“Oh, Marga,” she said in a despairing voice, “what have you done to him? He’s quite different.” Just at that moment Rocket, which had grown tired of waiting for his oats, struck out impatiently with his hoof, narrowly missing Hilary, who dodged to one side. He thought he had frightened her, but as she still did not give him any oats, he made a blackmailing face and seized her pocket in his teeth. Hilary smacked his nose, and in a fury he swung round his heels and barged his quarters into her. Suddenly Hilary could bear it no longer. She pulled Rocket’s halter off, climbed the gate and, ignoring both her sisters, ran in the direction of the house.
Mrs. Radcliffe hadn’t heard much of the conversation at lunch, for she had suddenly thought of a design for an evening dress, and afterwards she had gone to the Prior’s room—as they still called the little room overlooking the walled garden, where once a succession of priors had meditated and which she now used as a sort of studio—and started to draw it. She had just fetched her paints, and was wondering whether black and crimson or turquoise and silver would be the more striking, when Hilary burst in. Her face was as red as a beetroot, and she was obviously on the verge of tears.
“Mummy,” she said, “whatever shall we do? The little half-wit has absolutely ruined them.” Flopping into a chair, she produced a large red handkerchief, embellished with foxes’ masks, and began to sniff loudly into it.
“Who’s ruined what?” asked Mrs. Radcliffe, concerned to see the usually calm and level-headed Hilary in such despair.
“That little idiot Marga,” said Hilary. “She’s been trying to teach them circus tricks, and they’re completely spoilt. Heaven knows what Major Holbrooke will say.” And at the thought of what the Major might say, she sniffed even more loudly into the red handkerchief, which actually belonged to Evelyn.
“Margaret is the limit,” said Mrs. Radcliffe crossly. “Your father and I both told her to leave those ponies alone. What has she actually done?”
“She didn’t mean to do any harm,” said Hilary. “She meant to give us a surprise, but she must have simply stuffed Rocket with oats, for he nips all the time, makes horrid faces, and barges into you if you won’t give him anything. He used to be such a nice friendly pony.”
“What about Romany?” asked Mrs. Radcliffe.
“She’s taught her to rear,” said Hilary between sniffs, “and it’s supposed to be incurable. We haven’t tried riding her yet, but it’s ten to one she’ll do it if she doesn’t want to go somewhere—they always do—and, if she’s vicious, Major Holbrooke’s cousin won’t be able to sell her as a child’s pony; he’ll have to send them both to some beastly market and they’re sure to get bad homes.” At the thought of this she cried harder than ever. Mrs. Radcliffe did her best to be consoling. She said:
“I know I don’t know much about them, but aren’t ponies rather like children? I mean, children often acquire dreadful habits—I remember Roger bit his nails, you and Evelyn would suck your thumbs, and, as you know, it was only a couple of years ago that James gave up stuttering. Taken in time, and with plenty of understanding and patience, these things can be cured. I agree it’s absolutely infuriating to have to waste so much time undoing Margaret’s meddling, but I shouldn’t despair.”
“I don’t mind how much time I spend,” said Hilary, “as long as I cure him; but it’s rather difficult with ponies. I mean, you can’t explain things to them. If only I could speak horse language,” she added with a sigh.
“Surely, if we keep Marga away from them and you and Evelyn scold them every time they do their wretched tricks, they’ll forget them in the end,” said Mrs. Radcliffe.
“I suppose they might,” said Hilary without much conviction. “It does seem such a shame. They were getting on so well, and Rocket was so gentle, he would have made a lovely pony for children.”
“I dare say he will yet,” said Mrs. Radcliffe in the most cheerful tones she could muster. “After all, it’s not as though they’ve been doing them long. I think you’ll find that when Rocket discovers that his faces and nips don’t intimidate you into giving him titbits, he’ll realise they’re pointless and give them up.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Hilary, cheering up a little. “But I shall have a job to get him right by the Christmas holidays. I think I’d better start retraining him at once.” And stuffing the red handkerchief into her pocket, she leapt to her feet and hurried out of the room.
“Why on earth,” muttered Mrs. Radcliffe, pushing her long white hand through her crisp red hair, “do we have children?”
