The Matchmaker

by Stella Gibbons

  She soon insisted that he should use her Christian name, which he thought very pretty, too pretty for its owner, whom he continued to regard with disapproval, though after a time as he became more used to her noisy ways and frank manner he ceased to notice them. He grew to look forward to the daily lessons and to enjoy laughing with a girl, whose woman’s laugh was so different from that of his comrades at the camp. But she seemed to him, despite her boldness and her education, a silly young creature, towards whom he could feel superior and indulgent. Sometimes, on days when it rained, he would lounge beside her on the granary sacks, chewing a straw and looking at her out of half-shut eyes and thinking how feeble was her strength compared with his own; that she talked too much; that she let him see what was in her mind; that her voice was too loud; and then Sylvia, not liking the half-contemptuous expression in his eyes and on his mouth, would sharply tell him to sit up “properly” and pay attention to the lesson—and, smiling, he would lazily obey.

  “Does he behave himself—not rude to you or anything?” Mrs. Hoadley asked her, at the end of the first week’s lessons.

  “I should hope so! He’d better.”

  “No, but does he? because Mr. Hoadley’s only letting him have the lessons as a favour to you, you know, Sylvia, because he’s pleased with your work.”

  “Is he ? Goody. No, honestly, Mrs. Hoadley, Fabrio’s no trouble at all and he’s getting on ever so well. He’s quite intelligent, really, when you get to know him a bit, though he doesn’t say much.”

  “I don’t expect he gets a chance, with you about.”

  “I do talk a lot, don’t I?” laughing and grimacing. “Oh well, I must get cracking—a rivederci!” and she bounced away.

  Mrs. Hoadley, whose instincts as a respectable matron and an employer of female labour under the age of twenty-one had only been aroused by some sharp inquiries from her husband, was satisfied that all was proceeding respectably, and said no more. Fabrio continued to smile enigmatically at the bawdy jokes made on the subject by Emilio, and Emilio continued to try to kiss Sylvia whenever the opportunity occurred, and to be pushed away as vigorously as her small hands could push.

  And it was the second week in March; red rays of sunset pierced between lilac clouds in the lengthening evenings, shining through the hazel coppice where Alda and the children moved from cluster to cluster of primroses, pulling the long stems of the flowers from their nests of cool leaves; thrushes sang in the budding elms and cold scents breathed up from the freshening grass and were blown across from distant fields; even on days when there was no rain the pools and ditches gave out their faint watery odour, and the hedges were dimly green above thick mats of budding violets.

  16

  JENNY HAD RECEIVED and greatly enjoyed her first hour of instruction upon a sly, stout, wilful pony named Blackberry who realised that in Jenny she had met her mistress; and on this fine Saturday afternoon Louise was to go out for the first time with Jean. At four o’clock the party from Pine Cottage was to present itself at Meadow Cottage to take tea with Mr. Waite.

  “Can I come too?” implored Jenny, standing at the gate as Jean and Louise came down the path; Jean in jodhpurs and jacket made by a house famous for sports clothes, and Louise in some which had been given her, against Alda’s wish, by Eglantine Peers.

  Alda had written a markedly formal note, thanking Mrs. Peers for the jodhpurs and adding that she would have preferred to buy them or to make an exchange with some of Jenny’s clothes. She had heard no more of the matter beyond a vague remark from Eglantine to the effect that “Oh yes, Mummy did get it.” It appeared that Eglantine had been evacuated to America for the first three years of the war and “gets all the clothes she wants from there.” Alda set her lips and did not try to feel grateful. Jenny herself wore riding breeches that had belonged to her cousin Richard (“As if it weren’t bad enough to have to wear his beastly pyjamas”).

  “I should like you to,” Jean now answered in reply to Jenny’s request. “The more the merrier.”

  “It won’t be a lesson, it’ll just be me on Strawberry, so I shouldn’t think he’d charge as much as he would for a proper lesson, would you? I have got four shillings saved up.”

  “Forget it, infant. This is my treat.”

  “Thanks awfully, Jean darling, it is kind of you. Egg gets five shillings a week pocket money, don’t you think it’s a terrific lot for a girl of her age?”

