“Oh my goodness!” exclaimed Sharon.
“What are we going to do?” I asked. “She’s in our Pony Club, even if she isn’t exactly a friend. We must do something to help.”
“She’ll hate us for it. She’s always ignored us, treated us like dirt, had everything she wanted. She’s never been generous to anyone, not once,” replied Sharon.
Fiona was walking towards the trailer now, leading Jackpot, while the loudspeaker announced that she had jumped a clear round. I ran after her. “Can we help?” I asked, catching up.
“I knew it would happen one day. I told him to stay away today. They knew he would be here, they knew he wouldn’t miss me jumping cross-country, not for anything,” she said, not looking at me. “And now I can’t get home because I haven’t got a driver.”
“My brother can drive. He’ll take you home. We all will,” I heard myself say.
The two police cars were leaving. “I always knew it would happen,” Fiona repeated. “Mum kept saying it would, but he wouldn’t listen. He wanted me to have the best, and I didn’t want it. I wanted to be like you in old clothes, riding cheap ponies which I had schooled myself; that’s what I wanted,” she continued, taking off Jackpot’s tack. “I don’t care about winning. I just want to be happy, that’s all, with friends like everyone else.”
I waved to Paul. “You’ll have to take Fiona home, she hasn’t got a driver,” I called.
“No hassle,” he answered a moment later. “I saw what happened and I’m sorry.”
“There’s still the showjumping,” I said.
“I don’t care about it. I just want to go home,” Fiona said in a voice muffled by tears, rugging up Jackpot automatically. “We’re finished, can’t you understand? Finished!” she said, bandaging his tail. “I knew it would end like this.”
We threw up the ramp. Paul started the Range Rover’s engine and we all got into the car. None of us felt like talking as we travelled to the sumptuous house where Fiona lived, which had an indoor swimming pool and gold-plated taps everywhere. We turned Jackpot out while Fiona found her mother. And we didn’t feel envious any more. Mrs Tompkinson appeared from the house to thank us. Her face was etched with lines and her eyes looked tired from crying.
“It was nothing, we were glad to help,” said Paul, holding out his hand.
“If we can do anything else to help, please let us know,” I added.
“We’ve got some surplus land, if you want to turn your horses out somewhere,” Paul said.
“They won’t let him out on bail, not this time,” said Mrs Tompkinson. “We’ll have to sell everything, of course. But he wasn’t stealing, only using other peoples’ money.” She made Mr Tompkinson’s dishonesty sound like a disease.
We didn’t talk much as we walked home together. I think we were all sorry that we hadn’t got to know Fiona better. We parted from Sharon when we reached her house.
“I always thought Fiona was hiding something,” said Paul, as we turned up our familiar drive. “Now I know what it was.”
“It must have been hell,” I answered, thinking of Dad working from dawn to dusk in old jeans and a darned sweater, comparing him to Mr Tompkinson and suddenly knowing that we were the lucky ones after all.
Just a Bit Different
Christine Pullein-Thompson
“It’s that Sophy girl again. She thinks Pixie may have laminitis,” said Mum, holding out the telephone receiver.
“Why doesn’t she have the vet?” asked my brother Andrew, without moving a centimetre from his bowl of breakfast cereal.
“Because they can’t afford him; it’s the same old story,” I answered.
“It’s your turn anyway, Ginny,” my brother said.
We were all tired of Sophy Stevens and her strange parents who were forever borrowing things, who could not afford a vet or find time to cut the nettles in their garden.
I took the receiver reluctantly. “It’s Ginny here. What is it this time?” I asked, sounding bored.
“It’s Pixie. He’s standing oddly. Will you come and look? He’s been lying down. I’m sure it’s laminitis. I’ve looked it up in my Veterinary Notes from A-Z,” she told me in a worried, childish voice.
“All right. I’ll be with you in five minutes,” I said, banging down the receiver.
