heaven knows what for, but we’ll let him have it. Did you ask Mrs. Quayle about the washers up?”
“Yes, she said they were giggly, but obliging.”
“Well, we’ll give them a good mark each and the line guard can have one each too, because they were really very conscientious; now, where are the mounted games marks? Next time we have mounted games or races we’ll remove Margaret Radcliffe’s whip before we begin.”
“Yes,” agreed Noel. “I think she’s quite fond of Northwind; it’s just that she gets excited and doesn’t think.”
“Lack of imagination is the root of all evil,” said Henry producing crayons to draw in the lines on the graph.
5
ON THURSDAY morning the pony club members fed and mucked out in a very experienced manner and then the duty sections went to work with great efficiency.
The Orange section filled every available water can with water for washing. The Reds, who were on line guard, sent Nicholas and Sally down to fetch their breakfasts, while Susan and Joy arranged the pitchforks, wire rakes and shovels in elegant lines and collected stray buckets. Christopher marshalled the Blues and took them down to help the cooking staff. Then, as the members began to drift down to breakfast, a crowd gathered round the notice board.
“Gosh, look at that!” said Judith Quayle. “Have you seen, Gay? We’re leading. I must tell Mummy. She’ll have a fit.”
“It won’t last,” said Gay, “the people who begin best always collapse. Besides, I’m bound to put my foot in it, even if none of the rest of you do. I shall probably go and swear at the major, or something.”
“Oh, I’m sure you won’t do that,” said Penelope with a bright smile, “but, my goodness, Pickles is going to get a grooming this morning.”
David Minton grinned as he said, “This’ll shake Christopher.”
Jonathan, Guy and Lynne were all much more excited about the Blacks being in second place than Marion. Jonathan and Guy were puffing out their chests, patting each other on the back and exclaiming, “Well done, us,” at intervals. Lynne said, “I think it’s super. We must catch up the Oranges.”
When Nicholas brought the news to the horse lines, Susan said, “Well, we’re not last anyway,” in comforting tones to her section, but the other Reds were not to be comforted.
“We’ve got to think of a way to get marks,” said Nicholas through a mouthful of bacon, “not this miserable scrounging that the Blues are doing, but something exciting that’ll get us a hundred all at once. Couldn’t I rescue Noel from drowning?”
“She can swim,” said Susan.
“There’s no river,” Sally pointed out.
“There’s a jolly deep duckpond at Lower Basset Farm.”
“I can’t see that Noel’s likely to fall in there,” said Susan.
“Joy could push her in,” suggested Nicholas.
“Me push who?” asked Joy.
“Don’t be silly, Nicholas. Joy would get as many bad marks as you would good,” said Susan with a giggle.
The Greens were despondent all through breakfast; afterwards, as they walked back towards the lines together, their gloomy silence was broken by Martin. “Christopher says we’re a disgrace and the worst section in camp,” he told them dismally.
“Well, Christopher can shut his trap,” said Donald. “We haven’t asked for his opinion.”
“No, and he’s a jolly sight too fond of telling everyone how to go on,” agreed Margaret. “Still, we are last. I’m all against being goody-goody, but there’s a lot in this competition that’s got nothing to do with whether you behave or not; races count and everything and I don’t see why we should be last.”
“But we’re miles behind already,” wailed Martin.
“Yes, we’re shocking,” said Poppy.
“Oh, we can catch up if we make an effort,” Margaret told them.
Donald said nothing. He was so used to being bottom of everything at school that he had become indifferent to failure. If you were fat and hopeless at games and term after term your report announced—to your father’s annoyance—that you had no sense of responsibility and no qualities of leadership, there was no point in bothering; one might as well read detective stories; they took one’s mind off anything.
Christopher had got hold of some hoof oil and, when they had saddled up, the Blues were seen to be surreptitiously oiling their ponies’ hoofs. Margaret and Gay were immediately sent by their respective sections to see whether their younger brother and sister could be intimidated into lending the oil, but Christopher, who was keeping a careful watch on it, said that it was reserved for Blues.
