Riding With The Lyntons

by Diana Pullein-Thompson

“He’s here,” I cried suddenly, for there he was, grazing rather half-heartedly beneath our elm tree.

  “Don’t shout so. You nearly perforated my ear drum,” Robin complained.

  “Sorry. But can you see him? Isn’t he handsome? Look at his dear little head,” I said.

  I began to run, but Robin didn’t break out of a walk and after a few moments I supposed I had better wait for him as he was my guest, and I knew my parents might make caustic remarks if I arrived ages before him.

  “What is the hurry about? You are crackers,” he remarked. “My socks have got soaked in your beastly lane.”

  At last, we had reached the paddock, and I was calling my pony, “Coop, coop. Come up.” But he didn’t stir from beneath the elm tree.

  “Lazy old thing,” said Robin.

  “He’s not old. He’s young, and he’s got a bit of a cold which makes him rather tired,” I said, and then I walked across the tender April grass and offered the pony a lump of sugar. He took it gently and I sighed with relief. At least he’s good to be caught, I thought, patting his long black neck.

  “He looks like a polo pony, doesn’t he?” I asked Robin.

  “I dunno. I suppose so, I say, do you see that plane? It’s a jet, I think. Golly, look at it!”

  High up in the blue skies growing grey now as twilight fell, I saw the silver flash of a plane travelling at tremendous speed.

  “That’s the sort of thing you’re going to fly, isn’t it?” I said, thinking, I listened to your music you might make some comment on my pony.

  “You bet!” said Robin.

  “Try patting his neck. He won’t bite. He’s very gentle. Not nearly as dangerous as an aeroplane,” I said.

  Robin put out a timid hand, and at that moment the black pony sneezed, dirtying Robin’s smart blue blazer.

  “Oh, the dirty, filthy thing!” he cried, backing away. “Now I’m all soiled.”

  “Well that’s not the end of the world. We all have to get dirty sometimes. Your blazer can be cleaned or the sneeze will wash off. The poor pony can’t help having a cold. You have one sometimes,” I said.

  “I’m always filthy after I’ve been to see you; either it’s the dog or the pony,” Robin grumbled.

  “Oh, don’t be an idiot,” I cried. “If you live in the country you must expect to get dirty. Our lane is not Kensington Park.”

  “I’m going home now. But I’m going to put a tent up in my garden tomorrow. Would you like to come and help?”

  “All right, if you like,” I replied rather doubtfully.

  “Mummy said I was to ask you,” he continued, “so will you come? She’ll want to know.”

  “If you would like me to, I’ll come after lunch. Thank you very much and thank you for having me to tea.”

  “OK. See you tomorrow then,” said Robin, saluting me and walking away across the paddock.

  As dusk fell, I studied my pony more carefully. I remembered again the advice given to me by my show jumping school friend, and I looked for splints and spavins, and I couldn’t find any. He’s beautifully made, I thought, but he seems terribly dispirited. I suppose ponies do get dispirited. If only I hadn’t quarrelled with the Lyntons I could telephone them and ask their advice, but they probably hate me now. They have a feud against me. Large families in books are inclined to have feuds, I remembered.

  Presently Mummy and Daddy came out into the paddock. “Are you pleased with him?” they asked.

  “He’s wonderful. I love him. Do you think I can take him out for a ride tomorrow or shall I wait till his cold is better?” I said.

  “You’ve forgotten, darling, that we haven’t bought any tack yet. We must go into Eggcombe to the saddler’s and get a saddle and bridle in the morning,” Mummy told me.

  “Oh, bother! I’ve promised to help Robin with a tent in the afternoon,” I remembered. “I suppose I can get away from his place at about three and then ride till four.”

  “I don’t see why not. Are you worried about the pony’s cold? I mean should we give him anything?” asked Mummy.

  “We can’t exactly make him a hot drink with whisky and sugar,” said Daddy.

  “He’s got a pretty long coat still, so I suppose it’s all right for him to sleep out and he seems warm,” I said, feeling my pony’s ears, “but he looks sorry for himself. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, wait til the morning, darling, and see how he is then,” Mummy advised.

