by K. M. Peyton
Fired with Ron’s inspirations, she swopped paper rounds by offering the boy who did ‘The Place’ a shilling a week, and called on the builder to ask if she could use his field. He said, ‘Yes, do, dearie. No responsibility taken if he breaks a leg, though, tell your daddy.’ He was on the telephone at the time, and spoke to her between conversations to head office, and what meant so much to Ruth meant obviously so little to him that Ruth came out of his office dazed by the ways of the world. That night she cleared a gap into the field and Fly-by-Night galloped through, tail swirling. The field was about an acre in size, with a good hedge all round it. The grass came up to the pony’s belly, brushing his thick thighs with its powdery flowers, and Fly grazed avidly. Ruth watched him, filled with the warm happiness that was her reward when things went right.
‘Oh, you will get fat and shine,’ she said to Fly. ‘And be good.’
The bare garden with its ugly bumps and pot-holes and dock leaves and thistles disgusted her.
‘Fancy thinking it was good enough,’ she thought.
Elizabeth ran down the garden to meet her and Ruth swung her round by the hands. She liked Elizabeth. Now, when everything was right, with Elizabeth laughing and twirling round till they were both giddy, Ruth could see herself jumping round the Hunter Trials course at Brierley Hill, and Fly-by-Night galloping, ears pricked up, and herself riding beautifully, like Peter McNair. ‘Oh, Peter McNair,’ she thought with a sudden wrench, ‘you could show me how to make Fly walk and trot and canter in obedient circles!’ She put Elizabeth down, and thought, ‘I must find this Pymm girl. I haven’t the nerve to go to the McNairs for advice.’
Delivering the papers, it was a week before she set eyes on a Pymm, linger as she might. It was Mrs. Pymm, and she did not look even faintly horsy, as Ruth had hoped, but more like an actress, with dyed blonde hair and tight pink trousers. Ruth was decidedly taken aback and stood on the doorstep clutching the Daily Mirror and the Financial Times until Mrs. Pymm put out a hand for them.
‘Oh, s – sorry.’
Mrs. Pymm gave her a disapproving stare, took her papers and disappeared inside without a word. Four more days passed and Ruth saw no one but an aristocratic Boxer dog. She felt that Ron’s idea was not so brilliant after all, and lost interest. In a few more days she would start at the new school. It was September, warm and golden, and she was alone with her problems.
But when she went up the drive of the Pymm residence the following Sunday morning, a girl was coming out of the front door with the Boxer dog. She was about thirteen, but very elegant, with long pale hair, a pale, sad face, honey-coloured jeans and a white blouse. Ruth was instantly conscious of her feet in their dog-proof gum boots and her muddy jeans and shirt, and shifted her paper-sack nervously on her shoulder. The girl made no attempt to communicate, coolly staring, so Ruth was forced to take the initiative, or for ever regret a lost opportunity. Hot with embarrassment, she fumbled over the papers and said, ‘Have you got – er, I mean, someone – someone told me you’ve got a pony?’
‘Yes,’ said the girl, not smiling.
‘Do you – you keep it here?’
‘Yes.’
‘I – I’ve got one, too.’
‘Oh.’
‘The thing is, mine’s not – not broken in, really. I – I –’ Ruth could feel herself getting hotter and hotter as the Pymm girl went on staring without her expression showing the remotest interest. Only for the sake of Fly-by-Night’s salvation could she have risked such an ordeal. She finished desperately, ‘I wondered if – if – oh, it’s just that I wondered if you had a pony, you might be able to help me.’
Afterwards she realized that an appeal for help was the best way she could have thought of for melting the Pymm sophistication. Even this cool girl was not averse to accepting the role Ruth’s plea accorded to her. She noticeably unfroze, said, ‘Oh,’ again, but quite pleasantly this time, and added, ‘My pony’s round the back. Do you want to see it?’
‘Oh, yes, please!’
Ruth dropped the paper-sack on the front doorstep, quivering with excitement. She had never seen round the back of ‘The Place’, for the house was hemmed about with ancient shrubberies and big trees in such a way as to give no vistas to the casual visitor. But, on following the girl round the far corner of the house, Ruth was pleasantly surprised to see a big garden reveal itself, all shaved lawn and immaculate rosebeds, and, beyond it, a paddock ringed round with old elms. There was a garage for two cars, a lot of gravelled space, and a rose-brick building that was presumably the old stables, for the Pymm girl led the way towards it.
