The Lyntons were filling far too many of my thoughts, but because I am an only child, large families have always fascinated me; and I could not get them out of my mind. Gradually I was learning more about them. The old lady who helped us clean the cottage had told me they were the nicest bunch of children that you could get anywhere. “Little devils, of course,” she had added. “But so jolly and friendly too, and always the same, but Mummy said the old lady was trying to explain that the Lyntons were always cheerful and ready to talk – never stuck up or grumpy.
Someone at the Stag’s Head had told Daddy that they were a plucky family, full of guts, and the estate agent ten miles away, had said the Lyntons were a scruffy wild scatter-brained pack of children, noisy, courageous and undisciplined.
I had seen two Dartmoor ponies galloping around the paddock by the house, dark brown mares with mealy noses and black points, with manes and tails flowing in the wind, and their eyes bright with the joy of speed, with good health and high spirits.
I imagined the boy with the straw-coloured hair riding them. I wondered what their names were. I tried to think what I would call them if they were mine: perhaps Tweedledum and Tweedledee, I decided.
I went for long walks every day, slowing my pace as I drew near the Lyntons’ house, trying to make my moments of passing as long as possible, half-ashamed at my curiosity.
Their stable yard was square, with several loose boxes, a tack room and forage shed, all built in mellow stone. I could see a chestnut head looking over a blue door. I could see a tin of saddle soap resting on a blue window-ledge. It was a pansy blue, a strange colour to choose for a stable yard, I thought – only the Lyntons could have chosen such a shade for such a purpose.
I was creating a myth round the Lynton family and day by day I was beginning to believe it more and more. Their father I decided was an invalid, a brave man, who had been badly wounded in the war. Their mother was a brisk woman with red hair and a reckless temperament, nearly as wild and undisciplined as the children.
“They have lots of dogs,” the old lady who helped us clean the cottage had told me. And now I saw the family at lunch eating, at a long table and chucking their bones to the hordes of dogs of all shapes and sizes which hovered around in the room. I imagined a broad baronial staircase leading from a spacious hall into the bedrooms, which were bare and austere with the minimum of comfort. I saw the children playing blood-curdling games in the fearful cellars which someone had told me ran beneath the house. I heard their shrieks and imagined them coming up at last into the light of day, black with coal dust, dirty, dishevelled and smiling. Forgetting that they did not know me, I almost resented that they had left me out, before remembering that the whole scene was only the figment of my imagination.
It was all a useless waste of time – this daydreaming, and against Mummy’s advice, too. But the Lyntons had become an obsession with me and there seemed nothing that I could do to cure myself before I met them. And yet I was beginning to live so much in my dream that I was almost afraid now of knowing them – for might they not shatter all my illusions, the whole careful story that I was building up about them? Supposing all my informants had been wrong, and they were a dull, scornful, disagreeable family? Then all my future would be dust and ashes.
“You are losing your sense of proportion about those children,” Daddy told me, “you wretched little socialite. A bit of quietness won’t hurt you for a few days. Goodness knows you rushed about far too much in London with Mary and John and all the rest. A little tranquillity will do your soul good. Go away and read a book for a change. Have you tried The Children of the New Forest? Well, it’s a classic which I read long before I was your age. It’s on the right side of the fireplace in the living-room. Go and get it and then sit down and be quiet and stop pestering your aged parents. You are bound to meet the Lyntons soon. Where’s your patience?
Parents are impossible, I thought. They don’t realise that a week can seem like a lifetime, that an hour’s quietness for me is as effective as a day’s quietness for them. I don’t want to read. I read lots of books in London. I want to play hide and seek and murders, to rush around pretending to be a horse with other people who are pretending to be horses too. I want to ride and I want to find out the names of those two Dartmoor ponies. “You are bound to meet them soon. You are bound to meet them soon.” That’s what Mummy has been saying for seven days and I haven’t met them. And soon the holidays will be over and then I shall be at school, and I shall have to wait till the spring, and I don’t want to wait till the spring. If I was brave I would just walk into their stable yard one day and introduce myself, “I’m the new person down at Sparrow Cottage.” I heard myself saying the words, and they sounded empty, odd. It had all become so important that I would never speak at all. When I did meet them, my voice would be constricted, no words would be uttered by my dry lips. It would be like one of those nightmares, when one wants to scream and can’t.