Everyone was cursing himself for not having thought of it first, except for Nicholas, who thought of an alternative. He had a shoe-cleaning outfit and what did for human hoofs would doubtless do for horses. He dashed to his tent and was soon busily shining Tranquil’s, Wonder’s, Tommy’s and Star’s hoofs. Unfortunately, having remembered to take off his coat, but forgotten to roll his sleeves, by the time he had finished half the blacking had been transferred to the cuffs of his clean white shirt.
“Goodness, you’re filthy,” exclaimed Susan. “Quick, hide it by rolling up your sleeves, otherwise you’ll lose all the marks the hoofs have gained.”
Jonathan had just come to borrow the shoe-cleaning outfit on the grounds that it partly belonged to him when Henry began to call out the rides, for the major had been sighted.
Christopher took a last look at his section. Biddy was clean, but she had had to be washed and she wasn’t dry, Rocket’s bay coat shone. Jean and James, who were both small for their eleven years, looked very workmanlike, and their tack looked reasonably clean. But Carola— Christopher felt furious with her. She was simply trying to chuck a spanner in the works. She hadn’t put a bit of energy into grooming Amber. His tail was a tangle, his mane hung untidily on both sides of his neck and his tack was filthy. “Of course we’re only third with you in the section; you ought to be in the Greens,” Christopher told her in a voice filled with what he hoped was withering contempt.
Lynne stood back and took a last look at Rob Roy. He looks lovely, she thought with pride. Really, grooming and all that sort of thing were almost as much fun as riding, she decided.
“How do you get these wretched bridles on?” asked an indignant Guy. Smudges stood next door to Rob Roy in the lines. “I’ve tried six times and now it’s upside down and inside out and I simply can’t get it on.”
“Half a sec,” said Lynne, “I’ll come and help.”
It was just as well that Crusoe was already the best groomed pony in camp, owing to Marion’s work during the term, for Jonathan had not allowed her much time for grooming. Every few minutes he called her over to look at Beauty. “Hey, Marion, come and check my horse’s tummy; I want some decent marks today. Marion, will this tail do? Marion, will you check this bridle; I’m not too hot on curb chains. Marion, do I look all right? I don’t want Noel dishing me out with any more of her darned fours.”
Sonnet hadn’t been groomed all the time she was supposed to be in foal and so she was very dirty and Gay was scarlet in the face with exertion by the time she was ready. “Gosh, I’m boiling,” she said. “I’ve got tons too many clothes on. Henry, can we ride in our vests?”
“Certainly not,” answered Henry. “The Camp Commandant would foam black marks at the mouth if you so much as suggested it.”
“My science master says that birds are insulated to heat and cold by air trapped among their feathers,” said David, arranging his crash cap inside his sticking out ears.
“Gosh, wouldn’t it be awful to have feathers in this weather?” said Judith, water-brushing Frolic’s mane.
“Judith, Judith,” called P
enelope hurrying down the lines, “will you come and inspect Pickles, please? I think he looks all right, but you’d better just come and make sure.”
“No, she can’t,” said Henry. “She’s in the Dragoons and I’ve already called them twice. Hurry up, everyone,” he shouted above the cheerful noise of conversation. “Anyone who fails to come out when called will get a black mark. Noel,” he said more quietly, “would you go and see what Sally and Joy are doing? They don’t look as though they’re ready.”
The Dragoons decided that Major Holbrooke was in a good mood. He admired Tranquil’s and Sweet William’s hoofs, complimented Marion on Crusoe, told Gay that he could see a distinct improvement in Sonnet, and gave Judith full marks for her tack. Unfortunately Poppy had put Jackdaw’s folded leather girth on back to front and the major’s mood changed abruptly; he cursed Poppy and then told Donald off for having dirty shoes.
Oh, lord, those Greens in trouble again, thought Henry as he overheard the cursing. I hope my Green is respectable, because someone has got to give them some marks.