‘It’s in here.’
A loose-box door looked out over the yard. Ruth went to the open top-door and looked in. ‘It’ was a grey mare, old enough to be, in fact, pure white. She looked to Ruth to be an Arab, with her beautiful arched neck and wide-apart eyes. A fine silky mane fell down her shoulder, catching the light as she turned her head; Ruth saw the wide nostrils flicker, the eyes shining. The mare, standing just under fourteen hands, was as lovely an animal as Ruth ever expected to lay eyes on. She gazed at her in speechless admiration.
The Pymm girl stood by the door, her face showing nothing. Ruth gathered herself together, trying not to appear imbecile. She felt herself bursting with hot enthusiasm, but the Pymm girl’s unexcitement curbed her.
‘Oh, she’s beautiful!’
‘Yes.’
How could the girl, Ruth wondered, not rave with happiness at owning such a celestial creature? But the face showed no pride or joy, only a slightly sulky boredom. Ruth was baffled.
‘Is she an Arab?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Milky Way.’ The girl grimaced. ‘I call her Milly.’
Ruth was shocked. Milly . . . not even Milky. ‘Have you had her long?’
‘Three years.’
‘Do you show her?’
‘Sometimes. She always wins. She cost seven hundred pounds, so she should.’
Ruth was silenced. She thought of scruffy little Fly-by-Night, her forty-pound pony, and her problems. A hard knot of obstinacy stiffened her; she had not come to be awed.
‘If – if you go for a ride, sometimes, perhaps – perhaps we could go together?’
‘I usually ride in the field. But I could come with you, I suppose.’
‘I ride down Mud Lane and in the fields down there. I live on the new estate. I shall go down there this afternoon if – if you want to come?’
‘I’m going out all day. But I could come this evening, I suppose.’ The girl’s eyes were a pale yellow-green, wary, slightly suspicious. Ruth did not think she ever smiled. Ruth said, ‘Would about six be all right? If you want to come?’
‘All right, I’ll call for you. Where do you live?’
‘South View. It’s on the left. Seven houses along.’
Ruth finished her paper round and ran home with great leaps, being Fly-by-Night doing the Hunter Trials. Ron and Ted were sitting in the drive, poring over bits of motor bike.
‘I’ve done it! I’ve met her! She’s coming riding with me!’
‘Help! Two of them!’ Ted moaned.
‘What’s she like?’ Ron asked.
‘Well . . .’ Ruth hesitated. ‘I don’t really know, yet. She’s queer.’
‘You should have a lot in common, then,’ Ted said.
‘She’s a lot queerer than me. I didn’t find out what her name is. Do you know it?’
‘Pearl,’ Ron said.
‘Pearl Pymm? It doesn’t go.’
‘No. It was a joke in the village – Mrs. Pymm being mother-of-Pearl, I mean.’
‘Her pony is gorgeous. She said it cost seven hundred pounds.’
‘Only six hundred and sixty more than yours,’ said Ted.
‘Peanuts,’ said Ron.
Ruth got Fly-by-Night ready in plenty of time. She tied him to the fence and groomed him with her dandy-brush (that and a hoof-pick were the only grooming tools she possess
ed). His winter coat was just beginning to come through, giving him a richer look. The bay shone with the health of a ripe horse-chestnut, and the white hair was silvery as Milky Way’s own. Ruth stood back and looked at him, the pride of possession upon her. He jerked on his halter and looked back, all impatience and scorn, his little ears pricked up, one round hoof pawing at the turf. His hoofs were getting long and broken, Ruth noticed, with a pang of anxiety. She had put off getting him shod, because of the money, and because he did very little work on hard surfaces, and also because he was bad at picking his feet up and she was afraid a blacksmith would be impatient with the pair of them for their incompetence. But she thought she would not be able to put off getting him some attention much longer. ‘I will ask Pearl,’ she decided, and the thought gave her a pleasant shock at knowing, at last, someone to ask.
‘The Pearly Queen’s arrived.’ Ted came round the corner of the garage, grinning widely.
‘Oh, help!’ Ruth felt panicky, reaching for the bridle that hung on the fence.
‘She said she’d wait outside.’
