The Pony Question

by Jackie Merchant

  My goodness, hello Steven,” said Francesca, moving easily from the table to the door. “And you must be Caroline, nice to finally meet you, I’m Francesca. Come in. We’ve got a full house this morning, neighbourhood brunch. You should have let us know you were up this way, you could have joined us.” Francesca’s voice ran on.

  “I did try to tell you yesterday, and I’ve been calling all morning, but your phone must be off, it keeps going to voicemail,” said Steven accusingly. “We’ve brought Hope’s books back. We knew she’d want to study.”

  Hearing her other name snapped Essie out of the trance she’d been in since her dad appeared in the doorway. Feeling everyone’s eyes on her, she walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks,” was all she could think of to say before turning to Caroline and holding out her hand for the bag of books. “Thanks, Caroline.”

  “Sorry to break up the party,” said Steven, sounding uptight and disapproving. He glanced around the room as if waiting for introductions.

  “Oh, you won’t break up the party. These are our lovely neighbours, and Rob, a friend,” said Francesca. “Would you like a coffee? We’re making another pot.”

  “No, we won’t, thanks,” said Steven, smug. “Caroline’s got an interview a couple of hours from here, so we’d best keep going.”

  “An interview, that’s exciting, doing what and whereabouts?” asked Connie.

  “A potential hotel a couple of hours from here,” Caroline said, quietly but clearly, her face impassive.

  “Caroline’s in hospitality,” said Steven, as if this explained everything. Shame she just isn’t very hospitable, thought Essie.

  Essie was waiting for Steven to say something about the pony in their carport, but he didn’t. Looking through the window, she realised Rob’s truck had blocked her from view.

  An uncomfortable silence descended over the room. Looking stiff, Steven shuffled one step too many to the right, where he bumped into Lonely, who was investigating the indoor pot plant. With a squawk and a jump she scratched across Steven’s shoe, before depositing a healthy looking green and white poo on the hallway floorboards and calmly going back to the plant.

  Seeing the appalled look on her dad’s face, Essie chanced a glance at Francesca, who she could see was trying hard not to laugh, or apologise.

  “There’s a chook inside,” said Steven, stating the obvious, looking horrified. He looked like he’d give Lonely a flick outside with his shoe if he didn’t think it’d get dirty.

  “Oh, that’s not a chook,” smiled Pete, biting the corner off his toast, “that’s Lonely.”

  Into the uncomfortable silence came a whinnying from the carport.

  “Was that a horse? Whose horse is it?” Steven asked, suddenly completely focused.

  There was a long pause, and then Essie put her shoulders back, lifted her chin and said, “Mine.” She watched her dad’s eyebrows lift.

  “How did that come about? Since when do you have another pony?” he asked, his voice accusatory and suspicious.

  “Since about the time our phone call got cut off yesterday,” answered Francesca. “Essie and I were at a farm clearing sale. I waved at her when I was distracted on the phone to you. Ridiculously, I had my number in my hand, and unwittingly bought a pony. That was when I accidentally cut you off,” she explained.

  “What a thing to have happen,” said Caroline. Such an out of control, random thing would never happen to her, thought Essie. “Can we see her?” Caroline asked, more out of politeness than anything, Essie was sure.

  “Would you like to see her, Dad?” Essie asked hopefully.

  “I guess, seeing as we’re here,” said Steven, folding his arms.

  “Only if you want to,” said Essie, a sudden churning in her tummy. She wanted to know what he thought, what advice he might have, but she could also feel him trying to catch her eye, looking for an explanation. Only days ago he’d offered to buy her a pony and she’d said she didn’t want to ride any more and now this.

  Dropping the books in the doorway of her bedroom, Essie pulled her beanie on. She suddenly felt very tired. All the joy had been sucked out of the morning.

  Slipping past them all, head down, she made for the carport, Caroline following close behind. Essie could hear her dad a bit further back, asking Francesca how she intended to care for and, even more importantly, pay for a pony. Francesca replied, as nice as anything, “However I manage to do it, Steven, you can relax. It won’t cost you a penny.”

