Six Ponies

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  “Well, she cleared them,” said Susan, “and that’s all that matters.”

  “But if she wasn’t such a good jumper she mightn’t have cleared them,” said Noel.

  “You’re as bad as the Major,” said Susan, “always bothering about small details. I can’t see much fun in riding if you’re going to be so particular.”

  “Nor me,” said John. “I see now that it’s important not to jag your pony’s mouth or bump on his loins, but as long as he’s comfortable, what does it matter whether every little detail is right or not?”

  “It depends on whether you’re an artist,” said Noel.

  “But riding’s got nothing to do with painting,” said Susan.

  John grinned, and Noel said, “No, but you can be an artist at practically any job; it just means that you take such a pride in your work that you can’t bear anything but perfection, and I should think that is how Major Holbrooke feels about riding.”

  “Yes, I expect he does,” said John. “But I don’t see why he should try to force us to do the same.”

  “He’s not trying to force you,” said Noel. “You wanted to have Jet, and it’s not the Major’s fault if you’ve changed your mind now that you’ve found that there is so much more in schooling than you supposed.”

  “But I haven’t changed my mind,” said John. “It’s only that I can’t see much point in being such a fusspot.”

  “Oh, John,” said Susan, “he’s not a fusspot; he’s only a bit too particular.”

  “Well, that’s the same thing,” said John as he pulled Jet up in the gateway, and, changing the subject, asked, “Are you two coming to the picnic ride?”

  “Yes—rather,” said Susan.

  “I don’t know,” said Noel. “I shall have to see.” She was thinking that such a long ride would be too much for Sunset, as Susan would be riding Beauty, and as Simon was almost certain to go, she wouldn’t be able to borrow Rusty.

  “I haven’t decided yet, either,” said John. “What’s Mrs. Maxton like?”

  “Awfully nice,” said Susan. “Not nearly so particular as the Major, except about trotting too much on the roads and that sort of thing.”

  “Nothing like that awful Mitchell woman, I hope,” said John.

  “I hadn’t got Beauty when she ran the Pony Club,” said Susan, “so I don’t really know, but I shouldn’t think so.”

  “I suppose I’d better be going,” said John, looking at his watch, “though I’m late for lunch already, so it won’t make much difference. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” said Susan and Noel as John left them and rode towards Lower Basset.

  As Hilary rode homewards through the faint drizzle to which the earlier torrents of rain had degenerated, she thought over the rally. Roger had been right in saying that no one, except perhaps June, would ask tactless questions about Romany, she thought. Even the Major hadn’t mentioned the subject, and, on the whole, the rally had been much more fun than she had expected. Rocket, apart from being nappy at the beginning, had gone well, but she wished that June had been there, for she would have liked to compare him with Grey Dawn. The Major obviously thought that Richard and June had used the dentist as an excuse, and Hilary felt glad that her mother and Roger had persuaded her to go. It would have been awful if three of the horse-breakers had had appointments with their dentists, especially as there were only two in Brampton. As Hilary turned and rode under the grey stone archway into the Priory drive, Evelyn’s head appeared at the nursery window. “Do buck up and unsaddle him,” she yelled. “I’m making lino cuts and it’s simply marvellous fun. Do be quick and come and help.” She shut the window with a slam and disappeared from Hilary’s view.

  It had stopped raining by the time Noel reached home, and a thin, watery gleam of sunshine was filtering through the clouds. Mrs. Kettering, who was planting out sweet-williams, looked up at the sound of the gate shutting and said, “Hallo, did you have a good time?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Noel. “I learned quite a lot. But why did it have to rain?”

  “Are you very wet?” asked Mrs. Kettering.

  “No,” said Noel. “The Major was a bit fussy and would lend me a mack, so I’m fairly dry. Beauty jumped marvellously,” she went on. “She did a clear round, and it was quite a high course—at least three feet.”

  “Good heavens,” said Mrs. Kettering. “You are getting on with your jumping; I must come and see you at the next rally.”

  “I don’t suppose I’ll be able to borrow Beauty for the next one,” said Noel. “I expect Susan will ride her, because it’s for everyone, not just horse-breakers. I do wish,” she went on, “that I could have Romany. It does seem such a waste for her to be turned out at Folly Farm and never ridden. I’m sure she can’t be very naughty; she’s so nice and friendly to talk to.”

  “Why don’t you ask the Major?” said Mrs. Kettering.

  “I’m not nearly a good enough rider,” said Noel. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “But he can’t say more than no,” said Mrs. Kettering. “And that won’t kill you.”

  “I’m sure he’d think I was awfully conceited,” said Noel.

  “My good girl,” said Mrs. Kettering violently, “what does that matter? If no one ever thinks anything worse about you than that, you’ll be jolly lucky. You can’t go through life weighing up what people will say or think to every action before you make it. Think of all the great books that would never have been written, the great pictures that would never have been painted, and the lands that would never have been discovered, if the writers, the artists, and the explorers had stopped to wonder what people might say or think. That’s the trouble about the modern generation, they pride themselves on not being rash or hot-headed. ‘Look before you leap’ is their motto, caution is their watchword. They smile contemptuously at the mention of Raleigh, Drake, Nelson, or Disraeli, but I, who would ‘rather see England free than England sober,’ gaze upon their level-headedness with horror, especially when you seem to be catching it. If you want Romany, for goodness’ sake ask the Major and stop dithering.”

