The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories

by Christine Pullein-Thompson

  The Old Dun Pony

  Christine Pullein-Thompson

  “I want that one, or that one. Not the old dun pony,” I cried, standing in the dealer’s yard, appealing to my parents.

  “We’ll have the dun,” Mum said, unrelenting. “We want something safe and reliable.”

  “After all, it is your first pony,” added Dad.

  The dealer was unrelenting too. “You can come back and buy one of the others next year,” she said pleasantly. “When you are experienced. I always have one or two sound blood ponies in my yard.”

  The dun was fourteen hands with an enormous eye and strong back and legs. “A real family pony,” the dealer said, “and she knows everything: gymkhanas, hunter trials, hunting, even Pony Club polo. You name it and she’s done it.”

  “And she won’t show the dirt,” said Mum.

  She was called Sasha and arrived the next day done up in bandages with bits of foam under them. We turned her out in our paddock and watched her roll. I was still longing for something beautiful with an Arab head and long flowing mane. I wanted a pony which would impress my friends, which would prance a little and have slender legs and a coat as fine as silk. And she looked just like the ponies at the riding school down the road.

  Later Gareth telephoned to ask, “Have you got a pony yet?”

  “Yes, and she’s dun and plain,” I answered.

  “Oh. Did you say dun?” he asked despairingly.

  And I thought of his chestnut with flashy socks.

  “Yes, dun,” I shouted.

  “Let’s ride together tomorrow. I’ll call after school about five and show you the bridleways,” he suggested.

  “I’m riding with Gareth tomorrow,” I told Mum later. “I only wish I had a better pony; Flashlight is half Arab and he doesn’t half move.”

  Gareth is one of those people who never stops talking. He appeared in our driveway dead on time the next evening and said, “Oh, she’s not too bad; she looks a real good sort.”

  “Don’t be late, remember it’s dark at six,” Mum called nervously. “Are you wearing your hat?”

  I felt disheartened as we set off together because Mum was treating me like a child and Sasha was merely “a good sort”.

  “I thought we’d go through the woods and then through Valley Farm,” said Gareth. Then he started to talk and because he talked so much, we hardly trotted, so that when we reached the woods they were already dark and silent.

  “We had better hurry,” I said, pushing Sasha into a trot.

  “The woods are always dark, don’t worry,” said Gareth, still talking. “It’ll be light outside. Are you coming to the Pony Club rally next week?”

  “Mum doesn’t like me being out after dark,” I said. “And it’s getting darker all the time.”

  When we came out of the wood it was really dusk; cars had their lights on, and several drivers hooted and yelled out of their windows at us.

  “Mum will be doing her nut,” I said. “She’ll be furious. She won’t let me ride with you again, Gareth.”

  “Not to worry – I know a short cut. We can nip across the railway line,” cried Gareth, pushing Flashlight into a trot.

  “What does that mean?” I shouted.

  “I know a crossing. It’s all right, it’s nearly always manned. Anyway, you can see the signal. It’s quite safe,” said Gareth.

  We tore along a road past council houses. Flashlight shied at every dustbin but Sasha kept going, her ears pricked, enjoying it. And then we saw the crossing gates. Gareth halted in front of them.

  “Anyone about?” he called. There was a little hut on the far side, locked and silent. “It doesn’t matter,” said Gareth. “We can still get across. I’ll just have a look at the signal.”

  Suddenly I felt fear gnawing at my insides. “Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked nervously.

  “Yes. We just have to be quick. No problem,” answered Gareth, dismounting to open the narrow gate for pedestrians because the larger ones were padlocked. “You had better get off or you’ll knock your knees. It’s all right, the signal is down,” he said.

  I led Sasha through the gate.

  “I’ll hold her while you shut it. Hurry!” Gareth cried.

  I slammed the gate and latched it. At the same moment Flashlight kicked Sasha and then she was trotting away along the railway lines towards goodness knows where, and Gareth was calling, “Whoa, little pony, whoa!”

  I was screaming, “She’ll be killed.” And then we heard the signal change… “We’ll all be killed in a minute,” I shouted.

