“Jolly good,” said Susan as Noel rode back to her place. Richard was the last person to give a show. Surprisingly, he rode Peter—who was rather lazy—well, and put up a far better performance than Charles French, though he had the better pony.
It seemed to the competitors that the judges talked endlessly before they made up their minds. Then, to everyone’s amazement, Susan and Beauty were placed above June, and Noel crept up to third, while Richard was reserve. Susan’s delight knew no bounds. She patted Beauty profusely and thanked Lady Wrench for her rosette three times. Noel didn’t dare look at June. She felt sorry for her. It must be awful, she thought, to lose one’s assured position so abruptly, and the poem about the statue of King Charles at Charing Cross came into her mind. Meanwhile Lady Wrench had asked her twice whether Romany had ever been to a gymkhana before.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Noel, suddenly realising that she was being spoken to. “At least—I mean—I know she hasn’t.”
“I think she does you great credit, then,” said Lady Wrench as she handed Noel the yellow rosette. “You ought to be proud of her.”
“Thanks awfully,” said Noel, going scarlet in the face and hoping that she didn’t look conceited.
During the lunch interval which followed the showing class, the mistakes and surprises of the morning were discussed.
“I told you that it would happen,” said Mrs. Cresswell to June. “And now it has. They’ve made you look a fool—to be beaten at a little show like this when you’ve won at Richmond.”
“Well, you can ride Wonder at the next show if you think that you can make her beat Beauty,” said June. “It’s not my fault that Mr. Barington-Brown is richer than you are and can buy Susan a better pony than Wonder. Everything is easy if you’re rich.”
“But riding must count, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell.
“I expect the judges favoured Susan, then,” said June. “Probably Mr. Barington-Brown bribed them.”
“You mustn’t say things like that, darling, however likely they seem,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “And, though I admit that the result of the showing class left room for a matter of opinion, the class for the New Forest ponies didn’t. There was never a moment of doubt. That dreadful Kettering child—who still hasn’t got a riding-coat—had the skewbald going like a show hack, and though John Manners didn’t do anything spectacular, his pony knew what it did know thoroughly, and seemed quiet and well mannered. But you, my pet, I really was disappointed. Running backwards all over the ring, cantering disunited, and Grey Dawn’s head carriage was just appalling—there’s no other word for it. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole county.”
“Nonsense, Mummy,” said June rudely. “Why should any one laugh? There’s nothing funny about it. I can’t help it if Grey Dawn is so stupid and clumsy. After all, you were there and helped choose her.”
“Now, darling, that sort of talk won’t get us anywhere,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “The only thing you can do is to take care to win the jumping this afternoon and do better at the next show.”
Dr. Radcliffe was greeted by shouts from Margaret when he arrived on the show ground with the lunch. “Romany was first and Rocket second,” she yelled. “But I bet Major Holbrooke helped Noel,” she added, looking defiantly at Roger.
“I thought that he helped everyone,” said Dr. Radcliffe, and turned to congratulate Hilary. Just as they were about to begin their lunch, the Radcliffes discovered that Evelyn was missing and Roger noticed her riding Romany on the other side of the ring.
“Gosh,” said Margaret, “do you think she asked Noel for a ride? She is a nuisance. We wanted to have a blood feud, didn’t we, Jim?”
“Yes,” said James. “We had thought of nine different ways to murder her.”
“You bloodthirsty ruffians,” said Dr. Radcliffe, who seemed to be in a good humour, “you’re not a very sportsmanlike family, are you? But I suppose it’s having your mother’s red hair.”
“I wonder if the next one will have it,” said Hilary. “I hope so. Everybody knows who we are by it.”
“You don’t need the hair to tell a Radcliffe,” said the Doctor. “You can hear them a mile off.”
“But what’s it going to be called, Doc.?” asked Margaret.
“Well, your mother hopes it’ll be a boy, to even the family off,” replied Dr. Radcliffe. “If it is, he’s to be called Andrew, but if it’s a girl, she’ll either be Janet or Frances.”
“Not Janet,” said Hilary. “There’s a frightful girl at Woodbridge called Janet. She sucks sweets the whole time, and has crushes on the games mistress.”
“School, school, school!” said Roger. “Surely you can spare us in the holidays.”
“Now, Roger, don’t be difficult,” said Dr. Radcliffe. “She only mentioned it; you really can’t grumble at that.”
“She might have gone on if I hadn’t stopped her,” said Roger.
“We certainly don’t want another boy in the family,” said Hilary. “Two are quite enough.”
“It’ll be lovely having someone younger than me,” said James. “I shall be able to squash him. That will be a nice change.”
“You mean you’ll have to look after him and rescue him from the duck-pond every five minutes,” said Hilary. “Younger brothers and sisters are an awful bore, I can tell you.”
Evelyn had surprised herself by finding that she could talk quite agreeably to Noel. It was true that it was Noel who had started the conversation. Passing Evelyn on the way out of the ring, she had stopped to thank her for her instructions, without which, she said, she might not have done so well.
