Show Jumping Secret

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  “Very good,” said Claire, when I returned. “You’ve quite got the idea of that. But remember, it’s not so easy on the unschooled horse. Come on, we must go home; we’re late as it is.”

  “I suppose I couldn’t try Secret?” I asked without much hope. “I wouldn’t do her much harm at the walk, would I?”

  “Oh, all right. Anything for a peaceful life. I know you’ve been hinting ever since you first saw her,” answered Claire in resigned, but quite agreeable tones.

  I leapt off Barnacle before she could change her mind, but I had a job to mount Secret; she waltzed about in the middle of the road and Claire had to give me an undignified push. Once I was on, it was marvellous. Secret’s stride was long and smooth, she was filled with energy and just the right size; I felt as though I belonged.

  “Gosh, she’s super,” I told Claire.

  Claire only laughed. “Shorten your rein and put her on the bit,” she said. “We’ll try a trot.”

  Secret threw up her head as she broke into a trot. “Keep your rein contact and use your legs,” instructed Claire, and gradually Secret’s head came down. It seemed very odd to me that my legs should have any effect on her head carriage, but they certainly seemed to.

  When we reached the stables, Claire, who had evidently forgotten all about being late, said that I could have a canter round the school. “Her canter’s better than her trot at the moment,” Claire told me. “All her paces are good until she becomes excited, then she stiffens and loses her true paces, which is a bad fault, but she’s most supple at the canter.”

  After I had cantered round the paddock several times, Secret relaxed and then she was wonderful to ride, but, I must admit that when she was excited she threw me all over the place and my leg didn’t enjoy that at all.

  Claire said, “ You ride her better than I expected, but I expect you’ve realised now that she’s not very brilliantly schooled.”

  “She’s jolly nice all the same,” I answered.

  I went home, arrived late for lunch, because I had missed my usual bus, and talked of nothing but Secret. By suppertime everyone was bored with my conversation. My father said, “Enough of horses,, Charles. You’ll begin to look like one soon.”

  “Are you coveting Secret?” my mother asked quickly.

  “Yes, I am rather,” I admitted.

  “That’s different,” said my father, “but is she for sale?”

  “She’s going to be, but Claire said that it would ruin her reputation to sell her as she is at the moment.”

  “Ask the price,” said my father firmly. “Miss Wentworth could keep her on for a week or two longer if that would salve her conscience.”

  “Shall I really? I mean, seriously?” I asked.

  “Yes, there’s no harm in asking. We said that we would buy you a horse when you could ride and if she’s beyond our means, well, you’ll know there’s nothing to be done and you can stop coveting her.”

  “O.K., I’ll ask tomorrow,” I said. I wasn’t at all excited or pleased by the prospect. Asking might end all my daydreams about Secret; supposing Claire wanted too much for her? Or supposing she just refused to sell her because she didn’t think I was a suitable owner? As the evening wore on I felt more and more convinced that I should never own Secret and by next morning I had peculiar feelings in my stomach; I might have been going in for an important exam instead of screwing up my courage to ask the price of a horse.

  But when I reached the stables it was all much easier than I expected. “My father told me to ask how much you wanted for Secret,” I said as soon as Claire and I had wished each other good morning. “He said that we could keep her with you for a few weeks so’s not to ruin your reputation.”

  “I thought I should soon be asked this,” Claire answered, “so I’ve been trying to make up my mind. I want eighty pounds for her. She’s no youngster, but she’s in very good repair and I’m certain she’ll make a jumper later on.”

  “O.K.,” I said, “I’ll tell him that.” I hadn’t thought of asking my parents how much they were willing to pay for a horse, so I was no nearer knowing if I would ever possess Secret. Eighty pounds sounded a lot, but I knew that my cousins’ chestnuts had all cost more than that so I felt that there was hope.

  “If you’re really thinking of buying her you’d better ride her again,” said Claire. “I’ll change the tack round and you can have a lesson in the school.”

