Six Ponies

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  Richard came home from school with a new craze—architecture—and, as usual, everything had to be given up for it. Rufus was a bore, Major Holbrooke a pest, and the Pony Club gymkhana a waste of time. When his mother lectured him on his lack of perseverance, he said that she wanted him to be a horsy nitwit like June Cresswell, and he was hanged if he would. Each morning he mounted his bicycle and pedalled off in search of Roman remains, Norman churches, or Gothic arches, and in the evenings he read guide-books to find more buildings of architectural interest. Every day he put off schooling Rufus until the next.

  John, helping to get in the early harvest, generally had to school Jet after dinner, but luckily the evenings were long, and his parents didn’t bother about what time he went to bed. Jet was improving rapidly, but John didn’t feel competent to ride her in a double bridle. In spite of Major Holbrooke’s lectures, he still didn’t see why collection was necessary or how the bits worked, and he decided that it was better not to mess about with things one didn’t understand. It wasn’t until the second week of the holidays that he rode over to the Towers to see how Noel and Susan were getting on. He found them studying the diagrams of the school figures which Major Holbrooke had sent Noel.

  “Gosh,” said John, when he saw what they were about, “don’t you get enough geometry at school?”

  “Don’t take Susan’s part,” said Noel. “We must know the beastly things by the gymkhana.”

  “I certainly do, John,” said Susan. “But Noel is such a bully—she’s worse than any form mistress. But you’d better look out or you’ll get dragged in too.”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Noel, blushing. “You know that you needn’t learn them if you don’t want to, but you always say that you do.”

  “All right, all right,” said Susan. “I was only trying to be funny, but let’s get on, for it’ll soon be lunch-time, and we must have a jumping competition now that John’s here.”

  “That’ll be super,” said John. “I want to compare Jet with your ponies, but I bet she’s miles behind; it’s such a curse being away at school.”

  “Yes,” said Noel sympathetically, “it must be beastly.”

  “Thank goodness mummy disapproves of boarding schools,” said Susan.

  “I’ve only got ten more days to catch up in,” said John gloomily. “I’m sure I’ll never do it.”

  “Don’t talk about it,” said Noel. “I’ve got the needle already.”

  “Oh, Noel, you can’t have it yet,” said Susan. “Ten days is simply ages.”

  “I can’t help that,” said Noel. “I’ve got the needle; I have it every night in bed. It’s all very well for you; Sunset is quite decently schooled and fairly reliable, but Romany knows nothing, and goodness knows how she’ll behave at the gymkhana.”

  “Rot,” said John. “I bet she knows a jolly sight more than Jet, or Rufus for that matter.”

  “Does Richard ever ride Rufus?” asked Susan.

  “I dunno,” said John. “Not much, I think. You see, he’s always having crazes; in the Christmas holidays it was stamps, last holidays it was cycling, and now I hear it’s remains.”

  “Remains?” said Susan. “Remains of what?”

  “You know,” said John. “Old churches and things; awfully dull.”

  “He’d get on well with my father,” said Noel. “That’s all he’s interested in.”

  “Golly! How terrible for you,” said Susan. “I’d rather have daddy, though he always talks about shoes, they’re better than remains.”

  “Oh, no,” said Noel. “Shoes are sordid. I’m not interested in fossils or anything like that, but I love Georgian houses and Jacobite battlefields.”

  “Ugh! History,” said Susan.

  “Come on,” said John. “If we’re going to jump, we’d better start.”

  Jet won the jumping contest with one fault over a two-feet-six course, and Sunset was second with two refusals at different jumps. Romany had four faults for knocking down the last jump with her fore-legs. Then Susan and John decided to have some races, and Noel was persuaded to join in, against her better judgment. Romany became thoroughly over-excited: she kicked the bucket over in the potato race and refused to stop at the poles to allow Noel to grab the potatoes. In the saddling-up race she galloped off, bucking with Noel half-on, and, of course Noel fell off. But, worst of all, she broke three of Susan’s poles in the bending race.

