Riding With The Lyntons

by Diana Pullein-Thompson

  I threw myself into the darkness of the hedge; wet branches and leaves gave way to my weight. I tripped over a root, fell and rolled out on to the narrow grass verge by the side of the road.

  As I scrambled to my feet Jingle and Jangle galloped by, neck and neck. Their manes blown hither and thither by the wind; their little ears flat against their necks.

  “Head them, Lesley, head them!” Donald shouted appearing further down the road.

  “Too late,” I called.

  I waited for a moment to get my breath and then I started walking slowly down the road after the ponies. I heard footsteps behind me and presently Annette fell in at my side.

  “They’re bound to stop and graze in a minute,” I said, breaking into a jog trot.

  “Jolly careless of you to leave the gate open into the lane. It’s your fault we’re having all this awful chase around,” said Annette in an aggressive voice.

  “I’m sorry. I could have sworn I had shut it,” I told her, thinking: trust Annette to rub something in.

  I began to run again. The ponies were out of sight. Every now and then a car zipped by. Slowly, gently, rain started to fall; and the wind rustled the wet leaves in the beech hedge. My heart beat faster with anxiety, when I realised how fast the cars were travelling, how confident the drivers seemed as they pressed their feet on their accelerators and rushed onwards on the wide highway through the darkness of the night. I began to run more quickly. Presently Paulla, Gillian and Donald appeared from a side turning with grim expressions on their faces.

  “We shall never catch them,” said Paulla.

  “Of course we will,” I replied, forcing my unwilling legs to keep up the pace.

  My head started to ache and suddenly I felt dangerously near tears.

  “They’ve got no road sense. Oh, I hope they won’t be killed,” said Gillian.

  “They’ll be all right. I’m sorry if I left the gate open,” I said.

  I felt confident that we would catch the ponies in a moment, that all would be well. I suppose it was a kind of blind hope that gave me that conviction, a sort of trust that fate would not let me down. My tones were so certain that I could feel the Lyntons becoming less anxious as a result of my words; and that strengthened me still further.

  “They’ll be grazing on the verge round the next corner,” I said. And then it happened. . . .

  There was a blare of car horns, a screech of brakes, and then a loud clatter of hoofs as Jingle and Jangle came back towards us round the corner on the wrong side of the road. The car coming the other way hadn’t a chance. There was the sound of tyres skidding on a wet surface as the driver braked, a shrill whinny, renewed hoofbeats as a terrified Jangle galloped past us, and then silence.

  “They’ve killed her!” shrieked Donald.

  “The beasts! Oh, how awful,” said Annette.

  “Shut up and don’t panic,” said Paulla.

  We were across the road now. A man and woman were getting out of the car. Jingle was on the ground by the right headlight. Blood gleamed red on the wet tarmac. Annette burst into tears. I felt a wave of sickness, and a terrible sense of disaster. The next moment I was with Jingle, kneeling at her side in the road. Her near hindleg was bleeding, but her eyes were open, and she gave a shrill whinny, calling into the darkness for Jangle.

  My heart was pounding against my ribs. A knot rose up in my throat. It was impossible to speak. I stroked the hot wet neck and turned to inspect the leg.

  “Get out of the way,” said Paulla. “She’s our pony, not yours. You only let her out of the field.”

  Her voice was harsh; the bitterness of her words stung me. The knot in my throat tightened. Tears blinded my eyes as I moved away and at the same moment with a great grunt Jingle got up. I put my arms quickly round her neck so that she would not rush away, and then Donald slipped a halter on her head.

  “Annette and Gillian, you had better go and look for Jangle,” said Paulla.

  I began to shiver; the whole affair was becoming like a nightmare, a nightmare which had come about because of my carelessness, because I had behaved like a townie and left a gate open.

  Jingle was holding her hind leg in the air; it seemed horribly twisted; there was a great gash across her thigh; her hock, cannon bone and fetlock were covered in blood. A man and woman had got out of the car.

