Riding With The Lyntons

by Diana Pullein-Thompson

  I had no experience of broken bones and I wasn’t sure whether Jon would have to go into hospital or not. Anyway I knew I would miss him on all the rides for the rest of the holidays. I had a suspicion that without him the Lynton family might become quarrelsome, and I didn’t want to become involved in quarrels. I’m one of those lazy people who will do almost anything to avoid an argument. And poor Jon, I thought, poor, poor Jon, having to stay at home while we all go out riding, day after day. In a way I felt a little guilty, because if I hadn’t followed at such a speed I knew he would never have plunged down the hillside so recklessly. In a way my determination to keep up had been a challenge to him. If he had been alone he would probably have looked out for rabbit holes.

  So, my thoughts wandered on aimlessly, gloomily, while dear patient Buccaneer limped painfully at my side. Presently we reached the road and I began to wonder what my parents would say about the incident, for I always described everything to them in detail. Would they say we had been fools to gallop downhill so far or would they say, “What jolly hard luck!”? One could never tell with grown-ups, I decided. One never knew what line they would take. Sometimes one got nasty surprises.

  I decided then to think seriously about all the pleasant things which were going to happen in the future. When could I buy Magic her collar and lead and what colour should I choose? What shade should I paint the door of the shed which was to be a stable for my pony next spring? How would I spend the money my aunts had given me?

  Those thoughts lasted me until I reached the Lyntons’ house and was once more in the stable yard, and there I found angry confusion.

  At the end of the row of loose boxes there was a very dilapidated garage and now I noticed the doors of it were open and I could hear the depressing sound of someone trying to start a car on a battery which has run down. It was Mr Lynton who was trying, and from the sounds coming out of the garage I knew he was becoming very angry.

  Mrs Lynton was standing just outside with a very harassed expression on her face.

  Annette and Donald were quarrelling in the forage room. Gillian was crying in the saddle-room and Paulla was nowhere to be seen. I supposed she was in the house with Jon.

  I took Buccaneer into his stable and unsaddled and unbridled him, and then I mixed him a feed in the forage room, ignoring Donald and Annette’s bickering.

  When I had done that, I realised Mr Lynton was still unable to start the car. I stood around for a few moments and then it occurred to me that my parents’ car might be useful; in fact they might be able to take Jon to the hospital or doctor or to wherever Mr Lynton proposed to take him.

  But everyone seemed so upset or cross that I wasn’t sure to whom I should make the suggestion. Gillian was still crying. (I found out later that she always cries when there is a crisis.) Donald and Annette seemed completely absorbed with their own silly private quarrel. Mr Lynton was such a terrifying person that I knew I would never have the courage to approach him; there only remained Mrs Lynton, who was still hovering round the garage, an anxious expression on her beautiful delicate face. I hesitated for a few moments and then I walked up to her and said, “I say, couldn’t we lend you our car? I mean we’ve got one and it’s pretty new, I mean it goes very well.”

  Mrs Lynton turned abruptly and fixed her lovely brown eyes on my face. “But, Lesley,” she said, “how very sweet of you. I do believe it will solve our problem. You see it is absolutely obvious to the most amateur eye that Jon’s arm is broken; it’s all blue and twisted, so to save time we thought we would bypass our doctor, who lives eight miles away anyhow, and take him straight to the casualty ward of Eggcombe Hospital for an x-ray, etc, and now the beastly car won’t start. Of course, it’s our fault, because we haven’t taken it out on the road for ages. Frank has almost given up motoring and I can’t drive.”

  “OK,” I said. “I’ll rush home at once and with any luck our car will be here within ten minutes. We keep it up by the Stag’s Head, so it will take a little time for Daddy to run up there.”

  “I’ll tell Frank,” said Mrs Lynton going into the garage.

  I simply tore down our lane as fast as my legs could carry me. I was terribly upset about Jon, but I was pleased that I could now do something for the Lyntons, who had done so much for me.

  Daddy was gardening. I gabbled out the news to him and he put down his spade and said, “Couldn’t hear a word. You must try and speak more distinctly, Lesley.”

  Exasperated, I repeated my story and request more slowly.