“Nonsense,” said Evelyn. “Of course you would, but you always creep about at the back, and I happen to know that Romany goes much better in the lead. But what I want to know is how you managed to improve her so much between the last Pony Club rally and to-day?”
“Well, I only go to Pinelands, you see, so I’m able to ride in the evenings as well as at the week-ends—rather unfair really,” said Noel.
“But just riding wouldn’t have done it,” said Evelyn. “I meant what schooling? How did you teach her to collect and all that sort of thing?”
“Just as the Major told us,” said Noel. “You know, those ghastly school figures: riding up and down hills, lungeing, and all the twisting and turning exercises that I could think of; besides pulling up and backing when she got out of control. Then, when she seemed fairly well balanced, I put her in a double bridle and did the same things all over again. That was rather depressing, because we never seemed to get any further. But all at once she started to collect, and then everything was easy, though I found changing legs and passes a bit complicated, for, as you know, I can’t tell my right from left, and it makes it awfully difficult to work out the aids.”
“It sounds easy,” said Evelyn. “But of course it isn’t. It’s queer, you suddenly coming out like this—it seems such a short time ago that you were falling off Topsy every other minute. You’ve certainly surprised everyone. They say that Mrs. Cresswell is furious.”
“Oh, dear,” said Noel, almost speechless with embarrassment, and then, a happy thought striking her, “Look, would you like a ride on Romany?”
“I should love one,” said Evelyn. Noel handed her the reins and she mounted. It was with some trepidation that Noel watched her; she knew that it was conceited to think that other people couldn’t control Romany as well as she could, but she did hope that Evelyn wouldn’t excite or upset her, for she still had three events—jumping, bending, and musical poles—to enter for. However, Evelyn didn’t do anything that could have upset the most nervous or highly-strung of show ponies; she had never ridden a pony which could collect before, and she was interested to discover what it felt like. After she had walked, trotted, and cantered Romany round, she rode up to Noel and said, “She’s lovely. You’ve certainly improved her.”
“She looks lovely with you. I wish she went as well for me,” said Noel wistfully.
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p; “Don’t be a goose,” said Evelyn. “Of course she does, or you wouldn’t have won.” But secretly she hoped that Noel was right. It took some of the sting out of being no good at breaking and schooling to think that one could show a pony to greater perfection than the poor wretch who had spent months of toil doing the schooling. I’ll get rich, thought Evelyn, and then I’ll buy perfectly trained horses and ride about the countryside enjoying myself, and leave the sweat and labour of schooling to those who have to do it, and people like Hilary who get pleasure out of it. Aloud she said, “I’d better go now or my family will be wondering where I’ve got to, or, worse still, eating my share of the lunch. Cheerio and thanks for the ride.”
“Not at all,” said Noel. “See you later.” Mrs. Kettering wasn’t coming to watch until later in the afternoon, so Noel ate her lunch sitting beside Romany, and wishing that she had four brothers and sisters and could ride like Evelyn Radcliffe.
“Oh, Daddy, wasn’t Beauty good?” said Susan. “Didn’t she go marvellously?”
“It was nice to see my little girl in the front row,” said Mr. Barington-Brown. “But I always knew you’d get there. I’ve told mother time and time again that you’d do it one day. Haven’t I, Mother?”
“Now then, Albert, you’ll make Susan too big for her boots,” said Mrs. Barington-Brown. “If she was as good at her lessons I’d be better pleased.”
“You can’t talk about lessons in the holidays, Mummy,” said Susan. “And anyway, I shan’t get a swelled head. I know that it’s Beauty who does it.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Mr. Barington-Brown. “It’s not every little girl that knows as much as our Susan.”
“Come on, now, don’t talk so much, but eat some lunch,” said Mrs. Barington-Brown, handing out paper napkins and cold chicken.
“I’m sure,” said Susan between the mouthfuls “that I’m going to fall off in the jumping.”
Colonel Manners was quite delighted over John’s success in the best-trained pony class. “I always knew the boy had it in him,” he had told Mrs. Manners at least three times while John was being given his rosette. “Perhaps he has learned something from Holbrooke after all. He’s a queer fella—reads too many books and full of new-fangled ideas, but there’s nothing namby-pamby about him.”
“John has certainly changed a good deal lately,” said Mrs. Manners. “He’s much quieter with the animals, and not nearly so thoughtless of other people’s feelings.”
“He’s growing up, my dear,” said the Colonel. “St. Philips is knocking the rough edges off him. It’s always the same with boys. I ought to know, I was a boy once.”
At lunch, John would only say that Jet had behaved wonderfully, and that he had only done what “old Holbrooke” had told him. But he found it very pleasant, though a little embarrassing, to sit between his proud parents and be thoroughly approved of for a change.
The Morrissons’ lunch-time conversation was even more disagreeable than the Cresswells’. The only consolation for Richard’s complete failure was, in Mrs. Morrisson’s eyes, that June hadn’t won anything either in the best-trained pony class. But she said it was obvious that Rufus was the worst-trained of the ponies, if, indeed, he was trained at all. Richard said that Rufus was a brute, and had simply been playing him up. And Jill said that Richard always blamed his ponies, when all the time it was his own fault for not schooling them.