Margaret Radcliffe felt reasonably certain that her turn-out was perfect. It was true that she hadn’t got much of a shine on Northwind’s coat, but then blue roans don’t shine like bays and browns and chestnuts, she told herself, and she had spent ages on his tack. The tack was cleaned up to what passed as show standard among the Radcliffes, but it didn’t compare favourably with the spit and polish Henry had met in the army and he had to point out saddle soap lurking in the holes on the cheek straps and girth billets, saddle Ds still wearing a coating of metal polish and the dirt of years on the underside of the flap.
“Oh, you’re unbearably fussy,” Margaret told him, “honestly, you might be an old lady of ninety.”
“You mean sixty,” said Henry, “by ninety they can’t see,” and he went on to inspect James, whose turn-out was good, Carola and Nicholas, whose tack was dirtier than Margaret’s, David, who had made a little more effort and Guy who was the worst of all.
Noel looked at her ride sitting stiffly erect with set faces and thought, oh, dear, they are taking this seriously; I’d better be as decent as I can. To Jean and Biddy, who were well turned out, she gave eight marks and to Penelope and Pickles who were clean but not shiny, she gave seven. Joy was terrible; she herself was a mess as well as Tommy, her tack was frightfully dirty and not one strap was tucked into its keeper or its runner.
“Your tack is awful,” Noel told her, “you can’t possibly have more than four.”
“Four what?” asked Joy and then, without waiting for Noel to answer, she went on, “Oh, I can’t bear cleaning tack, it’s so boring.”
Noel went on to inspect Martin. Oh, dear, he’s a Green, she thought as she observed metal polish on leather and saddle soap on metal; but he’s much better than Joy, I’ll give him six. Sally could only have five marks for there was mud on Star’s fetlocks and her tack didn’t look clean. Jonathan was pleased with his seven. Rob Roy was best of all, except that his curb chain was twisted, but Lynne was overjoyed when she learned that she had eight.
Noel was disappointed in her ride when she found that she had to repeat everything that she had told them the day before. They didn’t seem to have improved a bit, she thought drearily as she told them to sit up, put their heels down and stop kicking. She explained all over again that a straight line from the bit should go up the rein through the rider’s hand to his elbow and therefore the hand should not be above or below the level of the rein. She reminded Lynne and Penelope not to lean forward. She told Penelope to stop pulling on the reins and Joy not to tug, wrench or jag at Tommy’s mouth. She told Martin that if he stopped wailing about Mousie’s manners and rode her properly she might begin to improve; that he was to stop pulling on the outside rein and use his inside leg instead. Then, feeling exasperated by their awful seats, she told them all to cross their stirrups and, as they trotted round, she found herself shouting at them quite ferociously to sit up and keep their hands still; to keep their heels and knees down and look where they were going.
Impressed and slightly intimidated by this unexpected fierceness, the members began to try and soon Noel saw an improvement.
“Walk, and take back your stirrups,” she told them.
“Gosh!” they were saying, and “Thank goodness for that,” “My legs are terrible, goodness they ache.” Just, thought Noel, how we used to go on in our young days when the major bullied us. It’s no use being weak, she told herself, we never minded being cursed and they don’t, either. Miss Sinclair never curses them and she’d been taking them for months, I expect that’s why they’re so bad.
“Loose rein walk,” she said. “Martin, Jonathan, Joy and Sally, let your stirrups down another hole.”
“Oh, Noel, we can’t,” wailed Sally.
“I can’t feel mine now,” said Martin.
“I shan’t be able to rise to the trot,” Jonathan said cheerfully.
“Hurry up,” said Noel firmly, and, “Sally, that isn’t a loose rein; hold it at the buckle.”
“She’ll gallop off or kick someone,” protested Sally. “She will really; she simply hates Mousie, Pickles and Rob Roy. Star, stop it!”
“Don’t be silly, ride her forward and she’ll be perfectly all right. It’s enough to annoy any pony the way you keep holding her back.”
“Can’t we jump?” asked Jonathan. “Beauty’s a jolly good jumper, but I’m not; I’m darned awful, worse luck.”
“Oh, yes, Noel, can we, please?” pleaded Lynne.
“Oh, yes, come on, Noel. We need some instruction,” said Jean. “Honestly we do, we all jump with the backward seat.”
