The Pony Question

by Jackie Merchant

  “He’s in an awful hurry to get a deal done, isn’t he? Imagine thinking we’d want to make a profit off that poor horse,” commented Francesca. A crease appeared between her eyebrows.

  “I don’t know what to think, Essie,” she added, turning to her. “We don’t have much choice but to sell her to him.” Francesca’s voice trailed off, distracted by her thoughts. Essie was sorry for making her worry, but looking at the pony, which still hadn’t moved, miserable thing that it was, she got a funny feeling in her tummy. For an instant she felt like some missing part of her had come back. They’d almost done something amazing and brave by saving the pony, even if it was by accident. Surely it couldn’t all come to nothing.

  Francesca stared hard at Essie before reaching over and squeezing her on the shoulder, then she started looking around urgently. Essie went to ask her what was happening, but her mum touched her hand, silencing her, and said, “Wait here, don’t move. Just wait right here.”

  Francesca scanned the crowd, looking for someone, and then moved quickly across the yard, reaching the man in the blue shirt she’d been talking to earlier. Essie watched her pointing at the pony, the man turning to look at the mare. Then her mum gestured towards Essie and shrugged, palms out, not quite pleading, but close.

  Francesca finally stopped speaking and stood in front of the man, waiting. Turning slowly, the man took another look at the pony and then at Essie. Then he turned back to Francesca and nodded.

  Looking across to Essie, Francesca smiled and Essie felt her heart skip. It was the same look Francesca had when she was “saving” a piece of furniture. Essie felt like something good might be about to happen.

  “Where’s your mum, little girl?” Essie had been concentrating so hard on Francesca she hadn’t seen the creepy man come back. Essie’s words caught in her throat and she had to step back – his face was too close to hers. Essie was suddenly afraid for the mare.

  “Here,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling it forwards. “Take the money.” His other hand was full of change and crumpled notes, threatening to spill onto the ground. Essie tried to get her hand free, but his grip was like a vice.

  Twisting her hand, Essie realised in horror that his fingernails and the frayed cuffs of his shirt were covered in what looked like dried blood. With a horrified gasp, she yanked her hand free, leaving her glove in his fist, just as he let the money drop. The coins jumped and scattered all over the cobblestones.

  He threw her glove on the ground hissing, “Why you stupid –”

  Essie took a step back in fright, losing her balance as she bumped into someone solid behind her. Then a steadying hand was on her shoulder and a voice said, “Stop right there, Vern.” It was a deep voice, calm – the sort you didn’t argue with. “It was just an accident.” The men obviously knew each other.

  “Are you all right, Essie?” asked Francesca, arriving at her side.

  Essie nodded, watching the man as he started to puff up, an outburst brewing, but the other calming voice came again. “Let’s give you a hand to pick this up, Vern,” and the man, who Essie could now see had “Hodgsons Stock Services” on his shirt, reached out and pulled her gently behind him. Bending and scooping up the money, he handed it back to Vern. “There you go, no harm done.”

  Essie watched, fascinated, as Vern put on an awful fake smile and said to Francesca, “No worries, just want to give you the money for the pony like we agreed.”

  “Actually,” responded Francesca, standing straight, “I don’t believe we agreed to anything. We’re keeping the pony, and Mr Hodgson here has agreed to transport her for us.” Francesca lifted her chin just a fraction, making it clear that her mind was made up.

  Essie knew that determined lift of her mum’s chin. Whatever was happening with the pony, one thing was for sure: she wasn’t going with Vern.

  Essie felt Francesca squeeze her hand hard, telling her to stay quiet. Essie gazed off across the yard, as if what was happening between the adults was none of her business.

  For several seconds Vern blustered, huffing and puffing, until Mr Hodgson stepped forwards and spoke quietly to him.

  Essie couldn’t hear what he said, but when Vern argued back, she heard Mr Hodgson cut him off. “Leave it there, mate, you don’t need a sad pony like that.”

  “I’m exactly the one who should have it,” spat Vern. “All it’s good for is pet meat.”