  As Noel ate her belated lunch, it occurred to her that this was the second time she had been told to stop dithering that day.

  Remembering his mood of the morning, Mrs. Holbrooke tactfully let the Major eat his lunch and start drinking his coffee before she asked, “Well, and how did the rally go?”

  “Not too badly, considering the weather,” replied Major Holbrooke, more cheerfully than his wife had expected. “The ponies all seem quiet enough and I don’t think Cousin Harry will be able to grumble by the time we’ve finished with them. The Barington-Brown child’s pony kicked Hilary Radcliffe’s Rocket, but luckily it was only a slight cut, and perhaps it will teach them not to ride on each other’s heels.”

  “I doubt it,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “I’ve never known anything, but advancing old age, teach children that.”

  “It is extraordinarily how long it takes to get anything into their heads,” said Major Holbrooke. “I spent about twenty minutes trying to teach Noel Kettering to change the rein and I’m sure she doesn’t know now.”

  “Well, of course, she is rather a vague child,” said Mrs. Holbrooke.

  “Yes,” said the Major. “But it’s really amazing the way she’s got on with her riding.”

  Chapter VIII

  ALL THROUGH the next week Mrs. Kettering’s words rang in Noel’s ears. Each night she resolved to ask Major Holbrooke if she could have Romany. But each morning she wakened wondering how she could ever have been conceited enough to dream that he might say yes, or even, when it came to the point, that she would have the courage to ask him. She walked over to Folly Farm several times to talk to Romany, vowing that if she saw the Major she would ask him, but at the same time hoping with all her heart that she wouldn’t meet him. It was Richard Morrisson who decided her. They met in Bond’s, the Brampton bookseller. She was looking for a book on riding to buy with a book-token she had been sent for her birth
day. Richard was rummaging among a pile of maps.

  “Hallo,” said Noel.

  “Hallo,” answered Richard rather crossly. “Isn’t this an inefficient shop?” he added after a pause. “One can’t get anything in these wretched cock-eyed provincial towns. London is the only place to shop.”

  “Ssh,” said Noel, looking anxiously at Mr. Bond. “He’ll hear.”

  “I hope he does,” said Richard, “then perhaps he’ll do something about it. I want a map of Buttonshire, and all he says is that if he has got one it’ll be among this pile, and I’ve been searching for simply hours.”

  “Are you going for a riding tour or something?” asked Noel as she began to help look for the map.

  “No,” said Richard. “A cycling one, with Michael Thorpington.”

  “Gosh,” said Noel, “you are energetic. But what about Rufus? You won’t have much time to school him, will you?”

  “I’m not going to be away all that long,” replied Richard peevishly. “And anyway, I don’t see why I should devote my life to him. I’m not June Cresswell, you know. I have got a few interests beside horses. Anyway, if we do teach the wretched animals all this stuff the Major’s so keen on, they’ll only be mucked up by some feeble beginner; so why waste time?”

  “If beginners are properly taught they don’t muck ponies up,” protested Noel indignantly. “Anyhow, the original idea was that the Pony Club members should learn to break and school, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I believe it was, partly,” said Richard. “But there was an ulterior motive, don’t you worry. I bet the old Colonel wanted his ponies broken in cheap. But apart from that, if you can ride decently and have average intelligence, you don’t need to be taught breaking and schooling—I mean it’s obvious, there’s nothing in it.”

  “I don’t agree with you,” said Noel. “I think there’s a great deal in it. It seems to me that the more one learns about riding the more one finds there is to learn.”

  “Oh, well,” said Richard in a patronising voice, “I wasn’t really including you. I mean, to put it quite frankly, you’re not much of a horsewoman, are you? Not that it’s your fault. I dare say that if you could get hold of a decent pony, and if you were to ride for as many years as I have, you’d be quite reasonable. But even then natural ability counts a terrific lot.” Noel felt herself go red with rage. She was filled with an almost overwhelming desire to smack Richard’s pink, self-satisfied face, but she controlled it, and said instead, “The Major seems to think that Susan is good enough to break a pony and she hasn’t been riding more than two years.” Richard looked up in surprise when he heard the angry note in her voice.

  “Don’t get in a bait just because I said you weren’t all that good at riding,” he advised. “You weren’t thinking of asking the Major if you could take over Romany, I suppose?” He gave an incredulous laugh, as though the mere thought was out of the question, and added, “My sister might as well try to break—she’s no worse than you.” Noel didn’t reply. She couldn’t trust her voice, and after a few moments Richard said, “I shall ask my father to get the map in London. I’m not going to waste my time messing about here. Cheerio,” and walked out of the shop.