  “We couldn’t help it,” they said. “The ponies were right on the wrong side of the road. We tried to miss them.”

  “I know,” said Paulla, “I think her hamstring is severed, and that’s the end.”

  I found myself saying, Oh, God don’t make it the end. Make this into a nightmare. Let me wake up and find myself in bed at home. I can’t bear it.

  “Shall I ring for a vet?” I asked aloud.

  “We had better try and get her on to the verge, before something else runs into her,” said Paulla.

  She was very calm, but I felt her calmness came of despair. Jingle was loath to move. She refused to put her injured leg to the ground. It took us a long time to get her on to the verge. By the time we had done that the other children had returned with Jangle.

  “We must get a vet,” Paulla said.

  “What about the people in the car ringing for one,” I suggested in a choking voice.

  “Well, I’m terribly sorry,” said the woman. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  She’s decent, I thought. She might have been unpleasant. She might have pointed out that the Lyntons could be fined for allowing their ponies to stray on the road; that Jingle and Jangle could have caused a fatal accident.

  “Could you possibly ring Oxfield 2934 and ask for Mr Whitbury, and say there’s been an accident and could he come at once?” asked Paulla. “There’s a kiosk about half a mile up the road. We would be so grateful and you’re going that way, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” said the woman. “We’ll go right away, and we’ll tell Mr Whitbury it’s urgent.”

  “She’s going to die. Oh, I’m sure she’s going to die . . . my darling Jingle,” wailed Annette.

  “Shut up making such a row. That won’t do any good,” said Paulla sharply.

  The man and woman drove away and we waited in dreary silence. The rain fell faster; the wind rose; the cars whizzed by, and all the time I felt like throwing myself in the wet grass and crying my eyes out.

  Never had half an hour taken so long to pass; never had I felt so absolutely miserable and exhausted. I suppose I should have poured out apologies but I didn’t. The knot in my throat was so tight that I could not have controlled my voice if I had spoken, and Annette’s tears and lamentations were enough for all of us.

  There seemed nothing to do but wait and hope. We gave Jingle all the odd bits of bread and oats we had in our pockets; Paulla and Gillian tried their best to comfort her, for she was obviously in pain; and every second the dreaded moment was drawing nearer – the moment when we would hear the vet’s verdict. And it was all my fault, I had failed to latch the gate into the lane properly. I was responsible for Jingle’s pain, for our misery, for Annette’s tears. If only I had been more attentive this would never have happened; we would never have been standing in desolation at the roadside with a crippled pony, my conscience told me over and over again, and my remorse deepened.

  “He’ll be in a little car. His big one broke down the other day.” Paulla broke the silence at last.

  “She was such a brave, such a clever pony,” sobbed Annette.

  “Darling Jingle, soon the vet will come, and he’ll make you feel better. He’ll look after your poor leg,” said Gillian, stroking the pony’s hot neck.

  I wanted the earth to swallow me up then. I wanted never to look the Lyntons in the face again. I am a failure, I thought, a hopeless child who can’t make friends, who can’t shut gates. An only child who has always relied too much on her parents. But for me this would never have happened. But for me Jingle and Jangle would be eating hay in the paddock, and the Lyntons would be going to be
d.

  I felt the rain soaking through my clothes. Hands of pain seemed to grasp my aching head; waves of heat ran through my body; all my bones felt heavy as lead.

  Jingle stood with hanging head. Now that Jangle had returned Jingle’s eyes were listless and her whole attitude was one of utter dejection. Gone was the jolly Dartmoor pony of a few hours before; and in its place was this miserable, broken animal with the bleeding twisted leg. Dread and hope mingled with my remorse as I waited for Mr Whitbury.

  “I can’t bear it,” said Gillian. “If only he would come.”

