Six Ponies

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

“Quite right, dear. I never thought of that,” said Mrs. Cresswell as she brought the car to a standstill in front of the saddler’s. It was a very small shop, with a low timbered roof and, sandwiched as it was between the post office—the only modern building in the town—and the King’s Head Hotel, which was tall, narrow, and of the late Georgian period, it looked absurd. But in spite of its unimposing appearance, Mr. Woodstock’s shop was well known in Barsetshire for its excellent saddlery.

  To the Cresswells’ annoyance, Mr. Woodstock wasn’t in his shop. They waited impatiently for a few minutes, June ringing the bell and grumbling, and then, as the laughter and shouting from the market-place attracted their curiosity, they walked round, past the Norman church—for which Brampton was famous—and into the High Street. There they saw Peter chasing Mr. Charr, whose face was redder than ever, up the street for the second time, while Richard stood, in an agony of embarrassment and indecision, with his hands in his pockets, and the crowd shrieked, guffawed, cried or whooped with joy according to age and temperament.

  “Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Cresswell. “It’s that stuck-up Morrisson boy’s pony. Whatever is it doing here? He must have had an accident.”

  “Look! There he is,” said June, pointing. “Why ever doesn’t he catch Peter instead of standing?”

  “I can’t imagine,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Come along, June,” she went on, “we’d better catch the pony before there’s an accident.” And she hurried after Peter, which, having dealt with Mr. Charr, was trotting back to the vegetable stall. Richard did stretch out a hand in a feeble attempt to grab the reins as Peter trotted past, but he made a threatening face, so Richard hastily retired to the pavement.

  “Well, really,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “I do believe that great boy is frightened of the pony.” And she walked straight up to Peter, which had its nose in the apple box again, and took hold of its reins. Peter started to make a face at her, but then, realising she wasn’t frightened, he stopped and just stood, looking as calm and good-natured as he possibly could, to the amazement of the crowd and Richard’s chagrin.

  “Well, here you are, Sonny,” said Mrs. Cresswell kindly. And, holding out the reins, she asked, “Did you take a toss? Are you hurt?”

  “No,” said Richard very ungraciously. “That idiot Jill let him go and heaven knows where the others have got to.”

  “Gracious!” said June. “You haven’t let Major Holbrooke’s pony go, have you?”

  “Yes, I have,” said Richard sulkily, “and I expect he’s been run over by now, but I can’t help it—it’s all Jill’s fault for letting go of Peter and Wendy.” And, mounting, he started to ride off down the street. When Mr. Charr, who had at last dared to come back, caught sight of him, he gave a bellow of rage.

  “What d’yer think yer doing?” he yelled in broad Barsetshire, “riding off like that? Yer come back, young man, and pay me my damages. Let yer ’orse eat two bushel of my best apples, would yer, and then ride off without a word? I’ll ’ave the law on yer, I will.”

  Richard pulled Peter up, turned in his saddle and, though quaking at heart, said, in the firmest tones he could muster, “It’s your own silly fault. If you hadn’t knocked my pony about I could have caught him easily and then he wouldn’t have done any damage.”

  “Blame it on me, would yer?” shouted Mr. Charr, angrier than ever. “Trying to do a poor working man out of ’is ’ard-earned penny—stealing, that’s what it is,” he went on, “and me with a wife and six kids too. Try to take the bread out of their mouths, would yer?”

  “More like the beer out o’ yours, Bert,” shouted a voice from the crowd.

  Once again Mrs. Cresswell came to the rescue. “Stop making that noise, my man,” she said to Mr. Charr, “or I’ll call a constable. And tell me what damage the pony did.”

  “A good two quids’ worth o’ stuff ’es ’ad,” said Mr. Charr quite quietly. The last thing he wanted was a policeman on the scene, as he hadn’t a licence to sell vegetables.

  “A good two quids’ worth,” he repeated.

  “Now, then, Bert,” shouted the voice from the crowd, “you know them apples was maggotty and the carrots ’ad the fly.”

  “Ten shillings would about cover it,” said a young man, who looked like a farmer, stepping out from the crowd.

