“Well, you wouldn’t have enjoyed it, anyway,” argued Patience.
But I felt sure that I should have enjoyed the rally. I had a distinct feeling that if Claire approved of the expert she probably taught his way and, for a change, I might have been the one who wasn’t all wrong.
Days without riding passed slowly. I cut Secret’s oats down to almost nothing, but, even so, she became very fresh and bored with her stable, and she no longer submitted calmly to being hosed, as she had done at first.
On Saturday I was very disagreeable all morning for I could not help thinking of all the lucky people who were jumping at Nealsdon. When the vet came he said that the hock was much better and that I could ride; at the walk for two days, then a little gentle trotting and then gradually working up to galloping and jumping. Not, as I said to my parents afterwards, that there was much point in jumping now that all the shows were over.
However, riding, even at the walk, was wonderful and put me in a good temper again. Not that we did walk all the way, for Secret was in constant flight from cars, suspected snakes, twitching pieces of paper and small ferocious-looking dogs and she refused to flee at the walk, whatever the vet said, she hurled through the air in leaps and bounds.
All that week I rode Secret as quietly as was possible and by the following Saturday her hock was quite recovered and she was back in normal work. It was on that Saturday that I came in from riding to find both my parents poring over Horse and Hound.
“Look, Charles,” said Mummy in tones of triumph. “We’ve found another Foxhunter; I thought you said that they were all over?”
“Oh, there are a few left,” I answered, “but they’re all absolutely miles away.”
“Greenslade’s not far,” said my father. “It’s only the other side of London.”
“But that is miles,” I objected.
“Between forty and fifty, I suppose,” he said, fetching the A.A. book.
“They’re taking late entries,” said Mummy.
“Yes, but look what horse boxes cost,” I pointed out gloomily. “It’d be terribly expensive to go all the way there.”
“I make it fifty-one miles,” said Daddy. “Come on, let’s enter you. One last fling.”
Mummy said, “After all, you’ve done so well. Secret’s put eight pounds into the horsebox box and we never really expected you to win anything. I don’t see why we shouldn’t afford one more, that’ll just level things out.”
I wanted to go terribly. I thought I had steeled myself to not jumping at any more shows that summer, but, now the parents had brought the matter up, I found that I felt just as badly and cared just as much as when I first heard I must miss Nealsdon. But it seemed awful to let them spend so much on a horsebox just for me to enjoy myself.
“I’ll have it for my birthday present, then,” I suggested.
My parents agreed to that. We all filled in the entry form in great excitement. Then I rushed to the village to post it, and back to telephone Claire and arrange a couple of practices, and to telephone the horsebox driver and book the box.
It wasn’t winning or qualifying that mattered to me now, it was just having another show at which to jump; I hadn’t realised how much I had been missing them.
I was very glad to have Claire to help me, for Secret’s rest seemed to have made her more excitable about jumping and I went straight back to my old habit of trying to stop her with the reins.
We spent our first practice in going back to the beginning, we trotted over Cavaletti and then jumped from the trot. But our second practice was more successful; Secret was in form again.
The Foxhunter class at Greenslade was scheduled to start at three-thirty, but I wanted to make certain of my last jump, so I arranged to leave home at twelve.
My parents couldn’t come to watch, nor could Patience or Prudence, but Jackie was sent by Aunt Una to “look after me.”
The morning of the show was dark and dreary, and at an early hour the rain began to fall in straight, flat torrents. Somehow it failed to damp my spirits. I was determined to enjoy my last show.
I checked that I had my studs and spanners though, for it was obvious that the going would be very bad, even if the weather cleared up.
We drove to the show through a succession of cloudbursts. Everywhere the fields looked waterlogged and London, or rather its outskirts, looked even more depressing than usual—grey streets and grey factories under grey skies, poor cross wet people running for buses and puddles everywhere.
Jackie and I sat warm and dry eating our lunches in comfort in the horsebox; there was a great deal to be said, I thought, in favour of not hacking to horse shows.
The show was being held on Greenslade Sports Ground and its thin layer of turf had already ceased to exist by the time we arrived. Such spectators as there were, were squelching miserably through a quagmire. We passed by Ring Two as we drove across the ground and the first thing we saw was a pony and rider fall as they turned in a bending race.
“You won’t be able to go fast today,” Jackie told me.
“Oh, I don’t suppose that person has studs,” I answered. I have great faith in my studs.
As soon as we had parked the horsebox, I emerged, mackintoshed, crash-capped and gloved and made a dash for the Secretary’s tent. As far as I could make out the show was ahead of time, for they were jumping in the main ring and that could only be the Area International Trial, due to start at two-thirty and the time was only ten past two. The Secretary was wet and harassed, he gave me my number and said he had no idea what time the Foxhunter would start, but the collecting stewards were more helpful. They said that they were miles ahead of time and that they were going to keep it that way, for they were soaked through and wanted to get home. They did some mental arithmetic and said that the Foxhunter would begin in half an hour. They already had forty-one names down on the blackboard so I agreed to jump forty-second. I watched the A.LT. long enough to see someone go for six through a hog’s back, because his horse slipped as he took off, and then I wandered back to the box to tell Jackie and the driver that we needn’t saddle or stud up until I had walked the course. I soon became bored with sitting in the box, but Jackie said that she wasn’t going to get wet until she had to, so I left her and walked back to the collecting ring. It was lovely to be at a horse show again, even a wet one. Several people I had jumped against before said “Hallo” or “Lovely weather” in sarcastic tones from under their mackintoshes. Sitting on their horses in a dripping circle, with their mackintoshes worn over their heads, they made the collecting ring look something like Stonehenge.
