Six Ponies

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  “Yes, it is a lovely day,” she mumbled in agreement as she racked her brain frantically for a way to get on the subject of Romany.

  “Southwind has just had a bad attack of colic,” said Major Holbrooke, making conversation while he wondered why Noel had come to see him.

  “I hope she’s better now,” said Noel, wishing for an earthquake or an eclipse.

  “Yes, she is, thank you,” said Major Holbrooke. “But the routine of the stable has been upset because Blake had to spend most of the night with her, so he has gone to bed now and left me in charge. I was just in the middle of feeding when Thomas came. Have you seen our forage-room? It’s really rather nice,” and, picking up a bucket, he led the way past the saddle-room to the long low building where the forage was kept.

  “That’s a very labour-saving device,” he said, pointing at a machine in the corner. “An electric chaff-cutter.”

  “I came to ask you if I could have Romany,” said Noel, suddenly taking the plunge. “I mean to school; but I suppose I’m much too bad a rider.” Her voice trailed away, and she stood looking at her feet and wondering why she always did such idiotic things.

  “Well, it’s like this, Noel,” said Major Holbrooke slowly as he seated himself on a corn-bin, “officially Romany was sent back because Evelyn let her younger brother and sister ride her, which, quite rightly, she had been forbidden to do, and, as I expect you know, James came off and broke his arm. But, besides this, Dr. Radcliffe told me that he didn’t think Romany was going very well; he said she seemed far too excitable and that it was all Evelyn could do to control her. Now I should imagine that the pony’s been thoroughly hotted up,” the Major went on, “but there’s nothing vicious about her; she’s a very nice-tempered little thing, and, personally, I think you should be able to manage her. You’ve improved quite a lot lately and you’ve a good deal of horse-sense. You must realise, though, that you’ll have to put a good deal of work into her. It’s not all fun reschooling a spoilt pony—in fact it’s often very disheartening. But if your parents agree, and if you’re quite sure you want to, you can try your hand with Romany.”

  “Oh, thanks awfully,” said Noel. “Mummy has already said I can have her if you think that I am a good enough rider. Do you think I am? I don’t want to make her worse.”

  “Don’t fish for compliments,” said Major Holbrooke, getting up from the corn-bin. “Have you got a saddle and bridle?”

  “No,” said Noel, “not at the moment, but I expect I can acquire them.”

  “There’s no need to do that,” said the Major. “I’ve got the tack which belonged to my youngest son’s first pony. I was keeping it for my grandchildren, but it’ll do it good to be used.” When he had fed Gay Crusader and Harmony, Major Holbrooke led the way to the saddle-room, and, from a cupboard, produced a saddle, complete with girths, stirrups and leathers, and a bridle with a rubber snaffle-bit. Then, after collecting a halter and some oats, they walked down to the field where Romany was turned out. She looked lovelier than ever, thought Noel, in spite of being much too fat and covered with mud and grass stains. Her candid brown eyes shone gaily, her absurd mane, half-chestnut and half-white, stood on end, and the neat white star on her otherwise chestnut forehead gave her a very intelligent expression. “She’s grown, hasn’t she?” Noel asked the Major.

  “Yes,” he replied. “They don’t usually grow after they’re four; they only fill out; but she’s done both.” As usual, Romany was delighted to see humans. She trotted up, whinnying. Noel slipped the halter on, and held her while Major Holbrooke saddled and bridled her. Then he said, “Hop on and let’s see how she goes.” Noel felt that this was nothing less than torture—to ride alone in front of the Major, the only object on which his critical eye could rest. She mounted, from the wrong side, and, marking out a school in her mind’s eye, rode round it. Romany wouldn’t walk: she jogged and threw her head about, snatching the reins from Noel’s hands. Noel forgot the Major while she tried to persuade Romany to walk, pulling her up when she jogged, and then, the moment she stopped, giving her a loose rein. After a little, Romany began to walk, and, still without remembering the Major, Noel circled and rode round the school the other way at a trot. Now Romany wanted to canter. She pulled and cantered sideways, throwing her head about worse than ever. Noel tried to calm her, but in vain, and after a few minutes the Major said, “I should canter her round for a bit—she’s hopelessly overfresh.” Noel gave Romany her head; she shot forward into a gallop and gave three bucks. Noel flew off.

