The Pullein-Thompson Treasury of Horse and Pony Stories

by Christine Pullein-Thompson

  “I thought it was nice to have a ghost. Now I’m not so sure,” I said.

  “Your mother’s family was okay. They were the salt of the earth. Now – I must be off. I’m late,” said Dad. “And while I remember, don’t ever go riding at night without a light again – or there’ll be another ghost in the family!”

  What a Turnabout!

  Christine Pullein-Thompson

  Neither of us liked Claire. Only a year or two older than us, she seemed to know everything there was to know about horses, and she always appeared as though by magic when anything went wrong. When my pony Mascot fell on the road and spoilt his knees, there she was asking whether he’d had his anti-tet and who our vet was. When we couldn’t catch our ponies one rainy day, she appeared to tell us to hide our head collars behind our backs and to advance slowly. And she was always proved right, that was the annoying part of it.

  Jonathan, my brother, disliked her more than I did. He disliked her for other things as well – for the rosettes she won in every class she entered, for her horse’s perfect appearance, for her fantastic clothes and, most of all perhaps, for the lush horse box which took her everywhere while we travelled by ancient trailer, pulled by Dad’s old Volvo.

  Jonathan had dark hair and blue eyes. Mum called him a real Celt – whatever that meant. I had mousey hair and hazel eyes, and I was small for my age, which meant I could school naughty ponies for other people, but it made me feel inferior whenever I met Claire who, at fourteen, was already 165 centimetres tall. Jonathan was older than me. He hated cleaning tack and his room was chaotic. He was quite tall for his age so could look Claire straight in the eye, but however hard he looked she never flinched.

  Claire lived in a big house with a long drive. Her father was a director of a large company that made zip-fasteners. Her mother stayed at home and arranged the flowers, at least that’s what Jonathan said.

  We lived in a small ranch-type house, which usually had a scattering of oats on the kitchen floor and saddles in the kitchen. Occasionally saddle soap got into the cooking and then everyone was cross.

  Dad was an electrical engineer and Mum worked in our local library part-time. Jonathan and I went to a nearby school, while Claire went to St. Audrey’s, a private school in the nearby town. She had wonderful blonde hair and steady, unflinching blue eyes. Her nose was a little long, and her chin a little forceful. She was slim with long legs. She was everything I wanted to be; instead I was small, dumpy, with tangled hair and a turned-up nose.

  Claire was an important part of the local Pony Club. She was in several teams and sometimes helped out instructing the younger members. We all knew that she was destined to be head girl at St Audrey’s, which was a girls-only school, for she was a born prefect, a born organiser of games and probably a future district commissioner of some poor Pony Club.

  Her horses were equally grand; they lived in sumptuous loose boxes and were called Hope, Faith and Charity. Hope was a working hunter, Faith was a showjumper, and Charity went like a dream across country.

  I loved my pony, Mascot, who was grey and cuddly and fourteen hands. But I must admit to an occasional twinge of envy. Jonathan’s half Dale, Black Magic, was tireless, large-hoofed and tough. He would outstay all others on a long-distance ride. He’d jump almost anything, but was slow against the clock in a jump-off.

  We had four cups between us. Claire had a cabinet full. She had two pedigree dogs and a bedroom especially designed for her. She lived next door to us and sometimes seemed to be observing everything we did – each bale of hay wheeled out into our muddy paddock, each lunging session, each jump refused or knocked down.

  Mum said that all comparisons were odious, and that we had things she hadn’t; but sometimes I looked for these things and I couldn’t see them anywhere.

  And of course, Claire had someone to look after her horses. She was in her thirties and was called Emma. Claire also had her own instructor. He was called Hans. Everyone expects that one day Claire would represent Britain, either in showjumping or across country.

  Dad said it was on the cards. Mum said it was a dead cert. And, worse than that, they both admired Claire, seeing in her virtues that we lacked, insisting she had guts, drive and dedication. In other words, in Dad’s own words, ‘She is destined to go far.’