  “The money is not a concern for me, Francesca,” he said, clearly implying that it was a problem for them.

  Hearing them coming, the golden mare whinnied again, a sweet lively sound, so different to the night before. Her head hung over the back of the lounge like it was a stable door.

  “Oh,” said Caroline upon seeing the blond face. Essie waited, but there was nothing more.

  “Nice rugs,” said Steven sarcastically. Essie and Francesca ignored him. He tried again. “Is this a joke? A nag behind a lounge, in a carport, covered in bed blankets. It has to be a joke.”

  Caroline stepped forwards and slipped her hand under the rugs to pat the pony. “She’s a bit warm under here,” she said. “Perhaps one of these rugs should come off?”

  What the hell? thought Essie. Now Caroline was a horse person too?

  “I can do it. You might not want to touch her – she has lice,” Essie said, seeing her dad roll his eyes as if to say “that’d be right”. Caroline didn’t seem bothered though.

  Fumbling with the homemade fastening at the pony’s chest, Essie looked up and saw her dad smirking. She meant to just take the top layer off, keeping the pony hidden from unkind eyes, but as she pulled, all three rugs came off, leaving her exposed. The little mare looked even more tragic, her coat flattened on her bones. The past twelve hours might have made her brighter, but it would be some time before her body looked any better.

  Standing back and looking her over, Caroline asked, “Do you know anything about her? Age or breed, anything?”

  “There wasn’t any information,” Essie said, looking at the ground. She wanted Caroline to stop talking, she wanted to cover the poor pony, she wanted her dad to ask something about her, wanted him to show some small interest. “Dad, do you think –” she began, then paused, hearing an odd sound. She looked up to see her dad with his hand over his mouth, trying, not very hard, not to laugh.

  Looking at Essie and wiping his eyes, he said, like it was some great joke, “Well, now I can see that you meant it when you said you weren’t returning to riding.” He laughed and coughed before adding, “Don’t you think this might be taking the whole restoration of junk thing a bit too far, you two?” With that he swung around to them both, a large, ridiculous smile spread across his face, like he was the funniest man on earth, and they were stupid for not getting the joke. Or worse, they were the joke.

  Essie felt sick. Some part of her had hoped – well, she didn’t really know what she’d hoped. Maybe that she and her dad and a pony being in the same place might have given them even a moment’s conversation, like it had before. But here he was ridiculing the pony, who couldn’t help the way she was, and worse, ridiculing Francesca and her furniture business as well. Essie felt her face and the back of her neck get hot. How dare he? And in front of Caroline, too.

  Just as quickly the anger dissolved into a strong desire to cry. Essie turned and hid her face in the pony’s neck, feeling the stubble under her hand where her mane was rubbed out, then feeling anger rise again, she busied herself putting the rugs back on, her face turned away. She was saved by Caroline. “A vet could scan to see if she has a microchip,” she suggested.

  Grateful for the change of subject, Francesca replied, “We had the vet out to scan her this morning. How is it you know about horses, Caroline?”

  “My aunt had them; she was quite a successful rider. I spent a fair bit of time with her – it was a long time ago, though,” she said.

  “Don’t get fi
lthy, darling,” said Steven as Caroline rubbed the mare’s neck. “Your interview, remember?” he admonished.

  Turning to look at him, Caroline smiled. “The hotel will be on a farm – pony smell and a bit of dirt under my nails might stand me in good stead.”

  Then, as if to make amends, Caroline went on, “But you’re right, we’d better watch the time. Smelling like pony is one thing; being late for an interview is something else.”

  The four of them reached an awkward silence. Essie still couldn’t look up, but finally Francesca said, “Yes, you’d better get going – we wouldn’t want you to be late. Good luck with the interview, Caroline.” She nodded coolly at Steven.

  “Thank you,” said Caroline. “It was nice to meet you.”

  There was no avoiding it. Essie stepped across the lounge, bracing herself for her dad’s hug. Leaning down, he whispered, “I was more than happy to buy you a really nice horse, and send you to boarding school with great instructors, Hope, but I’m not paying for that. Not everything can be recycled, you know.” His tone was half-ridicule, half-persuasion.

