Mrs. Cresswell and June had great difficulty in getting the grey into the trailer. The Major and Blake, who had come back from his lunch, had to help, and the Major, who was feeling hungry, and therefore rather cross, became very annoyed with Mrs. Cresswell, who would wave her arms and say, “Shoo!” to the pony, which, of course, only upset her the more. At last Major Holbrooke could bear it no longer. He gave Mrs. Cresswell a lecture, and, taking the halter-rope from June, who was trying to pull her pony in, he picked up each of the grey’s fore-feet in turn and put them on the ramp; then, holding out a cow-cake, he walked up in front of her. Finding that the ramp was quite firm and didn’t collapse as she had expected, the grey followed him into the trailer. Mrs. Cresswell thanked the Major effusively, and then he, muttering, “Not at all,” and “Don’t mention it,” hurried into lunch, to find Mrs. Holbrooke also in a bad temper, partly because she was hungry, partly because Mrs. Matthews, the cook, was in a rage as the lunch was overdone, but mainly because she had had to spend the whole morning making conversation to Mrs. Cresswell.
“If only,” she said as she finished her cinder-like cutlet, “that dreadful woman could talk of something else but June and Golden Wonder!”
Meanwhile, as Mrs. Cresswell and June drove home to their lunch, which was to be sausages and mash followed by bread and butter pudding, they discussed the events of the morning.
“Wasn’t it a good thing I got the grey,” said June, “and not the cart-horsy old skewbald or the dull bays and black? I wouldn’t have been seen dead on the skewbald.”
“The grey is certainly the pick of the bunch,” replied Mrs. Cresswell, “and I’m very glad you got her, June, for I hardly think those other children would have done her justice. Of course, the chestnut was a showy little animal.”
“Well, he soon won’t be,” said June. “Hilary Radcliffe is sure to spoil him. Why, she doesn’t even know how to change legs, so what’s the good of her trying to break in a pony?”
“That’s quite true,” said Mrs. Cresswell; “and really,” she went on, “after the exhibition those children made of themselves at the Pony Club rally, I don’t know how the Major can bring himself to entrust them with his cousin’s ponies. I suppose he thinks he can chase round after them all showing them what to do, but in spite of the nasty way he spoke when we were boxing her, he can rest assured that one pony—and probably only one—will be properly trained.”
“Susan,” said Noel as they parted from the Morrissons and turned up the drive to Basset Towers, “I know I shall upset something.”
“That’s all right,” said Susan calmly. “I often do. Mummy makes rather a fuss, and Valerie says my table manners are disgusting, but they won’t be able to say anything to you—you’re a guest.”
“But it’s so awfully embarrassing,” said Noel.
“I don’t see why,” said Susan. “Everybody upsets things sometimes.”
“Not as often as I do,” said Noel. “I hardly ever go out without upsetting something.”
“I say, Noel. What does Uriah Heep really mean?” asked Susan, changing the subject.
“He’s a character in David Copperfield,” said Noel. “He had clammy hands and was very ’umble.”
“ ’Umble?” said Susan. “But why did the Major call you Uriah Heep?”
“Because I thought I would let Black Magic go, I suppose,” said Noel.
“I see,” said Susan, who didn’t.
By this time they had reached the stables, and the bay pony, which had led perfectly all the way, suddenly refused to go any farther. In vain did Susan try to tempt her with apples or pull her along. In vain did Noel take Beauty on ahead. They pushed and pulled and tempted her for about ten minutes, and then, just as they were despairing, Mr. Barington-Brown came rolling up the drive in his Daimler, driven by Cookson, the chauffeur. The pony didn’t take any notice of the car; she just stood, her fore-legs braced out in front of her, and refused to move. Cookson brought the black, shiny and very respectable looking Daimler smoothly to a standstill, and Mr. Barington-Brown jumped out and said in jovial tones:
“ ’Ullo, Susan. Won’t the bucking broncho go?”
“Oh, Daddy, you’re just in time. Do come and help us.”
So Mr. Barington-Brown, who in the days of his youth, long before he became a rich shoe manufacturer, had looked after a pony called Snowball, belonging to his father, a greengrocer, pushed, while Susan tempted the pony and Noel rode ahead on Beauty. Suddenly the bay gave in and walked quietly into the stable. They put her in the box next to Beauty, in which she looked very small and forlorn, for it was the old-fashioned type, with iron bars all round, so that she couldn’t look out or speak to Beauty next door. To Noel she seemed like an unjustly sentenced prisoner, and lines from the ballad of Reading Jail came into her mind.
Susan made sure that there was water and hay in the youngster’s box and a feed for Beauty, and then, when he had finished mopping his brow, Mr. Barington-Brown said that it was half-past one, and that if they didn’t hurry into lunch they’d have mother after them, and led the way through the dark Victorian shrubbery to the house.