  “Yes, of course they can have the car. I shall be only too delighted to take Jon to Eggcombe. You go in and tell your mother all about it and I’ll dash off right away,” said Daddy.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you,” I said, thinking, one thing good about Daddy is that he’s always good in an emergency.

  I went indoors and fed Magic, and told Mummy all about the accident. She said she thought we were rather reckless to gallop downhill so fast, but she supposed speed could get in one’s blood, only would I please be careful in future as she didn’t want me to break my neck on some needless escapade.

  We prepared lunch and then to our surprise Daddy returned.

  “They got their own car started just before I arrived,” he explained. “I’ve never seen such a machine – an enormous Rolls Royce, about twenty years old, I should think. I nearly had a fit when I saw it coming up the road by the Stag’s Head.”

  “They seem rather an odd family to me,” said Mummy.

  “They are jolly nice, except for Annette – I’m not quite sure about her,” I said.

  “Now, for goodness’ sake, sit down both of you and eat your lunch,” said Mummy. “And, Lesley, look after your puppy; she’s got one of my shoes.”

  “I hope Jon’s arm is not too awful,” I said, taking Magic in my arms and pulling the shoe from her mouth.

  “Well, you can pop back this afternoon and find out,” Mummy told me.

  “I’ll go and help the others clean the tack and settle the ponies for the night,” I said sitting down at the table with Magic on my knee.

  Chapter Seven

  I went back to the Lyntons’ at about three o’clock and found Paulla and Gillian cleaning tack in the saddle-room in silence.

  “Any news yet?” I asked.

  “No, but then you know how long hospitals take to do anything, and then they are sure to be short-handed because it’s Boxing Day. Also, Lady may have broken down; one never knows,” said Paulla.

  “Who’s Lady?” I asked.

  “The car,” said Gillian shortly.

  I started to clean Firelight’s tack, feeling very oppressed by the silence which fell after our brief conversation.

  “How’s Magic?” asked Paulla, at last.

  I told them about my puppy’s latest antics, but I had the feeling they were not really listening and I talked without any enthusiasm, just because the silence had seemed an uncomfortable one.

  Presently we heard thunder in the distance and soon a brilliant flash of lightning darted across the sky.

  “Now I suppose it’s going to rain,” grumbled Paulla.

  I began to wish I hadn’t come. The Lyntons don’t seem to take accidents and suspense very well, I thought. After all, a broken arm is not as bad as all that; it’s not a major tragedy. Jon will soon be all right again.

  “I suppose we had better get the vet in to see Buccaneer tomorrow. Cold fomentations and refrigerating lotion may not be the right thing,” said Paulla.

  “Were your parents terribly upset?” I asked.

  “Not frightfully,” Paulla told me. “You see Daddy always wants us to be tough and daring. He rates courage very high, and he’s pleased that Jon has so much. ‘He who never makes a mistake, never makes anything’ that’s one of his sayings (I don’t know where it comes from). He’s made quite a few mistakes himself. But he’s frightfully brave and he got a V.C. in the last war.”

  “Gosh, I see,” I said.

  “Mummy was terr
ibly worried,” said Gillian, “and worry is very bad for her because she had TB, and she worries too much anyway.”

  A tremendous roll of thunder interrupted our conversation at that point, and then rain started to fall in torrents, beating a wild tattoo on the saddle-room roof, lashing in a fury against the window, and rushing like mad down the drain in the yard.

  A few minutes later we heard the car turn up the drive and Mr Lynton hooted the horn to let the children know he was back. Paulla dashed straight out into the rain without a coat, but Gillian stopped to put on a mackintosh before facing the downpour.

  “You’ll come back and tell me how Jon is, won’t you?” I asked.

  “Of course,” said Gillian, as she left.

  I wasn’t left in suspense for very long. I suppose not more than ten minutes could have elapsed before Gillian came back with Donald and Annette at her heels.

  “It’s all rather rotten,” she said in a voice near tears. “He seems to have splintered part of the bone by the elbow or something. The doctor in the casualty ward wouldn’t put it in plaster or anything. He said Jon must go back tomorrow and see someone more expert, a bone specialist or a surgeon or something.”

