Megan had come a long way since the day, sunlit and glorious, when she had set out with her dad to buy Snowman, a dappled grey Welsh pony of twelve-two. It was hard at first because there wasn’t a local Pony Club, and she had learned much of her riding from books, but one year when Mr Jones was working a lot of overtime he had paid for her to go on a course where she had been taught elementary dressage. Then, by chance, she had met Mrs Fairweather, an ex-riding-instructress who lived in the next village, and who had driven over once a week to teach her.
“I love coming and you keep me in practice. It’s such a pity my own kids don’t like riding,” she said. But, because Mrs Fairweather was married to a pit manager who sided with the Government, Mr Jones put a stop to the lessons.
“We don’t need her charity,” he said.
Now, as Megan sat on the bucket, her mind ran back over all these and other events, dwelling longest on the show where she had won first prize as the best rider. Was all this really coming to an end?
With a heavy heart she went across to the shelter where Snowman and Romilly were sheltering from the sun and the flies, and they whinnied to her. She stroked their necks and then examined them as her father had taught her, to check that they had suffered no cuts or bruises during the day. Snowman ruffled her thick dark hair with his lips and Romilly nuzzled her pockets for titbits. She stood between them, feeling for a moment that special peace which came when she was with her ponies, before anger and resentment made her shake her thick hair and vow that she would not stand by and let the ponies go. She would fight; find a way to pay for their keep. Calamity did not have to follow calamity. Dad would be glad because he loved the ponies, too, although the fight had gone out of him. And Mum? Well, even Mum, who was allergic to animals because of her asthma, didn’t really want them to go. How many times had she said to Megan, “I want you to be happy.”
Now Megan ran her hands over Romilly’s coat, remembering how Dad had admired his colour when they bought him. “Duns,” Dad had said, “are hardy. They keep going all day. They’re more reliable than chestnuts and tougher than greys.”
“I’m going to keep you,” Megan said. “We belong to each other.” And she felt determination crushing her sadness. Then, after checking the ponies’ water, she walked down the hill into the valley.
The next day was Saturday, so the new strong Megan caught a bus into the nearest town and scanned a newsagent’s notice board where usually some people advertised for jobs and others for workers. But this time there wasn’t a single notice offering employment. So Megan went to a cafe and asked to see the manageress, who was plump and blonde with very high heels.
“Do you need anyone to wash up?” Megan asked.
“You must be joking. With five hundred adults unemployed in this town, do you think we would take on a child?”
“I’m not a child, I’m a teenager,” Megan said.
“Oh, you are, are you? Well, to me you don’t look a day older than eleven. Please don’t waste my time.” The manageress turned on her heel and went back to the kitchen.
Next Megan visited a pet shop. “I was just wondering whether you need anyone to mind your animals?” she asked the doggy-looking owner, while inspecting the guinea pigs.
“You want to be paid?” the owner asked, blinking through her large spectacles.
“Yes,” stammered Megan. “I need money.”
“Don’t we all,” said the owner. “If I need a paid minder I’ll give my own daughters the job. Sorry, dear.”
Then Megan caught the bus home, spending the last of her pocket money. She walked to the field and tacked-up Romilly and went for a ride across the rough land by the disused pit and along the road and tracks which had once been busy with lorries moving coal. She saw the great slag heaps and the huge piles of fuel no one wanted and the chimneys through which no smoke would pass again. And she thought of all the little ponies who had spent the best part of their lives toiling down in the pit without ever seeing the light of day.
She wished she wasn’t the only girl at her school who rode and Romilly and Snowman were not the only ponies on the hill. If they sold just one, she thought miserably, the other would be lonely. Autumn, Dad had said, because that was when they would start to need hay and their bin of pony nuts would be finished. It was now mid-September. When did autumn begin? October? November?
