Six Ponies

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  “Gosh,” said Evelyn, “you didn’t take in all that rot, did you? That’s only for training show horses. I don’t want Romany to be one of those silly ponies that have to be told what to do with their legs and are always falling flat in the hunting-field.”

  “I can’t say I’ve seen many of Major Holbrooke’s horses fall flat out hunting,” said Hilary shortly.

  “Old Georgie Holbrooke is different,” said Evelyn. “He’s gifted; he’s quite exceptional. You’re not so jolly conceited as to think you’ll ever be able to ride like him, are you? Good hands are born, not made, remember, and you’re just as mutton-fisted as the rest of us.”

  “If you think I intend to go on riding as badly as I do now all my life, you’re mistaken,” said Hilary with dignity. “I shall certainly do all I can to improve.” And she marched out of the field leading Rocket.

  “Gosh,” said Evelyn to Margaret, “she is getting touchy. She seems to fly off at the least little thing nowadays. It’s queer, for she never used to be like that.”

  “I expect it was because you said Rocket was lazy,” said Margaret.

  “Well, so he is,” said Evelyn, “and if Hilary thinks I’m going to say he’s wonderful, when I don’t think so, she’s mistaken. I don’t believe in saying all sorts of rot I don’t think just so as not to hurt people’s feelings—it’s their own fault if they’re hurt, for having such feeble feelings.”

  For a while she lunged Romany in silence. Then she said, “I say, Marga, do you think you could hold Romany while I back her? It’s no good me asking Hilary if she’s got the sulks.”

  Margaret was delighted. She said of course she could hold her; she was jolly nearly as strong as Hilary. So they led Romany into one of the loose-boxes, and Margaret took her head while Evelyn put her weight in the stirrup several times and then mounted.

  “Hurrah,” shouted Margaret, frightening Romany, who threw her head up and hit Evelyn a blow on the nose. “You’ve done it!”

  “For goodness’ sake shut up,” said Evelyn. “Can’t you see you’re frightening her?”

  “Whatever does she want to be so jolly nervous for?” asked Margaret impatiently.

  “Perhaps Georgie Holbrooke’s cousin was beastly and chased her with whips,” suggested Evelyn. “Poor old lady,” she went on. “Give her some more oats, Marga.” And when Margaret had given her another handful, “Now lead her round the box.”

  At first Romany was very nervous, and, as Margaret found her hard to control, they went round in rushes and jerks, but she soon became quiet to all outward appearances, though an experienced horseman would have known her rigid back and tense muscles for a “go-slow” signal. Unfortunately, Evelyn was not an experienced horseman, nor did she remember the advice of one who was. Common sense and Major Holbrooke’s words were scattered to the winds. “Marga,” she asked, “do you think you could hold her if we went outside?”

  “Yes, easily,” said Margaret. “She’s awfully quiet now, and I’m sure no one—not even June—has got on half as fast as this.”

  Thus encouraged, Evelyn said, “Come on, then; open the door, but for goodness’ sake don’t let her go.”

  Margaret led Romany out across the gravel yard to the little paddock at the back of the house. All went well until they passed the corner by the back door for the second time; then some tea towels which Mrs. Hunt—the cook—had hung out to dry, flapped idly in the breeze. Romany, already keyed up to breaking point, was terrified. She leaped forward with a snort, and Margaret and Evelyn, who had been chattering gaily about the surprise they would give Hilary, were taken by surprise themselves. The head-collar rope was jerked out of Margaret’s hand, and Evelyn shot forward in the saddle and clutched at Romany’s mane, frightening her still more. She bucked, and Evelyn flew through the air to land on the muddy ground with a smack. “Oh, you are feeble,” she said to Margaret as she scrambled to her feet. “Why on earth did you let her go?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” said Margaret. “It all happened so suddenly. Anyway, it wasn’t a very big buck, so I don’t know why you came off.”