  Oh, I am feeble; why did I come off, she thought as she scrambled to her feet. Now he’ll say I’m not good enough to have her.

  “Are you all right?” asked Major Holbrooke, leading Romany up.

  “Yes,” said Noel firmly, and she mounted quickly so that he wouldn’t have time to say she wasn’t a good enough rider. This time she kept a feel on Romany’s mouth, and when she started to buck, Noel pulled her head up and drove her on with her legs.

  “Well done,” said Major Holbrooke quietly. Noel cantered Romany round until suddenly the Major said, “Good heavens. It’s a quarter-past one! We shall be unpopular. For goodness’ sake go home, Noel, but ring up or come over if you get into difficulties. You know the way out through the farmyard, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Noel. “Thanks awfully for letting me have Romany.”

  “The pleasure is entirely mine,” said Major Holbrooke. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” said Noel as he strode rapidly in the direction of Folly Court. She turned and rode through the gate, down the lane to the farmyard, and down another lane to the Brampton road. Gosh, she thought, it is marvellous to have Romany. I shall be able to ride practically every day for the rest of the holidays, and in the evenings as well as the week-ends in the term. Then there’ll be the summer holidays. I must get rich by then and buy her. Weeks and months of sunlit days, spent riding through the woods and lanes or schooling in the field, unrolled before her. “And you are such a lovely pony,” she told Romany. “Much the nicest I’ve ever ridden, except for your manners. For goodness’ sake stop jogging.” The Major had been very agreeable, Noel decided, and asking not nearly as bad as she had expected; even though he had told her not to fish for compliments, he had said that her riding had improved. Perhaps one day she really would be an equitation expert. Gosh, she thought a little later, won’t everyone be surprised when they hear that I’ve got Romany. I can just see the other horse-breakers’ faces. Richard will be livid, and so will the Radcliffes, I expect; but mummy will be awfully pleased. Thinking of her mother reminded Noel that she was already three-quarters of an hour late for lunch, and that she was supposed to be shopping in Brampton. Oh, gosh, she thought, I hope she doesn’t think I’ve been run over, and, riding on the grass verge at the side of the road, she told Romany to trot.

  John slammed the green door of the square white farmhouse and ran down the flagged path to the farm buildings, muttering angrily beneath his breath. Three times he had been called back by his parents for what he considered absurd reasons, and since he was already behindhand through breaking his resolution to get up early, he couldn’t imagine how he was going to find time to ride both Jet and Turpin before lunch, and he had arranged to go for a bicycling picnic with Michael Thorpington and Richard in the afternoon. John saddled Jet quickly and rode down to the Basset Bottom field, where he had put his jumps because the ground was soft. At first all went well. Jet knew everything, and behaved perfectly until John rode her at the in-and-out, which he had made for Turpin the day before. She approached it warily. Snorting loudly and paying no attention to John’s kicks, she stopped and peered nervously at the second fence. John looked at his watch, and knew he ought to fetch Turpin if he was to ride him before lunch. “Come on, can’t you?” he said to Jet, “and stop fooling around.” Hitting her sharply, he turned and rode at the jump again. Once more she slowed up and refused. Then John lost his temper completely; he hit her with all his strength. Jet was te
rrified; she leaped about and tried to gallop off, but John jagged her in the mouth and went on hitting her. Unable to think of anything else to do, Jet reared. John hit her, and she reared again, this time higher, and John, who had taken his feet out of the stirrups, slid gently over her tail. He was furious. Seizing the reins, he began to belabour her from the ground. Jet whirled round and round, but John held her firmly and hit her harder than ever. Suddenly a voice shouted, “Hi! Stop that,” and, looking up, John was horrified to see Major Holbrooke on Black Magic opening the gate to the field, which led from the right of way that ran along the middle of Basset Bottom.