If only, Megan reflected, I could play the violin like Rhiannon Hughes or the clarinet like Darren Lloyd, I might try busking, or, if I had a voice like Margaret Morgan I might sing at parties or join a church choir. As it was, with so little money around, Dad would accept the first offer which came along, for since the pit closed he had lost all interest in the ponies.
As Megan rode down the terraced street passers-by stared at Romilly, who was very handsome with his black mane and tail, his black points and list and noble head. She saw him reflected in the one shop’s window, ears pricked, tail well carried, for as usual he was walking with an air as though the world belonged to him. But duns were out of fashion these days. Everybody seemed to want palominos. Snowman would be easier to sell, because, although he had lost some of his dapples with age, he still looked like a very expensive Victorian rocking-horse. Dad, she remembered, had already decided they should preface the Snowman advertisement with Suitable for beginners.
It was odd, Megan thought; for months and years everything went on the same and you never expected it to change and then suddenly something happened and your life fell apart. What would she do when she returned from school and had no ponies to care for? Most of the young people in her street were much older than she was and her few schoolfriends lived several miles away. Dad said she would have to buckle down and study hard. There was no future, he said, for those like himself, who had never been to college.
So deeply was Megan immersed in her thoughts that it was several moments before she became aware of a whimpering down in the ditch on her left. Then she brought Romilly to a halt, dismounted, and found a black sack half covered with earth. At first she drew back, thinking it might be rotting rubbish, but then the whimpering started again and she saw a tiny black paw sticking out of a hole.
Holding Romilly’s reins over one arm, Megan knelt down, pushed her fingers in the hole and ripped open the sack, and out fell a thin, half-dead puppy.
“Oh! Oh, you poor little thing!”
Romilly might have pulled back, jerking the reins from her arm, but, being very sensible, he stood stock still, while Megan held the puppy close and it weakly licked her hand with a tiny pale tongue and tried to wriggle its body by way of thanks. Megan’s instinct was to take the puppy home, but, remembering her mother’s asthma and her father’s depression, she rode instead, with the puppy under her arm, to the police station.
The officer on duty said he had no record of a lost dog. “We’ve got a kennel at the back, but you know he’d be lonely there, so small he is. And the dogs’ home van won’t call before Monday. Could you not be keeping him yourself while we make inquiries?”
“Mum’s allergic to fur,” Megan said. “I think he’s thirsty.”
“Right you are, to be sure,” the officer said. “Here I am talking while he’s wanting water. Terrible the way people treat animals now, a scandal if you ask me.”
“I could keep him with the ponies,” Megan said, as the puppy drank, “while we search for his owner, but Dad’s lost his job and I’ve no money for food.”
The officer fetched her a tin of meat and the packet of biscuits the station kept to feed lost dogs before they went to the dogs’ home.
Soon Romilly, tired of standing tied to an iron fence, pawed the ground and Megan, after the officer had taken down her name and address, rode home with the puppy snoozing under her coat.
Luckily the tin didn’t need an opener and, although Megan was afraid the meat wasn’t suitable for a puppy, the little dog wolfed it down and the biscuits, too, after she had softened them in water. She made the puppy a nest of hay in the box she u
sed for grooming tools and, when he had fallen asleep, she shut the fodder room door and ran home.
“A girl rang asking for you,” Megan’s mum said. “And can you guess what’s happened? I’ve got a job, part-time at the shop, bring us in fifty pounds a week it will, and there were ten women after it – ten, but they took me!”
“Oh, Mum, I’m so pleased,” cried Megan. “And Dad?”
“A little bit jealous. You know, typical man. I’ve written that number down for you.”
When Megan rang, the child’s voice at the other end said, “You’ve got my Jack Russell, Snippet. Can we come and fetch him?”
Then another voice said, “Say thank you.”
Megan said, “Who are you?”
“Melanie Paxton. And thank you.”
Then a grown-up took the phone and said, “Megan Jones? I’m Mrs Paxton. The police tell me you’ve rescued my daughter’s little puppy, which disappeared early yesterday morning. We can’t thank you enough. Melanie has been totally heartbroken. May we come and collect him this evening?” And Megan, of course, said yes.