Basset Towers was a very ugly house. It had been built by an eccentric shipowner, who had a great deal of money but no taste. Besides being built in a hideous red brick, it was too high for its length, and at each corner there was a pepper-pot turret, which made it look quite absurd.
The Barington-Browns had only lived at Basset for about a year; before that they had had a house in Manchester near Mr. Barington-Brown’s factory. When Susan’s mother, who was rather a snob, decided to live in the country, she had chosen Basset Towers, partly because it was the right size and she thought that the rooms were convenient, and partly because she thought that Basset Towers would be a smart postal address. But then she, like the shipowner, had no taste, though perhaps there was more excuse for her, who had always lived in Manchester, than for the shipowner, who had been a sailor to start with, and had sailed all over the world and seen many lovely buildings in places like Rome, Athens, and Constantinople.
Noel took an instant dislike to Mrs. Barington-Brown, who was tall, gaunt and acid looking, and whose hand, when Noel shook it, was cold and fish-like. Noel thought she looked awfully old—more like Susan’s grandmother than her mother. Then Valerie came in. She, too, was tall and thin; her blonde hair was piled in elaborate curls on top of her head, and she had sticking-out teeth and a discontented expression. Noel shook hands with her, and then Mrs. Barington-Brown told Susan to take “her little friend” to wash, so Susan took Noel upstairs to a very pink bathroom. They washed with pink soap, and afterwards Susan did her hair, which was in two neat, fair plaits, and Noel made a feeble attempt to flatten her unruly black shock. When Susan was ready they cantered down to lunch, which was saddle of mutton, followed by chocolate souffle. Noel was given enormous helpings, far more than she could eat, and, except for offering her more, no one made much conversation. Mr. Barington-Brown told one story—a very dull one—about Snowball, while Mrs. Barington-Brown argued with Valerie as to whether the lounge needed redecorating.
After an even longer pause than usual, when everyone looked at their plates and Noel felt terribly embarrassed, Mrs. Barington-Brown asked in her very refined voice:
“When is your father coming home from Egypt, Noel?”
“Not until next summer,” replied Noel, rather surprised that she knew he was there.
“He’s one of those people who dig up bits of china and mummies and such-like, isn’t he?” asked Mr. Barington-Brown.
“Really, Albert!” said Mrs. Barington-Brown before Noel could reply. “How can you be so ignorant! Professor Kettering is an eminent archæologist, and he’s written several very deep books on the subject. Isn’t that right, Noel?”
“He’s written some books,” said Noel, “but they look rather boring to me.”
“Oh, well,” said Mr. Barington-Brown with a laugh, “I’m sure no one expects you to bother your little head w
ith such things. I don’t believe Susan ever opens a book except when she’s at school—eh, Susan?”
“Noel’s awfully clever, Daddy,” said Susan, blushing slightly. “She reads Dickens.”
“My word! Does she?” said Mr. Barington-Brown, looking at Noel as though she were some strange creature from another world. “You are taking after your dad, then.”
“Oh, no,” said Noel, feeling more embarrassed than ever. “I’m terribly stupid—I’m hopeless at geometry, and I’m sure I could never learn Greek.”
“Well, we can’t all be good at everything,” said Mr. Barington-Brown. “And, for myself, I can’t say I’ve much faith in all this education. But, there, mother’s keen on it—isn’t she, Susan?”
“Yes, worse luck,” said Susan. “She wants me to stay at school until I’m eighteen. Ugh! Just think of it—five more years.”
“Don’t chatter so much, Susan,” said Mrs. Barington-Brown sharply. “But pass Noel a peach.”
“No, thank you,” said Noel, who had already eaten two and was beginning to feel sick.
“Well, if she’s had sufficient,” went on Mrs. Barington-Brown, “you had better take her up to your playroom, Susan; and if you go over to Brampton, be sure to be back in time to change for tea, as we’ve company.”
Jill had rather an unpleasant journey into Brampton, for though she found she could manage Peter and Wendy easily, she was exasperated by Richard’s remarks on Major Holbrooke’s incredible mentality in liking the Pimpernel books and finding any of Dickens dull. However, not having read any of the works, she was hardly in a position to argue, though, as Richard kindly pointed out, she couldn’t be expected to have read much, for she was only eleven, and a girl at that.
As they rode into the town they noticed that it was busier than usual, and they realised, to their dismay, that it was market day, when the otherwise quiet little town became a mass of traffic, stalls, and people.
“Gosh, that’s torn it,” said Richard. “How on earth are we going to get this brute through the market-place?”
“We can’t go back now,” said Jill. “It’s simply miles round by Friars’ Fenchurch.”
“No, we can’t go right round there,” agreed Richard. “We shall just have to risk it; but I should think that if you ride ahead this animal will follow.”
“All right,” said Jill. “But I do hope Peter doesn’t shy. I know I shall fall off if he does.”