  “I hope you haven’t been done. I mean, supposing he’s got an incurable disease and he dies in a day or two. We haven’t a warranty of any kind. We can’t do a thing and bang goes eighty-five quid,” said Daddy suddenly.

  And then I remembered something my show jumping friend had said, “For goodness’ sake get a vet’s certificate of soundness.” I stood stock still for a few moments and I thought: you stupid, silly, foolish, forgetful idiot, Lesley. Supposing Daddy’s doubts become reality? Supposing your pony dies tomorrow? I remembered that George Patterson had been in a hurry for us to make a decision, that he had arranged for the pony to be delivered to us as soon as possible. Perhaps that is why, I thought, perhaps he wanted to get him out of his yard before his health became worse. I turned to speak to my parents, but they were walking across the paddock to the garden to shut up the hens. Better not tell them, I decided.

  I slept badly that night, and in the early hours my thoughts grew blacker and more dismal, and, all the time, I was desperately sorry for the pony. He’s much too nice to die I thought, convinced now, with the first grey streak of dawn at my window, that the worst would happen. At last I jumped out of bed, slipped a coat over my pyjamas and went outside. The pony was still alive. He was grazing, and although he looked miserable and there was a discharge from his nose, he seemed very much alive. Suddenly I felt better. I went back to bed and I slept.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You know we’ve still got time to stop the cheque we posted to Patterson yesterday, if that pony has an incurable disease,” said Daddy at breakfast next morning.

  “We had better get on to a vet straight away so that we know the verdict as soon as possible,” Mummy suggested.

  Not Mr Whitbury, I thought. I couldn’t bear to see him again, not after that dreadful nightmare of an evening.

  I racked my brain: for I remembered the Lyntons had mentioned another vet to me. At last his name came to my mind. “There’s a Mr Walton. I believe he’s very good,” I said.

  “Well, pop up to the Stag’s Head and telephone him,” said Daddy.

  Talking to a vet reminded me horribly of Jingle. To drive the memory of that shattered leg, those awful moments from my mind, I tried again to think of a name for my pony as I walked back down the lane, and suddenly I decided on Leary – the name of the lamplighter in a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. My parents thought it a suitable name, too, so that point was settled.

  Time passed very slowly and I couldn’t relax at all. The last time I had waited for a vet was still too vivid in my mind and I felt increasingly miserable. I wandered backwards and forwards from the paddock to the house until my parents grew annoyed and then I sat in the oak tree watching for the vet to arrive.

  I imagined he would have an old battered car – probably a shooting-brake – but when at last I heard the squelch of tyres in mud, the hoot of a horn, it was a sleek new car, with a wireless, which drew smoothly to a standstill at the top of our lane. I was afraid then that the vet would be a smart supercilious person, who would despise us for buying a sick pony – if Leary was sick – and I began to think of excuses for my parents and me.

  But the vet wasn’t smart. He was a small fat man with a soft voice and kindly face; and he wore an ill-fitting tweed suit, which was too tight for him.

  “Hallo! That’s a tall tree to climb,” he said, with a friendly smile, as he reached our gate and I started my descent.

  “There are wonderful footholds,” I told him, slithering down the last piece of trunk. “This is Magic,” I ad
ded, as my dog appeared on the scene.

  “Well, pup, how are you?” asked the vet, and I could see at once that Magic liked him, for her lips creased and crinkled in the first grin of her life.

  My parents came out of the house then, and we all walked over to the paddock together with Daddy explaining how we had bought Leary, even admitting the price we had paid.

  I was feeling dreadful by now. I was terrified we would be told that the pony must be destroyed, and I couldn’t bear to think of Leary killed. He was much too sweet and too young to die. My knees knocked as we neared the paddock gate and my heart sank as I noticed that Leary was looking even more dreary now, with a thicker yellow discharge coming from his nose.

  I thought of the dull thud of the humane killer when Jingle died.

  “Humph, he doesn’t look too good – a bit sorry for himself. Nicely made pony though,” said the vet.

  My heart leapt with joy. He hadn’t condemned Leary at first sight anyway. I glanced at my parents, but their faces gave no clue to their thoughts.

