Riding With The Lyntons

by Diana Pullein-Thompson

  “It’s your money,” I said. “I don’t want to take all the responsibility.”

  “Now you’re beginning to worry again, Lesley. You must stop that anxiety complex or you’ll be a frail, harassed little woman before you’re forty. We shan’t blame you if we buy a dud. I wish now that we had brought an expert,” said Mummy.

  “Did Mr George Patterson seem an honest man to you?” asked Daddy.

  “Not particularly,” I answered.

  “Then why on earth did you say we would buy a pony from him?” said Daddy.

  “I didn’t, I only took his card. You decided to follow it up,” I reminded him.

  “I must have been mad. Dealers are notoriously dishonest. Why on earth did you let me, if you knew he was dishonest?”

  “Now, Adrian, for goodness’ sake don’t get cold feet and start putting the blame on poor Lesley,” said Mummy.

  “Well, I suppose there’s no need for us to buy one of Patterson’s ponies I mean we haven’t got to,” Daddy consoled himself.

  “We’re simply mad to go to a dealer anyway. They always do people.”

  “We can just look at the ponies, say, no thank you, and come away,” said Mummy in calming accents.

  “This beastly car is going extraordinarily badly. I suppose it’s the cheap petrol. Do you hear? It’s pinking. The steering’s loose again, too. That idiot of a man at the garage is absolutely useless. He’s done nothing, absolutely nothing. He deserves to be shot,” said Daddy, jamming on the brakes at a cross-road.

  “Careful,” said Mummy.

  “Now, for heaven’s sake, don’t back-seat drive,” said Daddy.

  He’s getting himself worked up about nothing, I thought. He’ll be in an awful temper by the time we meet George Patterson and he won’t buy anything however nice it is and however suitable.

  “I’ve just realised I’ve forgotten my cheque book so we can’t clinch a deal. We shall have to think it over. We can’t rush into anything. Perhaps it’s just as well. I can’t imagine why you didn’t remind me to bring it, Lesley. This is your expedition,” said Daddy.

  At last we were approaching Pynemouth and we saw down a side road a notice hanging out over a hedge, saying, George Patterson, Hunters, Hacks and Ponies always For Sale.

  “We’re here,” I shouted, suddenly excited again in spite of Daddy’s bad temper. “There’s the sign, look!”

  A few moments later we were in the dealer’s yard, and, all around us were horses of all shapes and all sizes.

  As we slammed the car doors shut, George Patterson appeared out of a loose box, calling, “Polly come on. Lend a hand.”

  “Ah, you’re the little girl who I gave the lift to. I remember now, Lesley Warren your name was, wasn’t it? And you wanted a little black gelding,” he said, coming across and shaking me firmly by the hand.

  “These are my parents,” I told him.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said George Patterson, shaking them each in turn by the hand. “A plucky little daughter you’ve got. She kept running all day, right till the end.”

  “Yes, she’s quite tough,” said Mummy.

  “Actually, I stayed around the first covert,” I started to explain.

  “When your Daddy telephoned, I wasn’t sure who he was, but I’ve got a fine little black for you to see, after all. Just the job for a little girl like you,” interrupted George Patterson. “Bring him out, will you, Polly?” he shouted.

  A few minutes later the girl groom paraded a handsome black pony with a large white star before us.

  “You won’t get a better-looking animal this side of the county. . . . A real show one that is,” said George Patterson, waving a handkerchief to make the pony trot.

  “How old is he?” I asked.

  “A seven-year-old, perfect for you . . . jumps like a stag. Of course, he’s a bit poor at present; he’s had a bit of a cold,” explained George Patterson. “Make him trot, Polly. Go on, run him up. That’s better.”

  The black pony seemed reluctant to trot; in fact, he looked rather miserable, and thin, too.

  “Don’t rush into anything,” muttered Daddy. “I must say he looks well-proportioned to me.”

  “Has he been ridden much by children?” asked Mummy.

  “All his life,” replied George Patterson promptly. “He’s just come over from Ireland a few days ago. They say he was a real corker there. Go like the wind and jump any mortal thing.”