  I didn’t ride very well that morning—my mind was too preoccupied with the future. I made silly mistakes, forgot the aids, and, according to Claire, did everything in too much of a hurry. I jumped Secret over some low fences, but she rushed them, flinging her head about in an excitable manner, so I was sent back to Cavaletti work—trotting over poles on the ground.

  I was very stiff when I dismounted; riding a fresh and not very supple Secret was, I realised, a very different thing from sitting on Claire’s well-schooled ponies and letting them do all the work. I was also beginning to understand what Claire meant when she talked about the difference between passive and active riders. Her idea was that beginners should be taught to sit still on well-schooled mounts until they had developed good seats and that then they should be taught to ride their horses on the bit, to control their strides and their position. I knew that I had got to become an active rider as soon as possible if I was not going to undo all Claire’s work on Secret.

  My parents were awfully nice about Secret. They said that eighty pounds wasn’t a bit too much if I was sure that she was the horse I wanted. My father said that Mummy could inspect her the next day but that he wouldn’t be able to see her till Saturday because he had a tremendous amount of work to do that week, but that by Saturday I ought to be absolutely certain about wanting her.

  That was on Tuesday so I had three more days in which to ride Secret before the final decision was made. Claire was very obliging. She schooled me on Wednesday and my mother came to watch and admired Secret very much. On Thursday we went for an adventurous hack and Claire let me ride up and down hill and gallop, and on Friday she schooled me again, and she said that I was much better though I still could not persuade Secret to jump from the trot.

  Each day I liked Secret more and more and my only fear was that my father wouldn’t admire her, for she still looked in poor condition despite Claire’s extra feeds of boiled oats and linseed.

  However, my father approved. He said that she looked nice now so that obviously she would look nicer still when she was fit, and that as she hadn’t bitten or kicked him when he went into her box she must be good tempered, because all Aunt Una’s horses had always bitten or kicked him when he was young.

  My parents then rushed off with Claire to write a cheque and they came back saying that we were to buy a forward cut jumping saddle as Claire had told them that I was mad about jumping and would have to have one sooner or later.

  “But they’re terribly expensive,” I pointed out.

  However my parents were in a spending mood and they only said, “the horse was quite cheap,” and “saddles last a lifetime.”

  We didn’t bother Claire any more then because we knew she was busy with her Saturday classes. We took ourselves off to the Eastbridge saddler, who, fortunately, is a very good one, and he soon produced a medium fitting, Continental type jumping saddle. We chose stirrup irons and leathers, a folded leather girth, a snaffle bridle with a drop noseband, a night rug, head collar and grooming kit.

  “There, anything else you want will have to wait until your birthday,” said my mother as my father wrote a cheque.

  I was feeling rather queer at having so many new possessions. “I’ve got enough here to last me for several birthdays and Christmases,” I told her. “You needn’t give me another present for years.”

  But my mother’s mind was already elsewhere.

  “I can’t think what your aunt and uncle are going to say when they hear what we’ve done,” she said. “They’ll be horrified. We ought to have asked them to help us real
ly, but your good aunt does organise so.”

  “What’s this?” asked my father. “Are you getting cold feet?”

  6

  I telephoned Claire that evening. I told her about our successful shopping expedition and then I asked if I might ride in the worst of her Sunday classes.

  “You’re very humble all of a sudden,” she said, “but I think you’d better come at ten, or better still, come as early as you can and groom your horse.”

  “O.K.,” I answered, “I’ll come as early as I can get anyone to bring me; there aren’t any early buses on Sundays.”

  I felt very honoured at being allowed to ride in the ten o’clock class because I knew that all Claire’s best pupils rode in it, but I soon discovered that they all knew much more than I did.

  Some of them were very agreeable and said how much they liked Secret and how lucky I was to have her, but others gave me critical glances; a scornful­-looking girl told me that my girth was on back to front and would soon give Secret a girth gall, a boy of about twelve asked me what was the matter with my leg and directly Claire saw me she gave a cry of horror and said that I hadn’t adjusted Secret’s bridle and surely I could see that the bit was hanging between her teeth instead of being as high in the mouth as possible without wrinkling the lips?

