The Pony Question

by Jackie Merchant

  “Okay, I’ll see you then,” he called as he jogged away, hand supporting his camera.

  Moxie spun around to watch him go, jigging about on the spot, invading Essie’s space, agitated. Reorganising the lead rope in her hand, Essie scanned the ground for a twig or something she could use to tap Moxie across the chest, in the hope of stopping her barging forwards, but there was nothing. Giving up, she turned and started towards home. Walking seemed a better option than arguing with Moxie about standing still – an argument she was bound to lose with a short lead rope and an old halter.

  They walked up the slight slope of the gravel drive to the road, Moxie’s knees coming up high as she pranced and pulled. Essie tried to keep her pace to a walk, and hung onto the halter. She went from wondering how to get Moxie calm to just hoping she could get her back in her stable without losing hold of her.

  They cut across the front lawn, the grass slick with rain, and clods of dirt flicked up from the mare’s dancing hooves. As the stable door came into sight Moxie charged forwards into the stable. Essie quickly followed, shutting the door.

  They stood looking at each other as if for the first time. “Geez, Moxie,” said Essie, “what brought that on?” The mare dropped her head as Essie stepped up beside her and rubbed her neck before undoing the buckle on the old halter, slipping it off. As Moxie turned to her hay, Essie frowned. She knew nothing at all about this mare, who in one short walk had almost knocked her down and got away. This was no quiet kids’ pony. She’d have to search harder. She needed to know who Moxie was – the sort of things registration papers couldn’t tell her.

  ***

  Double-checking the spelling of Moxie’s name, Essie tapped it into the dusty keyboard, then, thinking about what Aiden had said, she added “German riding pony, palomino”. As she was about to hit “search”, her email sounded. She hovered her mouse over the search button for a moment, then with a sigh she clicked over to check her email. She was expecting some schoolwork to come in. But the email was from Steven.

  Essie sat staring at it. He’d said he would email while he was away, so he didn’t have to worry about time zones and waking people up. Easier than awkward calls where no one knew what to say, more like it, thought Essie. But he hadn’t even left Sydney yet, and he was already emailing.

  She considered ignoring it, but she hadn’t had any communication with him since she said goodbye at the carport so, holding her breath, she hit enter hard and sat back. It was just a couple of lines.

  “Hope, I’ll be touring around visiting German riding pony studs on my days off. My offer is still open for a new horse and boarding school, but that yellow pony would have to go. Dad X”

  Essie stared at the email for a moment. Was that the best he could do, really?

  She read it through a couple of times and then, tears threatening, found herself saying sarcastically, “Hello Ess, how are you feeling, darling? Still tired? Heading back to school soon? How are things going with your new pony? Need a hand with anything? I could head up and bring your horse gear up to you? Love Dad.”

  Attached to the email were three photos of the most beautiful ponies Essie had ever seen. The first was a bay gelding with four white socks, standing against a background of yellow trees. Next was a liver chestnut mare with a dribble of a blaze and one white hind sock, and then lastly, a dark grey mare doing an extended trot ridden by someone who didn’t look much older than Essie, in a big indoor arena. It was hard to believe Moxie was the same breed. You couldn’t deny they were magnificent, but how on earth did you buy a pony, Essie thought, spend all that money and transport it across the world, if you’d never even ridden it? She smiled briefly. They’d bought Moxie without riding her – they didn’t even know if anyone could ride her – but that was an unplanned rescue operation, not the purchase of an expensive horse.

  Essie wanted to say thanks, but I already have a German riding pony, but then she remembered the way he’d ridiculed Moxie, and knew that any response would open up a conversation she didn’t want to have, so instead she put it out of her mind and went back to her internet search.

  In seconds the screen filled with listings, none of which were anything to do with her Moxie. There had to be another way. Essie clicked on images. There was nothing in the first screen, but just as she was about try something else, an image of a palomino pony in a row of other horses caught her eye. Could it be Moxie? Clicking on it, Essie waited as the image enlarged, then slowly focused.