  “Nasty discharge from the nose. He’s probably got a temperature. Have you a halter?” said the vet.

  Mummy, luckily, had brought one and we caught poor Leary easily. His eyes seemed brighter today, but his expression was listless and he eyed the vet without interest. It was a few minutes before we spoke again.

  “His cold is worse today,” said Daddy. “I don’t expect the ride in the truck did him any good.”

  “105,” announced the vet, pulling out the thermometer, “From now on he had better be in the stable.”

  “Is that high?” asked Mummy.

  “100.5 is normal. Young horses are sometimes a little higher. Anything from 100 to 101 can be counted as all right,” explained the vet, patting Leary.

  “Do ponies often have temperatures with colds?” said Daddy.

  “No, not always, but this is a little worse than a cold I’m afraid,” answered the vet, feeling the pony’s gullet. “No big swelling there; that’s something,” he added.

  “Is it curable?” I asked, glad that the question was out at last.

  “It’s strangles,” replied the vet. “A very contagious complaint, not as common as it used to be. He hasn’t got an abscess in the gullet, so, with luck, he isn’t a very bad case. Very occasionally an abscess can form somewhere else, internally, instead of in the gullet, and that’s rather more serious, but I think in this case it hasn’t happened, and in a month or so he’ll probably have made a perfect recovery, after treatment and good nursing.”

  “That’s why Mr Patterson was in a hurry to get rid of him I suppose. I mean, he didn’t want a pony with a contagious disease or illness in his stable,” said Daddy.

  “I think you’re probably right there, and I heard the other day that there’s a lot of strangles about in Ireland at the moment. But you’ve got a cheap pony, if you get him well. This is really a £150 animal. So, I wouldn’t stop that cheque or make any complaint if I were you. His legs are as clean as a whistle, too, and he’s just entering the prime of life. Now, let’s take him to the stable. Which way do we go?” asked the vet.

  “It’s only a converted shed I’m afraid, but it’s got good solid walls and we’ve put a window in,” said Daddy, “or rather we’ve improved the old one.”

  “We’ve no straw,” I whispered to Mummy, but she said we could easily walk up to the farm and get some and then she turned to the vet and said how pleased she was that he thought highly of Leary. “We shall certainly keep him, Lesley’s a good nurse. She looked after my husband and I when we had flu, like a saint,” she said.

  “That’s an exaggeration. But I’ll certainly do everything I can to get Leary well,” I said. “I’ll pop down to the farm now and get some straw for the stable.”

  “You’ll need some bran, too, and linseed would be a good thing as well. He’ll want a fairly laxative diet. I should get a bit of hay in, but cut grass will be better, but the trouble is there’s not so much about for you to cut, is there?” said the vet.

  “It’s not very long yet,” said Daddy.

  We had now reached the stable and the vet gave Leary an injection of penicillin. The pony was very good and stood quite still while the needle was pushed into his neck.

  The vet felt the glands in his gullet again.

  “I don’t think he needs to inhale, but I’ll come and see him again tomorrow. It’s possible he’ll be all right in three weeks. One’s got to be a little careful about riding them too soon after strangles. They always feel a bit rotten for a while and then one must be careful about their wind. You don’t want to break it or anything.”

  Presently I walked up to the farm and found a labourer who very kindly put a bale of hay and a bale of straw on the luggage rack of an old car and drove them to the top of our lane. He then carried each bale in turn down to the stable on his back. Daddy gave him five shillings for his trouble and we all thanked him several times. Then I started to bed down the box for poor little Leary, who looked much happier now he was inside and everyone seemed to understand that he was ill. Magic came and helped me – or rather tried to help me – by rushing round and round the stable in circles biting large mouthfuls of straw and occasionally stopping to have a roll.

  While I was busy bedding down the loose box, Daddy drove into Eggcombe and bought some bran, oats and linseed and when he had returned, we put the linseed on to boil and made a bran mash, which we stood in the corner of the kitchen in a bucket with a sack over the top. Then it was lunch time.

  After lunch I gave Leary the bran mash which he started to eat slowly without enthusiasm. And then I walked up to the lane to see Robin. I had decided not to change out of my corduroy trousers this time. After all I wasn’t going to tea or anything. I was only going to help with a tent.

