The Radcliffes took a long time to ride the four miles back to Little Hogshill, where they lived, for, like all large families, they had to work out the complicated turns. James and Margaret had to ride home, as they hadn’t entered for anything, so they had Pixie and Darkie; while Roger, Hilary and Evelyn took it in turns to ride Northwind and the two bicycles, whose names were Satan and Spitfire.
Noel Kettering gave Topsy to Miss Lamb, who was going to lead her home off her flea-bitten grey horse Warrior; because it was too late for Noel to ride all the way to the Hatch-gate, where Miss Lamb lived, and then walk home. So, after thanking her for the loan of Topsy, Noel started for Russet Cottage, which was only a mile from the show ground if you went across the fields. At first she pretended to be a nervous thoroughbred, and cantered along, bucking and shying, but after a bit she became more serious, and walked sedately, trying to think of ways to make money to buy a pony of her own. . . .
Richard and Jill Morrisson actually managed to get home without quarrelling. They discussed everyone’s riding, and finally agreed that, if Richard had had Golden Wonder and Jill had had Beauty, they would certainly have won something; but that all the same they would rather have Wendy and Peter any day. When they got home they turned the ponies out and went into supper, which consisted, as usual, of fruit, biscuits and milk—which Richard considered a fearful disgrace now that he was thirteen and had proper dinner at school. . . .
John Manners was one of the last of the competitors to get home; for Basset is five miles from the little market town of Brampton and Lower Basset Farm, where John lived, is some two miles farther on. Colonel and Mrs. Manners, who hadn’t gone to the horse show because the Colonel was helping with the harvest, were both waiting at the gate when John arrived, and they were delighted to see the first and second rosettes on Turpin’s bridle.
“Well done, my boy! Well done!” shouted the Colonel as soon as John was within hearing distance. “In the money again, I see.”
“Yes, Dad,” said John. “First in the bending and second in the potato-race. Not bad, was it? But old Turpin simply wouldn’t jump—that conceited June Cresswell won both the jumping and the riding class.”
“That Cresswell girl won the riding class?” roared the Colonel. “Those judges ought to be shot. Look how she jumps—half-way up her pony’s neck! May be all right for this highfalutin’ show-jumping business, but where would she be in the hunting-field, where would she be if her pony pecked? No, my boy,” he went on more quietly, “it’s no disgrace not to be in the money if that’s the sort of riders they like. You’d soon show these pot-hunters what’s what in the hunting-field. . . .”
Major Holbrooke called the dogs and went out into the velvet darkness of the fast-gathering dusk. He walked down to the stable yard to give the three horses, which were stabled, a last pat. Nothing Venture, the big chestnut show-jumper, whinnied softly, Gay Crusader’s bay head and the grey one of Harmony, the Anglo-Arabian show hack, appeared over their loose-box doors—Major Holbrooke produced three apples from his pockets. . . .
Far away down in the valley, John Manners, an overcoat and gum-boots over his pyjamas, was slamming the henhouse doors vindictively—he had forgotten to shut the hens up at their proper time—and, on the other side of Brampton, Richard Morrisson finished the last paragraph of his thriller, turned out the torch, with the aid of which he had been reading under the bedclothes, and went to sleep.
Chapter II
MAJOR HOLBROOKE finished his bacon and eggs, threw The Times on the floor, and started to open his post. After opening several letters from people who wanted to sell him horses, hounds’ food, and saddlery, he found one from a “horsy” cousin who lived in Hampshire near the New Forest. While he was reading it, Mrs. Holbrooke came down to breakfast. The first thing which caught her eye was the discarded Times.
“Really, George,” she said, “is it necessary that you should throw the paper on the floor? I haven’t read it yet.”
“Sorry, dear,” said Major Holbrooke meekly, as he picked up The Times and threw it on the nearest chair. “But I have a very interesting letter from Cousin Harry. You know those pony foals he bought several years ago, when they were so cheap they were being killed and sold as veal?”
“Yes, I remember,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “I always thought it was the only good thing that that dreadful bore Harry ever did.”