And then one day I saw another of the Lyntons: a little dark-haired girl with spectacles saddling one of the two Dartmoor ponies. The boy with the straw-coloured hair was with her. They seemed to be going out for a ride together; they both wore dark blue crash caps and yellow polo-collared pullovers. But the boy looked older than the girl and I decided they couldn’t be twins, but just brother and sister with probably only a year between them.
There was a huge dog with them, a bloodhound, with sorrowful eyes and deep worry-frowns creasing his forehead.
I stood watching them through a gap in their garden hedge, hoping they would see me and call out,”Hallo, who are you?”
But they were busy talking to one another and adjusting the bridles on their ponies. Presently they mounted, and I rushed to the gate at the end of their drive, thinking they might come out on to the road, where I could see them properly, but they must have ridden into the field behind their house, because they never appeared and, when I went back to my gap in the hedge, they were no longer in sight.
I rushed home to tell my parents about the incident, for although they pretended not to care, I knew they were interested in the Lyntons too.
“Both the children looked younger than me,” I finished.
“We can’t have all this peeping through hedges. Somehow we have got to think up an excuse for you to go to the Lyntons’ house and meet them. I can see you’ll never rest till you do,” said Daddy. “I can’t think why you are so shy. No one in my family was ever shy. I suppose it’s because you’re an only child.”
“If only the Lyntons would drop some of their belongings in the lane or something,” said Mummy.
“If only their ponies would get loose or their dogs stray,” I said. “If there was just one of them I wouldn’t be shy; it’s only because they are such a large family that I feel shy about just walking into their yard and introducing myself.” I added defensively. It was true. If there had been just one child living in that house, I would not have been so ridiculous. But now there was an aura round the Lyntons, they were an unusual family and I found it hard to go alone without an excuse to meet them.
“You’re far too sensitive, Lesley. You must snap out of your shyness. You rely far too much on Daddy and I. It’s got to stop,” said Mummy sternly.
“But, anyway, she must have some friends,” Daddy argued. “She’s getting too introspective. Now, go away Lesley. Leave me in the quiet and I shall think of a plan.”
He gave a wave of his hand which meant ‘scram,’ so I went to the other end of the garden and climbed the oak and waited. Once I’ve met the Lyntons I’m going to conquer my stupid shyness for ever, I decided. Soon Daddy will call me and suggest what I should do. His plan is sure to be a good one, because of his unusual imagination and foresight, I thought. Within a couple of days, I shall know the Lyntons. The myth will be exploded. There will be friends almost at my door.
Chapter Three
In the end we decided on such a simple plan that it seemed amazing that I had not thought of the ide
a before:
I was to go to the Lyntons’ stable yard at ten o’clock in the morning and ask to borrow a ladder, explaining that we were the newcomers at Sparrow Cottage and wished to lop off a branch of the oak tree which made the living-room dark.
But although the excuse seemed a convincing one when I left Sparrow Cottage, an appalling sense of shyness crept over me as I neared the Lyntons handsome house; and it was all I could do to make my legs carry me up the gravel drive, which led to the yard. I saw the bloodhound first; he was prowling around the forage shed, an intimidating figure with his huge jaws, strong limbs and unsmiling face. Three heads looked over blue doors, eyeing my arrival with interest, one chestnut, one bay and one black. A half-empty teak bucket stood in the middle of the yard and a pitchfork lay at the end of the drive, telling me that the Lyntons were not an over-tidy family.
Presently the bloodhound became aware of me and throwing up his head, began to bark; a moment later he was joined by a Scottie who rushed around my legs yapping wildly. The air resounded with the noise of the two dogs; the hills echoed their angry voices. Somewhere a window opened, and a child called:
“Jasper, Toots, be quiet. What is the matter?”