  I was properly crushed before the lesson began, and then Secret was excited at being ridden with so many other horses. She jogged and threw her head about, and I couldn’t keep her a length behind the person in front of me who was, unfortunately, the scornful girl. She kept turning round in her saddle and asking in the most scathing tones, “Do you want to be kicked?”

  We trotted and cantered without stirrups; I didn’t mind the cantering part, but at the trot Secret’s head was in the air and her back was stiff; she threw me all over the place. It was all very exhausting and I must say I was glad when the schooling ended and Claire announced that everyone was to shorten his stirrups for jumping. Jumping was tremendous fun. Claire had obviously forgotten I was there, so instead of poles on the ground and jumps of two feet to be taken from the trot, I found myself flying over a variety of different jumps all at about three feet. I discovered that if I gave Secret a completely loose rein and rode her like mad, she would take me over anything; it was when I tried to make her stay on the bit that she fought me and sometimes refused. The stile, which was narrow, and a combination of two fences were the worst jumps; Secret didn’t like them; she jumped them awkwardly, which hurt my leg. Fortunately, with eleven people in the class, there was time to recover before one’s next turn. I loved jumping more than ever that day. The power and speed of Secret beneath me and the presence of the rest of the class made my blood go up and up; I became quite reckless; I felt as though I could easily jump the moon.

  When the lesson ended, I put Secret away and rugged her up in her new rug; then I decided I had better clean my new tack. I hobbled to the saddle room for my wretched leg was furious at the way it had been treated and would hardly work at all. The other pupils, who were standing about and talking, all gaped at my dragging steps and suddenly all the pleasure and excitement of the morning departed and I was just tired and cross with an aching leg and not much idea of how to set about cleaning my new tack. Claire’s saddle room was lovely and warm. A little stove burned brightly and on the top simmered a saucepan of linseed. I sat down on the bench and gazed idly at the mass of rosettes which Claire’s horses had won and decided that I would never win anything. Gradually the other pupils began to come in to warm their hands and talk; Claire had taken her second ride out for a hack so there was nothing to watch. I asked one of the less scornful pupils, a tall boy who looked a year or two older than myself, if there was any special way of cleaning new tack.

  He answered that he was afraid he was clueless, but that Hazel would know, and he yelled “Hazel” until the scornful girl appeared. Apparently she helped Claire at the week-ends and in the holidays and knew about everything.

  She said that I should sponge it clean without using too much water and then rub in some pink jelly stuff that lived in the same drawer as the saddle soap.

  Soon everyone was helping me and I found myself with only the stripped saddle to clean. Stirrups, leathers, girth, bridle and even the head collar, all had someone working on them. When it was done it looked lovely. I thanked everyone and hung it away on the brackets, and then I rushed to pay Secret a visit for it was almost time for my bus. I spent every morning of the following week at the stables. I got up earlier and earlier until I finally arrived in time to muck out, but even so it wasn’t really like having a horse of my own and I began to look forward to the day when I should have Secret at home. I wanted to wake up in the morning and see her grazing in the paddock or looking out of a loosebox. I wanted to be able to ride before breakfast or after tea. I wanted to be able to go out to the stable and wish my horse good night. I explained this to my parents and they agreed.

  “Of course we must have her home eventually,” said my father, “but are you sure you know enough about stable management, or whatever the thing’s called?”

  “And are you going to be able to manage her all right without Claire’s advice?” asked my mother in worried tones. “There’s the mucking out too, we don’t want you over-tired. If you waited until the spring it wouldn’t be quite such hard work.”

  “But I’ve been mucking out and grooming and cleaning her tack,” I objected, “and I can always ring up Claire if I need any advice.”

  “Well, in that case, I think we’d better order a portable loosebox,” said my father. “I’ve been making a few inquiries and it all seems very easy; all we have to do is to put down a concrete floor and get someone to erect the thing.”