  Before she could stop herself, Essie whispered back, so that only he could hear, “No one wants you to pay for anything, Dad. You put Mum and me out in the recycling, but I think we’re still valuable.”

  Steven pulled back from Essie, holding her shoulders and staring down at her. He looked wounded, and seemed to expect her to take the words back. Essie willed herself to hold his gaze, fighting the urge to cry and apologise. She wouldn’t see him for six months, but her hurt on behalf of the pony and Francesca stopped her. Why should she say sorry? He never did.

  She was saved by Doddsy calling out, “We’re going to the shed to see if the water is hot,” as she and Pete, carrying a dozing Josh, stepped into their boots.

  “Lonely? Lonely?” called Doddsy as they started across the grass. With a brrrk and a scramble the funny little hen appeared from under the lounge, stretching her wings and taking off on yellow legs. Steven stepped back awkwardly, cursing under his breath.

  “Right, you need to get on the road, and we need to wash our pony,” said Francesca firmly, shutting down the conversation.

  “Yes, we’d better be going,” said Steven, having the last word even as he was walking away, before turning back and addressing Francesca. “I think we probably need to discuss this situation as parents,” he said, sounding pompous.

  “That’s a great idea,” smiled Francesca, with a wave. “Let’s be sure to do that when you get back from Germany in six months and are back being a parent”.

  “Sure,” he said, not biting. “Maybe I’ll have a look at some German riding ponies while I’m away. Shame you’ve already got a horse, Hope.” He smiled as he climbed into the car, then drove too fast out of their short street.

  For a moment neither Essie nor Francesca said anything, then Francesca turned to Essie and said, “And that is what’s referred to as behaving like a horse’s ass. Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” said Essie, shrugging her shoulders with a small smile. There was no way she’d admit to being otherwise.

  Francesca turned and walked back to the house, shaking her head. She seemed strangely pleased about something, but she said nothing more.

  Inside, Connie and Percy were putting away the last of the dishes.

  “Ah no,” laughed Francesca, grabbing the tea towel from Percy and pretending to flick him with it. “No cleaning up. What is the point of me inviting you for brunch if you have to clean up?”

  “It was nothing,” smiled Connie. “Percy and I were just saying, we have a pile of timber at our place from old apple crates. They might work better than the lounge to convert the carport for now?”

  “Ah, that’s lovely of you,” said Francesca. “But despite all my furniture tools, I don’t have any idea about that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll come have a look, Percy,” said Rob. “If that’s all right?” he added, turning to Essie and Francesca.

  Essie frowned. She was used to the neighbours in their little street helping each other out, but didn’t this guy have somewhere to be?

  As if reading her mind, Rob said, “I’ve got a bit of time before my next cattle pick-up, so I can at least have a look.”

  “That would be great,” agreed Francesca, “but honestly, I have to pay you for your time somehow.”

  Rob looked thoughtful, and for a moment Essie was gripped by panic. Please don’t let him say something hideous like “have dinner with me”. Just thinking about it made her cringe.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “what about this? My mum has to move into an assisted care place, and she can’t take too much with her, but she’s determined to take her old reading chair. Says she sat in it with us as kids, and with all her grandkids, but it has stains all over it. Could you re-cover it for me? She’s got some fabric already. Would that be a fair exchange?”

  “I’d happily cover the chair just for bringing the pony home, but if that works for you that would be great.”

  “Deal,” said Rob, reaching out to shake her hand.

  Essie felt herself breathe out. Cover a chair for his old mum? A good guy, then.

  “Excellent, let’s start the wood hunt.” Percy smiled, cap back on. “If we do a nice job of it, Francesca might make your mum up a cushion or two.” He winked as he stepped out the door, Rob close behind. They could be heard talking and making plans as they crossed the lawn.

  Connie picked up the horse book, flicking through it. “Percy will remember who this belongs to in the middle of the night and wake me up to tell me, you know,” she said softly.