The girl on the black horse was there. She said, “You’re lucky. Your little mare’s the sort that stands up on a skating rink. My poor old chap’s got soup plates for hoofs and he hates this sort of going.”
I said “Touch wood,” and “Perhaps he’s better than us on hard ground.”
“Don’t know about that,” said the girl, “it seems years since we had any.”
To my great surprise Martin Hastings said “Hallo” to me. He wasn’t entered in the Foxhunter and someone said that he hadn’t brought his novice horses. As soon as the A.LT., in which he was first and third, was over, he departed for Great Maysford, where, apparently, there was an open jumping with a forty pound first prize.
Our course was quite different from the A.LT. one. It was built entirely of rustic fences, except for a black and white wall. The first fence was a brush and it was followed immediately by a double made of posts and rails. The next fence, another post and rails, was straight ahead, but it was end on, so one had to turn sharp left and then sharp right to come at it. Fence four was a rustic gate and that too was awkwardly arranged with a sharp right turn before it, and afterwards, if one was not to waste time. The next fence, a double of rustic walls with rails above them, was on the other side of the ring and this was followed by the stile and the black and white wall. A rustic gate took one to the outside of the ring, and after it, fence three became
fence nine and a short gallop would bring one to fence ten, parallel bars; the stile, jumped for the second time, was the last fence.
It was a difficult course to memorise and it was also, I decided, a course that would take some riding. The organisers had obviously decided to test the handiness and obedience of the horses; it was a severer course in this way than the Hurstgate one; that had demanded boldness above all else. These jumps didn’t look very big, but maybe the judges had decided to keep them low because of the bad going. Secret was very fresh, but quite well-behaved and she simply hurled herself over the practice jumps; there were two very good ones. I tried to give her a lecture on over confidence, but she was much too excited to listen.
Jackie was being a frightful broken reed. She was no help at all and would only grumble about the weather, but, actually, the rain had almost stopped and except for being waterlogged and mud-bound, we weren’t bothered by it much.
There had been quite a few clear rounds by the time my turn came, but there were only about ten people left to jump after me. As she entered the ring Secret told me that she knew all about Foxhunters now, and she set off at a tremendous speed for the first jump. But finding three fences so close together, she steadied herself and by the time we came to the sharp left turn I had her in hand. I was careful to take the post and rails dead straight for there was no point in taking risks in the first round. I valued my dressage as I turned for the gate and turned again directly afterwards for the gallop that brought us to the wall combination. I steadied Secret for the stile.. The black and white wall was the sort of fence you can take a chance over and I began to gallop now for the second circuit was on the outside of the ring and I didn’t want time faults. We cleared the second rustic gate and fence three in its guise of fence nine. We galloped on, steadied a little for the parallel bars and again for the stile. I remembered the finish!
“A clear round,” announced the microphone. And then it added, “And that competitor had the fastest time so far in this competition.” The spectators, there were more of them now that it had stopped raining, clapped loudly, and Secret, bouncing about in the collecting ring, trod on my toe. Then the begging faces began and I had to produce sugar.
I think there were two more clear rounds after ours and then we were marshalled into the collecting ring and told to jump the first six fences, that was up to and including the stile or, in fact, the first circuit of the ring.
All the competitors’ friends and relations were giving them advice. It was all about how to go slowly and not to take chances. How to take care, and mind out, and not to spoil the horse’s confidence. I didn’t listen. I made three resolves; to ignore the going, to take fences three and four at an angle of forty-five degrees and to proceed at a speed somewhere between that of a bomb and a scalded cat. Then I dashed out of the collecting ring and raised the practice jump six inches just to make Secret look what she was doing.
By the time I got back, at least four people had jumped, but no one seemed to know whether they were clear or not; however, the competitor before me was Joan Foss and she jumped clear and very fast. The microphone announced that this was the best round so far. Now it was our turn, and I assumed a determined face for this time I knew what I was up against. “Hell for leather,” I told myself. We sped over the first three fences. Our turn was a bit unbalanced, but the angle was right and luck was with us, so we cleared the post and rails. Secret jumped the rustic gate well and from a very short run and then we fairly shot across the ring. I took a risk over the little walls and it came off, but I steadied for the stile, I knew what would happen if we jumped that flat; Secret cleared it and we went all out for the finish.
