About twenty minutes must have passed when I heard the toot of a horn behind me, and turning around I saw a car and trailer. A man leaned out of the car window and said, “Can we give you a lift?”
I hesitated for a moment. How often Mummy had told me not to take lifts from strange men. But this one looked all right. Besides he had been hunting and must therefore be quite sane, surely, I thought.
“It’s all right. I won’t eat you, Polly, my girl groom, is in the trailer. You can travel with her if I give you the woollies,” said the man, his broad grin revealing a bad set of false teeth.
“Thank you. I would love a lift to the end of the road,” I said, ashamed now of my hesitation.
“Hop in, then,” said the man, flinging the car door open.
A few seconds later I was being driven on towards home.
“What’s your name?” asked my companion. “Mine’s George Patterson.”
I told him.
“Haven’t you got a pony of your own? I saw you trudging along on your feet. That’s a poor show, isn’t it? Tiring, too, I should think,” he continued.
I said it was quite fun and I had enjoyed the day, and my parents were going to buy me a pony in the spring.
And then he said I had met the right man then, because he was one of the biggest dealers in really good ponies and horses in this part of England.
“Ask Polly if you don’t believe me,” he added, as if I could leap out of the car at once and address her when we were travelling at thirty miles an hour.
“Here’s my card. I’m ten miles this side of Pynemouth. What type of animal do you want? I’ll start looking around right away, so that you have something really nice waiting for you when you get back from school.”
I was not sure that I liked Mr George Patterson, but I was excited at having met a horse dealer and I told him all about my ideal pony.
“Why a black?” he mused. “Bays, browns and chestnuts are much easier to find. But there, I suppose girls always have fads, strange fancies no one can understand. Ah well, I’ll do my best and like as not there’ll be a fine little black gelding waiting for you at George Patterson’s place when you come back from school for Easter. D’ye knew what Mummy and Daddy want to pay?”
I said no, it depended on Forget Not Thy Cloak; and then I had to explain that Daddy was an author and I had to explain the royalty system of paying monies earned from books. By then we had reached the point where the road branches off to the farm, the Lyntons, and Sparrow Cottage, and the car was at a standstill.
“I’m afraid I must go now or my parents will be worried,” I told Mr Patterson, stuffing his little printed card in my pocket.
“Well, don’t forget I‘ll have something ready for you in my stable for Easter, and that’s a promise. So ring me up as soon as you’re back from school. It’ll be a real beauty, too – you’ll see,” said Mr Patterson, shaking me warmly by the hand as though I was a grown-up person.
“No, I won’t forget. I’ve got your card. Thank you very much for the lift,” I said, and then I was off again, running down the road towards the Lyntons.
I stopped at the Stag’s Head and tried to look through the windows to see if Daddy was there, but they were frosted. In the end I had to push the bar door open. And there he was, a tall figure in corduroys and a duffle coat with the damp of the evening mist in his dark hair, and a glass of foamy beer in his hand.
“Hallo,” he cried, turning away from the labourer to whom he had been talking. “Here’s Lesley. Had a good day? You look cold and wet.”
“I’m all right, thanks. I just popped in so that you would know I wouldn’t be telephoning,” I told him. “I’ll go home now.”
“I wish I could offer you a glass of sherry, but it’s not allowed. Wait half a sec’ while I finish my beer, and then I’ll come with you,” said Daddy.
Presently we were walking down the lane together. I told Daddy a little about the day’s hunting and especially about Gladsome – if it was Gladsome – and about the dealer. Daddy said Mr Patterson’s card looked rather nasty, but if he was really going to find me a pony we had better look him up in the Easter holidays.
When we got home, I found Mummy had stoked the boiler so that I could have a hot bath immediately, but she didn’t say, “I told you so,” about the rain and my stupidity in going without any sort of coat.
After the bath I had a wonderful tea in front of the living-room fire, a boiled egg, toasted crumpets and chocolate cake, and then Daddy told us that he had collected some gossip at the Stag’s Head.