  “Well, if I hadn’t she would only have gone on until I did,” said Evelyn disagreeably. “For goodness’ sake help catch her,” she went on, “instead of standing there with your mouth open.”

  Romany allowed herself to be caught, but, when Evelyn tried to remount, she twirled round and round, and in spite of all Evelyn’s instructions Margaret was unable to hold her still. In the end they had to take her back to the loose-box, and even there it was some time before Evelyn managed to scramble on. When she was in the saddle Margaret gave Romany some more oats, and then, as they heard the sound of Northwind and Darkie returning from their ride, they decided it was time to stop.

  While they unsaddled Romany, Evelyn said, “Mind you don’t say anything about riding in the paddock or me falling off to any one, Marga, or there’s sure to be a fuss.”

  “Not even to the others?” asked Margaret.

  “No, not to any one,” said Evelyn, “or I shan’t let you help again.”

  Later, at tea, when Hilary, who had quite recovered from her outburst, asked how Romany had behaved, Evelyn replied, “Fine, thank you,” and asked Roger to pass the cake.

  After tea Hilary, with Roger’s help, backed Rocket. He was very quiet, and they were able to lead him a few steps round the box without mishap.

  Two days after the second rally, John Manners was sitting on his garden gate in the depths of despair. He had to go back to school the following week, and, for lack of an assistant, he still hadn’t ridden his pony. Once more he wracked his brain for someone to help him. He didn’t want his father to, for Colonel Manners was inclined to take charge of anything he entered into and always made you do it his way, and John, though he hadn’t actually admitted it to himself, was beginning to have a sneaking feeling at the back of his mind that perhaps Major Holbrooke was right when he said some of dad’s ways were old fashioned. He knew his father’s farm hands would say they were too busy, whether they were or not, and he was far too independent to consider asking any of the other Pony Club members.

  There’s no one, thought John, no one at all. That beastly June Cresswell will beat me again, and he fell to kicking the gate savagely with his heels.

  Mrs. Manners was weeding the rockery. She knew John was in a bad temper, and at intervals she cast anxious glances at him and wondered whether she dare ask him what was the matter. At last she could bear his scowling face and the drumming of his heels on the gate no longer. She stood upright with a grunt—her back ached from stooping—took off her gardening gloves, and pushed back a few wisps of her greying brown hair, which had escaped from beneath her shady hat. What a pity it is, she thought, that in youth one is always bothering about small things—what one wears, what people think of one, and when, as middle age draws near and one develops a sense of proportion, one is too old to enjoy life to the full.

  “John,” she asked, “how is little Blackie getting on?”

  “Not at all,” said John in a cross voice, kicking the gate harder than ever.

  “Why, what’s the matter with her?” asked Mrs. Manners.

  “Nothing’s the matter with her,” said John. “But how’s a person to break a pony with no one to help them?”

  “Couldn’t dad help you?” suggested Mrs. Manners.

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to be organised,” said John shortly.

  “Oh, John, you mustn’t speak of your father like that,” said Mrs. Manners reproachfully. She bent down and absently pulled a sow thistle from the gravel path. Then she asked, “What has the assistant to do? Would I be any help?”

  “You don’t mean you’d help, do you, Mum?” asked John in surprise. Perhaps you will think it odd that John had never thought of asking his mother to help him, but he had inherited from his father, who had spent the greater portion of his life in India, a Kipling contempt of “mem-sahibs,” as Colonel Manners always called women. They were helpless, hyst
erical creatures, pleasantly ornamental and sympathetic, but quite unsuitable for any work beyond light household duties and, possibly, a little gardening.

  “Would you really help me, Mum?” John asked again as he jumped down from the gate.

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Manners, “if I don’t have to do anything too complicated.”

  “No, it’s quite easy,” said John. “You just hold her and give her handfuls of oats occasionally. I’d better go and catch her,” he added, and ran to the stable to fetch some oats and halters, feeling as if a load had been taken off his mind.

