“You can borrow it,” said Susan. “But it’s no good expecting me to teach Sunset anything. How can I, when I still don’t understand the difference between lateral and diagonal aids?”
Chapter VI
ONE MORNING, at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, Roger Radcliffe was seated in the middle of Brampton market-place on the stone water-trough, which a thoughtful ancestor of Major Holbrooke’s had erected to celebrate his silver wedding. Roger was swinging his legs, whistling the “Sky Boat Song”, and wondering what he could buy Margaret for a Christmas present, when he saw John Manners coming out of the ironmonger’s shop, several awkwardly shaped parcels clasped in his arms.
“Hallo,” shouted Roger. John waved and came across to him.
“Hallo,” he said. “I’m doing my Christmas shopping.”
“Same here,” said Roger. “At least I’ve done most of it, but I’m waiting for Hilary and Evelyn. Heaven knows where they’ve got to. You haven’t seen them, I suppose?”
“No,” said John. “But I’ve only been in Stanlakes’ and Flapton’s. Would you like to see what I’ve bought my father?” he asked after a short pause. “I hope he’ll like it; but he’s an awfully difficult person to think of presents for.” And without waiting for an answer he unwrapped a large rake-like implement for scratching moss out of lawns.
“I should think he’d love that,” said Roger, “especially if he’s keen on gardening.”
“He’s fairly keen,” said John. “And this is what I bought mum.” He unwrapped a smaller parcel and produced three pink coat-hangers. Each had a lavender-bag attached.
“I shouldn’t want them myself,” he said, “but I thought she would like them.”
“Oh, definitely,” said Roger. “Especially as she’s rather a feminine sort of woman, isn’t she?”
“That’s right,” said John. “You know—can’t stand blood or spiders.”
“Bit of a nuisance, I should think,” said Roger. “What would one do with her on a desert island? Thank goodness, none of my sisters are like that—they’re as hard as nails.”
“Here they are,” said John, as two flaming red heads appeared round the corner by the church.
“At last!” said Roger as Hilary and Evelyn came up. Ignoring him, they said hallo to John, and Hilary asked:
“How is your Holbrooke pony getting on? Have you named her yet?”
“Yes, rather!” said John. “I named her Jet last holidays, but I haven’t had time to do much with her yet; I only got back yesterday.”
“Isn’t it a bore about old Georgie’s son?” said Evelyn. “It doesn’t look as though we’ll have any rallies these holidays.”
“Whose son?” asked John.
“Major Holbrooke’s,” explained Hilary. “It’s the middle one—the scientific one—he’s fallen off a mountain and Major and Mrs. Holbrooke have had to rush off to Switzerland, where he’s hovering between life and death.”
“Gosh, what a sell!” said John. “That means we shan’t get on at all these holidays.”
“And no decent children’s meet,” said Evelyn. “For old Sir Charles Dent is Acting-Master, and you know what he’s like.”
“Gosh, yes,” said John. “I’ll say I do. It looks to me as though we’re going to have some pretty dreary holidays.”
“We’ll have to get something up ourselves,” said Roger. “It’s no good sitting back and grumbling because no grown-up arranged anything. We’re not tiny tots any more; surely we could organise a paper chase or something?”
“That’s a super idea,” said John enthusiastically, while Evelyn asked:
“Where could we have it?” and Hilary pointed out:
“We’ll have to use sawdust, not paper, because of the mess.”
“Obviously the hares, or whatever you call them, would have to decide where to go,” said Roger. “But there are masses of places, and one could ask the farmers’ permission to go across their land beforehand. Though, actually, they never mind at this time of year as long as one shuts the gates.”
“I bags be a hare,” said Evelyn.
“You know bagging isn’t allowed,” said Hilary.
“I thought of having it,” said Roger, “so I ought to be one hare.”
“But who will be the hounds?” asked John. “We need more than two.”
“There’s Marga and Jim,” said Evelyn.
“We can invite some of the Pony Club members,” said Hilary.
“Not June Cresswell,” said Evelyn firmly.
“No, we don’t want her,” agreed John. “She’d soon start bossing us all around.”
“We’d have Mrs. C. organising everything before we knew where we were,” said Hilary. “Why does she always butt in?”
“We certainly don’t want that ghastly woman anywhere near,” said Roger. “She’d ruin everything; but we shall definitely have to have some more people for hounds.”
“What about Richard?” asked John rather diffidently.
“Oh, gosh,” said Roger, “must we have him?”
“Well, what about Susan and Noel?” suggested Hilary. “They’re not bad.”
“Oh, Hilary,” said Evelyn, “they’re awfully feeble. They’re sure to fall off and they’ll probably cry.”
“Who is there, then?” asked Hilary. “It’s no good asking people like the Meltons—they live too far away—and that only leaves Mary Compton and the Rates.”
“There’s Michael Thorpington and the Mintons,” said John.
“Michael Thorpington is even worse than Richard,” said Roger, “and the Mintons can’t jump.”