It was then that I felt the nip on my leg and saw the trickle of blood running down my calf – my long socks had fallen down as usual – and I knew that Toots had bitten me. I stood quite still then, I didn’t know whether he would bite me again; he was still rushing around my legs, barking hysterically, but what could I do? Speak to him?
“Toots, it’s all right, Toots, I’m your friend,” I told him in what I hoped were soothing accents. Thank goodness, it isn’t the bloodhound which bites, I thought. He could tear one in pieces. I wanted to walk to the side door of the house and knock, but I was afraid that if I moved I would be bitten again by Toots, so I just stood where I was helplessly, praying that soon someone would turn up.
Presently the window opened again and the same voice called, “Toots, Jasper. What is the matter? Come in and be quiet. Oh dear, I suppose there’s someone there. All right. Shut up barking for heaven’s sake. I’m coming.”
“It’s only me,” I called, but my voice was drowned by the shutting of the window.
I must say I felt a fool, standing quite still with the blood trickling down into my shoe, and the two dogs dancing round me holding me at bay. I hoped the fair-haired boy would come; he looked friendly and cheerful. But it was the little dark girl who came down the garden path with a peeved expression on her face.
“Hallo,” she said, “what do you want? Dogs, do shut up. You are annoying the horses.”
“Who me? I’m sorry,” I said.
“No, the dogs. Toots will yap, yap, yap.”
“I’m from Sparrow Cottage, at the bottom of the lane.”
“Yes, I know. You’re the Warren girl. We’ve seen you passing sometimes and one day you peeped through the hedge at us.”
“Oh, did you see me?” I asked taken aback.
“You bet!” said the little dark girl. “But why is your leg bleeding? Your sock’s an awful mess.”
“Well, Toots bit me,” I replied sheepishly.
“You must be frightened of dogs then,” said the girl firmly. “Cos, Toots only bites people who are frightened of him – silly people like the postman. He never bites anyone really doggy and sensible.”
I should have stood up for myself, but I didn’t: “Well, it’s only a scratch and it doesn’t hurt at all,” I said. “Actually, I like dogs.”
At that moment two more Lyntons appeared in the yard. A tall fair-haired boy of about fourteen and a mousy-haired blue-eyed girl of about thirteen.
“What’s happened?” asked the boy. “You’re Lesley Warren, aren’t you?”
“I wondered whether you could possibly borrow – I mean lend – us a ladder. We’ve got to lop the oak,” I said.
“Oh, don’t spoil that lovely tree, please don’t. We used to climb it sometimes when the cottage was empty. But Londoners always want to alter everything,” grumbled the little dark girl.
“Don’t be silly, Annette,” said the mousy-haired girl. “They’ll probably make the tree better. My name is Paulla,” she added, turning to me.
“I’m Jon,” said the boy. “We’ll find a ladder for you and carry it down. But what’s happened to your leg?”
“Toots bit her,” said Annette.
“Oh, no! Not really!” exclaimed Paulla. “I say I am sorry. He does bite sometimes.”
“It’s all right,” I said, pulling up my sock to hide the blood. “I must have walked up the drive in a suspicious way or something. I’m not frightened of dogs at all and I didn’t expect him to bite me.” I gave Annette a fierce look as I spoke.
“You had better come indoors and wash it in the bathroom,” suggested Paulla, her blue eyes full of consternation.
“Toots is a devil,” said Jon.
In the hallway we met the small fair-haired boy.
“Can I introduce you to Donald?” said Paulla.
I was beginning to feel more at my ease at last.
“How many of you are there?” I asked.
“Five,” said Jon. “You’ve seen the lot now. I’m the eldest; I’m fourteen. Then comes Paulla, she’s thirteen. Oh no, of course, what am I talking about. You haven’t seen Gillian yet – she’s twelve – Donald’s ten and Annette is nine, although she pretends to be older.”
“I don’t,” said Annette.
“You do,” said Paula.