  “I used to get ten shillings when I was twelve.”

  “And you could buy more, too, in those days, before the war. Tell me about what you used to buy.”

  As they walked down the road under the airy shadows cast by the giant elms Jenny and Jean gossiped cheerfully but Louise was silent. When they reached the stables they found Mr. Mead leading out two ponies.

  “Will it be all right for Strawberry and Blackberry to go out with Socks?” inquired Jenny. “Do they like each other?”

  “They’re old friends,” smiled Mr. Mead. “There you are. That’ll be better for you,” to Louise, as he shortened Blackberry’s stirrups. “Not nervous, are you?”

  “Of course she isn’t,” said Jenny haughtily. Louise swallowed and said nothing.

  “Oh, you beauty,” exclaimed Jean. A long golden head with a white mark upon the nose suddenly reared over the gate of a nearby stable; and a great eye like a jewel rolled round at them.

  “Ah, that’s Shooting Star,” said Mr. Mead, glancing up. “He is a beauty, you’re right. He needs exercise but there isn’t anyone round here that’s good enough to ride him.”

  Jean was advancing to caress Shooting Star’s nose but thought better of it when he flung up his head and neighed; she heard his hoofs striking the stones, not in anger but in pettish boredom as he retreated from her, and all the force and fury of the life in his body seemed to ring in the sound. People always imitate a horse’s neigh as if it were funny, she thought, but when you actually hear it, it isn’t funny in the least.

  “That’s right. Now I’ll go and get Socks,” said Mr. Mead.

  Strawberry and Blackberry, who were sisters, stood side by side, saddled and ready, and Jenny and Louise respectfully patted them and commented upon their looks.

  “Strawberry looks gentle,” said Louise. “Is Blackberry gentle too?”

  “Oh, she’s got a will of her own when she likes, they both have,” said Mr. Mead, “but you mustn’t let her get away with it; you show her you’re the mistress, see? Be gentle with her but have your own way. Now—up you go.”

  Meanwhile, Jean had been inspecting her own mount, Socks. He also was black; a young-middle-aged horse lacking in personality, with two white socks on his forelegs. In a few minutes they moved off down the track leading from the stables, into the rough open meadows and paddocks where the horses were exercised and the less experienced riders came for canters and gallops.

  Jean had a good seat, but did not ride so well as she appeared to do, for her power over the horse sometimes failed her just when it was most necessary, and this afternoon she did not feel quite at ease; the air was wild with that floating spring sweetness, rising from the earth and breathing out from woods under the changing sky, which dizzies and intoxicates human beings and horses even when encountered on a chance wind in the streets of a city, and how much more so when it sweeps unrestrained over open country! Jenny rode upon one side of her, completely at ease upon Strawberry although she had never ridden her before, and on the other side sat Louise, holding on to the pommel of Blackberry’s saddle and smiling constrainedly.

  “Now,” said Jean, when they had ridden through a marshy coppice and halted in a meadow enclosed on three sides by hedges from which burst puffs of white blackthorn bloom, “we’ll tie Blackberry up to this gate, Louise, and you can watch while I give Jenny a lesson. Then it’ll be your turn.”

  Louise smiled faintly and nodded. Jean thought it wisest to ignore this lack of enthusiasm, and dismounted and led Blackberry to the gate, over which she slipped the rein. Jenny sat pi
cturesquely upon Strawberry the while, and Socks stood like a horse made of wood staring dully at the distance. Jean remounted, took Strawberry’s rein and led her out into the middle of the field, where she began to put pony and rider through their paces, gently criticising the position of Jenny’s hands and heels and forcing Strawberry (whose one desire was to fill herself with moist grass and who brought home to Jean the meaning of the words “eating like a horse”) to lift her head from her banquet, and trot.

  The field lay upon a slight incline, and overlooked another wilder field streaked with dark belts of coarse reeds and water, and bearing thickets of old thorn trees here and there. It was separated from the meadow in which they were riding by the hedge to which Blackberry was tethered, and lower down it was not easy to see if this hedge remained unbroken, or if there were gaps in it. Suddenly there sounded a high, shrill neigh. Jean glanced across to the wild meadow and there, running along with mane flying and looking like a steed from a fairy tale, was a young white stallion. He was coming down towards the hedge.