‘Go and tell her I won’t be a minute.’ Fly-by-Night, sensing Ruth’s urgency, swung about and trod on Ruth’s foot. She swore at him, tears of agony blurring her vision. ‘Oh, you beast, you beast! Why aren’t you – you – elegant like Milky Way?’
She scrabbled for the girths, and Fly turned his head and gave her a sharp nip on the bottom. ‘I hate you!’ Ruth cried out. ‘Oh, you are beastly!’ But he followed her meekly enough round the side of the house and into the front garden.
At the sight of Pearl on Milky Way, both Ruth and Fly-by-Night stopped short. If Fly was surprised by the sight of the white mare, Ruth was no less astonished at the vision that was its rider. Pearl only lacked a Union Jack on her breast to be fit for competing in the Olympics: she wore an immaculate black jacket, snow-white breeches fitting like tights, and black boots. Her hair flowed out from under her hat in a pale cascade. She sat indolently, holding the mare’s head in so that Milky Way flexed her neck uncomfortably, flicking white drops of foam on to her chest. Ruth felt her mouth drop open, and made an effort to recover herself. But before she could say anything, Fly-by-Night let out a shrill whinny and plunged forward with such force that she was nearly lifted off her feet.
‘Idiot!’ She was out of the gate and on to the pavement, Fly churning wildly in circles, letting out frantic whinnies. Milky Way backed away cautiously and Pearl stared politely. Ruth could only hold on, while Fly’s hoofs slithered across the concrete road. She could scarcely hold him and felt herself flung about like a dead mouse with a cat. Her hat came down over her eyes, blotting out the vision of Pearl’s derisory snigger. Ruth wished she were dead.
‘Here, here, you daft pony.’ It was Ron who came to her rescue, his oily hand and wiry strength pulling Fly to a heaving standstill in the middle of the road. The pony was shaking all over, and still letting out high-pitched whinnies which brought all the neighbours out into their front gardens to see what was going on. Ruth felt herself going crimson.
Ron said, ‘I’ll hold him. Get on. Then I’ll lead him for a bit, till he settles. Don’t worry.’
‘Are you sure it’s all right?’
‘Yes, of course. He’s only excited, after being on his own all this time. I won’t let go.’
Ruth scrambled into the saddle and fumbled for her stirrups. ‘You go in front,’ Ron said to Pearl. ‘He should follow all right.’
Milky Way moved off, and Fly-by-Night was pulling madly to get behind her. Ruth, hot with shame, sat grimly down in the saddle, her fingers clenched on the reins. She was frightened, not only of what Fly might do, but of what Pearl was thinking. Fly-by-Night’s bare hoofs scuttered over the concrete. Ron, in his oily jeans and leather jacket, a spanner sticking out of his back pocket, hung on to the pony’s noseband, forcing obedience. They cavorted down the slope and across the main village street, then Pearl turned Milky Way into the quiet opening that was Mud Lane.
‘Down here?’
Ruth nodded, sticky with apprehension. ‘It’s all right,’ she said to Ron. ‘I’ll manage.’
‘He’ll settle,’ Ron said somewhat dubiously. He turned and looked at her, and smiled. ‘Okay?’
‘Mmm.’
Pearl was waiting, watching Ron distastefully. She held the lovely Milky Way on a very tight rein, even when she was walking, and Ruth began to wonder if, after all, Pearl knew a great deal more than she did.
‘If you walk on,’ she called to Pearl, ‘he should follow now.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ Pearl asked. Still holding the mare on a tight rein, she kicked her with her heels to make her walk on, and the mare did as best she could, over-bent and uncomfortable. Fly-by-Night bounded after her and jiggled along, pressed up close to her quarters, giving little eager whinnies. Milky Way was too well mannered to kick, but laid back her ears. Ruth concentrated on sitting well down in the saddle, ready for a buck or a shy, prepared for the worst. A part of her mind, at the same time, was thinking of the picture the two of them made, like a pony-book photograph captioned in big letters: ‘BAD’. Amidst all her anxiety, this part of her was already grieving, because she could see already that Pearl did not know. She was no female equivalent of Peter McNair, which was the role in which Ruth had cast her. In fact, if she had had Milky Way for three years, and still rode her at a walk on a rein so tight that the poor mare could hardly get her head past a vertical position, Ruth guessed that her ignorance was of the permanent kind, an ignorance in her own character, which did not permit her to admit that she did not know anything. This revelation was so great a blow to Ruth that she almost forgot to worry about Fly-by-Night.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Pearl asked again.