So at six o’clock the Paxtons arrived at the field and Megan handed seven-year-old Melanie the little puppy, who didn’t look so thin now that he had been fed. Mrs Paxton explained that he had been snatched out of their garden.
“By terrible boys,” added Melanie.
“They haven’t been caught and we don’t know why they took him,” Mrs Paxton said, “It may have been a prank that went wrong, but I think they wanted to hurt us and the puppy because they were unhappy. Or perhaps they wanted Snippet for themselves and then changed their minds, and being callous and evil just left him to die.”
“Eight miles away!” Megan said, raising her eyebrows.
“Or perhaps they stole him for somebody who turned him down,” continued Mrs Paxton. “Some mysteries are never solved. And the important thing is we’ve got him back, thanks to you.” She smiled at Megan, “Lovely ponies,’ she said, looking across the field.
“I’ve got to sell them – Dad’s out of work.”
“Oh, but that’s terrible!’’ exclaimed Mrs Paxton.
“Can I ride the little grey?” asked Melanie.
“Darling, don’t be cheeky!” cried her mother.
“Of course, you’re welcome,” said Megan. “I’ll get the tack and stuff my riding hat with paper so it fits you, just this once. Dad gave up so much for the ponies,” Megan continued, as she groomed and saddled Snowman. “He hardly drank, didn’t smoke, never went on holiday. He seemed to live for the horse shows. You know, he was up here every evening and now he won’t come at all. Isn’t that odd?” She paused. Why was she confiding in Mrs Paxton? Was it because she didn’t belong to the village and was a stranger?
“He probably can’t bear to come because he loves the ponies so much,” Mrs Paxton said. “To look at them is to tear his heart apart.”
“You may be right,” agreed Megan. “But he never says so.”
“Some people can’t voice their deepest feelings,” Mrs Paxton explained. “They run away from life instead or shut themselves up.”
“That’s Dad,” Megan said, then inwardly cursed herself for being disloyal.
Melanie handed her mother Snippet and put a foot in the stirrup. “It’s all right, I’ve had loads of lessons,” she said.
“She’s been riding for a year, but what she really wants, of course, is a pony of her own, but we’ve no fields around, and I work, and what with one thing and another…” Mrs Paxton helped her daughter adjust her stirrups.
“And I have two. It isn’t fair, is it? Dad couldn’t resist buying Romilly – his father was pony-mad, you see, and he considers Snowman to be the best Welsh pony that ever walked.”
Melanie rode Snowman round the school. She sat well, but sometimes her toes went down.
“She needs someone to ride with,” Mrs Paxton said.
“She could ride with me.”
“I suppose she needs more lessons. You’re not old enough to teach, are you?”
“Definitely not. But I know a qualified teacher.”
“But what are we talking about? You’re selling the ponies.”
Melanie started to canter Snowman in circles.
“She rides very well,” Megan said. “Snowman likes her. He won a prize once as best family pony. Of course I’m a bit big for him now.”
“They sort of fit,” Mrs Paxton said. “I suppose…”
“What did you say?”
“Just a thought.”
“He’s lovely,” cried Melanie, cantering up to them. “The best pony I’ve ever ridden.” She dismounted. “Thanks a million, Megan. Can we come again?”
“Whenever you like until he’s sold.”
“You don’t really mean to sell him? You can’t!” shrieked Melanie.
“Yes, it’s awful,” agreed Megan.
“Can we buy him, Mummy? Oh, please can we?” wailed Melanie, undoing the girth.
“We would have to talk to Daddy.”
“I’ll make him agree,” said Melanie. “We could keep him here. Pay Megan to look after him. And if that’s too expensive I could share him with Anna … that’s my best friend,” she said, turning to Megan. “It would be cheaper than having lessons, and the school’s so far away.”
“I’ll talk to Daddy,” repeated Mrs Paxton.
