“Oh yes. Thank you, David, I’d love to.”
“Good, well I suggest that we look upon the competition as a trial run, an experience. We’ll find out what sort of standards the other pony clubs have reached and where our weaknesses lie, then next year those who are still interested can start training much earlier.”
“It’s going to be a bit difficult with just the one pistol, isn’t it?” asked James diffidently. “I know it’s our own fault, but Nina’s friend said that all the clubs shoot with their own pistols and that twelve of us sharing one would wreck the organization. We’d still be shooting when everyone else was swimming.”
“We’ve sorted that out,” David answered briskly. “Mrs Halford has managed to borrow two from rifle friends. She’ll be here tomorrow at nine-thirty for a practice and we’ll settle then who is to shoot with which pistol on the day. The organizers would like to know approximately how many lengths you all propose to swim in the time allowed, as then they can put you in heats with swimmers of more or less the same standard, but I’ll get you all to write that down tomorrow. Finally, there is the problem of getting the ponies to Crocker’s Farm, Ramsden—that’s on the other side of Brunstock, where the cross-country and running take place. The shooting, which is first, of course, will be laid on at Ramsden village hall, then the swimming in Brunstock pool and then, after lunch, the riding. This means that, ideally, the ponies should come on later. As it’s Sunday, parents may be able to help, but can they load the ponies without you?”
Lesley put up her hand. “Yes, my mother says she and the horsebox driver and Julian can manage our three.”
“No problem, my mother will cope with Ferdie,” answered James.
“Mr Roberts has offered to load the Wheeler ponies with Oliver’s help,” David went on. “Would it be possible for Jigsaw to borrow a loosebox?” he said, as he looked at Lizzie.
“Yes, he could have Hobbit’s box.”
“What about you, Harry?”
“My stepfather is O.K. with Jupiter and he’ll take Saffron, but I’m not sure if Saffy will box for him,” answered Hanif.
“I think he will, he’s used to Mr Crankshaw,” said Alice, “but it’s putting your parents to a lot of trouble.”
“We’ll fix something. Julia might like to go with Harry’s parents. Anyway, Mrs Roberts, Mr Fuller and Mrs Halford have already agreed to drive the teams over and we can settle the other details tomorrow, meanwhile I’ve a copy of the rules for each of you,” finished David, handing the yellow booklets to Alice to distribute.
“It’s terribly kind of your mother to lend me Bowie,” Tina told Sarah as they mounted. “I never imagined such a wonderful thing happening. I do hope I don’t let him down, but I’m afraid I will.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll get round,” said Sarah brutally, “but it won’t matter because ours is a rotten team: you and Lynne hardly know your ponies, and you and Paul are both useless at swimming.”
“Here, our other teams aren’t all that much better,” protested Lynne. “Lesley and Lizzie aren’t so super at cross-country, and Lizzie’s a terrible shot. And though James and Seb are good, Harry’s hopeless at swimming, and Rupert, well, he’s just Rupert, and goodness knows what he’ll get up to.”
“David said it was for experience, he doesn’t expect us to win,” Tina reminded her team mates.
“No, he doesn’t expect much of us in the shooting, running and swimming,” agreed Paul, “but I don’t think he’ll be too happy if we all mess up the cross-country.”
9
Mixed Fortunes
“The Cranford Vale are tremendously good,” said Alice, pushing her way through the crowded village hall where the shooting range had been set up, to meet the newly arrived Woodbury members.
“Yes, masses of bulls,” agreed Hanif. “We’ve been here for hours. Blazeaway made us start at dawn. She said she wasn’t going to miss a single shot.”
“And the Cranford Vale teams are all dressed alike: they’re the ones in white shirts, jeans and blue waistcoats,” added Tina, a note of envy in her voice.
“Do you know their scores?” demanded Lesley.
“No, they’re not being given out, and we’re not allowed near enough to see exactly what’s going on.”