Hilary spent that week-end and most of the succeeding ones in re-educating Rocket. It was a thankless task, not made any easier by Margaret’s and Evelyn’s constant quarrels; for Evelyn now attributed every fault of Romany’s, no matter how unlikely, to Margaret’s circus tricks.
“Dash that kid,” she would say when Romany cow-kicked as she was girthed up. “She’s ruined this pony’s temper.” Or when she was bucked off, “Another of Marga’s circus tricks, I suppose.” Naturally, Margaret hotly denied all blame for these innumerable and varied wickednesses, and as she was unable to keep away from her sisters when they were schooling, each lesson was punctuated by a back-wash of unpleasantness. Hilary, who found it impossible for herself and Rocket to concentrate with angry arguments going on near-by, took to rising early and riding alone. Apart from his bullying habits, Rocket was behaving well, and the week-end before half-term Hilary took him out for a ride, accompanied by James on Darkie, to give him confidence and for Dr. Radcliffe’s peace of mind. Evelyn found hacking Romany rather dull, for the pony was too unfit to go fast or far. She preferred riding in the field, sometimes with Margaret and sometimes alone, where she practised competitions: potato and bending races, musical chairs and jumping, for the gymkhanas. Secretly she hoped to cause a great sensation, she hoped to win an untold number of events on Romany—a perfectly schooled gymkhana pony. Let June, she thought, who is sure to be best anyway, excel at niggling, finicking show-riding. I’ll show them when it comes to the competitions. At that time Romany was far from being perfectly trained. She had been hotted-up in races against the older ponies long before she knew the aids, and consequently was quite uncontrollable except by strength. It was, of course, fairly easy for Evelyn, who was much too big for Romany, to manage her; also, though not an elegant rider, she was very firm in the saddle. In races when she could not stop Romany she wrenched her round in a circle; and in jumping, when Romany tried, as she often did, to run out or refuse, Evelyn’s long legs would be round her like a vice and her stick ready for a sharp hit on the take-off stride. If she did manage to refuse, Romany had found to her cost that she invariably received a severe beating “for being such a jolly obstinate, lazy pony,” and galloping round the field flat out did not deter Evelyn, who enjoyed speed more than anything, and just made her go on galloping until she felt she would burst for want of breath.
To Noel the term seemed endless. Each dreary day dragged by even more slowly and monotonously than its predecessor, while, in comparison, the week-ends passed like a flash of lightning. Every Saturday morning she would walk over to the Spinneys to fetch Rusty, Simon Wentwood’s dark-brown New Forest pony, which she had been told she could borrow during the term. Rusty, who was about thirteen hands high, was slightly fresher and a much nicer ride than Topsy. But he had one or two faults: he pulled with his head down when he was excited. He was nappy, and he was sometimes difficult to catch. It was his jumping that pleased Noel most; she had never been able to persuade Topsy to jump higher than two feet, but on Rusty, who hardly ever refused, she had cleared three feet three inches without falling off.
Some days Noel rode and jumped in Farmer Trent’s meadow, and occasionally she went for a solitary hack, but more often she rode to Basset Towers, put him in a box, and then rode Beauty out with Susan on Sunset. It was on one of these rides, when they had been across the Hogshill fields and were going home by the Basset-Fenchurch road, that they had to pass Dormers, th
e modernised Elizabethan cottage where the Cresswells lived. Seeing June riding Grey Dawn in the field, they pulled up and, standing in their stirrups to see over the hedge, they watched her. It seemed that June had some white posts, like Major Holbrooke’s, to mark out a school round which she was trotting Grey Dawn, turning and zig-zagging across it at intervals. Occasionally she would pull up and turn on the forehand.
“Gosh,” said Noel, “she’s certainly schooling her up to show standard. I wish I could teach Rusty that sort of thing.”
“Oh, goodness!” said Susan. “I hope I haven’t got to teach Sunset all that. I know I could never remember it for a moment—it’s nearly as bad as geometry.”