“You said you got a rise last week,” Melanie reminded her.
They turned Snowman loose, patted Romilly, and Melanie took Snippet.
“Thanks to a wet summer, I shan’t have to start feeding hay for a few more weeks,” observed Megan. “You rent this field?”
“Yes, on a long lease, for peanuts. There’s not much demand for grass round here.”
“If you promise to ride with Melissa when she wants to hack around, I could pay you a bit over the odds and then you could keep both ponies,” said Mrs Paxton. “I want her to be safe. How much are you asking for Snowman?”
“I shall have to consult Dad,” Megan said, thinking, This isn’t true. “He’s a registered Welsh pony.”
“So we both want to get agreement from the male members of the family,” exclaimed Mrs Paxton. “Great! I’ll phone you tonight. And thank you again for rescuing Snippet. You’re a marvellous girl. Come on Melanie. Home.”
When Mrs Paxton telephoned she asked for two weeks’ trial. “Just to see everything’s okay.”
Dylan Jones, still down-in-the-mouth, said, “I leave it to you, Megan. You’ll be fourteen soon and that’s the age my old father started work down the pits and gave a few shillings every week to his mother.”
So Megan asked fifty pounds more than her father had paid for Snowman and forty pounds for the tack and Mrs Paxton agreed. They fixed a livery fee too, which included a little extra for the use of the jumps, for Mrs Paxton was a fair woman. Adding it all up Megan realised that if Romilly kept well the monthly payment would cover all his keep, too.
When the fortnight was over and the cheque for Snowman and the tack came, Mr Jones gave Megan the money in case she needed to pay vets’ bills.
“But it’s yours,” objected Megan. “You bought Snowman.”
“It’s pony money, so it goes back to the ponies,” declared Mr Jones.
“But you need it.”
“Listen, girl,” Mr Jones said, “I’m getting a bit of carpentry work coming along, and when this recession’s over there’ll be more of that, so we’re not on the breadline yet, see. And maybe you’ll need a bit of extra money when you get to college, so go along with your mother and put the cheque in a building society, quick.”
Thanks to Mrs Paxton the ponies stayed, and Melissa loved Snowman as much as Megan did. Now and then Mrs Paxton hired a trailer to take both ponies to shows for, she said, Melissa needed Megan there, and, after a bit, Mr Jones came to watch them, enjoying every moment as he had in the old days.
A Ghost in the Family
Christine Pullein-Thompson
I didn’t want to be fore
ver riding with the Nelsons because I liked riding alone, composing poetry in my head and singing my favourite songs with no one to laugh at my monotonous, tuneless voice. But they kept ringing up.
We were new to the district. Dad was a doctor and had become Registrar at the local hospital, and Mum had found herself a job at the library. At fifteen, I was a gangling, brown-haired beanpole. Dad said the Nelsons must think I was lonely, and Mum, who had a romantic mind, said they probably wanted an escort for their three daughters.
I had two ponies then: grey Nimrod and black Jack Daw. Jack Daw was my favourite, though he had appalling manners. I think I preferred him because he was a challenge to ride and he was black. I had always loved black horses, and because of this I hoped to join the Household Cavalry when I left school.
The Nelsons were a strange family. There were five children, three girls and two boys, and they lived in a house called Dark Dingle. They rode quite differently from me, galloping over stones, along verges, leaping stiles, their ponies’ manes unbrushed, their crash caps pushed low over their eyes. But one couldn’t help liking them, for they were always full of ideas and forever running things – from jumble sales and fetes to gymkhanas. Locally they were known as ‘them young devils from the Dingle’, and they had a reputation for supreme recklessness.
I liked Carl and Melanie best. Carl had a wild face which made you think of gipsies. He was immensely generous and would lend you the last penny he had. Melanie was musical in a disorderly way. She was always singing and could play the guitar. George and the twins, Jenny and Debby, were more ordinary. They wore less-peculiar clothes and talked about books.
The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories Page 13