The Lyntons’ bathroom was a faded pink with a black and white checked floor. They all helped Paulla bathe my leg with antiseptic; and then Donald went to the saddle-room to find some lint and a bandage, because the two punctures made by Toots’s teeth were still bleeding.
“How do you like Sparrow Cottage?” asked Jon politely.
“I love it and next spring I’m going to have a pony, a black one, I hope,” I told them.
“Do you ride then?” asked Paulla.
“Yes, a bit. I mean I can gallop and jump a little and that sort of thing,” I said.
“Then you must come and ride with us,” said Jon, promptly. “We are very lucky because we’ve lots of ponies.”
“I hope you don’t mind falling off,” said Annette. “Some of them buck.”
I was getting the impression that Annette didn’t like me, that she wanted me to quarrel with her.
“No,” I said firmly, “I don’t mind falling off a bit; and I would love to have a ride with you some time. I think it’s frightfully kind of you to ask me. Thank you so much.”
“We’re all getting very formal,” said Jon. “Don’t be grateful; we’ve got lots of ponies and we would love to show you some good rides; then you will be all ready next spring for your own mount.”
“Here’s the bandage; it’s the one Mercury had when she cut her leg, but it has been washed since then,” said Donald rushing into the bathroom.
“Do you mind having a bandage which has been worn by a horse? It won’t be next to your leg because the clean lint will be underneath,” asked Paulla.
“Oh no, not a bit,” I said, tired now of all the fuss over two little punctures.
Soon I was expertly bandaged, and we were all trampling downstairs again. Half-way down we met Gillian, a rosy-cheeked girl with golden hair in two tidy plaits.
“I’m glad we’ve met you at last,” she said, smiling at me politely.
“Now we’ll show you round the horses, and then we’ll see about that ladder,” said John. “It’s nice to have someone new in the village.”
Really, I thought, the two eldest Lyntons couldn’t be more friendly. I’m beginning to like them enormously already, and I’m sure Jon will help me choose a pony. He’s so very kind. How silly I was not to have come and met them before.
We passed two more dogs on the way to the stable yard: Brecon, a black and white sheepdog with a lazy smile and endearing brown eyes, and Rupert, an ancient golden cocker spaniel.
“R
upert is so old now that he only eats and sleeps. But Daddy used to take him shooting when he was a puppy,” said Donald.
“Actually, until he was five or six years,” said Annette.
“I’m going to have a dog soon. What breed do you advise?” I asked.
“A sheep dog,” said Jon.
“A Scottie,” contradicted Annette.
“Bloodhounds are wonderful dogs, but the trouble is they eat so much. I don’t know how rich your parents are,” said Paulla.
“Nor do I. It depends how much Forget Not Thy Cloak sells and, as Daddy refuses to ring up his publishers and find out the figures, we won’t know till the royalties come in in April. If it is a flop I won’t be able to have a pony after all. But that won’t be Daddy’s fault because it’s a jolly good novel,” I told them[Karen Wee1].
“Oh, yes, of course, your father writes, doesn’t he? I remember someone told us. Awfully exciting to have a novelist in the family. We are too dim for words,” said Paulla.
“Can hardly spell our own names,” laughed Jon.
I looked at them both. I was sure they were not speaking the truth, but I didn’t know what to say. Probably they were outstandingly intelligent. Jon’s brow was high and broad, although his fair hair grew down into a widow’s peak which disguised the fact slightly and made one look twice to see the height of his forehead. Paulla’s brow was broad and low, but her eyes were calm and intelligent.
“Do you like school?” I said at last.
“It has its good points,” answered Jon.
“We survive it,” laughed Paulla.
“Here are the horses. Bags show Lesley Cloudy first,” said Gillian, and I noticed then that her voice was different from those of the other Lyntons; it had a light musical quality about it. I decided she was the changeling of the family.
Cloudy was a dapple grey, a little on the heavy side in my opinion, with a Roman nose. She searched Gillian’s pockets for food with a soft pink muzzle which reminded me of the inside of a young mushroom.
“She’s my favourite,” Gillian told me.
Riding With The Lyntons Page 2