“Finish your breakfast first,” said Mum as I hunted for and eventually found, my shoes.
“I want to get it over with. Can I borrow your bike, Andrew?”
My brother nodded, his mouth full of cornflakes. The kitchen sparkled with sunlight. Mum started to fill the washingmachine with dirty clothes. The day was warming up. It’s going to be another scorcher, I thought, mounting Andrew’s racing bike. Trying to work out whether it really was my turn to help Sophy Stevens, I pedalled through the village which was buzzing with tourists taking pictures of the old almshouses or staring into the small rushing river as though all the secrets of the world were there.
The Stevens lived in a stone cottage. The outside buildings had been turned into a workshop where Mrs Stevens restored pictures. Mr Stevens taught art at our local College of Further Education and had a beard. I parked Andrew’s bike against the stone wall by the yard gate.
“It is so good of you to come,” said Mrs Stevens, emerging from her workshop, her hair dangling down her back in a long, loose plait. “Sophy is so worried about Pixie, poor darling, and we daren’t call the vet because we haven’t paid the last bill.”
And that was another strange thing about the Stevens: they told you everything – did what Mum called “Washing your dirty linen in public”.
“It does seem to happen rather often doesn’t it? I mean she’s always worried about something; if it isn’t his shoes, it’s a snuffle in his little nose,” I said. “And we are actually trying to get ready for the show the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh yes, the show! Sophy’s going too. I’m going with her on my bike. That’s why she’s so worried, poor kid, she’s been looking forward to it for so long.”
“Mum says disappointments are good for the character,” I replied firmly, going in search of Sophy, thinking of all the things I should be doing at home, like schooling Seagull before it became too hot, or putting a double bridle together for the working hunter class.
Sophy was sitting in the pony shelter in the small paddock behind the cottage, where the grass was so thin you could see the earth showing through. Pixie was lying on a heap of clean straw, relaxed like someone on a beach in summer. Sophy’s small, square face was puckered with worry. Leaping to her feet she said, “He’s lying down, Ginny, and his hoofs feel hot. I’m so glad you could come. I’m sure it’s laminitis, but I don’t want to call the vet unless I have to. Shall I hose his hoofs with cold water? What do you think?” She was wearing an ancient sports shirt, old-fashioned trousers and strap shoes.
I knelt down to feel Pixie’s hoofs. “They’re quite normal for a hot day,” I said, standing up again to look at the tubby bay pony whose head was set on wrong.
“I found him here this morning, stretched out with his eyes shut. For a moment I thought he was dead. I did really,” related Sophy, staring at me with large, soft, amber eyes. “And you know so much about ponies. I mean I don’t know anything really; but you and your brother are experts,” she continued while I was half flattered, half annoyed by the compliment.
“No one knows everything and even vets make mistakes,” I said, feeling Pixie’s short, thick legs, running my hand along his stomach, watching for any sign of pain in his rather small piggy eyes. “But honestly, Sophy, you are an idiot,” I exclaimed, straightening up. “It’s a hot day. Obviously Pixie has been sleeping, then having a nice rest away from the flies, and you think he’s ill. If you ask me, it’s you who’s ill, a real nutcase. Can’t you see how bare your paddock is? Why, it wouldn’t give a Shetland laminitis, let alone a twelve-two pony.”
As I spoke I could feel anger growing inside me. I thought of the hot bike ride back and of the
time I had wasted, time which I would never have again; all because of a silly, neurotic girl called Sophy, whom I did not even like.
“Look, he eats all right,” I said, giving Pixie crumbs from my pocket before pulling him to his feet. “And he looks all right and walks all right,” I said, leading the fat pony across the paddock. “So how can he have laminitis?” I finished.
“I am sorry. I am truly. Please forgive me,” whined Sophy.
And that was another thing I hated about Sophy – she grovelled and had no pride and was always ready to apologise.
