by Kate Lattey
“Sorry!” the girl in front of me says as she turns the black pony around. “Is your pony okay?”
“I think so,” I tell her, leaning well forward and trying to look as I struggle to hold Finn still. She’s still dancing around, seeming none the worse for wear. “I shouldn’t have gotten so close to you,” I admit.
“Bit hard not to, it’s so crowded here,” the girl commiserates, and I recognise her from last season, but can’t remember her name off the top of my head.
“I’d better go,” I tell her as I look up to see the steward waving at me frantically. “I’m next to jump.”
“That’s Final?” the girl asks and I nod. “I’m on after you,” she says. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, you too,” I wish her as I trot Finn towards the gate.
My pony seems to be moving fine, so I mentally cross my fingers and concentrate on the course. Blue and white oxer, left turn to the white vertical, four strides to the yellow oxer, right turn onto the planks…
Finn settles down slightly as we get going, and she takes the first three fences well, but gets in too close to the planks, and although she only gives it the lightest tap with her hooves, the top plank wobbles and tumbles to the ground. My heart sinks and my pony bucks on landing, tossing her head furiously. She hates knocking rails. I tell her to settle down and pay attention then, and we make the curving line to the next jump. Finn has wound herself up now though, and she spooks at the fill underneath it, then backs right off as though she’s going to refuse. I dig my heels in and ride Finn hard to the jump, and she takes off early and knocks the rail down with her hind feet. I do my best to hold her steady, but she rushes through the double, knocking both elements down, and taps the back rail off the triple bar to finish with an appalling 20 faults.
I’m fighting back frustrated tears as I trot Finn out of the ring. That was not how I’d planned to start the season, and the commentator is sympathetic.
“Unfortunately not the best round for Jay Evans and That’s Final. Next to jump will be Anneke Davies, and she rides Sine Qua Non.”
“Bad luck,” Tabby commiserates as I ride Finn over to her and pull a face. “She’s full of herself today! Don’t worry though, that was just the warm-up.”
I nod, trying to convince myself that it’s not a terrible omen for the rest of the day. “She’s so excited, I can’t keep her steady,” I complain to Tabby. “And then she got kicked by that pony just before she went in,” I add, gesturing towards Anneke’s black pony in the ring which is now jumping a perfectly controlled clear round.
Tabby frowns. “She got kicked? Where?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. In the leg I think, he didn’t kick up very high. Finn stumbled a bit but then she came right.”
“Hmm.” Tabby kneels down next to Finn, who has finally decided to calm down and stand still, allowing Tabby to run her experienced hands down my pony’s leg. “Looks like it got her in the knee. It’s blown up a bit already,” she says, and I slide off Finn’s back in horror to discover that Tabby is right. Finn’s left knee is swollen, and there’s a small cut on the front of it.
“Oh no!”
Tabby is feeling the leg for heat when Anneke rides past, patting her pony.
“Is she okay?” she asks, noticing me and riding over.
I shrug, consumed with worry, but Tabby glances up and smiles.
“She’ll be all right,” Tabby says. “We’d better get some ice on this though, see if we can’t get the swelling down. Your pony’s jumping well,” she tells Anneke, who grins and claps his neck proudly.
“He’s coming along,” she agrees. “Not so spooky these days, thankfully. I was getting a bit sick of him having to stop and inspect every jump before he’d go over it. I like your pony by the way,” she tells me.
I frown, looking at her sceptically. “Thanks,” I mutter. “She can go a lot better than that. It was really unlike her to take all those rails.”
Anneke shrugs, her feet dangling from the stirrups. “These jumps are too small for her, she’s not even trying. See you in the next round?”
I nod and she grins and rides away, her fit and gleaming pony responding to the lightest touch.
Finn’s knee is still puffy when I saddle her again for the next class, but when I start working her in she feels fine. Her stride is even and she’s as feisty and energetic as ever, fighting for her head. Every time I get her to relax we get cut off or crashed into by another pony, so in the end I put her over the practice jump just to get out of the crowd. She flies over it, and I canter her around on the other rein and jump it again. She clears it with plenty to spare, happy that the jumps have finally gone up to what she seems to consider a respectable height.