  “What’s he like on the road? Is he all right with traffic? Does he shy at all? Lesley will probably have to ride him out by herself a good deal, so that’s important,” Mummy continued.

  “We’ll slap a saddle on him and she can try straight away. There’ll be a bus along in ten minutes time – a double-decker – so that’ll be a good test,” said George Patterson, glancing at his watch.

  “Splendid!” said Daddy. “Why did the people in Ireland want to sell him, by the way?”

  “Well, sir, you know what the Irish are; they breed a few; they break ‘em and they sell ‘em. Never keep anything for long – not the Irish,” said George Patterson.

  Presently I had mounted the black pony and was riding out through the gate, down to the main Pynemouth road. He was larger than Firelight – about fourteen hands two inches – and his neck seemed very long and his ears a long way away. He was beautifully built, compact, with strong quarters, long sloping shoulders, long thighs and forearms, and short cannon bones. But he felt very tired and very reluctant to start out for a ride at all; his head drooped; he dawdled; he was completely uninterested in his surroundings. I thought; he feels half-starved. Probably George Patterson doesn’t feed his horses very well; probably he was overworked in Ireland; probably his cold makes him feel rotten. He looks a lively type of pony; there’s nothing lazy about his appearance; he doesn’t look a heavy, sluggish type. His head is small, neat and very intelligent; he’s built like a pony that could gallop.

  At that moment the double-decker appeared around the corner, slowed down and passed, and the black pony paid not the slightest attention.

  “There you are! As quiet as a mouse. Didn’t I tell you?” cried George Patterson triumphantly, so triumphantly that I wondered whether he had really been sure that the pony was all right in traffic.

  I rode back to the yard and tried my mount in the paddock close by; it was small, muddy and unattractive, with a few broken-down jumps. I trotted first and the pony stopped to cough, and then I cantered; and the longer I rode my mount the more I liked him.

  Presently I jumped over a pair of broken hurdles, which Mr Patterson lodged against two sticks for me, and I was surprised by the pony’s scope.

  “He’s a lovely jumper,” I shouted back to my parents.

  “Didn’t I tell you so?” said George Patterson.

  I jumped some low post-and-rails and then I stopped, because my mount was coughing again.

  “He’s got a rotten cold,” I said.

  “They all come over from Ireland with snotty noses,” said Mr Patterson. “They catch cold on the boat, but they soon pick up again.”

  I dismounted, patted the pony and gave him a lump of sugar from my pocket. He’ll probably be too expensive for my parents to buy, I thought; he’s just the size everyone wants.

  “How do you like him?” asked Daddy.

  “He’s super,” I replied.

  I wished Mr Patterson would go away for a few minutes so that we could discuss the pony together without the dealer, but I wished in vain. Mr Patterson stayed, praising the pony and joining in our conversation in a hearty and rather irritating manner.

  “Have you got anything else to show us?” Mummy asked.

  “Nothing half so good as this little black fellow,” said George Patterson. “There’s a chestnut mare in the corner loose box which is a rattling fine pony but she’s a bit on the small side for your daughter.”

  Polly took the black pony away round to the back of the stables.

  “No room for him round here,”
explained George Patterson taking us across to see the chestnut pony, which was a long-backed mare with a large unattractive head.

  “I would love to have the black,” I whispered to my parents. “He’s wizard.”

  “We can’t rush into anything. We must think it over,” said Daddy.

  “How much do you want for the gelding? We haven’t talked about price,” asked Mummy.

  “Eighty-five pounds and he’s cheap at that. I’m only letting him go for so little because my stable is over-crowded and I’ve got some more horses coming in the day after tomorrow,” explained Mr Patterson.

  “We really wanted to give about sixty guineas,” Daddy told him. “I think we had better think the whole thing over and ring you tomorrow.”

  “Righto. But I warn you, that pony may have gone by tomorrow. I’ve got a kiddy coming to try him this afternoon,” said Mr Patterson, eyeing me.

  Of course, I felt a catch at my heart just as he had expected. The idea of someone else taking the black pony that afternoon made him seem twice as dear to me.

  “Oh, Mummy! Can’t we fix it all up now?” I asked.