“For goodness’ sake don’t start being feeble,” said Richard disagreeably; “and do hurry up. We’re hours late for lunch already.”
“It’s a good thing Mrs. Holbrooke rang mummy up,” said Jill, “or she’d have been awfully cross, for she said we were to be back by one.”
“She’ll be in a bait, don’t you worry,” said Richard. “But I can’t see what she wants to make such a fuss for; she could easily have asked old Bunting to cut us some sandwiches and then it wouldn’t have mattered what time we got back. Dash it all,” he went on, “I’m in the ‘Schol’ form at school and captain of cricket. She can’t go on treating me as though I were a kid.”
“Do stop criticising mummy,” said Jill. “It must be your fault anyway, for she’s not nearly so cross when you’re away at school.”
“It’s all very well for you,” said Richard. “Girls like staying at home and keeping clean, but boys are different. Except for not being able to ride and having to swot, I’d rather be at school than at home any day. We have some pretty good ‘rags’ there. . . .” And he was still telling Jill about one of the “rags” as they turned into the market-place. When the bay pony saw the crowd of people and the stalls, with their gaily striped awnings, he stopped and gazed with wide, frightened eyes. Richard tried to pull him forward, and Jill rode on ahead, hoping he would follow when he saw the other ponies weren’t afraid. He did, for a few steps, and then the owner of a near-by stall came out of it, flapping the orange and white awning as he did so. This was too much for the bay. With a snort he whirled round and, knocking Richard into the gutter, he galloped back up the road to Basset.
Richard lay in the gutter for a few minutes, wondering whether his arm, which hurt horribly, was broken, and thinking what a sensation he would cause if he went back to school with it in a sling. Then realising where he was, he scrambled to his feet, just as the bay pony, which had been turned by a man on a bicycle, came galloping back. Jill, who had dismounted at the first sign of trouble, let go of Peter and Wendy and, with a shrill shriek, fled to the comparative safety of the chemist’s doorway. Richard stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms and shouting, in a half-hearted attempt to stop the pony. Then when he was almost upon him he, too, took cover in the doorway of the chemist’s shop. The bay pony galloped up the High Street, followed by Wendy, her reins and stirrups flying, and disappeared round the corner by the church. But Peter, being a greedier and more phlegmatic character, didn’t bother to follow them. Instead, he found a vegetable stall, the owner of which had gone to see what the excitement was about, and started to make the most of it.
“Oh, Jill, you are feeble,” said Richard. “Why ever did you let them go?”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Jill tearfully. “Anyway, you let go of the bay first, and now Wendy will be run over.” And she began to sniff.
“For goodness’ sake shut up,” said Richard. “Did you see which way Peter went?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Jill, “and I don’t care either. I know Wendy will be killed or else she’ll slip and break her leg, and then she’ll have to be put to sleep, and it’s all your fault for having one of Major Holbrooke’s beastly ponies.”
Richard’s reply was drowned by furious shouts from the owner of the vegetable stall, who had returned to find a large brown pony eating apples and carrots as fast as he could. Richard guessed it must be Peter who was causing the shouts, so he ran towards them, and found a fat man with a red face waving a walking-stick at Peter and shouting loudly, though in such a very broad Barsetshire accent that Richard could not understand one word of what he was saying—which was perhaps just as well!
Richard ran up to Peter and made a grab at his rein, but Peter, who had found out long before that he could frighten Richard if he wanted to, laid back his ears, bared his teeth and pretended he was going to bite. Richard jumped backwards and, thus encouraged, Peter walked after him. Richard began to run, and, to the joy of the crowd, Peter broke into a trot and chased him quite a way down the street before turning back to have another feed at the vegetable stall. Meanwhile Mr. Charr, the owner of the stall, thinking Peter had gone for good, began to tidy up the vegetables, but he hadn’t done much when Peter came trotting back and, rudely pushing Mr. Charr aside, buried his nose in a box of the best Cox’s Orange Pippins. They were the ones which were kept for show; the maggotty ones which Mr. Charr sold his customers were kept discreetly out of sight. Giving a yell of rage, Mr. Charr started to belabour Peter with his walking-stick, but Peter just turned on him and, being a coward, he too fled down the street, amid the derisive shouts of the even larger crowd which had collected.
It so happened that, as they ate their lunch, Mrs. Cresswell and June had decided to go into Brampton that very afternoon to buy a head-collar and lunge-rein for Grey Dawn, as they had named the grey mare. Mrs. Cresswell told June that she must begin the pony’s training as quickly as possible, for, she said, the other children were such jealous little things that they were sure to make a dead set at June and do all in their power to beat her.
As they drove into Brampton they remarked on the noise, which was unusually loud even for market day.
“I do hope,” said Mrs. Cresswell anxiously, “that there isn’t a fire or anything else that might spread and upset Wonder.”
“Don’t be so silly, Mummy,” said June. “There’d be a glow in the sky.”
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