“You shut up,” said Richard to Jill. “You’re nothing but a priggish, conceited girl, and you can jolly well mind your own business.”
“Really, Richard, you’re not to speak to your sister like that,” said Mrs. Morrisson. “I won’t have it.”
“Oh, do stop nagging, Mater,” said Richard. “Can’t we have lunch? I’m famished.”
“You’re not to eat my share of the egg sandwiches as well as your own, like you did at the last Pony Club show,” said Jill to Richard.
“I hope you don’t win a single heat this afternoon,” said Richard. “It’s a pity you’re not a boy; I’d take you down a peg. Gosh, you would be put in your place if you went to a boys’ school.”
“It doesn’t seem to have improved you much,” said Jill. “And you’ve eaten your share of the egg sandwiches.”
The judges had an excellent lunch at Folly Court, and they were all in the best of tempers when they returned to the ring at two o’clock. Class three was the senior jumping competition, in which there was no height limit for horses, but their riders had to be between fourteen and twenty-one years. There was a good entry, for the Pony Club possessed quite a number of older members, and though few of them came to rallies, they hunted and rode in the annual gymkhana. David Gore-Simmonds, the first competitor, was one of these, and there were loud comments from the regular attendants at rallies about his backward seat. He rode a lovely chestnut mare from Ireland, which jumped well, despite his riding, but made four faults—two at the wall and two at the triple. Robert Penn, Clarrissa’s elder brother, who jumped next on a huge grey hunter, scattered everything, and, when the course had been repaired, Anthony Rate refused the first jump three times. Some of Mrs. Maxton’s pupils followed him, but none of their rounds was spectacular. Dick Hayward only had half a fault on his fourteen hand, sixteen-year-old pony, Crispin, but Roger, who was the next competitor, jumped a clear round. The rest of the Radcliffes were beside themselves with delight, but this was soon damped when, a few minutes later, Diana, the youngest of the Meltons, also made a faultless round. Then there were only two competitors left. One was Valentine Dale, a thin girl with fair plaits and sticking-out teeth. She was galloped out of the ring by her dock-tailed cob, Bounce, which surprised everyone, as he was professionally turned out in bandages and a hood, and there was a rumour that he had won a high-jump competition. Last of all was Mary Compton. She had two refusals at the first jump, and then, when Blackbird jumped it, she fell off and lay groaning in the ring. The first-aid party, which had been longing for something to happen, rushed to her rescue, but they were most annoyed to find that she wasn’t hurt at all. When Mary had been removed from the ring and told not to make a fuss by the doctor in charge of the first aid, and that she would never make a jockey by Reg Hunt, the Radcliffes’ cook’s nephew, who was first whipper-in to the hounds, the judges called Roger’s and Diana’s numbers. They were told to jump the whole course, which had been raised, and the excitement was terrific as Roger rode at the first jump.
“He must do another clear round,” said Margaret.
“He’s over that one,” said James. “Now steady, Sky Pilot.”
“And the gate,” said Margaret, jumping about in her excitement.
“He’ll hit the wall; he’s sure to,” said James. “It’s enormous.” But Roger and Sky Pilot didn’t hit the wall; they cleared everything until they came to the triple.
“Two faults,” said James with a groan as it fell behind them.
“Diana mustn’t do a clear round,” said Margaret. “Come on, Jim, will her to knock the gate.” In spite of James’ and Margaret’s willing, Diana cleared the gate, but she had three refusals at the wall. The Radcliffes were overjoyed; they clapped and cheered their brother as he, Diana, Dick Hayward, and—to their annoyance—David Gore-Simmonds, rode in for their rosettes.
“I’m awfully glad that Dick’s won something,” said Hilary. “He’s so fond of Crispin, and though he’s getting too big for him, he can’t have another horse, because his father won’t let him keep two, and Dick says that he couldn’t possibly part with Crispin.”
“Another advantage in having large families,” said Evelyn. “You can hand the ponies down as well as the clothes.”
“Class four in the collecting ring, please,” shouted the collecting steward. “Jumping for ponies under fourteen-two, riders under fourteen years.”
Noel’s teeth were chattering as she obeyed. This was much worse than anything that she had done before—worse than showing classes, gymkhana events, or exams.
“It’s jolly sport
ing of you to enter Romany for the jumping,” Evelyn told her. “You haven’t a chance, have you?”
“No,” said Noel, “not the slightest chance.”
“Hilary’s entered Rocket,” said Evelyn. “She hasn’t a hope either.”
“I’m sure to do something silly,” said Noel. “But then I always do, so that won’t be anything new.”
“It’s nice to think I’ve someone to keep me company,” said Christopher, the eldest of the Mintons. “I’ve been schooling Mousie for ages, but I’m sure that we’re going to refuse the first jump three times.”
“I bet I do a better round than you, Charles,” said Pat French to his brother.
“I bet my lucky coin to your South African stamp that you don’t,” said Charles.
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