“I should hardly say that,” said the Major. “But I will admit that he’s the most insufferable old bore that ever lived, especially when he tells you about the good old days in Poona! Anyway, these ponies are now four-year-olds, and, though they are quiet to handle, they have never been ridden, and Harry is at his wits’ end to know what to do with them. Apparently there is no one small enough who is capable of breaking a pony in his part of the world.”
“I expect Harry thinks breaking is a Wild West operation,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “But what does he expect you to do?”
“Perhaps he thinks the Pony Club is full of efficient young horse-breakers,” suggested the Major.
“It’s an idea,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “But I doubt whether you’d find six children good enough whose parents would allow it. Let’s see. There’d be June Cresswell—”
“It’s not only the riding which counts,” interrupted the Major; “it’s horse-sense and tact—so they’ll keep out of trouble. That’s more important than being able to stick on when you’ve started it.”
“Well, there’s the Radcliffes,” said Mrs. Holbrooke dubiously. “But they’re rather wild and noisy.”
“I should be near to help any one who got into difficulties,” said the Major thoughtfully. “Yes, I think it might be done. Anyway, I’ll write to Harry to-night, and, if he thinks it a good plan, I’ll suggest it at the Pony Club rally on Friday. . . .”
Friday was a perfect day: the sun shone out of a clear blue sky and there was a slight breeze. As the Pony Club members made their various ways to Folly Court—Major Holbrooke’s ancestral home—they all decided that it would be fine, and stopped anxiously scanning the horizon for clouds, as they had been doing ever since they wakened that morning.
The Radcliffes hadn’t far to go—it was only a matter of three miles from Little Hogshill; and as, for once, they started in good time, they didn’t have to hurry their ponies, which arrived looking very smart. John Manners, on the other hand, had lain in bed much later than he meant to, and when he had got up he had been hindered at every turn. First of all Turpin had been tiresome to catch—partly because John had forgotten his usual apple, and had been too lazy to go back and fetch one. And when at last he did catch him, it was only to find he had a loose shoe. John knew this was his own fault, because his mother had reminded him to look at them the day before, and he, thinking she was interfering, had rudely replied that of course they were all right, and then forgotten to look. Knowing he was in the wrong did nothing to improve John’s temper, and, as he rode the four miles to the forge at Little Hogshill, he vented his anger on Dick Turpin, whacking him whenever he shied and making him trot nearly the whole way. When he got to the forge, John, instead of asking the blacksmith politely to be as quick as he could, said he must have his pony shod by half-past ten. This didn’t make Mr. Hodges, the blacksmith—who was a very obstinate man—at all inclined to hurry, and it was five minutes to eleven by the time Turpin was done. As soon as he was ready John mounted and rode away, without even saying, “Thank you,” while Mr. Hodges vowed that it would take him longer still next time.
John rode the three miles back to Folly Court in twenty minutes, and arrived, hot and cross, with Turpin dripping with sweat, to see June Cresswell riding up the drive without a hair out of place on Golden Wonder, who looked as cool as a cucumber, and shone like gold in the summer sunshine.
However, John wasn’t the last member to arrive. In spite of living only half a mile away, Susan Barington-Brown was late. It wasn’t really her fault, for at the last moment she discovered that Bob had put Beauty’s bri
dle together all wrong. She had spent ages taking it to pieces and putting it together again, only to find that it was still wrong, whereupon she had put it on in despair, for it was already time for the rally to start. Last of all were the Morrissons. They both arrived in very bad tempers—Richard because his mother had made him ride over with Jill, and Wendy, besides being a much slower walker than Peter, had stopped to graze at intervals, and Jill, because Wendy had been so naughty, and Richard, instead of helping her, had ridden on, stopping occasionally to shout remarks about her feebleness or Wendy’s manners. They joined the other Pony Club members in the big flat field behind the house, and they were just in time to hear the Major finish a short explanation of the day’s programme. Then he asked them all to walk in single file round the four whitewashed posts which marked out a “school” in the middle of the field. At first Major Holbrooke merely told them not to bunch and that there should be a horse’s length between each of them; then he began to look at the riders individually. The standard of horsemanship really was rather low, but it wasn’t altogether the children’s fault, for up to now there had been no one who really knew anything about riding to teach them. Mrs. Maxton, who ran the riding-school at Basset, had rather old-fashioned ideas, and though she taught her pupils to stay on and to control their ponies, they lacked elegance, were bad at jumping, and knew nothing of more advanced equitation. Miss Lamb, who lent Noel Topsy, and Miss Mitchell, the secretary of the Pony Club, were both indifferent riders, and neither of them had studied horsemanship enough to be able to explain it to any one else.