As David limped into the hall with Mrs Roberts walking slowly beside him, Mrs Halford left the firing range and came bustling over. She looked very official, binoculars dangling from her neck and a holdall, heavy with pistols, slung from her shoulder.
“The fifth detail are shooting now and our competitors are in the eighth,” she told David briskly. “The standard’s fairly high so far, but we shouldn’t have any trouble attaining it with regular practice.”
Mr Fuller appeared with an armful of numbers. “The scoreboard’s up in the farmyard, beside the secretary’s caravan,” he told them, “but there’s nothing on it yet. I’ve collected our swimming times and three maps so we won’t lose anyone on the way to the pool.”
“I’ve got the most terrible needle,” said Alice, “I wish we could have a practice jump or something.”
“You will be allowed your five sighting shots, dear, just try to relax. Take a few deep breaths,” advised Mrs Halford. “Now, if the new arrivals have all had a look at firing point, we’ll take you outside. Standing in this crowd and breathing stale air won’t do your shooting any good.”
The Woodbury teams sat on the grass outside, all huddled miserably, grasping their knees, as they nursed the sick feelings in the pits of their stomachs. Mrs Roberts handed round barley-sugar sweets, Lizzie rolled her shoulders and looked more and more worried; Rupert tried to cheer things up by removing his sweet at regular intervals and taking exaggeratedly deep and noisy breaths. He succeeded in making Lynne giggle and Lesley glare, but the rest of them were too locked in their own variations of stage fright to pay any attention. Then Mrs Halford came bustling back.
“Right, we’re ready for the first detail, that’s James, Lizzie and Sarah. Don’t panic,” she went on as they grabbed their pistols and prepared for action. “You’re not on yet, we’ve allowed a good five minutes for your eyes to get accustomed to the light.”
“Are you sure this is Hollingsworth?” asked Sarah, looking at her pistol suspiciously, “because I hardly got a shot on the target with the stupid Woodbury pistol on Friday.”
“Yes dear, all the junior team are having the Hollingsworth pistol, it’s the best for small hands,” answered Mrs Halford. “Now, the rest of you stay here and Mr Fuller will come for the next detail in about twelve minutes.”
“Good luck,” called Seb in a lugubrious voice.
“Yes, good luck,” added Hanif and Alice with more enthusiasm.
“Think big, Lizzie, think BULLS,” Netti instructed her sister.
“I have an awful feeling that Browne is in a missing mood,” answered Lizzie, looking at her pistol apprehensively as she was led away.
The next three, Rupert, Alice and Lynne, were ushered into the hall by Mr Fuller in time to watch the first shoot, but found this very frustrating as the spectators were kept well back from the firing point and had no idea how their teams were shooting. Only the coaches, watching avidly through their binoculars and making notes on their clipboards, had any idea of the scores, and they were far too busy to be questioned.
“Nearly time for us,” said Lynne with a bored sigh, as the others came to the end of their second targets. “I’ll be glad to get it over.”
“Yes, it’s much worse waiting without a nice bouncy pony beneath you,” agreed Alice. “Saffy always gives me courage.”
“Rosie doesn’t give me courage,” objected Rupert “In fact, I feel a lot braver without her. At least I know my trigger finger will take off.”
Lesley, Seb and Tina all became very silent as their turn drew near, and Seb and Tina were white-faced and shaking as well. Mrs Roberts plied them with barley sugar and cheerful chat, and Mr Fuller found the first detail and dragged them over with instru
ctions to talk bracingly. The last three, Hanif, Netti and Paul, were surprisingly calm. Then, suddenly, it was all over and they gathered in the dazzlingly bright sunshine outside the hall, talking excitedly and enquiring about each other’s possible scores; except for Seb who sat on the grass, his head in his hands, and moaned, “Oh hell,” at intervals.
“I wasn’t spectacular, but I think I was quite reasonable,” announced Rupert modestly. “At least I didn’t shoot the chief steward.”
“I mucked up my first target, but my second was quite good. I think I got somewhere around seven hundred,” added James.