  There she was. It was Moxie, no doubting it. She stood as part of a presentation line-up. The caption read: “5-year-old young horse class, 1st place Romany Whistler, A Hawkins, 2nd place Moxie, owner J R French, ridden by J S O’Brien.”

  “Mum!” Essie called out, but there was no reply, the house was quiet. Francesca must be working. Picking up the open laptop, nearly dropping it in her excitement, Essie scuffed out to the studio and plonked the laptop down on her mum’s fabric cutting table, an old door on trestle legs. Francesca stood chewing on the end of a pen, gazing at a piece of material and a photo of a room Essie didn’t recognise.

  Turning to Essie and putting the pen through her knot of dark hair, she asked, “What have you found?”

  “I found Moxie,” said Essie, her voice high with excitement. “Look!” She pointed at the image on the screen.

  Francesca wiped her glasses on her work apron before slipping them on. “Well, I’ll be,” she said, staring at the photo, “you sure have. Is there anything else?”

  “I haven’t looked yet,” Essie confessed.

  “Well, save the image,” said Francesca, pulling her stool across to where Essie stood, “and then let’s go back and see what else we can find.”

  Essie bent down to pick up a tape measure she had knocked onto the floor, and when she stood up Steven’s email was somehow on the screen, with its shiny pony photos from Germany, and worse, its repeated offer of boarding school and a new pony.

  Essie panicked, quickly shutting her email down. A pause hung in the air but Francesca said nothing, and Essie prayed she hadn’t seen it. Opening up the internet browser Essie went back to her search like nothing had happened.

  “Try Moxie and the rider’s name, J S O’Brien,” suggested Francesca. The results took ages to load, and then listings were pouring down the page for Moxie and J S O’Brien – dressage competition results.

  “Champion Preliminary Pony, Victorian Summer Classic,” read Essie. She was about to click on the link when Francesca pointed and said, “Try this one.” It was a link to a page for J S O’Brien Performance Horses. Her mouth suddenly dry, Essie clicked on it.

  “We really should have checked the internet connection before we moved here,” Francesca joked as the circle spun. The reason why it was so slow became suddenly clear as the screen filled with beautiful professional photos of one dressage horse after another.

  “Wow,” Essie said.

  “Click that,” said Francesca, pointing to the “About us” button.

  It didn’t say much just, “We are a professional dressage stable, specialising in training, lessons and young horses. For more information on our facilities, training packages or horses for sale please contact us.”

  Essie scanned the site – there had to be more. She clicked on “past performers”, scrolling down the images, getting more disappointed as she went back one year, then two, but still no Moxie. Just as she was about to try another tab, Francesca gasped “There!”, pointing to a single shot of Moxie being ridden in an indoor arena, moving out in a beautiful forward trot, her neck a line of plaits, her tail a banner of white and her coat a dark, bright palomino. She looked as beautiful and talented as any pony Essie had ever seen. The caption read “Love working with this pony, she was bred to do this. Many thanks to John French for entrusting us with her, looking forward to a great season ahead.”

  Essie scrolled up and down looking for more, but there was nothing, just that one golden, shining post.

  “Well, you kno
w one thing, she’s broken in and she’s been out competing – and successfully, too,” said Francesca, taking off her glasses and looking at Essie.

  “Yes, but . . .” Essie paused. “How does a pony like that end up a pony like the one we bought by accident only two years later?”

  Francesca looked at her watch. “It’s not too late. There’s a number there – let’s call it and see what they can tell us.”

  Essie wiped a damp hand down the leg of her jeans. What if there was only one photo for some bad reason? What if – well, she didn’t even know exactly what she was frightened of, but right now every hope she had for Moxie felt possible. There was no guarantee that her background story was going to be a good one. She looked at Francesca, trying to figure out the best thing to do. Smiling, Francesca said, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” She put the phone on speaker and dialled.

  The phone rang and rang. Finally it answered, but the voice message simply said “We are out with the horses, please leave a message and a return number.”