  He caught the ponies, which were turned out in a large meadow with several of Colonel Manners’ pedigree Jersey cows, and, mounting Turpin off the gate, he rode up the rutty cart-track to the farm-yard leading Blackie. He put her in Dick Turpin’s box and tied him in one of the cart-horse stalls; then, whistling merrily, John fetched the tack, which he hadn’t cleaned since the first Pony Club rally. Turpin’s saddle was rather big for Blackie, but the rubber snaffle, which he had bought with the money he had won in the junior swimming race at his school, fitted perfectly when fixed on Turpin’s bridle. John put the bridle on over the halter, as Major Holbrooke had instructed, for, naturally, Blackie had to be controlled by the halter until she had been taught the meaning of the rein-aids.

  When he was ready, John fetched his mother and, while she held Blackie, he went all through the business of putting his weight in the stirrup, lying on his tummy on her back, and finally slipping his leg across and sitting in the saddle. Then, as the pony seemed quiet, John asked his mother to lead her round the box.

  “Thanks awfully, Mum,” said John as he dismounted. “Will you help me again to-morrow?”

  Mrs. Manners said she would, and then she asked whether he had thought of a permanent name for Blackie. yet.

  “No,” said John despondently. “Nothing I think of seems to suit her. Now Jackdaw is an awfully nice name, but it’s no good for a mare, and it’s the same with everyone I think of. If only she were a gelding, I’d have had the choice of dozens of super ones.”

  “Have you thought of Sweep or Jet?” asked Mrs. Manners.

  “No,” said John. “Sweep isn’t bad, but it’s rather common. Ponies in books are often called it, and, of course, it’s really more suitable for a gelding—you don’t have women sweeps. But Jet,” he went on reflectively, “I like that better. It’s nice and short, and I don’t know any ponies called it. It’s all right for a mare, and Blackie is certainly jet black enough. You know, Mum, I think that’s what I’ll call her.” And, fetching the lunge-rein, he added, “Thank goodness that’s settled at last.”

  “If you’re going to lunge her before lunch, you’ll have to hurry, dear,” said Mrs. Manners, “for you know how dad hates you to be late.”

  “All right,” said John. “I shan’t be long; though I don’t suppose the world would end if I was five minutes late for lunch. One might just as well be at school if dad’s going to make such a fuss about being in time for things.” And, pulling Jet round roughly, he led her into the dairy-cows’ field, which was the nearest, and started to lunge her. For some unknown reason Jet, who usually behaved perfectly, decided—as horses and ponies sometimes will—that she was not going round to the left, and when John told her to, she just swung round and trotted off to the right. The first few times John did his best to obey Major Holbrooke’s instructions for dealing with this sort of trouble: he shortened the lunge-rein and placed himself even more behind Jet, so that he was in a better position to drive her forward, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough in anticipating her, and his aid to go forward generally arrived after she had turned, and only served to make her go round in the wrong direction faster than ever. It was about the sixth time Jet did this that John, who had become hotter and crosser with every moment, lost his temper completely. He hit her savagely several times with his whip. Terrified, she leaped forward, and, pulling the lunge-rein out of John’s hand, she galloped to the far end of the field. Red in the face with rage, John ran after her. She had pulled up in the shelter of a group of chestnut trees, which stood on the brow of the hill—sentinels for the sleeping pastures of Basset Bottom lying in the windless valley below—but when she saw John coming she walked nervously away, though not before he had grabbed the end of the trailing lunge-rein. Pulling her up short, he struck her across the nose with his clenched fist. She started back. He jagged her mouth viciously and hit her again and again. Jet was terrified; she trembled and shook all over, but John was too angry to care. Picking up the whip, he made her canter round and round on the lunge-rein, hitting her if she showed the slightest sign of slowing up. At last, when his rage had burned itself out, John turned the exhausted, giddy and frightened pony out in her field and wandered morosely in to lunch.