  Essie gasped – suddenly it all made sense. The blood on Vern’s shirt cuffs, his eagerness to buy the pony for so little, all on the pretence of helping them out. How lucky was their mistake.

  Spitting on the ground at their feet and giving them a long, dirty look, Vern smiled cruelly and said, “It’ll end up dead soon enough, given the state of it. Don’t call me then to take its stinking carcass.” With that he spun on his heel and shuffled off, talking loudly about people going back on their word. “How’s an honest man supposed to make a living?” he grumbled.

  Essie felt an embarrassed flush spread across her cheeks. What must people think? Then one of the big burly farmers yelled, “Well, you’d have to be an honest man to worry about that, Vern, so you’ll be right.” Chuckles ran through the crowd.

  “I heard that, Charley Lockett,” said Vern, pointing a dirty finger at the farmer as he headed out to the parking lot.

  “You were meant to,” the man replied. “Get going and leave the kid her pony.”

  With a shake of his head, Vern vanished out the gate.

  “Are we keeping the pony?” Essie asked, afraid to be hopeful.

  Francesca touched the top of Essie’s head and said, “Just for the moment. Let’s get her out of here and home, then we’ll see. Mr Hodgson is going to take her in his truck for us.”

  Mr Hodgson smiled at Essie, and she was struck by his kind face. “Call me Rob,” he said. “I’m glad to take your pony for you.” He sounded like he meant it.

  Turning to Francesca, Rob said, “I’ll get the truck now that the crowd’s thinning out and we’ll load her up.” He turned to go, then said, “I can fit that lounge on too, if you like?”

  Francesca shook her head. “Thanks, but someone’s already loaded it into our van, the pony is more than enough. Mind you, it looks like it needs a seat.” It was true, the pony barely looked strong enough to stand in the yard, let alone a moving truck.

  “I’ll make it as easy as I can for her,” Rob replied, striding off.

  Soon he was back, truck beeping as he reversed onto the loading ramp. The pony watched, ears forward, but she didn’t move. Essie had expected a horse truck, where the pony would be enclosed, but this was a cattle truck, with steel rails on the sides and no roof. She’d never seen a horse transported like that.

  Rob swung out of the truck cab, lead rope in hand. Essie went to help, meaning to lead the pony on, but Francesca said, “Wait, Essie, he knows what he’s doing. He can get an idea about her. We know nothing about her, we need to know she’s at least safe, trustworthy, reliable, to be around.”

  Essie smiled at her mum’s triple word offering. It was her letting Essie know she was okay with what had happened.

  “Thank you, grateful, obliged,” responded Essie.

  With a smile, Francesca said, “Well, you can be thankful, grateful and obliged to your dad too; it was him on the phone that had me so distracted that I waved my bidder number.”

  Essie was almost as surprised to hear that as she was to have ended up with a pony. Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Was he ringing to talk to me?”

  “I don’t know why he was ringing. I had to cut him off because I accidentally bought a pony.” Francesca chuckled and shook her head at the ridiculousness of the statement. “I’ll call him back tomorrow. Don’t worry, it didn’t sound like anything important, and he was perfectly pleasant. Forget that for now, let’s just focus on getting us and the pony home.”

  Rob finished adjusting the old halter trying to make it a bit more comfortable. “Righto, little one,” he said, gi
ving a gentle tug on the lead rope. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  The pony hesitated at the ramp, as though she didn’t have the energy to walk up it. She didn’t look like she cared what was happening.

  “Come on, girl, up you come, gently now, walk on.” Rob’s voice was calm and soothing, and every now and then he rubbed her softly down the face. The mare took a couple of steps, but it took her an age, and other people were waiting to use the ramp. It was getting colder by the minute, and people were getting impatient.

  Suddenly a man, belly hanging over his belt, bowled up beside the ramp. He started waving his hat and yelling at the pony, “Get up there, you mongrel thing. Go on, get up, yah yah.”

  Frightened, the pony jerked and stumbled, landing awkwardly on one knee on the ramp. She lurched back onto her feet, snapping off a piece of long front hoof as she did so.

  “Enough!” barked Rob, dark eyes glaring down on the man. He stroked the pony’s neck, steadying her.