“If you and Evelyn are going to object to everyone we can’t have any hounds,” said Hilary in exasperation. “You’re both so jolly intolerant, but I can’t see why you should be so particular. It’s not as though you’re perfect yourselves.”
“Thanks for the lecture,” said Roger contemptuously. “But I know what we can do: we can each invite one person, and I’ll have Dick Hayward.”
“Oh, yes,” said John. “Why didn’t we think of him before? I wish I had. But still, I can have Richard.” Roger made a face, but said nothing, and Evelyn said:
“Of course, there’s Clarrissa; but really she’s too stupid for words, and so fat.”
“That’s not her fault,” said Hilary quickly.
“All right, I know,” said Evelyn. “But that doesn’t make me any more keen to invite her, though the only alternatives seem to be Susan and Noel.”
“I’ll have Noel,” said Hilary. “After all, it’s not her fault she’s only got that dreadful Topsy.”
“I don’t see why I should be left with that beastly snivelling Susan,” said Evelyn. “It’s not fair. Anyway, I bet she ruins everything.”
“Nonsense,” said Roger. “If she’s as spoilt as you make out, she’ll be able to persuade her father to let us ride over his land, and remember he owns the whole of Swincombe Farm. It’s only let to Hodges.”
“That’s true,” said Evelyn. “O.K., then, I’ll have her.”
“We had each better tell the person we’ve decided to invite,” said Roger. “And, personally, I think our place would be a good spot for the meet—it’s fairly central.”
“Yes, that would be super,” agreed John. “But who is going to be the hare?”
“I should think we’d better have two,” said Hilary, “and that would leave eight hounds, counting Marga and Jim.”
“Shall we four toss up?” suggested Roger. “After all, we thought of it, so I don’t see why two of us shouldn’t be the hares.” As the others agreed, they tossed, and Roger and Hilary won. Then, after some more discussion, they decided to hold the paper-chase two days after Boxing Day, and meet at the Priory at ten o’clock.
“O.K., then,” said John when this was settled. “I’ll let Richard know. By the way, can you tell me where the meet is on Boxing Day?”
“At the Three Jolly Masons, in Friars’ Fenchurch,” said Roger, “and I bet it’ll
be the only one over this side of the country these holidays. You know what old Sir Charles is—he likes them all on his doorstep.”
“Lazy old tyke,” said John. And then he added: “Well, I suppose I’d better be going—there’s sure to be a row if I’m late for lunch.”
“We’d better go too,” said Hilary. “The poor old bicycles must be getting pretty fed up with waiting.”
“See you on Boxing Day, John,” said Roger as he mounted Scorpion, his new bicycle—he had hopelessly outgrown both Satan and Spitfire, whom Hilary and Evelyn were riding. They all said good-bye and the Radcliffes whirled away, while John shouldered his moss-raking implement and set off on his long walk back to Lower Basset.
Dick Hayward was delighted, Richard faintly condescending, and Susan surprised and pleased, when they were rung up and invited to the paper-chase. Hilary was slightly annoyed when, after searching in the directory and ringing up the exchange, she discovered that Noel wasn’t on the telephone, but on Christmas Eve she decided to ride Rocket over to Russet Cottage. As Dr. Radcliffe had insisted that neither of the youngsters was to be ridden out alone until they were absolutely reliable, James said he would go with her. Actually, he much preferred Hilary’s company to that of his other sisters, especially as they had decided to ride in the field, and he knew he would be made to join in all sorts of races, in which he was quite sure to be last, and when, as generally happened, he ended by crying, he would be soundly lectured by Evelyn and Margaret on being a bad loser, babyish, and hopelessly feeble.
As she rode along, Hilary thought about Rocket. She thought how lovely it was that he had almost forgotten his circus tricks. At first he had been difficult to groom, because he had waved his fore-feet about whenever one approached him. But he had completely given that up now, for she had scolded him every time he had done it. That had been horrid, because he had so obviously thought he was being clever, and often at night she had lain awake wishing she could speak horse language and so explain to him that the tricks had all been a mistake. But now the worst was over, and Rocket, except for being rather rough if he thought you had a titbit for him, had apparently forgotten his short career as a circus pony. Romany did not seem to be much affected by her trick, for, being a very willing pony, it had not occurred to her to rear or jib, though, as Evelyn put it, she was a bit sticky over jumps. It must be admitted that the twins had had more quarrels over these ponies than ever before in their lives. It seemed that their ideas on breaking differed completely: Evelyn considered Rocket backward and lazy, and Hilary incredibly over-cautious, which to her impetuous nature amounted to almost a sin; while Hilary thought Romany hotted-up and half-trained, and Evelyn’s method of schooling slapdash, inconsistent, and much too hurried.
Hilary thought of all this, and she was glad she had James with her, for he, like herself, was content to ride for hours without speaking, immersed in his own thoughts or fancies. With Evelyn and Margaret one never had much time to think, for both of them thought aloud, which meant they were rarely silent, and though gay enough companions for most occasions, they were sometimes rather trying when one wished to study the beauties of nature or invent poetry.