The first thing which caught Major Holbrooke’s eagle eye was Susan’s bridle. He showed her how it should be, and put it right. Then he called a brother and sister, whose names were Anthony and Felicity Rate, into the centre, and explained to them that if they wanted their ponies to walk they must give them a loose rein and allow them to extend their necks. Anthony, who thought he was too old to be taught anything—he was seventeen—tried to argue. He said that Tinker and Topper always jogged, and that if you didn’t hold them on a tight rein they bolted. He was told, quite sharply, that no pony would walk with him hanging on to its head, and that, if they did gallop off, they were only trying to escape from their aching neck muscles.
Then Major Holbrooke made Anthony and Felicity walk round him, and when their ponies jogged—through force of habit—he said, “Pull them up to a walk,” and when they walked, “Now, quickly, give them a loose rein as a reward.” After a few minutes Tinker and Topper seemed to understand, and when they were sent back to their places they only jogged occasionally. This caused a general loosening of reins, for a good many members had thought it necessary to have a firm “feel” on their ponies’ mouths. Then the order to trot was given, and straight away Noel was called in and told not to lean so far forward and not to rest her hands on Topsy’s withers. Noel, overcome by embarrassment, was unable to say anything, and she felt sure the Major thought she was like Anthony and didn’t want to be taught. Several of the smaller children—Jill Morrisson, Simon Wentwood and the Minton boys—were corrected, and then the order was given to canter. Major Holbrooke let those who had got their ponies to canter, canter half-way round the school, and then he called everyone into the middle and asked if any one besides June knew the correct aids to canter on the off leg. Most of the members looked rather blank, and for a bit no one answered. Then a girl of about eighteen, called Joan Melton, said that you pulled with the right rein and kicked with the right leg.
“Well, that’s one way of doing it,” said the Major, “though in my opinion it’s the wrong one. The aids you use,” he said to Joan, “are what are called lateral aids—that is, using the rein and leg on the same side. Now I don’t want to go into controversial subjects to-day, but I much prefer the diagonal aids—that is, to make your pony lead on the off leg you would ‘feel’ your right rein and press with your left leg. To lead on the near leg you would, of course, reverse your aids—‘feel’ the left rein and press with the right leg. Now you,” he said, pointing at Susan, “make your pony canter round on the off leg.”
“Oh, dear,” thought Susan, “I know I shall make a mess of it,” and she gave Beauty a kick with both legs and forgot to “feel” either rein.
“You’re on the right leg,” said Major Holbrooke. “But that was your pony—you didn’t give any aid at all.” And he patiently showed her all over again. This time Susan understood, and she made Beauty lead off correctly to either hand. Several more people tried with varying success, and then Noel, who, after making a complete muddle of it, was forced to admit that she didn’t know her right hand from her left, the near side from the off, and hadn’t the faintest idea how you told which leg you were on. Major Holbrooke explained, to the relief of several of the people who hadn’t tried, but who instantly pretended they had known all along. Noel wasn’t very successful, for Topsy much preferred the near leg, and she obstinately went on it, in spite of the most violent aids to lead on the off one. When she had had about a dozen tries, the Major said it was hopeless, and called the next person. Noel did feel disheartened; even Simon Wentwood seemed a better rider than she, and she thought drearily that she was doomed to go through life a third-rate horsewoman, when she had so wished to be good, and in day-dreams had conceitedly imagined herself as an M.F.H., the fastest woman over sticks in Leicestershire, or winning the open jumping at Olympia.