  “Don’t run after her,” said Gareth. “Don’t chase her.”

  “I’m not,” I said, holding out my hand and calling to her softly, my heart beating against my side like a piston.

  “I’m sorry,” shouted Gareth. “I’ll tie up Flashlight and help.”

  “He’ll break his reins. You know he doesn’t tie up. And you know you can’t catch him. Don’t be an idiot!” I shouted, not daring to look ahead and wondering how many minutes we had left before the train came racing down the track and killed us both.

  “But it’s all my fault,” cried Gareth, unable to keep quiet even now.

  Sasha was grazing at the side of the track. I thought, if only I had owned her a few days longer she would have come to me now. But I’m really a stranger. Then, far away, the train was hooting as though it knew that somewhere ahead there was a fool like me on the line.

  Sasha stared at me, trying to make up her mind, her ears pricked and her eyes calm. Some moments are with you for ever and this was one of them. How long will it take her to decide whether to trot off up the line to certain death or wait for me? I wondered wildly. Please, God, help me…

  And then she turned towards me. Running forwards I grabbed the reins and ran, dragging her after me towards Gareth and the gates, and all the time I knew that the train was bearing down on us like a devil out of hell, hooting wildly. Then I was by the gates with Gareth and Flashlight and the train was thundering past, full of travellers sitting at little tables, and then was gone into the night like a snake weaving its way through the dark.

  “Well done,” cried Gareth. “What a pony. I would never have caught Flashlight, not in a thousand years.”

  “I know. She’s all right,” I answered. “And I don’t want a Flashlight. I don’t even want a show pony any more. Sasha’s perfect. And I’m going to order stirrup lights and a fluorescent waistcoat before I ride with you again, Gareth Westlake.” And I imagined what another pony might have done and it made me shake in my boots.

  Mum was waiting in the road outside our house. “Are you all right?” she called. “You’re late. I’ve been so worried.”

  “Only just; it’s a long story, but you were right about Sasha,” I said. “And I don’t want another pony, not as long as I live.”

  Burnt Rosettes

  Christine Pullein-Thompson

  I had been looking forward to Eastcote Gymkhana for a long time. It was quite near and reserved for novices so I had the chance of winning a rosette. My small grey pony, Dizzy, was super at gymkhanas, much better than I was, but somehow recently we had lacked co-ordination. Dad was away selling components in Saudi Arabia. Mum didn’t know much about ponies.

  “You can go and see Mrs West. I rang her yesterday,” Mum told me, seeing the despair on my face. “She says she’ll help you and she’s trained teams for the Pony Club so she must know what she’s doing.”

  “But I don’t know her,” I said.

  “Oh, go on Patrick, don’t be so wet. She’s expecting you,” Mum replied.

  As I tacked up Dizzy, he put down his head and coughed twice. “Don’t start that again,” I said, riding into the road.

  Mrs West lived quite near and was waiting for me in a small paddock. “Nice to see you, Patrick,” she called, waving a work-worn hand.

  Dizzy stopped to cough again. It was a dry, hacking cough. “I don’t like the sound of that. Let’s loosen his drop noseb
and, it’s far too tight,” said Mrs West, sounding worried.

  When she had loosened the noseband, she told me to drop my stirrup leathers a couple of holes. “You are riding so short that you’re sitting right on the back of the saddle,” she continued, staring at me with piercing blue eyes. “Okay, now walk round on a loose rein.”

  “Aren’t we going to practise gymkhana events?” I asked impatiently.

  “Later, when your seat’s right and your pony’s relaxed,” replied Mrs West, before Dizzy put his head down and coughed again.

  I tried trotting, but he only coughed worse than ever.

  “Come over here,” called Mrs West. “Now listen to me, Patrick. Your pony isn’t fit to go to a gymkhana. If you take him, you’ll break his wind and he’ll be ruined, Patrick, and I mean ruined for life.”

  “Not go to the gymkhana?” I repeated, my mouth falling open.

  “Yes, that’s right. Put your pony before yourself, Patrick. There will be other gymkhanas, but there will only ever be one Dizzy. Call a vet. Go on, get off and lead him home. I’ll ring your mother and explain,” she finished.