  Strawberry pricked up her ears and eagerly lifted her head towards the sound, and neighed in answer, and at the same instant Socks started forward, plunging and rearing. Jean reined him tightly in, speaking to him in a low soothing voice which she interrupted only to say quickly to Jenny, who was struggling to rein in Strawberry, “That’s right—grip with your knees and shorten rein—it’s all right, they’re only saying ‘hello’ to each other.”

  The stallion had halted a little way from the hedge and now stood gazing towards them. He lifted his head and neighed again. Jean, still struggling with Socks, who was trembling all over, gazed anxiously at the hedge. Could the stallion get through? Her heart was beating fast. She had never realised how immensely strong a horse is. It was all that she could do, by exerting her utmost strength, to rein Socks in.

  “She’s going to run away,” gasped Jenny, almost crying. “Oh Jean—I can’t hold her!” At that moment Jean saw a confused movement by the gate and there came a scream from Louise:

  “Jean—Jean, it’s running away!”

  She turned her head, and was in time to see Blackberry in agitated movement and Louise falling to the ground, screaming as she fell.

  “God,” said Jean and, crying to Jenny to hold on, urged her horse forward.

  In a few seconds she had reached Louise’s side and dismounted. It was not so bad as she had feared. Blackberry had shaken her rein loose from the post and was feeding apparently undisturbed at a little distance away, and Louise was crouching in the grass hysterically crying. She seemed unhurt.

  “It’s all right, ducky, you’re quite safe. Don’t make such a fearful noise—you’re frightening Strawberry,” said Jean, putting her arm around her shoulders. But Louise continued to cry in a sobbing scream, while tears poured from her eyes. Her face was distorted with terror.

  “Oh—oh—don’t make me get on her again—please, please, don’t!”

  “Are you hurt anywhere?” asked Jean, and Louise sobbingly shook her head.

  “Then get up and do stop that awful noise,” said Jean, even with sternness. “Look, here comes Jenny to see what on earth’s the matter.” But Louise continued to shudder and wail.

  Jenny had now controlled Strawberry and came trotting up, with a frightened face. The stallion’s neigh came shrilly to them again, and Jean glanced across and saw him scouring backwards and forwards along the hedge as if seeking an entry.

  “It’s all right, he can’t get through, there’s no gap,” said Jenny, following the direction of her look, “I’ve made sure as I came along.”

  “Thank goodness,” muttered Jean.

  “Is Weez hurt?” asked Jenny anxiously.

  “I don’t think so—only frightened. Weez, ducky, do pull yourself together—they’ll hear you at Horsham.”

  “I want to go home,” wailed Louise.

  “Yes, do let’s go home, please, Jean,” added Jenny. “I don’t feel like riding any more.”

  “Neither do I, heaven knows,” said Jean feelingly. “All right, then. Jenny, you just stay where you are, if you feel you can manage Strawberry. Now, Weez darling, I’ll catch Blackberry, and——”

  “Oh, don’t make me get on her again, please don’t!”

  Jean glanced helplessly in Blackberry’s direction and was dismayed to see that she had strayed down to the hedge towards the stallion and was wandering about cropping the grass with the reins tangled about one of her forelegs. Jean knew from experience that she would not be easy to catch. Then she looked back at Jenny, who was frowning and shaking her head, mutely imploring that she should not force Louise to remount.

  “All right—if you really feel you can’t,” she said cheerfully, taking Louise’s hands. “Now up you get—that grass is wet—and I’ll catch Blackberry, and Jen and I will take the horses back to the stable while you stay here. All right?”

  “It can’t get through the hedge and get me, can it?” and Louise cast a fearful glance towards the stallion.

  “Of course not, but even if he could, he wouldn’t hurt you. He’s only feeling good because it’s a lovely day.”

  “I hate him,” sniffed Louise. “Oh, must you both go? Can’t Jenny stay here?”