  John’s and Susan’s obviously tactful attempts to find excuses for Romany’s bad behaviour made Noel feel more crestfallen than ever, and as she rode homewards she wondered what Major Holbrooke would say when Romany behaved like this at the Pony Club gymkhana. His cousin would be there, she supposed, and all the people who usually judged, besides hundreds of spectators and competitors, and everyone would say pityingly that Noel Kettering would never make a horsewoman and that the Major must have been mad to let her have Romany. Probably the cousin would be so furious when he saw his best-looking pony completely ruined that he would have a terrific row with the Major there and then, and it would all be her fault for being such a hopeless mixture of conceit and feebleness.

  “If only she wouldn’t spend so much time bothering over the school figures and the correct aids for everything,” said Susan to John as Noel rode out of the gate. “Why doesn’t she just ride Romany about until she gets sensible, as the rest of us did with our ponies, and leave the theory to June?”

  “Romany was spoilt when Noel had her,” said John. “She might have stood a chance if she had had Sunset or Jet, but it was rough luck getting somebody else’s cast off.”

  “Yes, but if Noel had had her way I wouldn’t be teaching Sunset collection,” said Susan. “She would have kept her at those horrid balancing exercises for ever. Then she always says I overface Sunset, but she jumped better than Romany to-day.”

  “Of course I haven’t got Jet in a double bridle yet,” said John.

  “That’s not your fault,” said Susan. “You’ve been away at school, but Noel’s had all the term, and she’s only just got a double bridle.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s her affair,” said John. “And, personally, I can’t see much point in all this wretched collection. I’m quite satisfied with Turpin, and he couldn’t collect to save his life.”

  “But you must teach Jet to collect,” said Susan, “or you won’t have an earthly against June, honestly you won’t, and we’re all relying on you to beat her if Hilary doesn’t.”

  “What a thing to rely on,” said John, trying not to sound pleased. “But don’t you worry; I know I haven’t the ghost of a chance. June first, Hilary second, you third—that’s how I’d place them.”

  “Oh, no,” said Susan. “I shan’t be anywhere.”

  There had been unpleasantness among the Radcliffes about their entries right up to the eve of the gymkhana. As they cleaned their tack they still argued.

  “All you people think about is yourselves,” complained Evelyn. “You don’t care about the honour of the stable. I tell you Darkie won’t be anywhere if Jim rides her; if he must enter why can’t he have Rocket, Hilary? You know that he hasn’t a chance either.”

  “I know,” said Hilary, “but I still want to ride him and, even if Doc. would let him, Jim doesn’t want to. Anyway it’s a well-known fact that you shouldn’t put an inexperienced pony and rider together and you couldn’t have a less experienced pair than Jim and Rocket.”

  “Well, you jump both ponies,” said Evelyn. “Jim’s sure to fall off.”

  “Nonsense,” said Roger.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Hilary. “I should feel frightfully mean jumping two ponies when Jim hadn’t one. Besides, what does it matter if he does come off? He’s got to begin riding in shows some time, you know.”

  “Oh, all right then, have it your own way,” said Evelyn disagreeably. “But it’ll mean another walkover for June, with Clarrissa second.”

  “We shall survive that,” said Roger. “So far you’re the only pot-hunter in the f
amily; it won’t worry the rest of us much.”

  “Do you think Pixie’s got a chance?” asked Margaret, unintentionally tactful.

  “About as much as the rest of the family, which is none at all,” said Evelyn.

  “If she jumped really well she might get reserve again,” said Hilary. “But she’s too small to compete against Golden Wonder and Sweet William; even if she did a clear round, they’d beat her in the jump off.”

  “I shall will them not to do clear rounds. Jim and I have a way,” said Margaret. “It works sometimes, doesn’t it, Jim?”

  “It nearly did in the bending last year,” said James.

  “What do you do?” asked Roger. “Make waxworks of the competitors and stick pins into them at vital moments?”

  “No,” said Margaret. “It’s a secret, isn’t it, Jim?”

  “Yes, definitely,” said James. “If we tell anyone, it won’t work.”