  This story really began in August on a fantastic evening with the air just beginning to cool and the faintest breeze stirring the leaves on the trees in our garden. We were in the stable yard about to ride, having waited all day for the heat to subside. We had sprayed the ponies with insect repellent and Mascot had stood on Jonathan’s toe and he was holding it up in agony and blaming me, when Charity hurtled into the yard, her stirrups swinging, her reins broken and no Claire on board.

  “Steady there, steady, whoa!” I addressed Charity while a thousand dreadful possibilities flashed through my mind at the speed of a jet fighter.

  “Where on earth is Claire?” asked Jonathan, rather unnecessarily.

  “Lying hurt or hobbling home. How do I know?” I yelled, angry that I didn’t know, while I grabbed hold of Charity and scanned her for injury and found none.

  “Let’s take her home. I can’t think why she came here; it’s crazy,” my brother said.

  We led her next door and, though I didn’t like Claire, my heart was hammering with suspense while my head spun with worry.

  There was no one in Claire’s stable yard besides Faith and Hope. Faith was weaving (which is a nervous complaint causing a horse to sway from side to side, shifting from one hoof to another). Hope neighed frantically with eyes agog and lower lip trembling.

  Claire’s pedigree golden Labradors barked in their posh pen fifty metres away while I un-tacked Charity, checking that she had water in her immaculate box.

  Jonathan rang the front door bell on the Georgian house where Claire lived. There was no one at home, no one anywhere. Just a mind-boggling emptiness. Our parents were not at home either. They were both working.

  “We had better look for her,” Jonathan said.

  “On our horses,” I added.

  The sun was sinking red and gold as we tacked up.

  “Which way?” Jonathan asked.

  “To the park. She always rides through there,” I replied.

  “I looked into the hall through the letterbox. I couldn’t see a message,” Jonathan told me and we looked at each other, both recalling that we are never allowed to ride anywhere without leaving a note saying where we’ve gone. So she wasn’t perfect after all, I thought.

  “And if she’s not in the park?” Jonathan asked a moment later.

  “We’ll search the other ride, the one through the farmyard,” I answered.

  By this time we were going at a spanking trot, Black Magic’s hoofs slapping down on the road like someone playing the clappers. Mascot’s head was up, his ears were pricked, his eyes shining, for they both knew by some sixth sense that this ride was different from usual.

  As soon as we reached a grass verge we galloped, then hurtled into the park, ignoring the sign which says NO RIDING AFTER SUNSET. From behind electric fencing, cattle raised their heads and stared.

  “What are we going to do if we do find her?” I asked. “Suppose she’s dying.”

  “Don’t be stupid. She may be quite all right,” my brother answered. “She’s probably looking for Charity.” But we both knew that was unlikely, because if Claire was all right she would be halfway home by now and we’d have seen her.

  Then looking at my worried face, Jonathan added, “Let’s play it by ear,” which is something Dad says. “We’ll be helping her, just for a change, can’t you see?” continued my brother.

  Then we saw her in the distance, lying by one of the cross-country fences, which have notices all round them saying NOT TO BE JUMPED WITHOUT PERMISSION. She looked very still and rather small. We crossed the park towards her, faster than either of us had ever ridden before.

  As we drew near my brother threw himself off, then thr
ew his reins to me. I dismounted more slowly. Claire looked up at us both. “Is Charity all right? I think I’ve bust my leg,” she said.

  “Charity’s fine. She’s in her box.” I replied, my eyes unexpectedly smarting with tears.

  “You’ll have to get an ambulance,” said Claire, looking very pale and very beautiful lying on the dry summer grass.

  “What about your parents?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we get them?”

  “They’re in the south of France,” she replied.

  Claire then told us both to go for help, so that while one telephoned, the other could hold the horses.

  She appeared quite sensible in spite of her broken leg. So we galloped to the big house in the park, which is called Bramley’s Hall, and the owner came out and said that he would drive over in his Land-Rover and pick her up, and what did she think she was doing jumping his fences?