The class has started, and I walk her around the other side of the ring to watch the first few rounds. There’s a Liverpool fence of white poles over a blue water tray, and I hope Finn won’t spook at it. I see Anneke coming into the ring on her black pony and walk Finn back to the gate, knowing I’m jumping directly after her this time. She jumps a beautiful clear round, making all of the fences look effortless. A few spectators clap as she trots towards the gate and I sigh, knowing that I’m about to look even worse than usual after that performance.
“That clear round means that Sine Qua Non will be back for the jump-off,” the announcer confirms. “Now we have That’s Final, ridden by Jay Evans.”
The judge smiles at me as she rings the bell, and I nudge Finn into a canter. She’s full of energy, straining against the martingale, but she’s smart enough to lower her head when she gets to the jumps and picks her feet up carefully. She jumps boldly and soon we’re halfway around the course and heading towards the Liverpool. Finn baulks at it slightly, weaving in front of the fence, and I close my legs against her side and drive her on. She surges forward and takes a huge leap over the jump, and I can hear someone on the sidelines gasping. We land and I give her a quick pat as we turn on to the one stride double. I sit up as tall as I can and steady her for the combination, knowing that if she goes too fast she’ll knock the rails down. Finn fights me, getting in too close to the first fence but somehow managing to clear it. I sit tight as she takes one stride, then chips in to the second and somehow lurches over, barely leaving it up. Four fences from home and I have a bit of control back now. We’re untidy but clear over the remaining jumps, and I pat my pony profusely as we canter through the finish flags.
“A slightly hair-raising round from That’s Final,” the announcer teases. “But they were clear and will also go into the jump off.”
“Wow, can she jump or what!” Anneke says as I ride out of the ring.
“I know,” I gasp, still slightly out of breath. “The leap she made over that Liverpool!”
“I was more impressed with the double,” Anneke tells me, and I pull a face. “It was ugly, sure, but she tried so hard to clear it. Careful ponies like her will always go further because they don’t want to knock the fences down. That’s what I liked about Nonny when I got him,” she explains, patting her black pony’s neck. “He was super spooky, looking at everything and either stopping or taking enormous leaps over every jump. People thought I was mad to think that he’d ever make Grand Prix, but he’s going great now. He doesn’t like making mistakes, and neither does your pony.”
I’m buzzing as I slide off Finn and loosen her girth, then run my hand down her leg again, looking at her swollen knee. It seems to have swelled up more since I went into the ring, but there still doesn’t appear to be any heat in it, and she’s clearly not sore, so I cross my fingers and hope for the best.
There are six riders in the jump-off, and Finn and I are second to last to go. Once again, we’re right behind Anneke, and she sets a blistering pace but has a rail down at the last fence. So far there’s only been one double clear round, set by a boy from Huntly on his sturdy grey pony Kanga Roux.
I trot Finn into the ring and run through the jump-off course in my head. One, three, five, six AB, eight, t
en. The bell rings, and I canter Finn through the start flags. She clears the first two fences easily, then hesitates at the Liverpool. I dig my heels in and she takes it in a huge leap, but stumbles slightly on landing. I sit up tall and really hold her together for the turn to the one-stride double. She jumps through it cleanly, then stumbles again slightly when she lands after the second element and throws her head around anxiously, fighting me.
“Come on Finn,” I mutter, sitting down hard in the saddle and driving her forward.
Three strides out from the last jump she hesitates again, so I put my reins into one hand to give her a smack with the whip behind my leg. Two strides away I remember guiltily that she has a swollen knee. What if she’s unhappy because it hurts? One stride left, and it’s too late now, we’re committed to the jump.
“Last fence, I promise,” I tell my pony as I urge her to take off.
Finn is reluctant, and I bring my whip down on her flank as a firm reminder. But her body goes suddenly rigid as she braces her front legs and slides to a halt in front of the jump. My heart sinks and I feel my frustration with her building. There goes my chance at winning this class.
