The Pony With No Name

by Tracey Corderoy

  It suddenly dawned on her that she didn’t even know the pony’s name. Anyway, she’d soon find out. And Mum, she thought, might make a new friend too – Arabella!

  On the evening before the tea party, Bryony took herself out to the garden. The air was warm and balmy and she loved being in a place so wonderfully wild and untouched.

  Bryony waded through the tall, dry grass which tickled her bare legs. Deep within it she imagined a myriad of tiny creatures hiding out in their cool earthy jungle – snails and slugs and busy little ants getting on with their evening unwatched by human eyes.

  She made her way to an ancient swing hanging from one of the plum trees near the shed. She had spied this swing the other day but hadn’t had the time to try it out then. Now, with the loveliest peach and lilac sunset painting the warm summer’s sky, it was definitely the evening to give it a go.

  ‘Right!’ smiled Bryony and, brushing off the cobwebs, she climbed onto the old wooden seat.

  At first she took things slowly, making sure the swing would hold her weight. Then when she was happy the old ropes wouldn’t snap, she decided to see how high she could make it go.

  As the swing creaked rhythmically back and fore, Bryony began to think. She thought about Becky and Fran, wondering what they were up to this summer. No doubt they were down at her old riding school every single day. Perhaps preparing for another gymkhana? Or pony camp.

  Bryony used to love the holidays, hanging about Park Lodge Stables. The busy-ness, the chatter, and, of course, the ponies! But there were other, exciting things here now, she told herself.

  Her thoughts turned to Emma Brook once more. Tomorrow she’d get to see her again. Bryony could hardly wait! And if Emma did ride at Seaview Stables, they might even be planning a brilliant Brook Dale gymkhana!

  Bryony leaped off the swing in mid-air and raced up into the cottage. In the kitchen she threw on an apron, then rummaged through the cupboards for some baking tins. Emma, she thought, might really like it if she took some cakes along tomorrow. She used to bake a lot with Becky and Fran. And everyone – she figured – liked cakes!

  In no time at all, the old pine table was laden down with ingredients.

  ‘What you doing?’ asked her brother, sloping in from outside.

  ‘Making blueberry muffins for tomorrow!’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Josh tutted. ‘That tea party. Got better things to do, I have.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Bryony.

  ‘Ah,’ smiled Josh. ‘Well, I’m meeting Dartt – my new mate,’ he added. ‘And, err . . . a couple of the others.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Bryony, opening the flour. ‘Who’s Dartt and a couple of the others?’

  Her brother clapped the flour bag (she should have seen that coming) and fell about laughing as Bryony was suddenly engulfed in a big floury snowstorm.

  ‘Dartt!’ Josh repeated. ‘You remember – last week – the boy at the beach with the bulldog?’

  Bryony snatched up the box of eggs her brother was now eyeing menacingly. She did remember the boy with the dog – now, apparently, her brother’s ‘mate’.

  ‘ ’Course his real name’s not Dartt,’ Josh continued, looking around for something else to explode. ‘Dan Artt, he’s called. But, you know – he’s Dartt to me and the gang.’

  At that moment, Mum appeared. ‘Ah, Josh, I’ve been looking for you,’ she said. ‘There’s a mountain of clothes all over your floor. Time to find homes for them, I think.’

  ‘But, Mum, can’t I help Bryony instead? I’m eggcellent at cracking eggs!’

  Mum shook her head and, sensing he was beaten, Josh trooped off to the stairs.

  ‘Wardrobes,’ he grumbled. ‘Complete waste of time, if you ask me!’

  As Bryony made the muffins it struck her that Josh seemed somehow different tonight. A bit edgy – and boasty about his new gang. Well, by this time tomorrow, she’d have a new friend too!

  When the muffin mixture was (fairly) smooth, she spooned it into cases in the baking tin. Then Mum prised the old Aga door open and Bryony carefully popped the tin inside.

  While she waited for the muffins to bake Bryony’s thoughts turned to Dad once more. She often used to take him her blueberry muffins as he worked.