  “No, we can’t, “ said Daddy. “But I’ll tell you what we will do,” he continued turning to Mr Patterson, “we’ll telephone and let you know our decision by two o’clock this afternoon. Will that do? It’s only eleven-thirty now.”

  “Right, Mr Warren, just as you like. You won’t get as good a pony as that for eighty-five pounds anywhere else. I’ll tell you that straight. He’s a winner. If it wasn’t for his cold, I would be asking a hundred. I paid eighty for him myself,” said Mr Patterson.

  “If we do buy him, how soon can he be sent over to us?” asked Mummy.

  “I’ve got a man with a truck who would do the job this evening, so there’s no trouble about that,” said Mr Patterson.

  “Oh, how super!” I cried, seeing the pony grazing in my paddock in the twilight.

  We shook Mr Patterson by the hand and then we jumped into the car and drove off. It was only as we neared Eggcombe that I remembered I hadn’t looked for splints or spavins nor had I checked the pony’s age. But I was so keen to have him that I didn’t admit this to my parents. Fate is with me today, I thought optimistically, I feel it in my bones.

  My parents discussed Mr Patterson and the black pony most of the way home. Daddy said he could afford eighty-five pounds. He was expecting an advance on royalties of £120 for the German rights to Forget Not Thy Cloak any day now and the money could come out of that. I said fourteen hands two inches was the size of pony everyone wanted these days, and so I thought eighty-five pounds was probably reasonable, especially as the black was such a good jumper.

  “I shall have to get this cold right,” I added.

  “He seemed safe on the road, and that’s one of the most important things as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want Lesley going under a bus,” said Mummy.

  After lunch Daddy telephoned Mr Patterson to say we had decided to buy the black gelding; the cheque for eighty-five pounds would be sent at once. Could Mr Patterson kindly arrange for the truck to bring the pony and we would pay the cost when it arrived. Mr Patterson said he would be delighted to do so. He was sure we had made a very wise choice which we would never regret. It was a rattling good pony which had never put a foot wrong in Ireland, and that cold would soon disappear. After a few pleasantries Daddy rang off.

  “That’s settled. Now you had better go and make yourself lady-like for Robin,” he said.

  “Mind you are polite about his music,” Mummy added. “Don’t be squashing.”

  “I’m not squashing,” I told them, feeling rather hurt. “But thank you so much for the pony. What shall I call him? Not Sweep. Not Midnight. Not Soot.”

  “We’ll think this evening. Go and put on your flannel skirt and your yellow jumper and make yourself look respectable,” Mummy told me.

  “And be quiet, because I’m going to write,” said Daddy.

  I wish I could rush and tell the Lyntons, I thought as I ran upstairs. They would be able to help me think of a name.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Downs had spent a great deal of money on their cottage. They had paid vast sums for the beams to be stripped; they had turned two rooms into one long room which they called the lounge; they had modernised their kitchen, which was bright now with red and white cabinets, a table and high stools. The furniture was oak in their lounge. “We thought we would be old world,” Mrs Downs explained to me.

  She was a short plump woman with well-set blonde hair, small fat hands, little feet squeezed into tight court shoes, and a bustling manner.

  “Robin is so thrilled that you are coming to tea. He’s lonely here and needs friends, and the Lyntons seem such a rough lot, not nice at all. One of them came here to ask if there was anything they could do to help us with the moving in. It was very sweet of her. But, do you know? She pulled out a handkerchief and scattered corn or oats or something all over our lounge carpet, and she had straw in her hair, and she smelt of horse – like a groom. ‘Well, I said to my husband, if all the girls around here are like that, there won’t be many friends for Robin when he’s older.’ He likes cultured friends, refined, decent people. He’s very sensitive, is Robin, highly strung, easily hurt. But then musical people are often like that. And he’s a brilliant pianist, brilliant. His teacher in London says . . .” she rattled on, gesticulating that I should sit in a chair.