“The cottage up by the farm, the empty one, has been bought. No one seems to know who by, but, anyway, we’ll have some new neighbours soon,” he said.
“I wonder whether they’ll be horsy. I wonder if they’ll get on with the Lyntons,” I mused.
“I wonder how the Mr earns his living. I hope he’s not an intellectual. That’ll be too awful,” said Daddy. “by the way, there definitely is some vague mystery about the Lyntons. Someone at the pub said something about them changing their name from something else. Rather intriguing.
“His face is vaguely familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen a photograph of him somewhere,” said Mummy.
“I thought exactly the same,” exclaimed Daddy. “Didn’t I, Lesley, when we met him in that shed?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Perhaps he’s an explorer who goes off every few years to the Antarctic. He looks a bit like a bear.”
“Well, tell us some more about your hunt, Lesley,” said Mummy. “What was the Master like across country. Did he jump all right?”
I told them everything except that I had headed the fox; after all what was the point in telling that their daughter had been an idiot? And then it was time to get dinner, and after dinner it was time to go to bed and to sleep the heavy sleep of the physically exhausted.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day we went to the seaside, which was immensely bracing. We walked along the edge of the cliffs, watching the waves, rushing in a whirl of foam and fury up the beach, only to subside a second later, with a sigh of sorrow and defeat, before making a new attack on the wet brown sand. It was a wild windy day and the skies were nearly as frantic as the sea, with murderous dark clouds racing to the west and torrents of rain falling every now and then. It was a day which lifted the mind from mundane thoughts, which stirred the imagination, which filled the heart with a longing for adventure. We were all possessed with a desire to take a strange ship and sail away from our homely isle to unknown lands across uncharted seas.
“We live too safely,” Daddy said. “To be happy one should live dangerously, then one appreciates every moment of life, for each moment may be the last moment.”
“Oh, for sunshine and palm trees! I wish I could go to the Fiji Islands, away from rain, away from beige and grey and fawn,” exclaimed Mummy, looking out to sea, the angry grey-white sea, stretching across the miles to meet the dark horizon.
“And the day after tomorrow I shall be back at school sitting at a beastly desk, struggling with geometry,” I grumbled. “It’s an awful, awful thought.”
At last our legs were tired with walking and we retraced our steps to the car. On the way home we stopped in Eggcombe, where, after a tea of toasted buns and fruit cake, we went to the cinema and saw an Italian film, which was very moving and gave us some superb scenes of Italy, which only increased our wander-lust.
The last few miles home were wet and dismal. Our windscreen wiper collapsed and every now and then we had to stop while Daddy worked it by hand. We had forgotten to bring a torch and Mummy fell into the ditch as we walked down the last piece of lane, so that we all arrived in bad tempers.
The next day was fine, thank goodness, and I spent the morning training Magic to come when she was called to sit down and to fetch a glove when I threw it for her. In the afternoon I white-washed the inside of the shed which was to be a stable for my pony, and then it was time for Mummy and I to pack my suitcase, and for Daddy to
drive me to Pynemouth station. As usual I did not want to return to school, but I consoled myself with the description of the hunt which I would give my show jumping friend, and the poem I had decided to write about the sea, which I would show to Mary.
The second half of term passed very quickly and soon I was once more racing towards Pynemouth in the Frailford Express. The fields either side were greener now and the grazing cattle sleeker. I even saw a few lambs frolicking in the spring grass, and the thorn hedges were bright with buds. To me there seemed to be a happy air of anticipation everywhere, except in the heart of the old lady in my carriage who would tell me all about her last operation.
The wheels of the train sang a special song for me, “You’re going to have a pony; you’re going to have a pony,” over and over again. The sun shone from the bluest of blue skies; the beautiful spring countryside raced past my window, in a glory of green and gold, of brown, pink and emerald. And in my heart I was sure everything would come right. Soon I would be friends with the Lyntons again, soon I would be riding my black gelding right up into the hills, into the tantalising distance which I could see from my little window; soon Daddy would tell me that Forget Not Thy Cloak had made hundreds of pounds, that for a few months at least money would not matter to us anymore.