  Robin was wearing a very neat and clean pair of grey flannel shorts which were obviously well pressed, a grey flannel shirt with a school tie, a rather nice sleeveless pullover and a grey jacket.

  His fair curls were well brushed and his face was spotlessly clean.

  I realised that I had forgotten to wash my hands after feeding Leary, but I consoled myself with the thought that humans couldn’t catch strangles anyway.

  I am not very good at putting things up. I always fumble when erecting deck chairs and generally get them inside out in the end. I am even worse with tents, and Robin was soon exasperated with me. We were just beginning to quarrel when I heard hoofbeats on the road. Without thinking I jumped to my feet and rushed to the garden gate and there trotting by with mane and tail flying was Jangle, all by herself.

  “Quick, Robin,” I shouted. “The ponies are out. Come and help me to catch them.” Then I started to cut across a field as fast as I could run in the hope that I could, by taking a shortcut, get ahead of Jangle and stop her. But a few minutes later she started to canter, and she had reached the corner of the road and plunged into a wood before I had finished my shortcut.

  I broke into a walk and Robin caught up with me. He is a faster runner than I am anyway.

  “Have you any sugar in your pockets?” I asked.

  “Sugar, of course not. Why should I carry sugar in my pockets?”

  “Sorry, I had forgotten that you don’t like ponies. But will you try to help catch her all the same?” I said.

  “All right, I suppose so,” said Robin rather doubtfully.

  “There’s a fence at the bottom of the wood and a narrow passageway, which leads to a gate. Do you think it will be best if we parted? You could go to the right and I to the left in a sort of pincer movement, keeping Jangle in the middle of the wood, so that she’ll finish up in the passageway,” I suggested.

  My heart was lighter than it had been for months. Obviously, someone else had left a gate open. I hoped Annette was the culprit. Robin thought my suggestion was a good one; and so, we each started to run down a different side of the wood.

  Jangle had vanished. The ground was stony and there was a great deal of undergro
wth, which pricked and scratched my legs, getting under my slacks in some obscure way. As I ran, I took off my belt, thinking I would be able to put it round Jangle’s neck when I caught her. My sense of guilt was subsiding a little now that one of the Lyntons had left a gate open. I was still terribly sorry about Jingle’s death, but I felt bad luck had paid a large part in the tragedy.

  At last I was nearing the bottom of the wood and I saw Jangle and broke into a walk, as she was only moving slowly and I didn’t want to hurry her, I looked to my right and could see no sign of Robin.

  “Hallo,” I shouted. “Robin, where are you? She’s down by the passageway. Hurry up, quick!”

  There was no reply and I began to feel annoyed. “Hi, Robin,” I yelled.

  Jangle had seen me and now she was trotting away towards the right-hand side of the wood.

  “Turn her. She’s coming your way,” I shouted.

  But there was still no sign of Robin and Jangle trotted on farther and farther away from the passage and myself. I felt furious.

  “You beast!” I yelled. “You beastly selfish beast. Why don’t you stop her?” My words came back in an echo and mocked me. My right leg was bleeding into my sock from a scratch on my leg. I tripped over a small boulder the next moment and fell, cutting my face and covering it in mud. I was even more angry after that, and much dirtier, too. However, I was determined to catch Jangle if I possibly could, and soon I began to run back up the wood calling, “Whoa, whoa! Steady Jangle. Walk, w-a-l-k,” in what I hoped was a soft, soothing and friendly voice.

  Presently I heard the clatter of hoofs again and I realised Jangle had reached the road. I cursed Robin, and tried to make my legs run faster, and soon I was on the road, too, and there, turning a bend, I saw the flash of a black tail waving in the wind.

  “You’re on a wild goose chase. You’ll never get him.” It was Robin’s voice which spoke. I looked round and saw him sitting on a gate and swinging his legs.

  “You beast! You let me down. What happened?” I asked.

  “Look at my legs. It’s a horrible scratchy wood and I’m not going down there just for the sake of a silly pony belonging to those rough Lyntons and their father who has been in prison,” said Robin.