  Francesca stood, phone in hand, as the message beeped, then hung up. “We’ll try later,” she said to Essie. “Better to speak to someone than just leave a message, don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” said Essie, looking back at the photo of Moxie, so vital and full of life, a professional rider’s horse. She was more out of her horse depth, if that was possible, than when she tried to imagine riding the ponies in the photos Steven sent. At least they were far away on the other side of the world. Moxie was just on the other side of the studio wall.

  Essie stepped out of bed, nearly treading on the laptop, which sat on the floor where she’d put it after reading Moxie’s competition results late into the night. The results were from lower levels, where she’d done well. She’d had just one start at elementary level, two years before, then she’d vanished from competition.

  Essie heard the familiar whine of the front door hinges, the sound of her mum getting the Saturday morning paper that the delivery man always chucked into the gate. Opening her bedroom door, Essie watched her walking back across the front yard in her dressing-gown and gumboots, the paper folded open to the back.

  Before Francesca even spoke Essie knew she’d found a sale ad in the back of the paper. Her face as she came inside was animated.

  “There is a second-hand and antique shop having a closing down sale, fancy coming for a drive?” Francesca asked, heading for the kitchen, turning the kettle on. “It wouldn’t do us any harm to have a change of scenery just for the day? What do you think?”

  Essie wanted to say no, she wanted to spend the day with Moxie, she wanted to ring J S O’Brien Performance Horses, but it seemed unfair to send Francesca off by herself to work which was what was paying for Moxie, when they always went together.

  Making herself smile, Essie said, “Yeah, sure, I could try Moxie in the little paddock at Percy’s for the day; if he can keep an eye on her, she should be okay in there.” Hesitantly, she asked, “Could we ring the O’Brien people before we go?”

  Looking at the clock, Francesca said, “How about we do it when we get back? We can make some notes about what we want to ask them.”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Essie, frowning. She knew it was a good idea, but felt impatient just the same. “I’ll go and ask Percy now,” she said, slipping back down the hallway, her socks long over her toes. “What time will I tell him we’ll be back by?”

  “Depends on what’s there. I’d say mid afternoon, no later than around three. Do you want to see if Aiden wants to come for the drive?” asked Francesca.

  “Yes, can you text Doddsy?” asked Essie. “So if Percy checks Moxie at lunchtime and gives her hay, we should be back to give her dinner?” asked Essie.

  “Yep, well before. I’ll make sure we are.” Francesca smiled. “Do you want some breakfast?”

  “Yes, please,” Essie said, shoving her feet into her boots. “I don’t care what, I’ll be back in a minute,” she called, pulling the front door shut behind her.

  Percy came to the back door in his yard clothes, toast crumbs on the brown wool of his old gardening jumper and a tough old toenail poking through a hole in his sock. Catching her looking at it, he said, “Ask your farrier to call in next time he comes to see Moxie, will you, Ess?”

  When Essie explained why she’d come he smiled and said, “Of course I can keep an eye on her, tell me exactly what to do.” Essie smiled to herself as Connie got him a piece of paper and a pen, saying, “Your glasses are on your head” just as he began to turn and ask where they were.

  Moxie must have heard her coming back. She began calling out as Essie walked back around the side of the house. Essie looked at her beautiful head hanging over the door.

  “How did you ever end up there?” she whispered to her, scratching her ears. “And what did you do the last two years? Were you in that paddock the whole time?” So quick Essie didn’t see it coming, she felt the mare nip her on the arm, pinching the skin.

  “Hey!” Essie said sharply, smacking her. Moxie stepped backwards, shaking her head. “Biting is not on, Mox,” said Essie, watching a thin purple line appear, as she rubbed her arm hard.

  The mare snorted, covering Essie in a light spray of what she didn’t want to think of as snot.

  “Oh Mox, yuck” said Essie, wiping her face on her sleeve. “I’m dirty now. Might as well put you out, no pulling and spooking today, and you can cut that nipping thing out right now.” Essie felt a little alarm bell ring. The spooking and bad behaviour when she led her, the nip. Stop, she said to herself, it’s just two little things. But in the back of her mind she worried it wasn’t, and the small paddock seemed a long way away.