  “I expect it will be all right in the end. Doctors are so jolly good nowadays. I’ve never heard of anyone suffering permanently from a broken arm,” I told them not really believing my own words, but at the same time being unable to imagine Jon with an arm injured for life.

  “I think you were both crackers,” said Annette, looking at me with a hostile expression on her face. “Why did you have to go so fast down that hill?”

  “Good practice for those silly cross-country events of course,” said Gillian. “And in the spring it will be all that dreadful dressage again, and we shall have to mark out an arena.”

  “I can’t see why you have to do dressage if you don’t want to,” I said, shouting above a fresh roll of thunder.

  “No, I won’t. It’s all the fuss about it which gets the rest of us down,” explained Gillian. “I don’t bother people about my music every few minutes, but Paulla and Jon become insufferable.”

  “I bet they don’t,” I said.

  “You don’t know anything about it,” said Annette. “You’re not a Lynton.”

  I could see a quarrel was starting over absolutely nothing and, as I said before, I hate quarrels. Now I thought for a few moments and then I said:

  “No, I’m a Warren,” and I concentrated on Buccaneer’s tack, which I had now started to clean.

  “The Lyntons are much better than the Warrens, so there,” said Annette.

  “The Lyntons are very special, and Daddy is an extra special person,” added Donald.

  “Don’t swank,” said Gillian.

  “I know he has a V.C.,” I said. “But my father is just as brave.”

  “I bet he isn’t,” said Annette.

  “All right. Don’t let’s discuss it,” I suggested. I was getting very angry and I didn’t want to lose my temper with the Lyntons. I was afraid. I would say something awful and then I would be haunted by remorse afterwards. I had said awful things which I didn’t really mean in quarrels before and I didn’t want to do it again.

  “Can I go and fill up the horses’ water buckets and start feeding them?” I asked Gillian.

  “Aren’t you going to finish Buccaneer’s tack?” said Donald.

  “She’s running away, because we’ve beaten her,” jeered Annette.

  “Shut up,” said Gillian.

  “How have you beaten me?” I asked, wishing Paulla would come back. “Yes, I’ll finish Buccaneer’s tack,” I added.

  “’Cos your father can’t be as brave as Daddy, ‘cos he hasn’t got a V.C.,” said Annette.

  “Don’t be silly and do shut up,” I said, furiously finishing Buccaneer’s saddle. “A V.C. is not everything.”

  “Annette, if you won’t be sensible you’ll have to go indoors,” said Gillian.

  “What did your father do in the war then?” asked Annette aggressively.

  “He was one of the first to enter Berlin,” I answered smugly. “But there are other things more important than feats in war, I think, anyway.”

  “I think battles are terrible. I’m a pacifist,” Gillian told us.

  “I hope there’s another war in ten years’ time, so that I can fight in it. I would like to be in the Scots Greys like some of Mummy’s relations,” said Donald.

  “I shall get into the thick of it, too,” said Annette. “Perhaps I can fire anti-aircraft guns – boom, boom.”

  “We shall all get finished off by an atom bomb long before then,” I said gloomily, recalling my parents’ frequent conversation on the subject.

  Presently Paulla came out of the house and helped us finish the tack.

  “The doctor thinks a surgeon will have to take a piece of bone out of Jon’s leg and graft it on to his arm,” she told us. “It’s jolly tough luck, isn’t it?”

  “How long will it mean in hospital for him?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Mummy and Daddy think about ten days,” said Paulla.

  I hung up Buccaneer’s bridle. I had just finished cleaning it.

  Annette watched me. “You haven’t polished the buckles,” she said, as I was about to leave the saddle-room.

  I felt like turning around and shaking her as hard as I could. For a moment I looked at her scornful hard little face, and I felt my temper mounting, and then suddenly it subsided again.

  “I didn’t mean to polish the buckles,” I said haughtily, and I left the saddle-room and walked out into the rain.