  I dismounted, fighting back tears of disappointment. “Could he die then?” I asked miserably.

  “Yes, he could,” she said.

  I led Dizzy home. Mum was waiting in the road. “Mrs West rang me just now,” she said.

  “I’m going. She’s not stopping me. I don’t care what she says. It’s only a little cough,” I shouted.

  “Well, he looks all right now. His ears are up,” Mum said, staring at my miserable face. “And it does seem hard after all the work you’ve put in. Let’s pretend we called the vet, if she says anything. He may be better in the morning. Everyone knows that Mrs West is an old battle-axe. She’s always on at people over their animals.”

  We smiled at each other, united in our dislike of Mrs West.

  Later I groomed Dizzy and turned him out with a feed and a wedge of last year’s hay. Then I cleaned my tack in the kitchen, while Mum polished my jodhpur boots.

  After that I ran up and down the lawn in a sack, because I was determined to win the sack race.

  At nine o’clock next morning I was on my way to the gymkhana and Dizzy was still coughing. I kept praying that he would stop, but every time I trotted he started again – the same dry barking sound, which now sent a shudder down my spine.

  The gymkhana was in full swing when I arrived. I entered for the clear round jumping and it took me three rounds to win the coveted red rosette, my first ever. Dizzy was still coughing and several times I had to stop to let him catch his breath.

  I heard people muttering about him, things like “That pony shouldn’t be here” and “Why doesn’t the judge disqualify him?” But by now I had the hide of a hippopotamus, and no one was going to stop me winning more rosettes.

  I won the sack race easily and came third in the musical poles. They were my first real rosettes and Mum was proud. “If only your father were here,” she said.

  But now a girl of about eighteen approached us. “Don’t you think you had better go home?” she asked. “Your pony is spreading germs whenever he coughs, and I don’t want my ponies to catch flu.”

  “Who’s talking about flu?” asked Mum.

  “I am. You’re killing your pony. You should be prosecuted,” shouted the girl, her face red with fury.

  “You had better go. She’s crazy,” Mum said, but her voice was so shaky that suddenly my hands were trembling as I tied my rosettes to Dizzy’s bridle.

  “You’re killing your pony,” echoed in my ears as I rode away from the gymkhana – still in full swing. I saw Dizzy dead, his beloved head still, and eyes vacant. But it won’t happen, she’s just another scaremonger like Mrs West, I told myself, dismounting to lead Dizzy the last bit home.

  Mum had bedded Dizzy’s box deep in straw.

  “The forecast says rain. And I don’t want him to get worse. If he’s still coughing in the morning, we’ll get a vet. You were marvellous, Patrick. Did you hear me cheering you on?” she asked.

  I nodded, but suddenly my feeling of triumph had died on the way home.

  We gave Dizzy chilled water and lots of hay and a warm mash. I meant to look at him later, but was so tired I went to bed at eight o’clock and when I woke it was another day. Pulling on clothes I dashed downstairs. Mum was on the telephone. Outside it was raining cats and dogs. There was no welcoming head looking over the stable door, just empty space, for Dizzy was lying down with his sides going in and out like bellows, his breathing punctuated by bouts of coughing and, as I stood staring at him, all the warnings I had been given came back to me. Why hadn’t I listened?

  Then I was tearing indoors shouting, “Mum, get a vet. Dizzy’s dying. Hurry, please hurry.”

  “Don’t panic,” she cried, picking up the telephone.

  “His wind’s broken and he’s dying,” I sobbed as she started to dial. “He’s ruined and it’s all my fault.”

  “She’ll be here as soon as she can,” Mum said, putting down the telephone.

  I went back to Dizzy. He wouldn’t eat anything, not even an apple. I put my arms round his neck and told him that he mustn’t die. “I’ll never forgive myself if you do,” I said. I looked down the road for the vet. It was empty. I rushed back indoors shouting, “Where is she? Why doesn’t she hurry? Did you tell her it was urgent?”

  “She’s coming as soon as she can,” Mum said.