Determined to finish well, I canter Finn back around and re-attempt the fence, riding even more strongly. This time she jumps it, clearing it easily but pecking slightly on landing. She’s definitely not happy, and I feel a bit mean as I canter her through the flags. I give my pony a grateful pat as the last rider enters the ring. She meets my eyes and then points down at Finn’s front legs.
“Your pony’s bleeding,” she tells me.
Frowning, I lean forward and look down at Finn’s swollen knee, but I can’t see any sign of blood.
“The other leg.”
It’s then that I notice the bright red blood pouring from Finn’s heel. I leap off her back and crouch down next to her and she lifts her right fore off the ground, taking the weight off it. There is blood splattered all over her legs and under her belly. No wonder she didn’t want to keep jumping! I walk slowly out of the ring, feeling awful as my poor pony limps along behind me.
A few hours later, Alec drops me off at home.
“She’ll be alright, Jay,” he assures me as I prepare to climb out of his rustbucket car with an armload of dirty clothes and horse gear. “Couple of weeks off and she’ll be as good as new.”
“I hope so,” I say despondently.
“She will,” Alec assures me, leaning back and grabbing my gear bag off the back seat. “She’s rugged, drugged and bandaged up, and that knee’s already deflating. And you can always ride Trixie while she’s recovering.”
I smile gratefully at him. “Really?”
“Sure. You’d be doing me a favour. I’m struggling to find time to ride her myself. I’d sell her, but Pip would kill me.”
“Yeah she would.”
“Pain in the neck,” Alec mutters, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Be glad you don’t have any siblings.”
“Don’t need them,” I reply easily. “I’ve got you.” Alec’s mouth twitches into a smile as I push the car door shut with my hip. “See you later.”
“Night.”
He puts the rustbucket into reverse and backs down our driveway as I cross the short lawn and step onto the verandah, where Chewy is eagerly awaiting my return.
“Something smells good in here,” Dad exclaims as he comes into the house half an hour later.
“Lasagne,” I tell him proudly. “We learned how to cook it at school the other day, so thought I’d practice before I forget how.”
“Those school fees are finally paying off,” he teases as he walks over to the stove and peers into the frying pan. “Looks good.”
“It’ll be a while yet,” I tell him as his phone rings, and he nods to me as he answers it. I set the mince on the back burner and get out a saucepan to make the cheese sauce.
“Cornflour, butter and milk,” I mutter to myself as I rummage through the fridge.
When we did this in class, my cooking partner Alicia did the cheese sauce, but it looked very straightforward so I’m sure I’ll manage. I dump two tablespoons of flour into the pan and add a cup of milk. I start stirring it but it’s going very strange and gluggy, and I realise I’ve forgotten the butter. I cut off the right amount and dump that into the pan as well. It takes ages to melt, so I turn the heat up quite high. It does start melting, but now the milk is bubbling and starting to stink.
I check the recipe and realise where I went wrong. I dump everything out into the sink and start over. Melt the butter with the flour first, then add the milk. I try this, and it works a bit better but still has weird lumps in it. Maybe they’ll dissolve as I cook it longer. I get the cheese out of the fridge and start grating it onto a board, unable to help overhearing Dad on the phone.
“I know that Jim, but there’s not a lot I can do about it. Brian sold them the land, so it’s theirs now to do what they want with.” A pause. “No, they can’t go putting up apartment blocks on it, but that’s not what they’re trying to do anyway. You’re making a mountain out of a…yes, I know how you feel about this, you’ve made that very clear.”
I turn back to the stove, only to find that the milk is bubbling horribly again and the stinky burning smell is back. Oops. I dump that lot out into the sink as well, and start over for a third time as Dad comes back into the room and looks at the mess in my saucepan.
“How’s it going?”
I grit my teeth. “Fine. What was that all about?”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Oh, the McKendricks have sold some of their beachfront land to a British couple that just moved here, and they’ve just applied to make the land into a camping ground. Reckon it’ll be good for the local economy, but everyone’s up in arms about being overrun by tourists. Bit of a palaver.”