It wasn’t until I was in the car with Magic on my lap, driving home with my parents that I remembered there would be newcomers in the cottage by the farm.
“What are they like? Have you seen them?” I asked.
“He’s a travelling salesman for this part of England for some big manufacturers of something,” said Daddy.
“And there’s a son of twelve, who might be a friend for you. His name is Robin,” Mummy added.
“Now you are back to keep Mummy company for a bit, I’m going up to London for a few days. I need a change I’ve been buried in the country too long,” Daddy told me.
“He’s feeling out of touch,” Mummy said.
My mind switched immediately to my pony of the future. If Daddy was going to London how could he buy me one? Perhaps Forget Not Thy Cloak had been a flop. Perhaps my parents couldn’t afford to buy me a pony after all. Perhaps Daddy was going to London to see if he could get something commissioned because he needed money urgently. A score of doubts crossed my mind. I longed to ask my parents if they would or would not be able to buy me a pony, but I reasoned that if they were hard up they must be worried anyway, and my request would only add to their troubles and disappointment.
“Are you bored with the country?” I asked my father at last.
“No, not at all. I just need a change, and I would like a talk with Jim Chattaway about one thing and another,” he told me.
Jim Chattaway is Daddy’s publisher, so that talk could mean anything. I wanted to ask my father whether he had finished the novel he had been writing at half term, but sometimes he’s cross when you ask him about his work and I didn’t quite dare. He might snap my head off, I thought, falling back into silence.
“You’re very pensive, Lesley,” Mummy said.
“I was thinking about my pony,” I replied, automatically – without realising what I was saying. “It doesn’t matter,” I added quickly.
“What doesn’t matter?” asked Daddy.
“I mean about the pony, I mean if you’re hard up. I mean if Forget . . .” I started.
“I mean, I mean, I mean,” mimicked Daddy, changing down as we climbed Eggcombe Hill. “For once, my dear girl, we are not hard up. For the first time in my life I’ve written a seller – a jolly rotten one, but never mind it will keep us for a year or two. Chattaway telephoned me yesterday to say the French, German, Italian, Dutch, Swedish and Norwegian rights have now all been disposed of. I’m going to ring George Patterson tomorrow, if you’ve still got his card, so that we can get you fixed with a pony before I go away.”
“It’s wonderful. Oh, I’m so pleased. You bet I’ve still got that card. Oh, Magic, I’m so happy, I knew everything would be all right. I knew it in the train,” I cried, kissing my dog’s furry neck.
“Don’t say you’re claiming to be psychic, that would be too awful,” laughed Mummy.
When we arrived home, I found the chicks had grown enormously. They looked like little pullets and cockerels now.
“The hens are laying well, too,” Mummy told me.
The oak tree was coming into leaf and looked handsome against the azure skies. The garden was tidy. Daddy had laid down the new lawn, “And don’t you dare let your puppy scratch holes in it,” he said. The paddock was green with spring grass waiting to be grazed and far away, stretching to meet the pale horizon, there were the hills and woods waiting to be explored.
If only the Lyntons have forgiven me, life will be perfect, I thought, as I watched Magic, a little black bundle rolling over and over by our wide white gate.
In the evening I saw Robin. I was lying in the paddock, gazing through the tangled branches of an elm at the clear beauty of the cloudless sky, when I heard footsteps on the garden path. I jumped to my feet and there walking up the path was a small boy with protruding teeth and fair curls.
“Hallo,” I called.
He stopped short in his tracks, and I noticed as I drew near that his eyes were large and pale blue and that he was wearing a school tie and school socks.
“I’m Master Robin Down, and I come from the cottage up by the farm. Mummy said we could play together as we are neighbours. Would you like to come to tea tomorrow?” said the small boy.
I was filled with admiration. He had done what I had been afraid to do. He had taken the first step.