  It was still thundering and the yard was full of puddles, which reflected the lights from the stables; water rushed down the grating by Firelight’s loose box with a constant gurgle and the sound of heavy rain falling on the roof tops was strong in my ears. For the first time the Lyntons’ yard was completely without enchantment for me. Annette’s bickering, the depressing weather, the aftermath of Jon’s accident, all combined to make me wish only to be home, to be sitting in my room at Sparrow Cottage, with that generous sweep of hills before my eyes and Magic on my knee. My head felt full as though I was about to begin a cold, and now I was suddenly aware that my throat was becoming sore. I just wanted to get away from everyone, I thought, and then suddenly in my mind’s eye I saw Jon and Buccaneer somersaulting down the hill again, and then Jon rolling over and over. It’s been a beastly day, from beginning to end, I decided, as I started to groom Firelight and settle her for the night, and I must push that scene right out of my silly head.

  Soon the Lyntons came out of the saddle-room, Donald and Annette went indoors to help get tea, while Gillian, Paulla and I dealt with the horses.

  Presently Paulla asked me whether I would feed Jingle and Jangle on my way home. “The field they are in now runs down to your lane, so if you would take them some hay, you could use the short-cut and be back at Sparrow Cottage all the sooner. You know where the gate is, don’t you? By the fir tree. The hedge is too thick for you to crawl through,” she explained.

  My head was beginning to ache now and I was pleased of an excuse to get home as quickly as possible.

  “I would love to do that,” I said quickly. “How much hay do they have, a large armful?”

  Soon, wet through, I was plodding across the rain-soaked fields to Jingle and Jangle, who were waiting anxiously and hungrily for their tea.

  I put the hay in two large piles under a chestnut tree, so that the ponies could have some shelter from the weather while eating.

  Then, deep in thought, going over the day’s events once more and trying to decide why Annette disliked me, I wandered slowly across the meadow to the gate by the fir tree. I felt too tired to climb it, so instead I walked through, and without actually attending to my actions I swung it back into place, hearing, I thought, the click of the latch as it fell back into place.

  I didn’t look back afterwards, I just tramped slowly down our muddy lane, pleased to see the lights o
f home welcoming me through the darkness, pleased to find a few minutes later my parents and Magic to greet me.

  Chapter Eight

  “Quick, Lesley. Help! The ponies are out,” Paula’s voice rang clear through the still air of nightfall.

  I leapt from my seat by the fire. “Be back in a moment,” I called to my parents, as I ran out into the lane. The clatter of hoofs was in my ears; the inky blackness of the night met my eyes and revealed nothing. For a moment I was at a loss and then I began to see objects; the oak tree, the gate, the dark hedges on either side of the lane; there began to be varying shades of black before my eyes.

  “They are heading for the road,” it was Annette’s voice which shouted now.

  “Coming,” I called, running up the lane. “I’ll run across the fields and try to cut them off.”

  I felt ridiculously tired. It was hard to put one leg after the other. I pushed through a hedge and began to race across a long slippy field. Out of the darkness Annette appeared.

  “You left the gate open,” she told me.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I panted, feeling a rush of guilt, trying to remember whether I really forgot to fix the latch.

  “They’ll get killed on the road and it will be all your fault,” she added.

  I was outpacing her easily. “Don’t be silly, of course they won’t. We’ll catch them in a moment,” I said and then she was lost to me in the darkness. They’ll be all right. They won’t get killed on the road, I told myself. That sort of thing doesn’t happen, not to people like us.

  I crawled through a barbed-wire fence and started to run up a bleak hillside. Beyond a hedge I could see the lights of the vehicles passing along the main road. The clatter of hoofs seemed to be at the top of the lane now, Jingle and Jangle were fast for their size. I was afraid I wouldn’t be in time. My breath came and went in gasps, my legs grew heavier and less willing; my throat felt sore and soon I was suffering from stitch. My feet slipped on the muddy ground as I neared a gate. I could hear Donald and Paulla shouting somewhere to my left but I couldn’t distinguish their words. The lights seemed to be moving more swiftly along the main road, round blobs of light in the damp darkness of the night, coming and going, coming and going. I climbed the gate and forced my weary legs to run again across wet grassland. Dartmoor ponies have got a lot of sense, I thought. Jingle and Jangle will be all right. The hedge was my next goal and beyond that lay the road. Each breath of air hurt my throat and lungs; every moment my stitch grew more annoying, and all the time I was furious with myself for being so unfit, so feeble. As I reached the thick beech hedge I heard a sound which made my heart sink and my efforts seem in vain – the clatter of hoofs on the hard tarmac road.