  Jonathan said, “I think she needs an ambulance.” And I added, “She shouldn’t be moved. Can we use your phone, please?”

  “What about her parents?” asked the man, who was called Lord Markham. We explained that they were not at home and then he went indoors to telephone for an ambulance.

  We rode back to Claire and my brother said, “Thank goodness she’s alive.”

  I said, “She looks much smaller lying there, and quite different.”

  “She shouldn’t be on her own in that huge house,” my brother replied.

  “Our parents wouldn’t leave us,” I agreed. “But perhaps they’re just spending the day in the south of France,” I suggested.

  “It didn’t sound like it to me,” Jonathan replied. “And it’s an awfully long way to go for a day.”

  Soon Lord Markham appeared with a blanket and put it over Claire. “The ambulance is on its way. I would like to bring you a drink, but I daren’t because you might need an anaesthetic,” he said.

  Claire’s teeth were chattering by this time, but she managed to smile as she said, “I know I was wrong to be jumping your fences, but I couldn’t resist them, and now I’m being punished, aren’t I?”

  Lord Markham replied, “No, it was just bad luck. But don’t do it again. You set a bad example to the young ones.”

  Suddenly the thought of Claire being a head girl went right out of the window.

  “Everyone will know, won’t they? I can’t enter for the horse trials now, can I?” she asked.

  “You won’t be well enough, anyway. But it was cheating, wasn’t it? There’s really no other name for it, is there?” asked Lord Markham coldly.

  Fortunately, just at that moment the ambulance appeared and the man and woman inside took over. As Claire was removed on a stretcher she cried, “Ring Emma. She’ll know what to do. Please don’t forget,” and the ambulance drove away.

  We mounted and I saw that my brother was crying.

  “Another illusion shattered?” I suggested.

  “But I like her. I actually like her much more now; even if she is a cheat,” my brother cried. “And why is she on her own? She’s only fourteen. No one should be left alone day and night at her age.”

  Our ponies were hyped up now and wouldn’t walk.

  They tossed their heads and pulled and our arms were soon aching. But we made them walk and when we reached home Mum was there. We told her what had happened and she rang Emma. Afterwards, when she had heard our story, she said, “Poor pet, being left alone like that. I told you not to envy her, didn’t I? You see, no one has everything. Life is swings and roundabouts; what you lose on the swings you make on the roundabouts.”

  Later Emma appeared and sat in the kitchen drinking tea. “I knew she shouldn’t be left on her own. Her parents! Honestly, they’re terrible, they never let up; her mother’s the worst, though her father spoils her rotten – but not in the right way of course. He just gives her everything she wants, like those two dogs. How can she look after them when she’s at school all day? It’s ridiculous. And I can’t do it all. I’m only there for a few hours, morning and evening.”

  Then she told us she had rung Claire’s parents and they were returning. “Actually, they were furious,” Emma related. “Her mother said, ‘There’s my suntan gone for a Burton’, and her dad said, ‘We’d better sell that wretched horse’.”

  “She was cheating, jumping the fences in the park. Charity must have stopped, or maybe she fell on her,” I suggested.

  “They all cheat, the whole family. He fiddles the books. And they never pay me on time,” Emma said, getting up to leave. “And as for her horses, they’ll all be weaving before long unless she turns them out somewhere. They can’t stay cooped up while her leg mends. It just isn’t fair.”

  Next day we went to see Claire in hospital. She was in a general ward, and when she saw us she sat up and cried, “Thank goodness you’re here. Please ask Emma to bring my night things. I can’t stand this hospital nightie a minute longer.”

  She was going to have her leg set later that day. She told us what had happened, how Charity had hit the top rail and turned over. “And I went with her. And now I shan’t be able to enter the horse trials. Hans will be furious. He wanted me to prove how good he is; that’s why I was practising; I wanted to win to please him, not for myself… I don’t care really, or not like he does. He wants more pupils and more money, that’s the problem,” she said, smiling at Jonathan.

  I said, “How awful.”