“I would love to come to tea with you tomorrow. Thank you so much. Look, have you seen my puppy?” I said, calling Magic to me.
“I don’t like dogs. They’re rough; they jump up and they scratch; and they have fleas and lice, too. Mummy won’t have one in the house,” said Robin, stepping quickly backwards out of Magic’s way.
“That’s silly. Dogs are terribly nice; they are kind and sweet and they comfort you when you are miserable. Magic sleeps in my bedroom,” I told him, aghast at his views.
“Do you like music?” asked Robin, keeping a wary eye on Magic.
I said yes, if it wasn’t too highbrow and he said:
“I’ll play for you tomorrow. Ugh, I wouldn’t like a dog in my bedroom.”
“Do you like climbing trees? Our oak is super. You can see miles and miles from the top, almost to the sea,” I said.
“Not much, but when I’m grown up I’m going into the air force. I’m going to fly jets. I might go to Mars. I shall fly right up into the clouds, farther than you can see from that dirty old tree. I shall break through the sound barrier. Mummy says I’ll be a very good pilot,” Robin told me, his eyes growing dreamy.
“That sounds marvellous, wizard,” I said, thinking we can’t agree over anything. “Have you met the Lyntons?” I asked, as an afterthought.
“I hate the Lyntons. They’re rough. Mummy says the girls are most unlady-like, little tomboys, who gallop around on silly horses, being rude and thinking they know everything. They’re my enemies, my very worst one,” said Robin, puffing out his narrow chest in rather a ridiculous manner.
“I love horses,” I said weakly, “and I’m going to have a pony of my own very soon. I thought you might like to ride him, too.”
“Oh, no thank you!” exclaimed Robin instantly, “I hate riding. I think ponies are the stupidest animals that ever lived, and hunting is cruel. Daddy says only barbarians hunt; and Mummy says the followers ought to try being chased by a pack of dogs themselves, and then they might learn a lesson.”
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got to go in now to make Magic’s dinner. Would you like to see our chickens first?”
“No, thanks,” answered Robin. “I think I’ll be getting along. See you tomorrow then.”
“OK. Goodbye. I shall look forward to it,” I said, and then I dashed indoors and told my parents all about my acquaintance.
“
I’m sure he’ll think you’re unlady-like,” said Mummy.
“You had better go properly dressed in your grey flannel skirt for tea, and mind you listen politely when he plays for you. Remember your manners,” Daddy told me.
“Gosh! I’m sure to say the wrong thing. We don’t agree on anything,” I said.
“Well, try to understand another person’s point of view for a change. He’ll be a useful character study for your book, if nothing else. Now go away and shut up for goodness’ sake,” said Daddy.
Poor Mummy, I thought, Daddy’s writing and she’s doomed to silence too. I mouthed “going to the kitchen,” to her and she followed me out. My parents had installed an Aga cooker, instead of the range, during the last half of term, and now we both leant against it and had a long, long chat about school, about Robin, about Daddy’s trip to London, and my new pony.
And then dusk fell and it was time to shut up the hens and prepare dinner.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning Daddy telephone George Patterson. He seemed to have forgotten all about me, but after a lengthy conversation, he said he was sure he had just the pony for me in his stable right now – a flashy little black, sharp, smart and as kind as a kitten. Daddy arranged that we should drive over to the stables straight away. So, I changed quickly into my riding things and we set off in great excitement.
“Now, we must be very, very sensible and not get done in any way. Do you know how to tell a pony’s age, Lesley?” asked Daddy.
“I think so,” I said, doubtfully.
“Isn’t there a line called the Galvayne’s groove or something equally fantastic?” suggested Mummy.
“Yes, but that only appears after nine, and I want a young pony,” I told her.
“Well you’re the expert. We leave those finer points to you,” said Daddy, filling me with trepidation.
If only Jon could have helped me, I thought. He knows such a lot. If only I hadn’t left that beastly, beastly gate open.
Riding With The Lyntons Page 10