  “Oh, thank you so much,” said Mrs. Cresswell, flashing him one of her bright artificial smiles. “Have you ten shillings on you?” she asked Richard. Odd though it might seem, Richard had. He was one of those people to whom money seems very important. He thought it fearfully impressive to jingle coins in your pocket or to display a few notes when taking a stamp from your wallet, and he invariably carried his entire worldly wealth about on him. As it happened, he still had the ten shillings his father had given him for being top of the History, Geography, English and General Knowledge exams at his school.

  “Of course,” he replied with great dignity to Mrs. Cresswell’s question.

  “Well, you give it to Bert Charr and have done with it,” advised the young farmer.

  “Ten shillings?” said Mr. Charr in a voice which was meant to be tragic. “Wot, ten shillings for all them lovely apples? There ain’t no justice for a working man. All them lovely apples—”

  “They was maggotty, Bert,” interrupted the voice from the crowd, and everyone laughed.

  “Come on, now, Bert, you take that ten bob or I’ll get a copper to take particulars,” said the young farmer.

  “All right, all right, I’ll take it,” said Bert Charr, “though it do go against the grain to be trampled on by a young toff like ’im.” And, snatching the note out of Richard’s hand, he walked away, still muttering about the injustice. Richard turned and, without thanking either Mrs. Cresswell or the young farmer, rode off at a brisk trot.

  “There’s gratitude for you,” muttered Mrs. Cresswell to herself. Aloud she said, “Come along, June; I should think Mr. Woodstock must be back in his shop by now.”

  “Mummy,” said June, “what did he mean about being trampled on by Richard. He wasn’t, was he?”

  “No, dear,” replied Mrs. Cresswell. “It was just a form of speech, and a very common one at that. But never mind that, dear. Let’s think about the tackle we have to buy.”

  “I expect all the others will have to use clothes-lines for lunge-reins,” said June.

  “Well, I dare say they’re used to improvising,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Not everyone is as lucky as you, dear; but I’m sure they’ll all feel very envious when they see how well equipped you are.”

  “Yes,” agreed June. “But you wait until they see Grey Dawn doing the flying change. They’ll be simply green with envy, and they won’t be able to say that it’s Wonder who does everything either.”

  “No, credit will have to be given where it’s due for a change,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “though I dare say they’ll do their best to think up some excuse.”

  “I wonder what the others will call their ponies,” said June. “I bet none of them will think of such smart names as Grey Dawn.”

  Richard had ridden for at least a mile down the road to the Hatch-gate—the direction in which the ponies had gone—before he realised that he hadn’t seen Jill since the beginning of the unpleasantness with Mr. Charr.

  Oh, gosh, he thought. Where can she have got to? She really is tiresome. Mummy will be in no end of a bait if she’s been kidnapped or something. But after a little more thought he decided that either she had gone home to lunch or else, which was more likely, she had followed the ponies and he would soon catch up with her. So he trotted on, gazing anxiously into the fields stretching away on either side of the road, and wondering what he would say to Major Holbrooke if the pony fell and broke his knees. Soon he began to feel hungry; then his eyes started to ache and his arm throbbed painfully. Then Peter said he couldn’t trot any farther. How Richard wished he had gone home by Friars’ Fenchurch. By now, he thought, looking at his watch, which said ten minutes past two, I should be
eating my lunch instead of chasing these wretched animals round the countryside feeling ravenous, and I should still have my ten shillings for a chemistry set like Langton-Leghorn major’s. At the memory of Peter gobbling ten shillings’ worth of apples he said, “Come on, you lazy old brute,” and gave him three vicious kicks for an aid to trot on.

  Richard rode on and on. There was still no sign of Jill, and he began to feel anxious, for, even if she had run, he didn’t see how she could possibly have got so far in the short start she had of him. When he reached the little group of cottages which clustered round the cross-roads at the foot of the hill, Richard decided that he would go no farther. He thought of asking an old man digging his garden or a young woman pushing a pram whether they had seen two ponies pass that way, but on second thoughts he felt they might think him silly or wonder how he came to let them go. So telling himself firmly that they hadn’t come so far, he turned the all-too-willing Peter and trotted briskly back towards Brampton.