‘Nothing’s wrong with him,’ Ruth said. ‘He’s not used to being ridden in company, that’s all. I’m still breaking him in.’ If you could call it breaking in, she added to herself. She felt herself wallowing once more in this mire of frustration that was habitually overtaking her, because nothing went according to the books, and the books, for all their value, had no answer for this abyss that existed inside her which was lack of practical experience. Half of her concentration was always fixed on keeping her insecure seat – on herself, in fact. She sighed deeply, almost groaning.
In spite of her fears, Fly-by-Night did not disgrace himself. Anxious to keep as close to Milky Way as possible, he did not gallop headlong across the fields, nor refuse to go at all, for Milky Way was always moving at an impeccable pace just in front of his nose. He followed her avidly, and although it was plain that his schoolboy ardour annoyed her, she did not show her feelings beyond laying back her ears, because she was so well mannered. To Ruth, the ride was memorable more for the behaviour of Milky Way than the behaviour of Fly-by-Night.
Pearl rode badly. She sat well back on the saddle with her feet thrust forward, and held on by the reins. She had Milky Way in a double bridle, and the mare was cramped with discomfort. In spite of the difficulties Pearl provided for her, the mare’s manners were faultless. She had obviously been expertly schooled; she moved beautifully, and obeyed Pearl’s ham-handed aids with a willingness to please that roused a great pity in Ruth. Ruth could see that the mare would handle on a gossamer rein and quicken to the merest suggestion from the leg, yet Pearl pulled her about with her impatient, yellow-gloved hands and banged on her sides with her shining black boots as if her lovely Arab were some seaside donkey. And the trusting animal docility with which Milky Way accepted this gross treatment grieved Ruth. The mare had been so well schooled that it never crossed her mind to retaliate. She was all anxiety to obey, her dark eyes fretting and unhappy.
Conversation between the two riders was limited by Fly-by-Night’s excitement. Ruth had to concentrate, and Pearl maintained the rather superior, cool reserve that Ruth began to realize was her normal mariner.
‘Do you belong to the Pony Club?’ Ruth asked her when Fly chose to go demurely alongside for a few momen
ts.
‘Heavens, no,’ Pearl replied, with such scorn that Ruth did not dare ask her reasons. ‘I hunt,’ she added, without enthusiasm.
‘She doesn’t seem to be interested in anything much,’ Ruth told Ron when she got home. Pearl baffled her. ‘Not even riding. Only she did say she would come out with me again. So that’s something.’
‘You mean she’s horrible, but you’ll put up with her for the sake of your pony’s education?’
‘Something like that, I suppose. Not horrible, but – oh, queer. She seems so bored. And her poor pony. It’s so lovely, and she’s so – so unfeeling with her.’
‘She probably rides because it’s the thing to do. And she’ll come out with you because she’s lonely. Half her boredom is being lonely probably. She never went to the village school, because it’s free, and now she goes to some tin-pot private school somewhere miles away, so she doesn’t know anybody in the village.’
‘She doesn’t know much – she’s not horsy, in spite of having a pony. In fact, I think she – she’s worse than me.’
‘Good heavens!’ Ron looked appalled, teasing.
‘But it was a good idea, all the same. Your idea. I should think Fly will stop being so funny if I go out with them a few times. I mean, I can stand her if he improves. She might improve, too, come to that.’
‘Or you might meet someone at the new school.’
‘Oh, school!’ Ruth grimaced.
That was tomorrow.
6
SLOW PROGRESS
WHEN RUTH WENT to the new school she quickly discovered that there were no depths of horsy talent waiting to be plumbed among her new classmates. Four admitted to having ridden, one on a thirty-year-old Shetland pony, one on a heifer and two on donkeys. But on her fourth day at school, standing patiently in assembly while prayers were read, pretending she was Fly-by-Night lining up in the show-ring, mouthing an imaginary bit, she was startled by the sight of the boy who stepped up beside the headmaster to read the lesson (a dreaded task that she had learnt was liable to fall on any pupil at any time, forecast only by a list pinned up on the notice-board every Monday morning). The boy in his navy-blue blazer, red tie, and dark-grey trousers was fair and stocky, and spoke in a flat, untroubled voice which roused Ruth out of her dream. It was Peter McNair.