“I was spectacular for me,” giggled Lynne. “Every shot on the target. What about you, Paul?”
“More or less what I usually get,” answered Paul. “I wasn’t expecting to do anything brilliant.”
“I did better than I expected,” Hanif told them. “If only we could add my shoot to Seb’s swim.”
“I was dreadful, I kept forgetting to squeeze,” moaned Tina.
“It’s that stupid pistol, it kept shooting to the left with me,” Sarah told her, “I know there’s something wrong it.”
“How did the all-girls team do?” asked James.
“Reasonably well for me,” answered Alice.
“Yes, up to standard,” agreed Netti.
“No worse than usual,” said Lizzie cautiously.
They all looked at Lesley who was wearing her small, secretive smile. “I’d rather wait and see what the scorers say, but I think I managed a couple of bulls.”
“Well done, all of you.” Mrs Halford was looking quite pleased as she came out into the sunlight with David limping beside her. “It was really quite creditable for your first competition and with so little practice. Only three of you really tensed up and they’ll do better next time.”
“Yes, well done. First phase over and no one eliminated. Big sigh of relief all round,” added David. “Now swimming. Can we have you in the same cars, please. We don’t want anyone separated from their gear.” The first heat was already racing, and the pool was noisy with the echoes of splashes and voices, when the Woodbury people, shepherded by Mrs Roberts and Mr Fuller, appeared, ready changed for the fray. They looked doubtfully from the rows of spectators to the six-lane pool with the metres numbered down the sides.
“It’s much smaller than ours,” said Paul, his face brightening.
“Exactly half the size,” observed Seb.
“Which means we have to swim twice as many lengths,” added Hanif gloomily.
“Action, please. David’s given me the lists, they’ve found him a seat and he’s going to conserve his energy for the riding,” said Mr Fuller, who, brown-eyed and wide-mouthed like his son, was paddling round in bare feet. “As you all know, they try to put you against people of the same standard, so: Tina, Paul and Harry are in three. Sarah, Lynne and Netti in four. Alice and Lesley five. Lizzie, Rupert and James in six. We’ve no one in seven, but Seb’s in the last one, eight. Now if you watch this heat you’ll see the form, but remember that if there’s a lot of frantic whistle-blowing just after you get going, that means there’s been a false start and you have to stop and start again. You’re each allowed a coach who can signal you at half-time and again thirty seconds before the end. When you see this,” he held up a card with a large figure thirty written on it, “go like mad. Anything else, Seb? You’re our swimming expert.”
“No, I don’t think so, we went through the rules with David. As long as everyone remembers to touch the side of the bath before turning. Don’t think a near miss will do, because there’s a judge watching each swimmer and you won’t get away with it.”
After the cathedral quiet of the shooting range, all the pony club members were enjoying letting themselves go as they roared encouragement at their swimmers. The three-minute heats succeeded each other briskly, and soon the first of the Woodbury people were ploughing up and down the pool, swimming faster than they had ever swum before as they battled with competitors from the Northdown and South Barset. Alice was acting as Hanif’s coach, Mr Fuller was Tina’s and James, Paul’s. They hurried from end to end, making encouraging faces, holding up the halfway cards and then the thirty seconds cards as, with waving arms, they spurred their swimmers to final bursts of speed amid the supporters’ shouts and cheers.
Hanif struggled on painfully. He made his fourth length and then produced a final spurt which carried him halfway across the pool before the timekeeper blew his whistle. Tina and Paul, who were visibly tired, couldn’t quite make four lengths. As they climbed out, Sarah, Lynne and Netti took up positions at the start.
“Four and a half, are you sure?” Hanif asked Alice. He was looking pleased. “That would be my best ever.”
The next heat splashed in. This time the Woodbury were against the East Tulworth and the Brackenbury and at first the Woodbury three trailed, making it more of a procession than a race. Their dissatisfied supporters shouted disconsolately until, suddenly, the picture began to change. The leaders, who had set too fast a pace, slowed down and, when Netti produced a spurt, Lynne and Sarah followed her. Then Netti tired and it was Lynne who finished almost up with the East Tulworth girls.