  Jill had followed the ponies about two miles up the road to the Hatch-gate when, giving way to hunger and despair, she sat down on a convenient stile and burst into tears. She cried for some time: thinking how beastly the ponies were not to come to her when she called them, how unkind Richard was to stay arguing with horrid fat men in the market instead of helping her, and how selfish all the people were who had seen but not caught the ponies. When she couldn’t think of any more people who had been unkind to her, Jill stopped crying and began to dry her eyes and sniff. She was just thinking of going home to lunch when, to her delight, a car pulled up and a voice asked, “What’s the matter, my dear? Have you lost your way?” Looking up, Jill recognised the Vicar of Brampton, and, making no attempt to disguise the fact that she had been crying, she said, “No, it’s the ponies—they’re loose, and I know Wendy will be run over.” And she began to cry again.

  “Don’t cry, my dear,” said the Vicar kindly. “I expect they’ll turn up. Whereabouts did you lose them?”

  “They escaped in Brampton,” said Jill, “and they galloped up this road, but I don’t know where Richard is, and I’m so hungry and my legs ache.” And, filled with self-pity, she cried louder than ever.

  “Oh, my word!” said the Vicar, trying to be jolly. “You have got yourself in a pickle, but I expect your big brother has caught the naughty chaps by now; so jump into my car and I’ll drive you home.”

  So though she knew perfectly well that Richard couldn’t possibly have caught the ponies, Jill told herself that the Vicar was right, and jumping gaily into the car, she imagined Richard already eating his belated lunch and the ponies safely back in the paddock. But when, after a detour by Sandy Lane, where the Vicar had to deliver some books, Jill rushed into the house—without thanking him for the lift—she was disappointed; neither Richard nor the ponies had returned home. Mrs. Morrisson was caught by the Vicar and questioned as to why her children never went to church. This made her crosser than ever, and all the time Jill ate her mince and cabbage, which was lukewarm and very nasty, Mrs. Morrisson lectured her on how tiresome and inconsiderate both she and Richard were.

  It was at about the same time as Richard turned back from the Hatch-gate and Mrs. Morrisson was lecturing Jill, that Noel and Susan—Noel on Beauty—were walking up the track to Russet Cottage.

  “You know, Noel,” said Susan as, turning the corner, they came in sight of the low, whitewashed thatched cottage, “I like your cottage much better than our house. It’s awfully like one on a Christmas card or calendar.”

  “It’s not bad,” said Noel; “but, as daddy says, it’s a bit God-wottery.”

  “God what?” asked Susan, rather shocked.

  “You know,” said Noel. “ ‘A garden is a lovesome thing God wot!’ ”

  “Oh, you mean the poem,” said Susan. “I know. Auntie Hilda sent a lovely poker-work thing saying that last Christmas, but the cottage at the top wasn’t half as pretty as yours.”

  “Ugh!” said Noel.

  “What?” asked Susan.

  “Poker-work things,” replied Noel.

  “Don’t you like them?” asked Susan.

  “Ugh—no,” said Noel firmly. “I think they’re revolting, especially the kind that tell you to hurry in your bath.”

  “Auntie Hilda’s got one of those,” said Susan. “But of course she’s only got one bathroom, so you have to be quick. At home there’s three, so you can be as long as you like; but in our house in Manchester we only had one.”

  “A beastly poker-work notice wouldn’t make me hurry,” said Noel. “I should be slow on purpose to annoy it. Anyway, if people want you to hurry they can always shout, as mummy does when I read in my bath.”

  “Goodness!” said Susan. “Fancy reading in the bath!”

  “Well, if you’ve got an interesting book you can’t very well go to bed without finishing it,” said Noel.

  “I can,” said Susan; “but perhaps the books I read aren’t very interesting,” she added humbly.

  “What sort of books do you read?” asked Noel.