  Bryony’s father had been an artist and she’d inherited his passion for creating. But sculpture was probably the thing that they’d both loved most. Bryony remembered how, when she was little, she’d sit beside him making animals from clay. She remembered how Dad always loved them. How he’d line them all up on his easel. Then he’d throw down his brushes and they’d play with them. For hours and hours they’d play! They’d bring them to life. They’d give them voices. Give them happy endings. And this had made Bryony feel special; like she could do anything. Like the little clay ponies, and rabbits, and cats were as priceless as diamonds and rubies. To Dad they were and that was all that mattered . . .

  When the muffins were baked, Bryony packed them in a biscuit tin all ready to take tomorrow. Then she hurried upstairs to pick out the perfect outfit.

  Maybe jeans would be better than a skirt, she thought, in case Emma let her ride the pony.

  ‘Ah! The pony . . .’ Bryony beamed. ‘Oh, please, please let him remember me!’

  On Wednesday afternoon, at one o’clock, Bryony was ready to leave.

  ‘It’s too early,’ grinned Mum.

  ‘I know!’ giggled Bryony. ‘But I just don’t want to be late!’

  Clutching her tin of blueberry muffins, she paced around the cottage checking every clock and counting down the minutes. Blueberry Muffin, the cat, eyed the tin hopefully. He adored blueberry muffins. In fact, that’s how he’d got his name – tracking down (and then wolfing down!) a whole plateful of blueberry muffins in the kitchen the very first night they’d brought him home as a kitten . . .

  What felt like hours later, it was finally time to set off. But they’d only just reached the garden gate when it dawned on Bryony that she hadn’t a clue where they were heading.

  ‘Mum, where does Emma actually live?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, Arabella said on the phone,’ replied Mum, ‘that their house is called Brook Dale Manor. It’s on the outskirts somewhere, down a leafy lane. Anyway, she gave me directions.’

  Mum opened the gate and went through.

  ‘But, Mum!’ gasped Bryony, quickly following. ‘Brook Dale Manor sounds huge.’ She glanced down at her jeans, now looking really tatty.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mum laughed, nudging her arm. ‘You look fine!’

  A frustrating walk later (they got very lost – twice!), Bryony and her mum stood gaping up at the huge iron gates that marked the entrance to Brook Dale Manor. Bryony suddenly found she had butterflies turning somersaults in her tummy.

  ‘Look at the garden!’ she gasped, peeping in. ‘The flowers! There must be millions!’ She’d never seen anything quite like it before.

  And the lawn looked as vast as an ocean, its surface velvety soft. No weeds, no tufts, it shimmered in the sun. A little too perfect, perhaps . . .

  An enormous curved wall framed the gates, into which was set an intercom. ‘Right, here goes. Are you ready?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Ready if you are,’ breathed Bryony.

  Bryony pressed the button then leaped back, as if she’d just been bitten. They heard a click, then a man’s voice spoke in calm, measured phrases.

  ‘Good afternoon. Welcome to Brook Dale Manor. Please come inside.’

  ‘How does he—’ Bryony began. But then she saw a little camera mounted on top of the gates and fixed, very firmly, on their faces. With a whirr and a clunk, the iron gates swept open and Bryony and her mum hurried through.

  The white gravelled driveway led up to the house in an elegant sweeping curve, like the long trailing veil of a bride.

  ‘Look, they’ve even got peacocks!’ Bryony whispered, as three strutted past in a line. A line so straight it was hard to believe they were real.

  The manor house was pala
tial. Its symmetry made it look like a doll’s house, but one that had grown to gigantic proportions – like something out of the pages of Alice in Wonderland. Bryony gazed around taking everything in, and half expecting to spot a tall, well-dressed, white rabbit!

  They climbed a flight of wide stone steps leading up to the huge front door. The door opened and to their great relief, a friendly-looking face beamed out. Bryony felt her body relax. It was going to be all right. Arabella Brook looked really lovely!

  ‘Hello there!’ she said.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Mum. ‘I’m Elizabeth May, and this is Bryony, my daughter.’

  ‘Do come in!’ Arabella smiled. ‘I’m Bella!’

  She ushered them into a high-ceilinged hallway where everything sparkled and shone. The tiles on the floor were tumbled marble and the wallpaper, wild silk. Bryony had never seen anything so beautiful.

  Then, suddenly, down the large sweeping staircase, came Bella’s daughter. Bryony gasped, for she knew her at once. Not Emma! It was the other girl. The girl with white-blonde hair. The one who’d been calling for Emma that day in the beech wood.