  I sat down in a deep armchair upholstered in rust, thinking, she’s an awful woman. I wonder where Robin is, I’m glad Mummy isn’t like that. She was still talking; her bulging blue eyes searching my face, “And your Daddy he’s a novelist, isn’t he? The Lynton girl told me. We’re going to buy his book. Will you write the name down for me? I’ll get a piece of paper. It must be thrilling to have a writer in the family. Aren’t you a lucky little girl,” she said moving across to an oak table.

  I wondered what the Lyntons had told her about me. Had they given the information unasked or had Mrs Downs questioned them?

  “I rather like the Lyntons,” I said. “I used to ride their pony, Firelight, when I first came down here. But now I’ve got a pony of my own.”

  “Now here’s the piece of paper. Will you write in block capitals. Daddy wants to buy the book and then we’ll all read it,” said Mrs Downs returning.

  They won’t like it, I thought, it’s not their type of novel, but I wrote the name down; and then Robin came into the room.

  “Hallo!” he said, saluting.

  “Hallo,” I replied thinking; he has his mother’s eyes. And feeling suddenly shy.

  “Mummy’s got a super tea ready for us – jellies, trifle and everything. Shall I play for you?” asked Robin. “I’ve got the music out.”

  “Robin is so proud of his playing, aren’t you, dear?” said Mrs Downs turning to her son, who was settling down by the grand piano, which stood majestically in one corner of the lounge.

  I sat in silence. This was all new to me, I was accustomed to Daddy’s refusal to discuss his books with anyone outside the family or the literary world; his almost insane modesty at times; the dislike for his own work which so often beset him immediately after it was published.

  Unfortunately, I am not very musical, so I could not tell whether Robin played well or not. I found myself thinking of my new pony instead of listening to the music, but I tried to make the right sort of comments and, in fact, I did like some of the tunes very much indeed. But I could not help deciding that Robin was a little spoilt. Eventually the recital ended and Mrs Downs brought in tea, refusing my offer to help. It certainly was a large and rich meal, with trifles, jellies, iced cakes, chocolate fingers, sandwiches and so on, and Mrs Downs and Robin pressed me to eat more and more, talking down my pleas that I had eaten all I could, until I felt that unless I took another helping of this and another helping of that I would cause them offence, cast a sort of slur on Mrs Downs’s expert cooking, of which she was obviously very proud.

  By th
e end of the meal I felt so full that I found it difficult to keep my eyes open and to listen to Robin’s discourse on the objects of interest in the Kensington Science Museum – he had come from London too.

  At last there was a silence and I told them about my new pony.

  “I know you are not interested in animals, but I thought you might be able to think of a name for me to call him. There could be something musical which would do,” I told them, and I must say they were very helpful.

  Robin wanted me to call him after a composer . . . Bartok, Brahms, Bach, Elgar, Strauss, Wagner . . . he threw scores of names at me, but none seemed quite suitable. Mrs Downs cast her mind back to the musical shows she had seen in London . . . The Lilac Dominoe, The Student Prince, Perchance to Dream, The Boy Friend, and so on. But all in vain, nothing seemed absolutely right for my pony.

  “He will be arriving any moment now,” I told them looking at the small gold clock on the oak chimney-piece.

  “Would you like to come and see him?” I asked Robin.

  “All right. If you’ll keep that nasty dog from jumping up at me,” he said.

  “Magic isn’t nasty. She’s jolly nice,” I said angrily.

  “I’m afraid Robin is allergic to dogs,” Mrs Downs said. “He gets it from me. I was bitten as a little girl by a great big Alsatian.” She told me a long, long story about the incident, and then Robin and I left, after I had thanked her for the tea.

  As we passed the Lyntons; I saw Jon walking across the stable yard with a saddle on his arm. I thought he saw me, but he didn’t stop or wave, and I felt a tremendous sense of disappointment as Robin and I started to walk down the lane. If only I was taking Jon and Paulla to see my pony, I thought, as Robin stopped to wipe his muddy shoes clean on the grass.

  “I don’t know how you can live down such a filthy lane. You must get your clothes terribly soiled. Mummy says she wouldn’t have bought your cottage for anything,” Robin told me.

  “We love it,” I said, shortly, straining my eyes to see if my pony was in the paddock yet.