  “Oh, Evelyn,” said Hilary, “you’ve spilt whitening all over my saddle.”

  “I’m awfully sorry,” said Evelyn. “But you can’t grumble, because you did tread on my reins.”

  “How can I clean my tack when there’s no saddle soap?” asked Richard in a melodramatic voice as he flung himself despairingly on the drawing-room sofa.

  “Well, whose fault is that?” asked his mother tartly.

  “I suppose Jill finished it while I was away at school,” said Richard. “How like a girl not to get any more!”

  “I didn’t finish it,” said Jill. “I never cleaned Wendy’s tack in the term. You threw the soap away in the middle of last holidays because you wanted the tin to boil glue in.”

  “Well, you ought to have cleaned Wendy’s tack in the term, then we should have known that there wasn’t any saddle soap,” said Richard.

  “I’ve cleaned Wendy’s tack later than you’ve cleaned Peter’s,” said Jill. “You haven’t cleaned his since the very beginning of the Easter holidays, and I did clean Wendy’s half-way through.”

  “It’s easier for you,” said Richard. “You’re a girl and girls like cleaning things. Anyway, you have much more time, and Wendy’s tack is much easier. A mere felt saddle and a snaffle without a noseband—that shouldn’t take you five minutes.”

  “Girls don’t like cleaning things,” said Jill. “And even if my tack is easier, you’re older than I am, so you ought to be quicker.”

  “Children,” said Mrs. Morrisson angrily, “if you don’t stop arguing, you’ll go straight to bed, and if I hadn’t paid all the expensive entry fees, you wouldn’t go to the show to-morrow. Two more ungrateful children I’ve never known. You’ve got ponies, bicycles, and countless other toys and amusements, but all you do is to grumble and quarrel.”

  “I don’t,” said Richard. “It’s Jill.”

  “You liar,” said Jill. “I never quarrel or grumble when you’re away at school. Do I, Mummy?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Richard. “Well, anyway, I never quarrel with the chaps at school; it’s just that you’re a girl, and a jolly feeble one too.”

  “I hate you,” said Jill. “And I bet Peter and Rufus do too. I bet that they’d like to kick you into little pieces, and I hope they both buck you off to-morrow.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Richard. “I’m not going to argue with you; you’re too childish. Run along and play, dear.” And, picking up the latest copy of Punch, he began to look through it.

  “Well, I’m going to clean my tack with something, even if it’s only shoe-polish,” said Jill. “And I hope that Major Holbrooke gives you a jolly long lecture on the state of yours.” And she ran out of the room, slamming the door.

  Mrs. Cresswell and June rose early on the morning of the gymkhana. Wilson, the groom-gardener, hadn’t arrived when they went out to the stables, but they fed both the ponies and started to groom them. At least Mrs. Cresswell did. June’s part in the proceedings was limited mainly to criticism of her mother’s work. By eight o’clock, when Wilson came, Wonder had had her socks washed and Grey Dawn had practically been bathed, and they were left in his charge while Mrs. Cresswell and June had breakfast. Afterwards Mrs. Cresswell plaited Grey Dawn, while Wilson body-brushed Golden Wonder and June watched.

  “Oh, Mummy,” she said when the first plait was finished, “it’s all bristly. Look at those bits of hair sticking up.”

  “All right, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “I’ll undo it and try again presently.”

  “Mummy,” wailed June when the second plait was finished, “they’re so fat that they look like the Radcliffes’—simply awful.”

  “I know, darling,” said Mrs. Cresswell patiently. “But her mane is so terribly thick; it’s not like Wonder’s, you know.”

  “Beastly common animal,” said June. “I’m glad it’s not a big show. I shouldn’t like to be seen dead on her by Priscilla Exemouth or the Fredericks or any of the other people who ride at decent shows.”

  “Nonsense, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. She’s not your pony, and everyone knows that you only broke her in for fun.”