“Oh, please, need I?” wailed Sally. “I hate jumping.”
“Tommy can jump five feet,” Joy informed them.
“Mousie just won’t,” grumbled Martin.
“Pickles will sometimes, it just depends how he feels,” said Penelope.
Noel looked at her watch; time was passing at a frightful speed. “We’ll jump in a minute,” she announced. “Pick up your reins, ordinary walk. Jean, prepare to canter on and fall in behind.”
Cantering made Noel roar even more loudly for every member of her ride kicked his pony to make it canter and most of them threw their bodies about, pulled on the inside rein and looked down to see which leg the pony was leading on. When they had all tried and all shocked her in turn, she called the ride to a halt and delivered a lecture.
“The aids to canter,” she began, “are the diagonal aids. That is the rein on one side and the leg on the other. When going round to the left as we were then you should ask your pony to canter with the near foreleg leading and the aids for this are feel the left rein and use the right leg just behind the girth, the left leg stays on the girth and keeps the horse straight and full of impulsion. And when I say feel the rein,” she went on, “I don’t mean pull; I mean close the hand. And the rest of you mustn’t move at all; you mustn’t tip your body forward or look down and you mustn’t kick. Just give the aids, sit still and wait to see what happens. Now, we’re going to try on the other leg. We’re going to canter with the off fore leading; Joy, what aids will you give?”
“Me? Give aids? I don’t know what they are; I’ve never heard of them,” said Joy cheerfully.
“Oh, Joy!” exclaimed the other members in shocked tones.
“What do you do when you want Tommy to canter, then?” asked Noel.
“Oh, I just kick.”
“Jonathan, you tell her what the aids are,” said Noel.
“You would pick on me,” he answered, gazing round at the other riders for inspiration. “I do know, sort of, but it’s jolly difficult to put it into words. Well, it’s the legs and reins. It’s how you stop and start. It’s feeling one rein and pushing or squeezing with legs. There are the diagonal aids and probably hundreds more I should think. Sorry, you needn’t tell me that it’s a darned awful explanation.”
“It isn’t really,” said Noel, “I mean the explanation isn�
��t awful. The aids are the signals by which we convey our wishes to the horse. You can’t make him do things, because he is stronger than you are, but you can ask him to do things and if you ask him politely and your aids are clear and easy to understand, he will probably oblige. There are what are called the natural aids; that is, legs, hands, voice and the weight of the body and then there are what the book calls artificial aids which are whips, spurs and martingales. But don’t say anything to the major about martingales being an aid or he’ll have a fit.”
“Oh, whoopee! What fun,” said Martin. “I’ll ask him about it at lunchtime.”
“You are awful,” Lynne told him.
“Well, I’ve never seen anyone have a fit,” he protested.
“And I don’t want to,” said Sally firmly.
“No gossiping. There won’t be any time to jump if we don’t get on,” said Noel firmly. “Lead on round the school, Jean. Prepare to canter; sit still and don’t kick.” When they had all cantered reasonably, Noel started Cavaletti work, first at the walk and then at the trot and she kept up her cry of “sit still and don’t kick.” The people who wanted to jump enjoyed trotting over the Cavaletti and the people who didn’t like jumping thought it a wonderfully safe occupation, only Joy was bored and at intervals Tommy ran out or cantered away across the field; Noel began to have doubts about him jumping five feet.
Just as Noel was preparing to produce a proper jump, Mrs. Quayle appeared with the apples. “Well, that’s all for this morning,” Noel announced, “but the major will want you for the activity ride in about five minutes.” She endeavoured to collect her thoughts. Oh, yes, now she was supposed to ride Truant. Henry came to meet her.
“Hallo,” he said, “how’s it going? Mine were one degree less revolting this morning.”
“Mine were better too. I was exasperated by their badness and that seemed to have a good effect.”
“Shook ’em proper, I should think, to find that their usually sweet and kind Noel could turn into a cross between a wounded tiger and a regimental sergeant-major; we could hear you plainly at my end of the field.”
Pony Club Camp (Noel and Henry Book 5) Page 5