  For a moment, Bryony felt disappointed. She’d been certain Bella’s daughter would be Emma. But, as the girl drew closer, Bryony thought that at least she should give this other girl a chance.

  Bryony walked towards her, smiling. ‘Hi!’ she said. ‘I’m Bryony.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied the girl. ‘I’m Georgina Brook.’

  Georgina Brook was very pretty. Her skin was as pale as porcelain and her nose turned up and small. She looked just like a priceless china doll.

  Bryony then noticed Georgina’s eyes, a pale shade of aquamarine, which, according to Bryony’s gemstone book, was the colour of friendship and trust. That had to be a really good sign!

  Bella showed them into the drawing room. ‘Please,’ she smiled, ‘do come in and sit down!’

  The dark panelled walls of this room were adorned with ornate oil paintings, and a grand piano sat on the polished wooden floor.

  The French doors had all been opened wide and a perfumed breeze fluttered in. As well as filling the air with the smell of lavender, it also set the jewels on the huge chandelier tinkling. Bryony watched as they swayed and twirled. They looked just like sparkly ballerinas!

  Her gaze finally dropped to her own scruffy Converse, which this morning had looked okay. Not any more, on these floorboards as shiny as ice!

  ‘Bryony has such lovely hair,’ said Bella, looking across the sunny room at its warm rich tones. ‘Such beautiful curls, and a really pretty colour too!’

  ‘Just like her dad’s, her hair,’ beamed Mum. ‘He was an artist – my husband. He did amazing sculptures too! Bryony wants to be an actress, though, don’t you, darling?’

  Bryony blinked. ‘Um, yes!’ she said. She couldn’t quite take it in. Mum had hardly been able to talk about Dad since he’d died almost six months ago. Not even, thought Bryony, to her or Josh.

  Each time Mum had tried, it would always start okay, but then she’d suddenly turn away, or pretend she’d left something in another room so she had an excuse to nip off. That way, Bryony knew, Mum hoped they wouldn’t notice the tears suddenly welling in her eyes. Here today, though – for whatever reason – her mention of Dad had tumbled out so naturally. This was something Bryony had been wanting for so long . . .

  ‘I-I’ve made some muffins!’ Bryony blurted out, offering the tin to Georgina.

  ‘Blueberry,’ she went on. ‘I really, um . . . hope you like them!’

  Bryony wasn’t sure what happened next. Georgina must have slipped. And as she tried to steady herself, her arm caught Bryony’s tin. It soared high up into the air and landed with an ear-splitting clatter, the contents of the tin flying out everywhere.

  ‘Oh! So sorry!’ Bryony blushed, scooping up the now broken bits of cake. She felt so silly. Like somehow it had been all her fault.

  ‘No harm done, dear,’ said Bella quickly, taking the tin now littered with crumbs and bits of broken muffin. ‘We’ll have them later with our tea. I’m sure they’ll still taste lovely! Now, Georgie darling, why not take Bryony to see your new pony, mmm?’

  ‘She may not want to,’ Georgina replied.

  ‘Oh, I do!’ cried Bryony. ‘I love ponies, that’s why we answered the ad.’

  She found herself thinking of Emma’s pony again, that gorgeous dark bay that had trusted her. She still had a longing to see him again. There was so much about him that captivated her. But she was curious to see Georgina’s new pony too . . .

  Georgina nodded and Bryony followed her out through the smart French doors. Then, keeping to the paths, they strolled around the lawn as bright little butterflies sunned themselves on the lavender.

  ‘I used to ride a lot,’ chattered Bryony. ‘Though I’ve never owned my own pony. It was me that helped Emma the other day. That day her pony bolted in the beech wood.’

  ‘Her pony?’ Georgina stopped and raised a puzzled white-blonde eyebrow. ‘Why, Emma hasn’t got a pony. You’re confused.’

  ‘No, remember?’ said Bryony. ‘He was scared in all that wind. You were looking for them – calling for Emma. I saw—’

  ‘That pony you saw is mine,’ Georgina cut in, her voice suddenly ice-cold. She flashed her pale blue eyes at Bryony, clearly rather offended.

  ‘Just so you know,’ Georgina continued. ‘That day, Emma Lawrence went to retrieve my pony right after he threw—’ Georgina stopped. ‘Right after he decided to run off from me. There is only one pony and I can assure you – he’s mine.’