Alice and Lesley were in another fast heat, and when the bobbing heads seemed too far ahead to catch, they raced each other. “Every metre counts,” Alice kept telling herself as she fought, stroke by stroke, to keep level with Lesley. Thinking in metres, she lost count of lengths and was surprised when she climbed wearily out to be greeted as a heroine by the younger Woodbury people.
“Well done, Alice. You nearly made six lengths.”
“You were as good as Lesley, though she’s much older.”
“Yes, you dead-heated,” they told her jubilantly.
“I don’t like the look of the opposition,” James observed to Lizzie and Rupert as they lined up. “Those two Cranford Vales make us look very weedy.”
“Yes, and they’re the worst two in their team, the others are in the last heat with Seb,” agreed Rupert gloomily.
“Still, none of the Woodbury were bad enough for the first two heats,” Lizzie pointed out. “And all those really huge boys will be out of the juniors next year.”
The Cranford Vale boys set off at a tremendous pace and the Woodbury people pursued them grimly; they had never put so much effort into swimming before. But there was no question of gaining on the Cranford Vale, it was all they could do to hold on, and the race was among themselves, for the sixth swimmer, who had been left at the start, never caught up. The Cranford Vale were into their sixth lengths and the Woodbury were roaring their team mates to greater efforts as the countdown began. They had all turned, getting their six lengths, before the final whistle blew.
“Now, if you want to watch Seb, can you do it from the corner by the changing rooms?” asked Mr Fuller. “We want to make a quick getaway and have lunch before we walk the riding course.”
The heat before Seb’s was mostly composed of Cranford Vale girls, and the competitors in the final heat were all much larger than Seb, who looked small and slim and very professional in his goggles. He dived straight into the lead, and then held it, to the delight of the Woodbury members.
“Look at that, he’s going great guns,” shouted James admiringly.
“And his tumble turns are a huge help; we must get him to teach the rest of us,” added Alice, as Seb increased his lead with each turn.
“I hope he hasn’t started too fast,” worried Lizzie. “Go on, Seb!”
“Keep it up!” they shouted, counting lengths excitedly. When half-time was announced, Seb was still leading, though the other swimmers refused to be shaken off. “Seven lengths. Terrific, he’s going to get the best score of the day,” shouted James. Mr Fuller was jumping up and down with excitement, the other pony clubs roared at their members to go faster, while the Woodbury shrieked at Seb to keep his lead. Then, suddenly, the sound of the whistle cut through the hubbub and it was all over.
“Well done, Seb,” they
called as, pulling off his goggles, he climbed out of the pool.
“See you in the car park,” shouted Mr Fuller, as a flood of departing spectators cut him off from the swimmers who were making their way to the changing rooms, “Don’t leave anything behind.”
The Woodbury Tetrathlonites inspected their ponies, who had all arrived safely, and then sat down to eat their lunches without much appetite. They had almost finished when Oliver and Julian appeared from the direction of the cross-country course with long faces.
“There’s a staircase,” announced Oliver dramatically. “None of our ponies have ever seen anything like it before; I can’t see any of you getting round.”
“A staircase?” the others asked suspiciously.
“What are you on about?” asked Paul, swallowing his last mouthful of apple pie.
“They call it a staircase on the plan of the course,” Julian explained, “but really it’s four gigantic steps cut into a hillside.”
“They’re all sleeper-faced,” added Oliver, “Rosie’s going to fall over with fright at the sight of them.”
“Oliver,” called David from the Land Rover. “No subversion, please.”
“Sub what?” Oliver rushed over, eager to tell his bad news.
“What’s the rest of the course like?” Rupert asked Julian.
“Oh, it starts very normally, but when you get to that hill on the heath someone’s gone a bit wild and made a whole lot of drops and slides and things.”
Pony Club Challenge (Woodbury Pony Club Book 2) Page 16