  And then a moment later we saw his car, coming slowly up the road. When he saw us he dipped his lights and came gently to a halt. He jumped out and strode across to Jingle. He was a tall lank man with fair, sparse hair and pale eyes. Illumined by the lights of a passing car, his face showed no emotion as he bent to examine Jingle’s leg, after Paulla’s short explanation about the accident. Now the moment had come and I could hardly bear it. Oh, God, I thought, don’t let it be broken, don’t let it be broken. Make the leg all right; make the leg all right.

  “Poor little pony,” said the vet, in a surprisingly quiet voice, “poor, poor, little pony. Stand still, my little friend. You have had an accident, haven’t you?”

  “What do you think?” asked Paulla at last.

  It will be all right, I thought suddenly. I know it in my bones. I felt a sudden surge of hope, a trust in providence. And then the vet spoke, “I’m afraid it’s a case for the bullet. There are at least three fractures,” he said.

  For a dreadful moment there was complete silence, except for the falling rain and the swish of tyres on the wet roads. Suddenly I was drained of all emotion. My body felt limp, my mind dead. And then Annette turned on me, “You beast,” she screeched. “You careless, beastly beast.”

  “Steady now,” said the vet.

  “She left the gate open,” shrieked Annette. “And she doesn’t care a bit. She hasn’t even said she’s sorry.”

  “Shut up,” said Paulla.

  “Everybody leaves gates open sometimes. Ponies are always straying on the roads. It’s only one in a thousand that’s knocked down. It’s just bad luck,” said the vet. “I bet you’ve left a gate open sometimes,” he added, looking at Annette.

  “What do we do now?” asked Paulla, in a choking voice.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I said.

  “I know the farmer who owns the land round here. I’ve brought my humane killer. We had better try to get the poor little devil through the gate into that field, and then she can stay there till morning, then you can arrange for the Pynemouth Hunt to collect her.”

  “She’s a mare. Isn’t there any hope? I mean even if she’s never likely to be rideable, couldn’t we breed from her? Couldn’t the leg mend enough for that?” asked Paulla in a desperate voice.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid not. It’s too damaged. A human being would be lucky to recover from such an injury without losing the leg all together. As for a pony . . . well, there we are . . . no hope,” answered Mr Whitbury in a quiet voice.

  I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks now. I looked at Jangle, still bright-eyed and full of life, and at Jingle, sad, listless with that useless leg, and I knew this was the worst moment of my life; the sort of thing that one believes to happen in one’s imagination but not in reality.

  Annette gave a moan of despair, Donald burst into tears. Gillian buried her face in her hands.

  “Open the gate someone,” said Paulla, sharply. I rushed forward. It was a heavy five-barred one, and the latch was stiff, but I got it open at last.

  “The sooner we get her out of her pain the better. I’ll see the farmer for you,” said the vet.

  “That’s most kind of you,” said Paulla in a voice so stiff that I knew she was making a tremendous effort not to cry.

  “Now all you other children go for a walk up the road,” said Mr Whitbury when we had coaxed Jingle into the field.

  “I won’t. I want to be with her when she dies,” howled Annette.

  “Be quiet,” said the vet. “That noise is enough to upset the pony. She only needs one person. And Paula is the eldest. Now do as you’re told.”

  We each went then in turn and said good-bye to Jingle. Gillian held Jangle on the verge and the rest of us walked away down the road.

  I had kissed her neck. The wet cold brown neck of a doomed pony. In a moment she would be dead. A corpse for hounds to devour. And it was all my fault. We walked in silence, and our ears were waiting for the shot which would mean Jingle’s life was over. It came at last – a dull thud, not like the sharp crack of a pistol as I had imagined.

  Of one accord we stopped in our tracks and turned back. Paulla was coming through the gate with an empty halter in her hand. Somehow that empty halter set us all off again.

  “I’ll run you home,” said the vet. “Crying won’t do any good and we’ve all got to die some time. Hop in.”

  “Shall I lead Jangle back?” I asked.

  “No,” said Annette. “Don’t you dare touch our ponies again.”