I jumped off, patted Secret, and waited for the microphone. “That competitor beat the previous one by three and a half seconds,” it announced. I gave Secret all the rest of my sugar and loosened her girth. Now we could only wait, but somehow my bones told me that today no one would beat my time. I didn’t watch; I tried to make my way through to the collecting ring to find Jackie, but people kept stopping me. They wanted to know how Secret was bred and whether I had had her for a long time; horsy London children wanted to pat her; someone even produced an autograph book. I felt rather a fraud signing it.
Jackie appeared just as the class ended. “Jolly good,” she said, “you’ve won. I thought you were going to by the way you went in the first round.”
“Are you positive?” I asked.
“Yes, you’re first, Joan Foss is second and some man is third.”
The microphone began to call for us, and then I knew Jackie must be right for my number was called first. I mounted and, for the second time in my life, led the way into the ring. The judges looked very wet and cold, but one of them said, “Well done,” as he hooked the ordinary red and the wonderfully exotic Foxhunter rosette on Secret’s bridle.
Joan Foss wasn’t very sporting; she said, “Of course, my other horse had the same time as you, but he slipped coming into the combination and just brought it down. It was him I wanted to qualify; this one’s qualified already.”
“What bad luck,” I said, and then I realised the judge was calling to me. “Right you are. Go on, canter round; give them a show,” he said.
Secret, frightfully pleased with herself, led off proudly, but on the wrong leg. She showed off all the way round the ring, I’m sure she enjoys being clapped, but her effect was rather spoiled by one of her rosettes falling off. However, a girl picked it up and came running out to the collecting ring with it. Now it began to rain again, in a dark and dismal torrent. We took the studs out in record time, bandaged and rugged Secret in a few moments and watered her from a bucket in the box.
Soon we were on our way home. Now that I had achieved my ambition and won a Foxhunter I had no sense of triumph; a nice, peaceful contented feeling crept upon me and I fell asleep. I didn’t wake up until Jackie began to explain to the driver where she wanted to be put down; we were coming out of Eastbridge on the road which passes the top of Underhill Farm lane. When we reached the lane I thanked her for looking after me and she thanked me for taking her and then we drove on home in the wet dusk.
I gave loud yells in the garden as soon as I had unboxed Secret and when my parents stood on the front door-step with the light from the house streaming out behind them. I shouted that we had won. Then I got on with putting Secret to bed. It didn’t take long for some obliging person had filled her water bucket and put her hay ready. I said good night to the driver and he disappeared into the dark wet night and then, promising Secret that I would come and see her after supper, I rushed indoors brandishing our rosettes.
“Did you say you’d won?” asked my parents in incredulous surprise. I waved the rosettes and searched my pockets for the prize.
“Ten pounds,” I said in triumph, “that’ll pay for the horsebox. Now I can have a birthday present after all.”
My father was looking doubtful. “Now you’ve qualified for Harringay,” he said, “I suppose you’ll want to ride there, and I don’t see how it’s going to be managed. You’ve had eighteen months away from school already. I don’t really think that we ought—”
“Oh, I don’t expect to jump at Harringay. At least not yet,” I interrupted. “I’m not good enough yet. Secret’ll still be eligible for Foxhunters next year and with any luck we’ll qualify again. I only wanted to win, just to prove I can ride properly whatever my cousins say.”
Mummy said, “ I’ll tell you something. When you came in just now you were hardly limping; you looked just like your old self.”
“Oh,” I cried boastfully, “what do I care about one polio leg when there’s an Olympic Silver Medallist with two?”
THE END
Also by Josephine Pullein-Thompson
First in the Noel and Henry series, this book was drastically cut in the paperback editions. This edition has the full first edition text, so you won’t miss a word of the first of the Pony Club’s adventures.
Six Ponies
Pony Club Camp
Josephine wrote another, much later series, on a different Pony Club: the Woodbury. In this book, the first of the series, we see a group of riders who believe they are beyond hope. And that riders like them will never be able to challenge other Pony Clubs.
Pony Club Cup
Dark Horse
If you enjoy Josephine Pullein-Thompson’s books, you might well like Patience McElwee, whose three pony books are all available via Jane Badger Books. She’s an author who was active during the 1950s and 1960s, and who wrote three pony stories that all display the same biting wit and acerbic view of the horse world and all who move within it.
You can read the first chapter of Dark Horse here.
The three Hardcastle children realised that it was very kind of their grandmother to give them a show pony of their very own, just as it was kind of her to give them, orphans as they were, a home. They agreed obediently with all the people who told them, practically every day of their lives, what a lovely home it was that they were being given, and when they saw the pony they knew they ought to be feeling enthusiastic about that too. She came nimbling down the ramp of the horse-box, the lightest possible golden chestnut, plaited and shining, her browband a fanciful emerald green, and she reminded them all, at once, of the blonde, spoilt children they met at the parties they were now forced to attend in ever-increasing numbers.
For a few moments they could find nothing sufficiently enthusiastic to say. They were used to making the best of whatever place they found themselves in, because ever since they were very small they had had to go where they were sent, to whatever relation would put up with four children whose ages never seemed to be just right. But up till now they had chosen their own ponies, and they had got used to thinking of ponies as their own personal responsibility. Swedish Rhapsody, the show pony, had been wished on them.
Show Jumping Secret Page 12