  John’s rage evaporated in a flash. Gosh, he thought miserably, there’ll be a row.

  The Major came across the field at an extended canter. He looked furiously angry.

  “What the devil do you mean by knocking a pony about like that?” he demanded as he pulled Black Magic up. “What the devil do you think you’re doing? I thought you liked animals, but you can’t, unless you’re crazy.”

  “I’m sorry,” muttered John. But the Major, who had dismounted, went on, “I suppose you’re the sort of person who spends his time drowning cats, cutting worms in half, and tearing the wings off butterflies; I suppose you delight in squashing and killing everything smaller than yourself, which crosses your path. You’re not fit to be trusted with an animal, you revolting bully.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” said John again, wondering why he felt like bursting into tears. He never did when he got in rows at school or when his father blew him up. Oh, gosh, he thought, I mustn’t cry in front of the Major, and, trying to keep his voice steady, he said, “I’m awfully sorry, sir, but I lost my temper.”

  “You’ve no business to lose your temper,” said Major Holbrooke sternly. “You’re quite old enough to control it, and, if you can’t, you oughtn’t to have a pony. Anyway, why did you lose it?”

  “Because she wouldn’t jump the in-and-out,” said John, looking at his feet.

  “How many times have you jumped her over it before?” asked the Major.

  “None,” admitted John.

  “And how many times did she refuse?” asked the Major.

  “Twice,” muttered John almost inaudibly.

  “Twice!” said Major Holbrooke. “And you consider that a reason to knock her about as you were doing when I came along? If your arithmetic master, having taught you a little elementary addition and subtraction, suddenly gave you a long division sum and told you to do it, and you said, ‘Gosh, what’s this?’ and then you said, ‘How on earth does one do it?’ and then he, losing his temper, began to knock you about, I suppose you’d think that quite fair and just?”

  “No,” said John, “I wouldn’t.”

  “And yet,” said Major Holbrooke quietly, “that is exactly what you were doing to Jet.” There was a silence, broken only by occasional sniffs from John—he didn’t seem to have a handkerchief—until the Major said, “Do you think I ought to leave Jet with you? Dare I let her run the risk of it happening again?”

  “Oh, please don’t take her away,” said John. “I won’t do it again; honestly I won’t.”

  “Have you ever done it before?” asked the Major.

  How John would have liked to lie! He felt sure now that the Major would take Jet away, and he had never realised, until that moment, how fond of her he had grown. “Yes,” he replied in a strangled voice. Major Holbrooke lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he said, “It’s not easy to learn to control your temper, and it’s no good thinking you’re going to do it in five minutes, but if you don’t learn now it’ll be more dangerous when you grow up, because you’ll have more people and animals in your power. Look,” he went on after a pause, “if I let you keep Jet, will you do your utmost not to lose your temper? If she seems stupid when you’re teaching her anything new, put yourself in her place—try to imagine how she is puzzling it out. You’ll only confuse her more if you get cross. But if you do feel yourself getting hot and bothered, dismount, tie her to the fence or something, and go away and look at the beauties of nature until you cool down.”

  “Now get up and we’ll see if we can get her over this in-and-out.”

  John mounted, and, following the Major’s instructions, jumped Jet over the second of the two bars. She did this without any fuss. Then he jumped the first bar, and the second one lying on the ground, and, finally, both at their original heights.

  “You see,” said Major Holbrooke, “she was worrying about the second bar, but when we showed her how to take it she jumped it perfectly. Now don’t do it again, and I may as well tell you that I shall come round to have a look at you occasionally, so you’d better behave yourself.” As the Major mounted, John blurted out, “You won’t tell Dad; I mean, my father?”