  Noel stood gazing with sightless eyes at Sunshine Sayings, a book of moral verse by Pansy Paisley, for at least five minutes after Richard had gone. Her brain whirled furiously in a vicious circle. I’d like to push him in a really stagnant pond, thought some outraged part of her; and she saw the pink face peering through a curtain of slime and the straw-coloured hair festooned with duckweed. Why should he say I’m not good enough to break and school?

  Ah, but why get in such a fury when he agrees with you? asked some cooler part of her annoyingly. You know you said you couldn’t ask the Major about Romany because you knew you weren’t a good enough rider.

  Yes, but there’s no need for him to rub it in, replied the hot-headed part of her sulkily.

  It was a little tactless, certainly, allowed the level-headed part, but nothing to get in a temper about. If you ask me, you had a sneaking feeling that you were good enough, but you won’t admit it for fear of being thought conceited, which, of course, you are.

  I’m not, said the hot-headed part angrily.

  Well, then, you must be jealous of Richard, because he can ride better than you, suggested the level-headed part coldly.

  If I ride as badly as that sack of potatoes I may as well give up, stormed the hot-headed part.

  Ah, now we’re getting down to brass tacks, said the cool half in the most irritating manner. You must think you’re good enough to break ponies if you think you ride better than some of the actual horse-breakers.

  I didn’t say anything of the sort, replied the heated half, but it’s obvious to any one that . . .

  “Can I help you?” asked Mr. Bond in his high crackling voice.

  “Oh,” said Noel, jumping; “er—no, I mean—yes. Have you got From Shetland to Show Hack, by Colonel Archibald Snake, or The Lane to Success, a treatise on training show jumpers, by ‘Clear Round?’ ” Mr. Bond peered round his shop, looking, thought Noel, like a very elderly tortoise, and then said he was afraid he hadn’t either work in stock, but that he would be very pleased to order them. After some thought Noel decided to order From Shetland to Show Hack, because “Showman” in his review had said that Colonel Snake’s clearly and concisely written work would be invaluable to both beginner and expert. When Mr. Bond had written down all the particulars and promised to have the book by the end of the following week, Noel walked into the street and continued her argument, gazing at the fascinating confusion of knives and tools in Flaptons’, the ironmongers, window.

  It’s no good losing your temper, the cool half of her told the other; you’ve got to face facts. Either you’re jolly conceited and believe you ride well enough to break a pony, or else you’re the sort of person who flies into petty tempers about nothing. Gosh, thought Noel, I can’t go on like this. I shall go raving mad. I’ll have to ask Major Holbrooke about Romany, and that’ll settle it one way or the other. Filled with determination, she glanced at the Town Hall clock, and decided that she just had time to get to Folly Court and back before lunch.

  At first Noel walked fast, whistling the “Barcarole” from the Contes d’Hoffmann to keep her courage up. But the nearer she drew to Folly Court the slower she walked; and when she reached the Towers she gave up whistling and began to feel cold and sick, as though she was going in for a horse show or some vital exam. As she walked through the tall wrought-iron gates her knees felt weak, but telling herself that it was because she had forgotten to have any elevenses, she walked a few steps up the drive before the last shreds of confidence deserted her. How could she ever have been so utterly crazy as to think she could ride well enough, she asked herself. She imagined the Major’s scornful laugh and heard him say, Whatever put that fantastic idea into your head? I’m sorry, but I couldn’t dream of it; I’ve got my cousin and the pony to consider, and where Evelyn Radcliffe failed how can you hope to succeed?

  Oh gosh, thought Noel, stopping dead in her tracks, I’d better go back. But then she thought of Shelley, Van Gogh, Charles Goodyear, and Winston Churchill—they had all had horrid moments and they had all taken the plunge. She walked on, feeling herself grow smaller and smaller under the critical gaze of the eyes, which she was, quite wrongly, sure were looking from the tall Georgian windows of Folly Court. She knocked with the shining brass door-knocker. A tiny muffled sound was borne away on the breeze. She waited. Nothing happened. Of course no one will hear that, she thought, and knocked again. This time it sounded like thunder, and as the noise died away, Jackson, the Holbrookes’ manservant, opened the door.

  “Is Major Holbrooke at home, please?” asked Noel, hoping that he wasn’t.

  “Yes, Miss,” replied Jackson. “He’s in the stable yard, if you’d care to go round?”

  “Yes, I will,” said Noel, cursing fate. “Thank you very much.” With her knees feeling weaker than eve
r, she crossed the rose garden and walked under the red brick archway into the stable yard.

  Major Holbrooke was talking to a tall man in corduroy trousers, whom Noel recognised as Mr. Thomas, the vet.

  “Well, thank you very much for coming,” the Major was saying.

  “That’s quite all right,” said Mr. Thomas. “I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with her now, but I should certainly keep her on a light diet for a day or two.”

  “Good morning, Noel,” said Major Holbrooke as he turned and caught sight of her hovering indecisively in the background.

  “Good morning,” replied Noel.

  “Well, cheerio,” said Mr. Thomas, and he got into his car and drove down the drive.

  “A lovely day, isn’t it?” said Major Holbrooke to Noel, whose mouth had gone dry.