  I went upstairs to my room and looked at my rosettes. I had wanted them so much, more than anything else on earth, but now I hated them because Dizzy was dying and all because of them. For what were they compared to Dizzy? Nothing! Just bits of ribbon stitched together. In a fit of rage and despair I tried to tear them apart but they were too well-made; so I took them downstairs and burnt them in the open grate in the sitting-room. It took ages, but at least I was doing something to expiate my guilt.

  Then the vet arrived. She was brisk, matter-of-fact and quiet at the same time. She knelt in the straw, listening to Dizzy’s breathing, and waiting for her verdict was like waiting for a death sentence.

  Dizzy liked her. I could see that. I think he was probably saying to himself, “Here’s someone sensible at last!” Then she stood up and, looking at us with hazel eyes, said, “He’s got a very bad attack of asthma. He shouldn’t be bedded on straw and I think your hay affects him, too.”

  “Is it fatal?” I asked, my legs as weak as water.

  “Not unless you ride him, which could break his wind or, worse still, give him a heart attack. And you wouldn’t do that, would you?” she asked, going to her car.

  “I reckon it’s been building up, and the straw was the final thing,” she continued, slipping a needle into Dizzy’s chest.

  Afterwards she had a mug of coffee and wrote out a list of instructions, and told us where we could get shavings, and specially treated hay called horsehage, which wouldn’t give Dizzy asthma.

  “I’ll drop in tomorrow, just a routine visit, that’s all, because I know you’ll look after him, Patrick, because you love him, and he’s got a lovely home.”

  I wanted to cry, “You are wrong! I nearly killed him yesterday.” But I knew it would never happen again, because from now on I would always put Dizzy first whatever happened, because compared to him rosettes were nothing, just great to win and great to hang up, but not worth a single pony.

  The sky had cleared and the sun was shining. Dizzy stood up and, looking over his door, nickered softly.

  “He’s got to go out. Fetch his halter, Patrick. Don’t just stand there gawping,” Mum said.

  But I wasn’t gawping, I was thanking God for the second chance I had been given.

  Firkin’s Ghost

  Christine Pullein-Thompson

  The field was empty without Firkin. The grass was long and luscious. The branches of the oak tree dipped low above it and everywhere was yellow with daisies. I missed his small, mealy nose nuzzling my pockets, his bright eyes.

  It had
all happened while we were abroad basking on sun-drenched beaches, but now I missed him beyond words. Mum had said it was for the best. “He will only suffer while we are away, become worse and worse. You know what the vet said, he said he had chronic laminitis,” she told me.

  Mum had grown up abroad where animals count for less, where they are not kept as pets, friends of a family. She has eaten turtles and lizards and snails. She does not understand.

  But Dad had called the young vet, who arrived with a red-haired girl in his car, and the young vet had said, “He’s had a good innings, after all. He’s eighteen, that’s not such a bad age…”

  I could see that he was in a hurry, that he wanted to get back to his red-haired girlfriend, that he did not really care for poor Firkin: a round, middle-aged pony who ate too much.

  “Can you do it while we are away?” Dad had asked. “Without us?”

  “No trouble at all. Just leave his halter on the gate. We will arrange everything. We won’t even charge you,” the young vet said, and I saw that he had a pimple by his nose.

  “Next Tuesday, then?” asked Dad.

  “Will do,” replied our vet, as though it was of no importance – just one more pony down the drain.

  “What about the carcass – the remains?” asked Dad, avoiding my eye and looking all wrong in a striped town shirt with gold cufflinks.

  “We’ll see to everything, Mr Moore – no problem,” called the young vet, hurrying back to his four-wheel-drive car. “Tuesday it will be.” And so the time had been decided like a death sentence, and we had gone to Spain.

  Now I stood in the field in the evening light, missing Firkin. My heart ached for him, and his tack hanging by the back door was a living reproach.

  “Still mooning about Firkin?” asked Mum when I returned indoors. “Listen, we’ll buy you another pony, a better one.” As though he was a piece of clothing, a coat, a skirt, or furniture – as though he could be replaced just like that.