  A click of the camera snapped them back to attention. “Aido,” sighed Essie, “cut that out, at least let me know if you’re taking my photo.”

  Taking another shot of Essie’s disgruntled face, Aiden laughed, and replied, “I’m hardly hiding in the shrubs – you knew I was here. It’s all for my documentary, which was your idea,” he pointed out.

  “Hmm,” said Essie, “I think as part of a triple word score it would be documentary, undercover followed by stalking or sneaking, none of which sounds good, does it?”

  “I better get home to my jobs,” said Connie, hugging Francesca and smiling at Aiden and Essie.

  “Aiden, do get a trim,” said Connie, brushing the blue black curls back from his forehead where he leaned over his camera.

  “Yes, Connie,” he said without looking up.

  “Oh, Francesca, have you got some paper towel?” called Connie, stopping in the hallway. “I’ll pick up this little message that Lonely left here before someone walks it through the house.”

  “It’s okay, Connie, I’ll do it,” said Essie. “I’ve got to go and pick up a bunch of big messages from the pony, and Lonely’s was worth it for the look on Dad’s face.” Before she could stop herself, Essie burst out laughing. The others held back for a second before joining in. Coming back in through the door, Doddsy said, “You lot sound like a bunch of old hens,” which only set them off even louder.

  Tipping the wheelbarrow of manure onto the compost pile, Essie cursed under her breath. The icy wind that had been blowing all day whipped her hair into her mouth. Grabbing her ponytail, she twisted it and shoved it under her beanie. The same irritating wind, and the fact that the hot water service kept tripping the power in the shed, meant that the still-nameless pony’s bath had been delayed. Essie felt terrible that she’d had to wait, but Percy had called one of the local electricians, and he had only come this morning.

  Turning back to the house, she paused to smile at the job Rob and Percy had done closing in the carport and making the pony a stall. They had used the planks from the big, old wooden apple crates that used to go on the truck to the markets, each half as tall as Essie, with “Loves Apples” stamped on the side. A rustic stable door was the final touch. They’d left the lounge in front of the new wall, turning it so it faced out towards the street.

  When it was first done, Essie had wondered if they should ca
ll the pony Apples, but it didn’t suit. Each day as the mare got healthier, her personality got brighter and stronger. A name like Apples belonged to a cute Shetland pony.

  Stopping to check the letterbox, Essie turned at the sound of a car, stepping back as a courier van pulled into their driveway. The window lowered and a round-faced man smiled down at her. “Morning,” he said. “Delivery for Cannan.”

  “That’s us,” said Essie, not surprised. Francesca ordered fabric online, so they often got deliveries.

  He passed Essie a clipboard and asked, “Can you sign for it?”

  “Sure,” she said, signing and swapping the clipboard for a large, slippery courier bag. Just as Essie thought, more fabric.

  Francesca met Essie as she struggled back with the wheelbarrow, holding the bag under her arm.

  “Why didn’t you chuck it in the wheelbarrow, you crazy thing?” Francesca said. “I didn’t think I was waiting on anything – shows I order too much stuff, I guess.” She spun the bag to read the delivery docket, then made a surprised sound. “Well, I’m not getting forgetful after all – it’s not for me.”

  “Well, the guy said it was for Cannan,” replied Essie with a shrug.

  “That bit’s right,” agreed Francesca, “but in this case the Cannan is H. Cannan, and that’s you.” She passed the bag to Essie, but Essie didn’t reach for it.

  “Here, take it,” laughed Francesca.

  Taking hold of the slippery bag, Essie turned it, her dad was the only one who called her Hope, but the pen had smudged and the return address was unreadable. “H Cannan?” she asked, looking up at her mum.

  “It must be from your dad.” Francesca smiled. “Open it up, come on.”

  Essie held the bag a moment or two longer, trying to figure out if her mum knew what it was. Shaking her head, Francesca said, “I promise I know nothing about it.”

  Gripping the strong plastic, Essie tried to pull it apart. At first it just kept stretching, until finally a small part gave way and she could hook her finger in and pull hard.