“You like inventing illnesses because you’re bored. Why don’t you cut nettles instead? Your whole place is full of them. Soon they will be growing in your kitchen,” I said, looking at the overgrown garden which stretched to the road, a jungle of nettles.
“Mummy keeps them for conservation; she says it’s for the butterflies and ladybirds. She won’t let anyone touch the nettles,” explained Sophy in a small, defeated voice.
“Well, some of us are busy. So think twice before you ask us over to look at a sick pony next time,” I snapped, mounting Andrew’s bike, sweat trickling down my face. “Just count to a thousand. Or is that too much to ask?”
Mrs Stevens called from the doorway of her workshop as I rode past. “Coffee, Ginny? The kettle’s on.”
I shook my head and rode away to find Andrew, large, brown-eyed and efficient, in our stable yard at home. “Well, what is it this time?” he demanded, taking his bike from me.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” I said.
“I would have murdered her. Why don’t her parents sort her out?” asked Andrew.
“Because they are daft, too.”
“We won’t go again. Next time we’ll say no.”
“And then it will be something really serious – raging colic, or acute laminitis, or a brain tumour, and we will be haunted by remorse for the rest of our lives,” I said.
Hearing my voice, Seagull whinnied. Andrew had caught up our horses and he was looking over his stable door, with his head which tears at your heartstrings and a mane which is dark grey and casts a shadow on the whiteness of his neck.
“Pixie is so ugly. I don’t know why Sophy loves him so,” I said, starting to groom Seagull. “He’s put together all wrong, so there’s absolutely no hope of turning him into anything. And his quarters are higher than his withers and his head is set on wrong, so he will never flex properly.”
“You are preaching to the converted, Ginny,” said Andrew.
“But they paid five hundred and fifty pounds for him. Apparently someone told them he was a show pony,” I said.
“The previous owner, of course, who then went laughing all the way to the bank,” replied Andrew.
“Why didn’t they take someone to advise them?” I asked.
“Because they are the sort of people who don’t need advice,” Andrew answered.
“Except from us,” I said.
“They’re arty-crafty, that’s what they are,” Andrew announced with a laugh.
“With nettles for butterflies and ladybirds,” I said.
“They would preserve dry-rot for posterity. In other words they are nuts,” said Andrew, putting my saddle on Seagull’s door.
I thought about our parents as I tacked up Seagull.
Dad runs a successful do-it-yourself shop. Mum is a trained accountant. They are both down-to-earth and successful and our garden is perfect: half an acre of mown grass, beautiful shrubs, a patio where we hold barbecues and a swimming pool. The stables are new, wooden loose boxes which Dad erected himself and there’s a tack room and a feed and hay store. Our Land Rover is also used to deliver goods from the shop, as is our new, double trailer. The house is perfect, too, with fitted carpets throughout and all the latest gadgets in the kitchen.
But now Andrew was leading out Earnest, his plain dark-brown hunter, tacked up in a double bridle and general-purpose saddle.
“I’m going to school him for the working hunter class,” he said.
It was not necessary. We both knew that Earnest would win the class with or without schooling, because he had won it for the last three years.
Seagull is fourteen hands. He often wins family pony classes and is always placed in working pony competitions. He is an Arab-Welsh cross and a wonderful all-rounder. I know I shall never have another pony like him. He is one in a thousand.
I mounted silently, cursing Sophy for wasting my valuable time and forcing me to ride during the hottest part of the day.
Sophy telephoned again on the evening before the show. “I was wondering whether you could tell me what one does in a family pony class. I am such an ignoramus,” she said.
I had just finished cleaning my tack and was about to start on my boots. “You have to show the judge that Pixie is quiet and well-behaved. You may be given a set test, or you might need to be able to make up your own,” I said, trying to keep a feeling of impatience from my voice.
“Do I have to plait?” she asked next.
I recalled Pixie’s thick neck. Nothing would change it; a few fat flabby plaits would only make it look worse.