  Susan had to wait until Saturday to back Sunset, for Noel, who had promised to help her, was still in bed, and Susan was determined not to ask Bob, partly because she felt the other members might think it unfair if her groom helped her and partly because she knew that Bob’s ideas on breaking were, almost entirely, culled from “cowboy films,” and would be unlikely to agree with Major Holbrooke’s more humane, though less spectacular, methods. So she resigned herself to await her father’s return on Saturday. Mr. Barington-Brown wasn’t really interested in horses, but he was a good-natured man, and, since Susan was the only member of his family whom it was possible to satisfy, he liked doing things for her. After the usual unpleasant lunch-time, when Mrs. Barington-Brown had complained that the peaches were unripe, the servants insolent, and the new fur coat Mr. Barington-Brown had bought her—musquash instead of mink—and Valerie had brought up the eternal argument over the lounge, Mr. Barington-Brown, delighted to be able to please someone, readily agreed to hold Sunset while Susan backed her.

  They had very little trouble, for Sunset was not at all nervous, and since Susan, who had taken Major Holbrooke’s advice very much to heart, had been careful not to pinch her with the girth, she had almost given up being difficult to saddle. Mr. Barington-Brown was very impressed by the way in which “his little girl”, as he always thought of Susan, handled her pony, and he thought what a good thing it was that he had braved Mrs. Barington-Brown’s displeasure and bought Beauty. Later on that day, when he was sitting in the lounge—the old-fashionedness of which so exasperated Valerie—smoking his after-dinner cigar, he imagined Susan winning class after class at Olympia and being presented with enormous gold cups by the King and Queen. He heard himself, mildly triumphant, say to Mrs. Barington-Brown, “So you see, Mother, buying that pony wasn’t such a waste of money after all.”

  Richard did not back Red Rufus until the last day but one of the holidays. Each day he put it off to the next. First he had promised to go for a bicycle ride with Michael Thorpington, a friend of his, who lived at Friar’s Fenchurch; next it was too wet; then he had no one to help him; and when Jill offered to, he felt too tired. But at last he realised that the holidays were almost over, and, deciding that it was a matter of now or never, he borrowed Wendy’s felt saddle and jointed-snaffle bridle and began the tedious task of putting them on Rufus, who from the first had learned to dread being bridled. He looked on it as we do on an unpleasant visit to the dentist’s, though without the comforting knowledge that the dentist will hurt as little as he possibly can; for Richard carelessly banged his teeth, poked his eyes, tweaked his ears, and was generally too lazy to alter the bridle to fit him. So throughout the lesson Rufus’ lips would be stretched into a false and painful smile and his cheek-bones rubbed by the too high noseband. It was not surprising that, as soon as he saw Richard carrying the tack, he began to dash round the tree to which he was tied—the Morrissons had no stables, for when Mr. Morrisson had built the house he had dismissed them as an added and unnecessary expense. Richard dumped the saddle on and made a grab for the girth, but Rufus, with the memory of many painful pinches, cow-kicked at him.

  “Stop it, you little brute,” said Richard, j
umping out of reach and hitting him sharply on the shoulder. Rufus whirled as far round the tree as his halter would allow him. The saddle fell off and he trod on it. Richard said several words which would have shocked his parents, but not his school-fellows, and tied Rufus up much tighter. Then, picking up the now muddy saddle, he tried again, this time with more success. He got it on and pulled the girth up with a triumphant wrench, pinching a large piece of the tender skin under Rufus’ elbow, and when he retaliated with a nip, Richard hit him again, muttering, “Will you stop that, you vicious little brute!”

  Richard fetched Jill to help him with the bridle, and it took the pair of them at least ten minutes to put it on. Both of them were hot and cross and Rufus upset and excited when they led him into the hen-run—the only enclosed place they could think of—and Richard tried to mount. But Rufus did not even give him time to put his foot in the stirrup; he just whirled round and round, and Jill was quite unable to hold him still. Richard hopped after him, becoming hotter and hotter and grumbling at Jill, who said it was his fault for being so slow at mounting and that she betted June’s pony stood like a rock.