  “I don’t know,” said Susan. “All sorts. I can never remember the names—except Black Beauty. I liked that.”

  “Would you like me to lend you some?” asked Noel as she dismounted at the cottage gate.

  “Yes, please. That would be lovely,” said Susan politely, for she didn’t really think so. “But don’t be long, for I’ve got to be back in time for tea, worse luck!”

  “O.K.,” said Noel, giving her the reins and dashing into the cottage, to reappear a moment later with three of her favourite pony books. “Do you think you can carry them all right on Beauty?” she asked.

  “Yes, easily,” replied Susan. “She’s not at all difficult to ride with one hand.”

  Then, when each had thanked the other, Susan rode away down the lane and Noel wandered into the cottage. She found no sign of her mother or Simple Simon, so, deciding they must have gone to Brampton to do some shopping, she helped herself to a handful of chocolate biscuits and set off across the fields to meet them.

  Noel walked along, munching biscuits and thinking how awful it would be to be Susan and have such a beastly mother and sister. Mr. Barington-Brown was, she decided, quite nice, for though he thought it queer to read, and told such dull stories, he was obviously a kind and indulgent father, and probably bought Susan everything she wanted. But, thought Noel, I’d rather be me with no ponies than Susan with all the ponies in the world. As she climbed the steep hill where the mushrooms grew she thought of Susan’s suggestion that when her youngster was educated enough to go out for rides Noel should accompany her on Beauty. She was especially pleased at this idea, for now that Miss Lamb had decided to settle in Ireland, Noel didn’t suppose she would even have Topsy to ride, and she felt very sad; for Topsy, though tiresome, was vastly better than no pony at all. What, thought Noel, does schooling matter as long as it’s a pony? It was at this point that her reflections were interrupted by a shrill neigh. Curious as to what pony it could be—she knew Farmer Trent kept only cart-horses—Noel quickened her pace and on reaching the top of the hill she was amazed to see Wendy grazing in her saddle and bridle, with Richard’s bay youngster beside her.

  Gosh, thought Noel, whatever shall I do? And she anxiously scanned the horizon for the Morrissons; but from Greater Roebuck Farm, tiny and toylike in the distance, to where Brampton’s lazy-rising smoke was being chivvied by the restless wind, there was no sign of life. An unhelpful stillness lay over the sodden, colourless fields, broken only by the sound of the wind in the wet falling leaves and the rooks cawing in some far-away elms.

  Oh, dear, thought Noel, I’m sure I’ll never be able to catch them. I suppose I’d better fetch the Morrissons. Then, quite suddenly, she thought of Major Holbrooke. She heard him say, in a slightly reproachful voice, “You are a Uriah Heep, aren’t you?” No, she thought angrily, I’m not. Why should I always be likened to a beastly man with clammy hands who never did anything? I’m going to win the open jumping at
Olympia on a grey mare with a Roman nose, called Wisdom. And giving her jodhs—which were slipping down again—a determined hitch, Noel walked up to Wendy and offered her the last of the chocolate biscuits. To her surprise and delight, Wendy, tired after her long gallop, took it gladly, and allowed herself to be caught with no trouble at all. Then Noel stood for a few moments undecided as to which way to go. She knew where the Morrissons’ house was, as she had ridden past it with Miss Lamb, but she wasn’t sure whether to risk the bay pony following loose along the roads and go the short way—across the fields to the Hatch-gate and then by Sandy Lane—or to go home and find a piece of cord to make a halter and then to Orchard Cottage by Russet Lane and the outskirts of Brampton. In the end she put safety first, and, mounting Wendy—she thought she might as well ride while she had the chance—she rode down the hill and back to Russet Cottage, with the bay pony following a little distance behind. Leaving Wendy tied to the gate, Noel rushed indoors and searched wildly for some cord or string. Of course, there was none to be found, but just as she was despairing, she discovered an old skipping-rope; she hacked the handles off with her knife, and then, stuffing her pockets with apples, she hurried out to see the last of the hollyhocks—it was her mother’s favourite, a peach-coloured one—disappearing into Wendy’s mouth.