“It’s up to you. You don’t have to. I wouldn’t. Anyway he’s a bit small to win a family pony class,” I told her.
“I don’t expect to win. I only get specials or consolation rosettes, but I don’t care. We can’t all be brilliant like you,” Sophy said.
“I’m not brilliant. Will that be all?” I asked coldly, like someone serving behind a counter in a shop.
“Not quite. How long will it take me to get to Rushbrooke?”
“An hour and a half, if you want to rest him when you arrive, and don’t forget a head collar and a feed,” I answered after a moment’s thought.
“Mummy’s bringing the feed and head collar on her bike. Please can I tie Pixie to your lovely trailer?” Sophy asked next.
“I suppose so,” I answered ungraciously, thinking that Andrew would be furious when he saw Pixie tied with our horses, as though we owned him.
“Shall I go by the road then?” she asked next.
“Yes,” I yelled, not telling her about the bridleway, which would not be suitable for her mother’s bike, which I thought she would never find anyway because she’s so incompetent.
“Thanks a million,” she said.
“Not Sophy again?” asked Mum as I put down the receiver. “That child is becoming a menace.”
The morning of the show was overcast. We rose early, groomed and plaited. Everything else we had done the night before, except for the rugging and bandaging which only took a few minutes. Dad had a business appointment so could not go with us.
“Bring back plenty of rosettes,” he said, wolfing down bacon and eggs. “If I can get away I will be there by eleven to cheer you on.”
He was wearing a suit, a pale grey tie and black shoes; he looked prosperous and successful. Mum was wearing a track suit. She loaded the Land Rover with bottles of wine, sandwiches, Thermos flask, and a host of other things including mackintoshes, umbrellas and canvas chairs. It started to drizzle and I thought of Sophy setting off in the rain: poor, inadequate Sophy with her mother pedalling beside her, sitting upright and peculiar on her old-fashioned bike, with oats and a brush in a knapsack on her back and a head collar wound round her waist. Suddenly I wished I had told them about the bridleway, because it would have saved them nearly a mile.
“I should have told them about Dog Lane,” I said, struggling into my best jodhpurs.
“Who are you talking about?” exclaimed Mum. “Not Sophy and her mother? For goodness sake, they seem to think we’re some sort of charity, the way they keep ringing up for things.”
“Exactly,” agreed Andrew, tying his Pony Club tie in front of the mirror by the back door.
It was still raining when we set off. Dad had just left in the BMW.
“Which way? Main road or lanes?” asked Mum.
“Main road. It’s quicker and I need half an hour to warm up Earnest,�
�� replied Andrew.
The main road was full of holiday traffic and most of it was travelling very fast.
“I should have gone the other way,” Mum said presently.
“How was I to know it would be like this?” asked Andrew.
“It’s August. People go on holiday in August,” I said.
“They’re in a hurry to get to the sea. Let them hoot. I’m not driving any faster,” said Mum, who doesn’t like driving the Land Rover. Blinding rain was hitting the windscreen now, while the wipers worked overtime. Suddenly, crammed together on the front seat, we seemed shut in our own small world. Andrew looked at his watch and sighed. Cars raced past us, their drivers hunched over their steering wheels, children and grannies in the back, wives in the front, caravans lurching, tents on roof racks.
“There’s plenty of time, Andrew,” said Mum, flashing her lights at a driver who missed us by centimetres.
Then without warning the wipers stopped working, and suddenly our world was blanketed in driving rain with our visibility down to a few metres.
“Blast, it was only serviced last week,” exclaimed Mum, her hands small and white-knuckled on the steering wheel, her body as tense as a horse’s before a race.
Suddenly I was overcome by a feeling of impending doom, while my brother asked, “Shall I get out and see what I can do?”
“Not in this traffic. I daren’t stop now. Later, perhaps,” replied Mum. Mum’s quite short and she looked over-horsed – like someone on an eighteen-hand horse when they should be riding a pony.
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 6