  Another fortnight passed before Secret’s loose­box was ready and I spent it learning all I could about stable management, but at last the day came when I bedded down the box with best wheat straw, and filled the wooden bucket and the haynet. My mother drove me to the stables; she was going to take home the rug and head collar and grooming kit and she stayed to see me off.

  I felt very proud as I turned out of the gate and rode homewards on my own horse. The day was spring-like with warm balmy air and fitful sunshine; Secret felt very fresh. When we turned off the main road and began to trot, she tore along. I was my own master at last. I began to plan my days. Tomorrow I would ride over and show Secret to my cousins, the next day I would make some jumps—then Secret shied; at a squirrel, perhaps, or a shadow and, before I had time to think I was lying in the lane, which was hard and stony, and she was galloping back towards Eastbridge. I got up and began to hurry in pursuit. She would fall and break her knees, I thought; she would gallop into a car. At the best she would spoil her new saddle and break her reins. A succession of horrid visions rushed before my mind, but my leg, indignant at the fall, refused to hurry. At last I came round a corner and saw to my delight that Secret had stopped and was grazing. She flung up her head and gazed at me as I drew near; her reins hung down but they were still intact. “Secret,” I said, and hopefully held out a lump of sugar. She gave it a scornful glance, tossed her head and then, with her tail kinked high above her back, she trotted on towards Eastbridge. In despair I sat down on the bank. I would never catch her. She would go all the way back to the stables and even if she arrived there safely, I would be told that I wasn’t good enough to ride her, that I wasn’t fit to ride alone. Claire would be furious, Hazel scornful and my parents in a fuss.

  I sat on the bank until my despair lightened a little, in the way that despair does, and then I set off in pursuit again. Round the next bend was Secret grazing. This time I made a plan. I climbed through a messy hedge, which grew on top of the bank, being clutched at and pricked by barbed wire, quickthorn and brambles all at once; then I hurried along the field until I was well past Secret, before descending into the lane again. I called to her and offered my lump of sugar, but as I walked towards her I was ready to stop her with shouts and waving arms should she try to do
dge past me and go on in the direction of Eastbridge. But she walked up to me with a very innocent expression on her face and accepted the lump of sugar with a bowed head; she stood for me to mount and I had a horrid feeling that I needn’t have climbed through two hedges and torn my jacket after all.

  I trotted on briskly, for I had wasted so much time that I felt my mother was probably telephoning Claire to ask what could have happened to me; I didn’t want a first-class panic at home so I kept Secret going and concentrated on my riding; I ignored the beauty of catkin and primrose and thought only of whether Secret was on the bit. I didn’t walk until I came to Hampden End and then I had to because the road is slippery and anyway I wanted to bring Secret in cool. Hampden End is a proper village. Most of the cottages are built round the cross roads and there is a church and a pond, a vicarage and a big house in a park where some old ladies live. But now nearly all the cottages have been bought by people from afar who work in London, like my father, and they have enlarged and altered them and sometimes spoiled the outsides with pretence Tudor beams, diamond pane windows and shutters. Our cottage, which is a little way down a lane on the outskirts of the village, has a lot of shutters, which the people who lived there before us tacked on. They are painted blue and actually, they don’t look bad against the white cottage, but they don’t work so it is all rather a cheat.

  Secret’s loosebox was only creosoted, but as I rode in at the gate I told myself that soon I would paint the door blue to match the cottage. I thought the loosebox looked very welcoming, but Secret evidently didn’t agree; when I dismounted and tried to lead her in she said that she preferred Eastbridge and would rather go home to lunch. I offered lumps of sugar, I tried pulling, I turned her round and tried again, but she stuck her toes in obstinately.

  By this time Mummy and Mrs. Barnes had appeared. Mummy said, “Oh, dear, won’t she go in? I wonder what’s wrong? Do you think the door’s too narrow or something? Shall I ring up Claire?”