  Biting her lip, Bryony continued to follow Georgina around the immaculate lawn. A tall wall surrounded the back garden, in the middle of which was a pretty wrought iron gate. Georgina opened it and they went through and down a twisty tree-lined path. This led to an orchard with trees in neat rows, their branches heavy with apples.

  Bryony was waiting for Georgina to speak but Georgina said nothing as she marched through the orchard, presumably, thought Bryony, towards the paddock and stables.

  After a while, though, the silence grew so awkward that Bryony decided to try again.

  ‘Well, anyway, your pony – he’s amazing!’ she said, really meaning it.

  ‘Actually,’ Georgina replied with a scowl, ‘he’s useless.’

  Sensing she’d said the wrong thing again, Bryony’s heart was sinking fast. If only she hadn’t mentioned that day in the beech wood!

  ‘I’ll help you with him – i-if you like?’ Bryony quickly offered, her voice now quiet and uncertain. ‘He’s probably just not used to you yet . . . as he’s new. And unfamiliar surroundings – they probably don’t help either. I’m sure, well . . . he’ll settle really soon.’

  Bryony glanced at Georgina, whose pale cheeks now flushed magenta. Yet again Bryony sensed she’d made things worse.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Georgina was now smirking. ‘Don’t think I’m up to it, do you? Just because you calmed him down that day, you think you’re better than me?’

  ‘No!’ gasped Bryony, horrified. ‘It’s just . . . I . . . no – I didn’t mean—’

  ‘That pony’s ridiculous!’ Georgina snapped. ‘Despite what you or Emma think. See, I would have chosen a far better pony but my parents “surprised” me with him. They always think they know what I need. But they don’t.’

  Georgina stopped at the end of the orchard, but she hadn’t quite finished her speech. She turned to look at Bryony beside the gate.

  ‘The thing is, I’m perfectly capable,’ said Georgina in a sweetly dangerous voice, ‘not only of choosing my own pony, but of choosing my own friends too!’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Bryony sighed. She’d got the message. This was never going to work. Georgina wasn’t going to be her friend, whatever she said, or did. She might as well stop now and head back home.

  But then suddenly she heard it . . . the tap, tap, tap of a little hoof. It was him. The pony was calling – calling her. And Bryony knew – she couldn’t leave. Not now.
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  Racing through the gate, Bryony followed the pony’s call. She ran past the paddock. It was empty, so she continued to the stables beyond.

  When she got there, Bryony looked around. There were three stable doors, two of which were shut. The third, however, had its top door open and Bryony could see the pony inside. His back was to her, his head bent low and his glossy black tail hanging down limp. Bryony gasped. He looked so sad and lonely!

  ‘Hello,’ she said softly, feeling a flutter in her tummy just at seeing him again. The pony must have heard, for he shuffled slightly and raised his head a little. Bryony waited patiently for him to turn around.

  The air smelled familiar, like Bryony’s old riding school: the sweet smell of hay and leather. Yet every pony had their own special smell too, and this little one was no different. Bryony breathed it in. Now, what did it remind her of . . .?

  There was definitely a hint of oats, but this pony smelled of cinnamon as well. The smell took Bryony back to a cake shop in the city called Clara’s. She used to go there every Saturday as a treat right after her riding lesson. And the cakes and fancy pastries smelled just delicious!

  The pony now turned and their eyes met, hers green like the sea and his an earthy brown. In the beech wood last week their meeting had been rushed. But now Bryony could really appreciate how beautiful he was . . .

  His deep brown coat was the colour of chocolate. And his lower legs matched his mane and tail, which were black. His mane stuck up in cute tufts or tumbled playfully over his eyes. And just above the white star in the middle of his face bounced a single little black kiss curl.

  Now that she was here and had met Georgina, Bryony had no doubt what was making this pony sad. He was simply desperate to be loved . . .

  He clattered over to the door and leaned his head towards Bryony. As he did, he gave a soft, curious blow and his eyes examined her face.

  ‘You do know me . . .’ Bryony whispered. ‘Remember?’

  For a moment the pony stood there thoughtfully. Then his ears, still lying flat back against his head, slowly began to straighten and his eyes opened and twinkled. ‘Ah!’ beamed Bryony. He did! He did remember her!