  “Good heavens, boy,” said Major Holbrooke, “what do you think I am?” and, turning Black Magic, he said good-bye and cantered off across the field.

  “Good-bye,” said John to his retreating figure, “and thank you very much.” When the Major was out of sight, John spent some time patting Jet, and thinking how awful it would have been if he had taken her away, and wondering what he would have told the other horse-breakers. Then, when he had had a canter round the field, he took Jet to the stable and gave her a large feed of oats. As he walked in to lunch he decided to ring up Richard and tell him that his, John’s, bicycle had four punctures, so he couldn’t possibly go to the picnic and then devote the afternoon to schooling Turpin.

  Noel was rather embarrassed by Susan’s delight when she rode into the stable yard at the Towers on Romany; especially as Susan seemed to take it for granted that the Major must think Noel a better rider than Evelyn, which Noel herself was quite sure she was not. They argued about this for some time, and then Noel said, “Well, anyway, I’m positive I’m going to be bottom when it comes to the test, for Romany’s terribly bad mannered, and I’m sure it’ll take months to cure her.”

  “No one will blame you for that,” said Susan. “That’s Evelyn’s fault.”

  It was quite true that Romany was bad mannered, and Noel, who found her quite hard enough to control by herself, soon found she was far worse with other ponies. She seemed to think that schooling with Sunset should be one long race. She pulled Noel’s arms out, jogging when she should be walking, cantering sideways when she was meant to be trotting, and galloping wildly about the field when she was asked to canter. If Susan expected to have plenty of races and jumping contests now that Noel had a pony of her own, she soon found she was mistaken. Noel spent half the morning persuading Romany to walk on a loose rein and the other half trying to make her trot, and when she rode her at a jump of two feet, she shot past it, taking Noel completely by surprise, and galloped three times round the field before Noel was able to pull her up. By the end of the morning Noel had decided that until Romany was better mannered she would school her alone, but since Susan found riding by herself dull, Noel agreed to school Romany in the mornings, and go over to the Towers, as often as possible, to ride Beauty in the afternoons.

  When the Pony Club rally drew near, and Romany, though quieter, still couldn’t walk over a pole on the ground but shot off at a gallop, and simply wouldn’t dream of walking beside another pony when out for a hack, Noel began to despair.

  “What on earth shall I do?” she asked her mother. “She’ll just gallop about, knocking everyone over. She’s silly enough if I school her with Sunset, so I just can’t imagine how she’s going to behave with twenty other ponies.”

  “Why don’t you ring up Major Holbrooke and explain the trouble to him?” suggested Mrs. Kettering. “After all, he’s the expert, and he knows how she behaved when you tried her.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” said Noel. “He’d think I was awfully feeble—he’d probably think I was afraid.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Kettering. “You’re imagining things again, but if that’s how you feel you may as well go to the rally, and perhaps he’ll tell you how to
cure her.”

  “Well, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell when she had read June’s second postcard from Major Holbrooke asking her to bring Grey Dawn to a Pony Club rally, “you’ll have to give her some practice. I know that she’s the best trained of the ponies, but you haven’t ridden her for three weeks, you know, and you don’t want to risk being made a fool of.”

  “I haven’t had time to ride her,” said June. “I can’t waste hours schooling her while there’s Wonder to keep up to the mark. It isn’t as though I can enter her for any shows—I mean, she’s not good looking enough for the showing classes and she can’t jump well enough for even the under-thirteen-two jumping.”

  “Why don’t you teach her to bend and potato race?” asked Mrs. Cresswell. “She’s not of such an excitable temperament as Wonder, so she might do well, and I should like to see you show the Radcliffes and John Manners that you can beat them at races as well as everything else.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said June. “I’ll try her and see if she seems promising.” After breakfast, June brought Dawn in from the paddock, grumbling bitterly about her muddy state.