  “I will, and the rest of you go back with Mr Whitbury. I’m the eldest and it’s my job. Now buck up and get in the car,” said Paulla.

  It was a dreary drive back to the Lyntons’ house. Mr Whitbury talked about the weather and the local farmers’ prospects, and we sat in miserable silence. I was dropped with the other children at the top of the lane. I didn’t know what to say. I had said I was sorry. There seemed no words which could make up for my part in the death of Jingle.

  I stood in dismal silence, as the vet turned his car and drove away; and then Annette said, “And you don’t even care. You’ve murdered our pony.”

  “You’ve brought us nothing but bad luck,” added Donald.

  “Don’t ever come again,” said Annette.

  I felt something snapping inside me. “I haven’t murdered your pony,” I shouted. “She ran into a car. I’ll never come again. I’ll never ride Firelight. I hate you all. One day I hope something awful will happen to you and then you’ll know what it’s like. I wish I was dead.”

  I turned and ran down the lane. I was filled suddenly with self-pity. Other people left gates open without causing tragedy. Why had this terrible disaster happened to me? Surely the Lyntons knew me well enough to understand how deep was my remorse? Wasn’t the death of Jingle repayment enough for a moment’s carelessness?

  Tears streaming down my face, I stopped to inspect the gate. It was shut now. I opened it and then swung it back into place; the latch clicked, and it was shut again. Surely that was exactly what I had done before? But then I couldn’t be sure. My mind had been miles away. I hadn’t listened for the click. I hadn’t looked back. I had walked home, thinking of the warmth and light, and of Magic waiting there to greet me. And who could have left the gate open other than me? No one else walked across those fields. Now, as I entered Sparrow Cottage I was glad to find my parents busy.

  Mummy was in the kitchen. Daddy was typing at his desk. I didn’t want either of them to see that I was crying, so I rushed upstairs and flung myself down on my bed. Magic came close on my heels and then she jumped up beside me and started to lick my face. My head was aching now, my throat was terribly sore.

  “Oh, Magic,” I wailed. “Oh, Magic. It’s all so awful.”

  At those words my puppy started to lick me even more frantically, as though she understood and wanted to console me as quickly as possible. I buried my head more deeply in the eiderdown. The rain beat on the window panes. The skies were dark as ink, but I hadn’t the heart to turn on the light nor to go downstairs and describe the disaster to my parents. I wanted to stay by myself in my room for hours.

  Presently, however, I heard Mummy’s footsteps on the stairs. “Lesley,” she called softly, “what is the matter?”

  “It’s awful,” I muttered. I can’t tell you, It’s too awful.”

  She sat down on the bed beside me and said, “Come on, tell.”
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br />   “I can’t,” I said. “Not now. It’s Jingle. I left a gate open. She was hurt by a car. They hate me now. I’m never, never to go there again.”

  “But it was a mistake. You didn’t leave the gate open on purpose, darling. They can’t hate you for a mistake, whatever the consequences were.”

  “But Jingle had to be shot,” I said. “Her leg was awful.”

  Mummy was silent for a moment then.

  “That doesn’t make any difference. It was still a mistake. Lots of people leave gates open and lots of ponies gallop about the roads without getting killed. It’s just one of those things,” she said at last.

  “And they gave me Magic and everything – that makes it all even worse,” I continued.

  “Look, if the Lyntons came round here and then left your gate open and Magic was killed as a result, would you treat them as enemies for life? You would try to make them feel less awful about it, wouldn’t you? After all, once Magic was dead nothing would bring her back. What would be the point of taking it out on the Lyntons? Anyway, you would want to spare them remorse,” said Mummy.

  “I suppose so,” I answered.

  “Well then, if the Lyntons are worth having as friends they’ll feel the same. Now, I’m going away to get a thermometer, because you look to me as though you have a temperature,” said Mummy.

  “I’m all right. It’s only a cold starting,” I told her.