  Essie was cheating, letting Moxie pick at grass, not hurrying her, hoping if she let her eat all the way, she might avoid her mucking up. If Essie was honest, that had frightened her. She knew this wasn’t the way to do it, that she had to sort it out properly, but for now Essie was going to ignore it.

  She didn’t know who to ask for advice. Maybe Aido was right, maybe you could learn anything on the internet. Once she’d have discussed it with her dad. Maybe I could send him an email, Essie thought. Maybe if I asked for help? But by the time she walked Moxie, still eating, through the gate into the small grassy yard, she knew she wouldn’t. She remembered his face as he laughed at Moxie in her rugs, remembered his email and realised suddenly with a twinge, he must have left for Germany last night. “Thanks for the goodbye call, Dad,” she said as she rubbed Moxie’s neck.

  “Behave yourself for Percy today, won’t you Mox?” said Essie as the pony’s ears flicked forwards at Francesca coming around the corner. “Nearly ready for breakfast?” she asked.

  “Yep, all good. Percy should be fine, shouldn’t he?” Essie asked.

  “He’ll be more than fine,” she said. Francesca, who didn’t miss a trick, questioned, “How was she to lead today?”

  “Good,” Essie replied, pretending to be busy double-checking the gate latch.

  Changing the subject, Essie turned towards the house and said, “It’ll be good to have change of scenery, view,” but here she got stuck, and before she could complete it Francesca jumped in with “landscape! No triple for you.”

  “I was about to say vista,” laughed Essie.

  “Nope, too slow. There goes Pete off to work,” said Francesca, waving. “Back on day shift. Hopefully they’re still on for Scrabble tonight.” The neighbours all played Scrabble once a month.

  “Right, let’s get organised. It’s only half an hour away, but we know the good stuff always goes early. Aiden is on his way over,” said Francesca, turning and walking quickly back to the house. The familiar hunt was on.

  “Who would have thought this pretty town was hiding in here?” said Francesca as Van-essa slowly rolled down the quiet main street. “There it is.” She pointed to the shop on other side of a large intersection, cut by a railway line.

  The shopfront was elegant. Stained-glass windows ran across the top in
squares of blue and green, and the large front windows were framed in black. Others like it stood empty up and down the street.

  Unlike the sale at Victoria, everything in this shop was displayed with care. Soft music played, and behind an antique front counter running the length of the shop sat an old lady. Her hair was white until about four centimetres from her scalp, where it turned black and her lipstick was a lolly pink. Beside her on the bench sat a sign that said, “Original counter for sale. Please ask for details.” As she read it, Essie felt a twinge, looking at the golden glow of the wood. It would be like taking the shop’s heart out.

  “Look at this,” Essie said, running her hand along the counter and tugging at Francesca’s sleeve. “It’d be nice for your studio,” she added, thinking of the old door she used as her cutting table.

  Overhearing them, the old lady said, “This used to be the general store. It sold everything. Flour by the scoop, fabric for dresses – the ruler is still attached to the bench – even ammunition. The counter and cabinets,” she indicated the cupboards behind her, “have been here from the first day. Shame to think it might be separated.”

  “Yes, it’s a great shame,” agreed Francesca quietly. Essie could see her brain whirring with possibilities. “There wouldn’t be many places that could fit it all as one, but you’re right, it’s sad.”

  “I’m hopeful the right person will come along.” The lady smiled, showing a line of pink lipstick across her teeth. “I’ve worked in this shop since I came here in 1960. End of the week I’ll turn the key in the door for the last time.”

  Essie couldn’t imagine being anywhere for that long.

  “Oh, that is sad,” said Francesca. “What will you do with all that spare time?”

  “Oh, not sad at all, dear,” said the old lady, her eyes brightening. “I’ve bought a campervan and I’m going around Australia.”