  He turned to the fellow. “What’s wrong with you?” His voice wasn’t loud, but Essie could see the tone of it shamed the man. “She’s doing the best she can. We won’t hold you up any longer than we have to.”

  Dropping his head, the man shuffled off, mumbling to his mates. Rob scanned the crowd from high up on the ramp, as if challenging anyone else who had something to say.

  Essie itched to step forwards. She could see that some persuasion from behind might be enough to encourage the pony onto the truck, but Francesca, reading her mind, put a gentle hand on her arm. Not wanting to upset her mum, Essie bit her tongue to stop herself from arguing.

  “Here, Rob,” said the auctioneer, finished for the day, “let’s see if we can help.” He and one of the other workers stepped onto the ramp, linking arms behind the mare’s rump and slowly walking forwards, pushing her. As if realising she was outnumbered, with a lunge and a scramble the pony made it into the truck, where Rob tied her up behind the cab. In the truck she looked even more woeful.

  Stepping out and sliding the door shut, Rob shook hands with the men before turning to the waiting crowd. “Thanks for being patient, folks,” he called.

  Turning to Essie and Francesca, he said, “I’ll take it slow, so I’ll be way behind you, but don’t worry, I will find you. In Pippin, you said? Next to the old orchard. Loves apples?”

  “Yes,” said Francesca. “Six Nest Street. We’ll go ahead, it’ll be dark by the time we get back. We have nothing sorted for her, not even hay.” Essie saw Rob realise just how unprepared they were for any pony, let alone this neglected one.

  “Let’s just get her there,” he said. “We’ll cross the other bridges as we get to them. I can make a few phone calls about hay on my way.”

  Essie looked hard at him. When he said “let’s just get her there”, was he actually saying, “let’s see if she makes it”? Essie had a sinking feeling the pony was much worse off than they realised.

  Before Essie could ask, Rob gave them a small smile and said, “I’ll see you there. I’ll call if anything changes,” and headed for the truck.

  Essie took her mum’s hand as they walked back through the almost-empty paddock. Van-essa sat lonely in the long grass, the wooden-backed lounge in the back.

  “Hello girl,” said Francesca, putting the key in the ignition and patting the steering wheel affectionately. Essie, too, felt calmer back in the familiar van, although her mind was with the pony. Looking out as the sky faded to dark, she noticed the first star.

  Catching her looking at it, Francesca remarked, “We should make a wish that the pony is okay.”

  Another of her mum’s superstitions. Essie and her mum never agreed on things like wishing on stars – Essie liked facts. She shook her head, but Francesca smiled and said, “It never hurts to make it clear to the universe what you need,” then shut her eyes and wished silently.

  “There, that’s a good start,” she said, opening her eyes. Then, with a small frown, she added, “I hope I’ve done the right thing.”

  Glancing across at her, Essie said, “I know it was an accident, but what else could we have done?”

  “Well, there is that.” Francesca smiled, suddenly looking tired. “It’s certainly been one of our more unusual grand adventures, hasn’t it?”

  “A bit more like rescue, liberate, emancipate than grand adventure for the pony,” said Essie.

  “I wonder what her story is?” said Francesca as they turned out onto the road. “This was definitely a folly, lunacy, gamble.” The triple words sounded ominous. “She is our biggest restoration project so far. Let’s just hope there’s nothing broken that can’t be fixed.” She reached over to squeeze Essie’s hand, and Essie knew it was a gentle warning not to get her hopes up, and a promise that they would try.

  They drove largely in silence, the sky purple, gum trees in the passing paddocks lonely silhouettes in the lingering half-light until, like a light turned out, it was night.

  For a while the truck stuck close behind them, its wide headlights reflected in Van-essa’s side mirrors, but it fell further and further back, until finally there was no point looking for it.

  “We’ve lost them,” Essie said, turning away from the window.

  Francesca peered hard at the dark sky. “They’ll be right, but I think we might be going to get some rain.”

  As if her words were magic, a fine drizzle coated the windscreen before suddenly rain came hammering down.

  “Oh no, poor pony,” said Essie, imagining how miserable she must be in the open truck.