  “Winning does grow on you, though. I suppose it’s rather like being an alcoholic – the more you have the more you need,” she said. And then, surprise, surprise, she added, “But you can ride Charity if you like,Jonathan. Hans will coach you. Daddy will pay. You can ride him at all the trials and make a name for yourself.”

  Half of me was hoping that my brother wouldn’t agree. But Jonathan was smiling and his eyes were shining as he said, “That would be fabulous. Do you really mean it?”

  “Of course I do. The other horses can be turned out. But you can have Charity for the next two months.” I saw a spasm of pain cross Claire’s face as she spoke. She was trying to be brave; and she was brave, I saw that now, braver than I would ever be.

  Then we saw her parents approaching. Her mother wore dark glasses and an expensive dress. Her father wore a white shirt, white trousers, and a yachting cap. “Oh my poor darling,” cried her mother. “You quite spoilt my sunbathing.”

  “And my drinking,” added her father, laughing.

  “But we had to come at once, my poor darling,” her mother continued.

  “We’ll have you moved into a private room straight away,” said her father, looking for a nurse.

  “This is where we go,” Jonathan told me. “Come on, move.”

  “Come again soon, please. And I meant what I said, Jonathan,” cried Claire in a desperate voice. “I really did. Come tomorrow. Promise.”

  “Yes,” cried Jonathan. “I promise.”

  “You really like her now, don’t you?” I asked Jonathan as we walked outside into the hot morning air.

  “Yes I do, and I’m going to reorganise her horses. I’m going to see that they are turned out for at least three hours a day, starting at once,” Jonathan told me.

  “What about Hans?” I asked.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m keeping an open mind.”

  Jonathan wasn’t really walking now, he was dancing along the pavement towards the bus stop while I trailed behind, wondering how anyone can be so wrong about anyone, as we had been about Claire. I was thinking that Jonathan would spend much of his time next door now, and that he was falling in love with Claire. And, though I didn’t envy her any more, I felt a twinge of jealousy for someone who could enslave my brother so easily.

  Then we looked at each other and laughed and Jonathan said, “Goodness, what a turnabout, and we really hated her, didn’t we?”

  “I rather liked hating her,” I answered. “I think she’s what Dad would call an opportunist. I shall never really trust her whatever she says. Think of cheating like that, it was a dreadf
ul thing to do.”

  But, looking at my brother, I knew that he had already forgiven her. He felt he was her equal now. She would never look down on him again, or preach or tell him what to do, and if he won the trials on Charity he would move up into a different realm of horsemanship, a realm we had only dreamed about before.

  Waiting for the bus, it seemed impossible that life could change so quickly in less than twenty-four hours. It made anything seem possible; even me accomplishing all the things I wanted to do, like starting a clinic for naughty ponies and becoming a top instructor.

  So, leaping on to the bus, I said, “You never know what’s going to happen next, do you?”

  “Exactly. That’s what makes life so exciting,” replied my brother.

  Life and Death

  Christine Pullein-Thompson

  The gypsies were back, but only one family this time with a horse rather than a lorry or car, which was rare these days. They had a foal, too, pretty and skewbald, plump as a well-stuffed toy.

  I loved the gypsies’ ponies with their long, thick tails and their feathered legs. But my mother distrusted gypsies; she claimed they were dishonest and left litter.

  She was restless when they camped on the moor at the end of our field, hanging out their washing, lighting fires and tethering their animals all over the place.

  “But they’re old-fashioned gypsies this time,” I told her. “They have a gorgeous old caravan and just one little boy.”

  “Horse thieves you mean. Keep the gates padlocked,” my mother said.

  We had two ponies: Woodpecker, who belonged to Mum, and Mistletoe, who was mine. And, I tell you, they were the sweetest, kindest animals on earth, except occasionally on wild, windy days when they bucked and shied.

  The night after the gypsies arrived a storm blew across the moors, howling like lonely dogs around our isolated house, thrashing the two pines which stood like sentinels at the gate, and bringing down the telephone lines.