Noel was schooling Rusty in Farmer Trent’s field when Hilary and James rode up the lane. They stood at the gate and watched her for some time before she noticed them. When she did see them, she felt very self-conscious. I bet they’ve been criticising my riding, she thought. I bet they’ve been pulling our turns on the forehand to pieces, but I suppose I shall have to see what they want. And, turning Rusty, she cantered across the field.
“Hallo,” said Hilary. “Isn’t that Simon Wentwood’s pony?”
“That’s right,” said Noel. “I was allowed to ride him all through the term, and now the Wentwoods have gone away for Christmas, which is marvellous, as I shall be able to hunt him on Boxing Day.”
“How lovely,” said Hilary. “But when do they come back? Not before the twenty-ninth, I hope.”
“No, the first of January,” said Noel. “Why?”
“Well, you see, John Manners and all of us are getting up a paper-chase, because we thought it would be so awfully dull these holidays with no rallies or anything, and we wondered whether you would like to come.”
“I should love to,” said Noel, “but what do I have to do? I mean, I’m awfully bad at jumping and all that sort of thing. Shan’t I be an awful nuisance?”
“Oh, no,” said Hilary kindly, but not very tactfully. “Marga and Jim are coming, and you can’t be much worse than them.”
“I should love to, then,” said Noel. “But why aren’t there going to be any Pony Club rallies?”
“Haven’t: you heard about Major Holbrooke’s son?” asked Hilary, and when she found that Noel hadn’t, she went on to explain about the accident and how tiresome it would be having Sir Charles as Acting-Master. Then, after reminding Noel to be at the Priory by ten o’clock on the twenty-ninth, she said they must go, for she hadn’t wrapped up any of the presents she was giving her family.
When they were out of sight Noel put up her course of jumps, which she had to keep stacked in the corner of the field, as they were very untidy, being made out of the most peculiar assortment of objects: two hen-coops made the first jump, a heap of hedge trimmings posed as a brush-fence, the wall was an old door, the in-and-out was built of bales of straw, and the triple bars were supported by petrol cans and kitchen chairs, borrowed from the cottage.
Rusty jumped a clear round with everything, except the in-and-out, at three feet. This was an enormous improvement, due, Noel felt, to Susan’s book, which had proved a mine of information, and, luckily, agreed with Major Holbrooke’s views on all important matters. The author’s main advice on teaching horses to jump was, like the Major’s, to keep the fences low but wide, and to raise them rarely and a little at a time. This Noel had followed and found successful. She felt very elated as she gave Rusty some carrots and turned him loose, and, as she put her jumps away, she imagined the run of the season on Boxing Day. She was still flying over enormous fences, with only the Master in front of her, when she went indoors to tell her mother about Hilary Radcliffe’s unexpected invitation.
The next few days passed in rather a whirl for most of the Pony Club members. First there was Christmas, which was celebrated in the traditional manner, though Richard refused to hang out his stocking on the grounds “that he wasn’t a kid any more.” On the whole, everyone was delighted with his or her presents, though Noel was very indignant at being given The School Girl’s Annual by her godfather, and Dr. Radcliffe complained bitterly as he opened the thirty-nine calendars he had been sent by grateful patients.
On Boxing Day everyone was feeling morning-after-the-night-before-ish, especially Sir Charles Dent and the weather. It poured with rain from six o’clock in the morning until the late afternoon, and the wet, combined with his liver, made Sir Charles even more irritable than usual. He quarrelled with the Huntsman, shouted at the field, lectured the children, and took the hounds home at half-past three after a completely blank day. In spite of this, all the Pony Club members enjoyed themselves, though they were looking forward to hot baths by the time they got home.
Then, two days later, there was the paper-chase. It was wet and misty at half-past seven when Noel opened her bedroom’s tiny window and looked out. Rivulets of water were coursing down the sodden thatch, the gaunt elms in the field across the lane dripped miserably, and the air was damp and raw. She wondered whether the Radcliffes would postpone the paper-chase, but she decided that they were much too tough to be deterred by a little rain. In a way she was sorry, for, now that the time had come, her fear of doing something silly, or Rusty refusing everything, outweighed her earlier pleasure at the thought of a cross-country ride, especially at the invitation of the Radcliffes. As she dressed, Noel wished she was like them; she wished she was tall, dashing and red-headed, with a complete disregard for what other people thought of her and a knack of making the most obstinate ponies jum
p. But it’s not a bit of good wishing, she told herself. I’m so terribly feeble, and I’m positive that Hilary despises my riding; but somehow, to-day she resolved, I’ve simply got to show them, I must jump everything, and, whatever happens, I’m not going to be last.
A little later Richard went to his modern, hygienic, steel-framed window. “Oh, dash it!” he muttered on seeing the weather. “It would have to rain. I bet they put it off, and I’m dead certain I could have beaten John and those girls, for paper-chases aren’t like races—you’ve got to use your brain a bit. Anyway, I’m sure Peter is faster than Turpin when it comes to a straight gallop.” Still, he reminded himself, one thing is, that I can go back to bed. And, slamming the window, he did.
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