  “She’ll be all right,” said Francesca, as if trying to convince herself. “The cab of the truck will protect her from some of it, and she’s only got an hour or so to go. We need to get fuel,” she said, pointing ahead to where a roadhouse sign shone through the rain. “That might give them a chance to catch up, although Rob did say he’d be slow.”

  It was freezing by the petrol pump, gusts of wind blew rain under the awning and Essie couldn’t imagine how cold the pony must be. How different this was from Chet travelling in their float, rugs on and eating his hay. Shuffling from foot to foot, Essie did up her coat, fingers clumsy with cold. Finally Van-essa was filled and still the truck hadn’t gone past.

  “They’re a long way behind,” Essie fretted.

  “Come on, let’s get something to eat and then we’ll be back on the road,” Francesca urged but Essie remained staring out at the passing traffic until, growing impatient, Francesca said, “Essie, a watched kettle never boils. Dinner and we can go.”

  At last driving through Pippin, they were alone on the road. Again and again Essie bent to look in the side mirror, but there was still no truck.

  “Don’t worry,” said Francesca. “That pony has survived this long, something tells me she’ll hang on until she gets to our house.”

  As they pulled up out the front of their little weatherboard cottage, Francesca sighed. “Finally.”

  With its centred door and windows evenly placed either side, it looked exactly the way a child would draw a house. The gate looked even more ridiculous now they had a pony to contain.

  There were lots of cottages like theirs in Pippin, but most were painted traditional colours. Theirs was a beautiful deep colour somewhere between purple and navy, like a late summer plum, with a bright red door and cream around the windows and doorframe. When Francesca had shown Essie the colours, she’d thought maybe the colour thing had gone a bit far, even after all the Sydney white, but she had to admit it was a cheerful house. It reminded her of that first autumn drive they took down the main street of Pippin, the trees aflame with colour, and Francesca saying, “I feel like I’ve driven into chocolate,” which made no sense, but also all the sense in the world, given how rich everything looked.

  Jumping out to open the gate, Essie stepped into a huge puddle in a dip in the driveway.

  “Lots of rain here,” she said, swinging the old gate back.

  Over the sound of Van-essa’s motor came the noise of the t
ruck turning into their street.

  “They’re here,” she called out, waving her arms to make sure he could see them. As if he’d miss a big maroon van in front of a purple house, even in the dark.

  The truck rumbled, slowing and pulling to the edge of the road, tyres sinking into the wet grass. Leaving the engine running, Rob slipped down out of the cab.

  “You made it all right then?” Francesca asked.

  “So far so good,” Rob replied, nodding once. “But we need to get the pony off and put her somewhere. Do you have anywhere for her to go? The front yard seems to be out.” He smiled, gesturing towards the missing fence. The three of them looked about for a solution.

  Finally, Essie asked, “What about the carport?”

  The carport was just a roof between the house and the single garage, which was now her mum’s studio and workroom. Their firewood was stacked three deep in a wall across the back, but they’d need to block the front.

  “Can we put her in there?” Rob asked Francesca.

  “I guess so,” she replied, running her hand across her forehead. “Providing we can find something to keep her in?”

  Giving her a cheeky grin, Rob said, “Well, your lounge is probably about wide enough!”

  Francesca looked shocked at the suggestion. “I’d really rather not,” she said.

  “You’re only going to redo it anyway, aren’t you?” asked Essie.

  “Oh, I see. Sorry, I thought you meant my lounge from inside! It’s been a long day. Of course we can use it,” Francesca said, frazzled.

  “Okay then,” said Rob, “let’s get her unloaded. The ramp on the truck is short, so I need to find something to back onto so it isn’t too steep. Don’t worry, I have an idea.”

  He strode off towards the neighbours’ house, knocking on Percy and Connie’s front door. After a minute the porch light came on and Percy appeared, tartan dressing-gown on over pyjamas and slippers.

  Unable to hear what was being said, Essie and Francesca watched the pantomime of Rob pointing to them, the truck and a large pile of garden bark that Percy had sitting outside his front gate, waiting to go on the garden.