  “Well, after to-day I needn’t ride her any more, thank goodness,” said June. “I’ll just get that red rosette on her bridle and then I’ll say ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’ and send her back to the Major. He’ll sell her to a complete beginner, which’ll ruin her, but I shan’t care; it’s all she’s fit for, and I’m never going to mount anything but a thoroughbred or blood pony again.”

  “You’re getting over-excited, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Would you like to go and lie down for a while?”

  “Oh, Mummy,” said June, “you are stupid. Of course I’m not over-excited; I’m not even excited over a potty little show like this one. I know that it’ll be a walk-over for me, so what is there to get excited about? It’s not even as though the cups will be very big.”

  “Pride comes before a fall, they say,” said Wilson. “And if you go on stuffing that grey pony with oats she will ’ave you off. You mark my words, Miss June.”

  “You don’t know anything about it, Wilson,” said June rudely. “If Dawn doesn’t have plenty of oats she hasn’t enough impulsion, and I can’t collect her. Anyway, I shouldn’t come off for a few bucks; I’m not Noel Kettering.”

  “Ah, you take care,” said Wilson. “Major ’Olbrooke’s ’ead man, Blake, was saying down in the Plough the other night as ’ow she’d come on amazing—that’s what ’e said, amazing.”

  “She needs to,” said June. “She was careering all over the place at the last rally on that dreadful skewbald pony which Evelyn Radcliffe spoiled.”

  The gymkhana, which was held in the park at Folly Court, started punctually. It was uncomfortably hot even at eleven o’clock, when the competitors for the first class, which was to decide which was the best trained of the New Forest ponies, walked into the ring. June, as usual, led the way. Thanks to Mrs. Cresswell’s washing, Grey Dawn’s coat was dazzling. Her plaits, in spite of June’s criticisms, were the best in the class, and her tack had been cleaned up to Richmond standard by Wilson. But something was lacking. Grey Dawn did not step out proudly to show off her smartness, nor were her ears pricked, or her eyes alive with interest. She dawdled, and each time June kicked her, with the heel on the side that the judges couldn’t see, she swished her tail. Perhaps this can hardly be wondered at, for she had been schooled five or six days a week since the Pony Club rally, when June had made her mother “feel a fool.” Close behind Grey Dawn walked Jet. John’s arms still ached from the grooming, and his fingers were sore from the pricks they had got as he plaited her, but it was worth it; and though the plaits might not be as neat as June’s or some of the others in the class, it was the first time he had tried, and he felt justly proud. The only thing he regretted was not trying Jet in a double bridle, for she looked very undressed—the only one of the six in a snaffle.

  Richard, who followed John, had put Rufus in Peter’s pelham, which was too broad in the mouthpiece as well as sti
ff and dirty. Beside the other ponies Rufus looked very untidy. The ten minutes which Richard had allowed for grooming him had been ignored by five years of dust and dirt; his mane was unplaited, and there were several burrs in his tail. Sweating from the gallop Richard had given him to get his back down, with his head low and his eyes dull and sulky, he was a forlorn sight, and looked more like an old pony than a young one. Rocket was a striking contrast: his golden coat shone like a ripe cornfield, and his plaits were only second in neatness to Grey Dawn’s. He walked briskly, looking about him with pricked ears and an air of complete confidence. After Rocket came Sunset. Her coat shone, but not with such brilliance; Bob’s breakfast had seemed more important to him. Her plaits were lumpy, and one was already coming unsewn, but her tack was clean and shining, especially the curb-chain, which Susan had taken to bed with her for its final polish. Sunset’s broad blaize gave her a look of placid contentment which was not belied by her manner. Last of all, and quite a long way behind the others, came Romany. She was excited; she wouldn’t walk, but jogged and went sideways. In spite of wearing nothing but an aertex shirt, Noel was becoming more hot and bothered with every moment. “Walk, Romany, walk,” she muttered, wishing that such things as gymkhanas did not exist. But Romany felt too excited to walk. Her rich chestnut parts shone, her white parts sparkled as she bounced round the ring. Her plaits—there were three chestnut and three white—were untidy, but her double bridle, which had spent most of its short life in neet’s-foot oil, shone brightly.