I roll the word palaver around in my head as I grate the cheese. I’m still getting used to some of the New Zealand slang.
“What’s that got to do with you? You don’t work for the council anymore,” I point out.
“No, but Jim Delaney is trying to throw every imaginable spanner into the works, and now he’s claiming that there are protected tussock grasses growing on the dunes next to their property, and that all the tourists tramping over them will be damaging to our native flora. Never mind that his grandkids are the ones riding their dirt bikes across the dunes all summer.”
I laugh. “Sounds like Jim,” I agree as I pour milk into the mixture for the third time. There isn’t as much milk left now as the recipe wants, but we’ll just have to make do. I add the cheese and stir it, keeping it over a cautiously low heat.
“Sure does. How was your day?”
“Not great,” I admit, fighting back the lump in my throat at the thought of my injured pony, standing forlornly in the yards at Alec’s. “Finn got hurt.”
“Oh bugger. What happened?” Dad asks before his cell phone rings again. “Now what?” he mutters.
“Turn it off?” I suggest and he chuckles.
“Give us a sec, I’d better take this,” he says, then wanders out of the room as he takes the call.
The cheese sauce is not working. It’s all gluggy and lumpy, but there isn’t any more milk to put in it. I wonder if water would work the same way. It’s worth a shot, and I stick the pan under the tap and pour a bit in. Nope, that did not work. The sauce is looking horribly inedible. Maybe I can just sprinkle some cheese over the mince, and forgo the sauce. I get out a dish and put dried pasta into the bottom of it, then pick up the mince and start scraping it into the dish, until I discover that it has all burned to the bottom of the pan.
I swear loudly and dump the pan back on the stovetop. This is a complete and utter failure, and the worst ending to a terrible day. I slump down into a chair as Dad comes into the room, concern on his face.
“You okay?” he asks me and I shake my head. He tells the person on the phone that he’ll call them back later, then walks over to the stove.
“Huh. That doesn’t look like it w
ent according to plan.”
“You think?” I snap sarcastically, ready to burst into tears. “It worked at school, I don’t know why it won’t work now! Stupid food.”
“Never mind,” Dad says, patting me on the shoulder. “You tried, which is more than I’ve ever done. Give us a hand to clean this up, and we’ll go get some fish and chips.”
* * *
I’m kneeling in the mud rewrapping Finn’s hoof when Alec comes by, yelling that he’ll grab Trixie in for me. I’ll be jumping her at the Ratanui Show this coming weekend, and I’m trying to look forward to it, but I’d rather be riding Finn.
Trixie is so different from my own pony. Solidly built with short legs and a long back, a tail that’s twice as thick as a normal pony’s and a fluffy dun coat that’s still prepared for winter, she’s not going to win any beauty contests. Riding her is different too. Her short-striding canter is as bouncy as a pogo stick, and she doesn’t exactly have power steering. On the plus side, she’s brave and honest, and almost never refuses at the jumps. She’s also not nearly as sensitive as Finn, which makes her a more straight-forward if less exhilarating ride.
With a sigh, I finish taping the vetwrap onto Finn’s hoof and let it down. She slaps it into the mud, annoyed at having it held up for so long. It’s a nightmare trying to keep the bandages clean, but it seems to be healing okay. The mud is unavoidable right now, as the spring rain persists, but I’m battling on and keeping my fingers crossed for a swift recovery.
I collect Jack and Trixie’s tack from the dilapidated woolshed as Alec brings the ponies into the yards and we saddle them up. There are a few basic jumps set up in the house paddock, mostly made of thin saplings balanced on top of oil drums, plastic crates and old tyres. I warm Trixie up on a long rein and she slogs along cheerfully through the muddy grass. Alec canters past, Jack’s hooves sending a shower of dirty water across Trixie’s shoulders and my legs, and I yelp in protest. He pulls Jack up and turns back to me.