  It was plain that Jenny would have to. Louise was still trembling and her face wore that peculiar, pallid greenish hue which only follows deep terror and shock, and all the while she was speaking she convulsively grasped and ungrasped Jean’s hands.

  “Of course she can,” she comforted, and gave to Jenny, who was gravely watching them, a meaning look which meant “Take great care of her.” “Now I’ll go and catch Blackberry.”

  Jenny dismounted and led Strawberry, who appeared perfectly docile, to the gate, and tethered her. Then she took off her jacket and spread it upon a sandy bank and made Louise sit down, and as Jean walked down the slope towards the pony, she saw out of the corner of her eye that Jenny had found a dirty handkerchief in Louise’s pocket and was carefully (but without so much tenderness as to increase the patient’s self-pity) wiping her eyes. What a gem the child is, she thought, but, of course, she does happen not to be afraid of horses. Thank goodness Socks is behaving himself (Socks was peacefully eating grass near the gate where Strawberry was tethered). I misjudged him.

  She had, indeed.

  Upon seeing her approach, Blackberry gave an impatient toss of the head as if to say, “Oh lord, there’s no peace nowadays,” and absently moved a few paces on; then, as Jean ran down towards her, she broke into a trot and made for the hedge. There was the quick sound of hoofs on turf, a squeal, and the stallion’s head reared above the frail wall of greening thorn, full eye glittering, nostrils distended, the white of muzzle and forehead shading and rippling under the light as if dull velvet changed to shining satin, and all proclaiming such wild innocent joy in the spring day that Jean cried out, “Hello, you lovely boy! I hope you can’t jump that hedge!” as she ran forward and triumphantly caught Blackberry’s rein.

  The stallion restlessly watched while she disentangled the pony’s reins from between the hoofs; it took some time, because Blackberry would not move when she was told to, and once or twice she trod on Jean’s feet, bruising them with her solid, immovable, frightening weight. But at last she was freed, and Jean led her back to the children.

  “It’s no use, she won’t ride again,” said Jenny in a lowered tone, coming to meet her. Louise was still sitting upon the jacket, looking sulky. “And she won’t be left, either. What shall we do?”

  Jean judged that she had been giving her sister a lecture on cowardice and horsemanship, for she was glowing with righteousness and bustle, but in spite of this, when Jean suggested that Jenny should ride each pony in turn back to the stables while she herself rode Socks, Louise refused to let her go.

  “I want Jenny,” she said obstinately, trembling and pale.

  “Oh Weez, do pull yourself together! I can’t ride Socks back and lead both the ponies too. I’m not experienced enoug
h.”

  “Can’t you ride them all back one at a time?” suggested Jenny.

  “That would make us so late at Meadow Cottage; it’s half-past three now. Well, I shall just have to make two journeys, that’s all. You are a trial, Weez ducky,” she added mildly, as she went off to catch Socks.

  “Sorry,” gulped Louise and began to cry.

  Jean thought it best to take no notice. She mounted Socks (who surprised her by jerking his head away with bared teeth as she caught at the reins) and called to Jenny to bring Blackberry. Then, holding the pony’s rein, she called cheerfully, “Shan’t be a moment,” touched Socks with her heels, and rode off.

  The track ran beside a meadow bordered by chestnuts, those trees whose bounteous lower branches sweep groundwards and in summer form a level roof of green above meadows hazy with light.

  As they drove near one of the lowest-drooping boughs, Socks swerved towards it and increased his pace, and Jean, taken by surprise and hampered by Blackberry, only succeeded by an exertion of strength which she did not know that she possessed in pulling him up short immediately in front of the tree. He snorted, and stood still.

  “Trying to sweep me off, were you, my beauty,” she muttered, trembling unpleasantly as she turned him round and forced him back to the track. “All right, now I know what you’re like. I only hope we get home safely.”

  The next few minutes passed uneasily; she felt that something was going to happen; however, nothing did; Socks continued at his natural awkward pace that was neither canter nor gallop and Blackberry ran at his side, keeping well clear, Jean noticed, of his hoofs. The stables came in sight; she turned Socks towards them, and with Blackberry following they rode past the sheds on either side into the yard.