Scarcely any one managed to get their pony on the right leg the first time; in fact, June Cresswell and Mary Compton were the only ones, and they sat and watched the other members getting hot and bothered with what John Manners told Richard Morrisson were conceited smiles on their faces. John felt particularly cross, because he had always despised this sort of thing and termed it show riding. As he told Richard, his father had never bothered about which leg he was on in India, and he’d been pretty good at polo and pigsticking. Richard said that this fancy stuff was safe and suitable for girls, but for those who weren’t nervous, races were much more fun.
“I can’t understand what the Major sees in it,” said John. “You can’t say he’s a cissy—I mean he’s jolly good at jumping and all that sort of thing, but he’s awfully keen on this stunt too.”
“I suppose there’s something in it,” said Richard, “but I’m blowed if I can see it.”
“Nor me,” said John. “And anyway, what’s the good of it in the hunting-field? I jolly well wouldn’t stop to put Turpin on the right leg when the hounds were running.”
When everyone, except Noel, Jill Morrisson and the Minton boys, who were all dismissed as hopeless, had mastered the diagonal aids, the Major taught them to ride circles, and then they tried some jumping.
The jump was only a small one—in fact, several people were heard to remark that it was “potty”—but Major Holbrooke found fault with everyone’s seat. Even June was corrected. To the great delight of most of the other members, she was told to shorten her reins and put more weight in her stirrups.
“Of course Major Holbrooke believes in the forward seat,” said Mrs. Cresswell to Mrs. Radcliffe, who was beside her, “but it’s quite impractical for showing purposes, and I’d so much rather that June rode with her reins on the long side than too short, like that queer Kettering child.”
Mrs. Radcliffe, who disliked Mrs. Cresswell and was only polite to her because she was one of Dr. Radcliffe’s patients, said that she thought Noel looked rather nice. Mrs. Cresswell gave an affected laugh, and said that of course it was a matter of taste, but she was sure that she would die of shame if her daughter was dressed in such appalling clothes or mounted on such a scruffy pony.
“Well, in my opinion,” said Mrs. Radcliffe, “children get just as much, if not more, fun out of a pony like Topsy than they do out of one that costs three figures and wins at Olympia.”
“Of course I always like to get June the best,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “But I grant you that it’s not every child that can manage a pony with blood in it—a thoroughbred pony like Wonder.�
�
But it was John who did the worst jump of all; for though he had heard everyone else told to lean forward, he decided that his father knew just as much about riding as Major Holbrooke, who, after all, was only a major, and would have to do as dad told him if they were still in the Army. So when his turn came he jumped with the backward seat as usual. The Major gave a loud roar, which meant, apparently, that the jag John had given Dick Turpin’s mouth was enough to put a pony off jumping for the rest of its life, and that he must lean forward, keep his legs back and his hands down.
“But that’s the forward seat,” said John, deciding that he wasn’t going to be shouted at for nothing, “and my father says it’s hopeless for hunting—if your pony pecks you can’t help going over his head.”
“Oh, heavens,” said Major Holbrooke rather wearily, “I thought that tiresome old theory had died out long ago!” And he went on to explain that a lot of people thought, quite wrongly, that any one who leant forward was jumping with the forward seat, and unfortunately, in England, the number of people who really jumped with the forward seat was very small compared with those who tried to imitate it without knowing the principles. These people generally jumped in “advance” of their horses, with their legs too far back and very little balance or knee grip. They were therefore liable to come off it if anything unexpected happened; but with the correct seat you were perfectly secure, and, borrowing Anthony Rate’s Topper, the Major gave a demonstration, laying special emphasis on the position of the leg and foot, which was, he said, the keynote to the whole seat. From the horse’s point of view he likened the rider who jumped with the forward seat to a well-balanced, firmly-fixed knapsack, while riders like John were satchels, bumping their horses’ loins as they jumped. As for jagging a pony’s mouth, the Major couldn’t believe that the most old-fashioned of fathers thought that a good thing, for it needed very little imagination to realise how painful it must be.
Six Ponies Page 2