“You’ll have to,” Noel said, “unless you want her to be the worst trained of all the ponies.” Susan was just saying that she would be anyway when a voice asked, “Would you like to come in and watch properly? I’m sure June won’t mind.” Looking round, they saw Mrs. Cresswell standing at the gate; her waved iron-grey hair was, as always, held neatly in place by a substantial hair-net, and she was wearing a coat and skirt of that particularly revolting shade, electric green.
“Good afternoon,” said Noel, thankful that they hadn’t been criticising June. “We should love to.”
Susan made a reproachful face at Noel, who only grinned and rode through the gate, which Mrs. Cresswell was holding open. Thinking, Why couldn’t she say no? Now our whole ride will be spoilt, Susan followed.
“We were just wishing we could do turns on the forehand and all that sort of thing,” said Noel to Mrs. Cresswell, who replied:
“Well, I’m sure June will give you a few tips. She’s always willing to help any one; and you can take it from me she knows what she’s talking about. June, June!” she called when they reached the field gate. “Here are Noel and Susan; they want you to show them how you do it.”
June turned Grey Dawn and cantered up.
“Hallo,” she said, seeming to give all four of them, riders and ponies, a critical stare.
“Hallo,” answered Noel and Susan.
“Look, dear,” said Mrs. Cresswell to June, “they were watching you over the hedge, so I brought them in, and Noel wants to know how to do the turns. I said you’d show her.”
“Dawn knows both the turn on the forehand and on the haunches,” said June. “This is on the forehand.” As she turned her, Mrs. Cresswell said, “For that you use lateral aids, and the fore-legs should stay still, while the hind ones move round.”
“This is the turn on the haunches,” said June. “It’s more difficult; beginners shouldn’t try to do it.”
“You see, you pull one rein, neck-rein with the other, use one leg, rather far forward to push the shoulder round, and the other to keep the quarters still,” explained Mrs. Cresswell. “Now, June,” she went on, “give them a little show; let them see what you’ve taught her.”
“All right,” said June. “I’ll begin by doing the diagonal change of hand at the extended walk.”
“Whatever’s that?” asked Susan.
“Don’t you know the school figures?” asked June, thinly veiled scorn in her voice.
“No, I’ve never heard of them,” said Susan, not in the least squashed.
“But how do you manage to school your little pony, then?” asked Mrs. Cresswell.
“I haven’t given her any proper schooling yet,” replied Susan. “I just ride and lunge her.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Then I don’t suppose she can do anything like Grey Dawn, who is really becoming quite accomplished under June’s tuition; but perhaps you’re wise not to attempt this advanced stuff if you don’t really understand it, for there’s no doubt you need talent, and, of course, there are plenty of homes for beginners’ ponies, but very few for properly schooled ones, as really good child riders are few and far between.”
Meanwhile June, having ridden the diagonal change of hand, which, to Noel, looked exactly the same as a figure of eight, only with straight sides as it was ridden round the school, broke into a trot and then a canter.
“She’s got her on the right leg,” said Mrs. Cresswell with pride. Noel peered wildly to see how you distinguished the leading leg, which, in spite of all Major Holbrooke’s instruction, she still could not do.
“To-morrow,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “June is going to teach her the change of leg. That just shows how she’s getting on, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, rather,” said Noel. “I should think she’s miles ahead of all the others.”
“I’m sure she is,” said Mrs. Cresswell complacently. “But that is to be expected—I mean, none of the other kiddies know the first thing about it. After all, June has ridden, and won, at some of the biggest shows in the country. But what have they done? Just slopped about on some dead-quiet common animal, barely fit to pull a cart—that’s not riding, you know. Frankly,” she went on, “I think Major Holbrooke was very unwise to turn a lot of unbroken ponies loose on them; but still, that’s his affair; one can only hope no harm will come of it. Now look, June is doing a full passage.”
As Grey Dawn moved sideways, Noel realised that Mrs. Cresswell meant what Major Holbrooke called a full pass. She had forgotten the aids for it, but she didn’t dare ask Mrs. Cresswell, as she was afraid of being squashed. She watched enviously as June back-reined and then cantered a figure of eight, pulling up in the middle, for Dawn had not learned the flying change yet.
When June said she had finished, Mrs. Cresswell suggested, without consulting Susan, that she might ride Sunset. Saying rather ungraciously that she supposed she might as well try her, June mounted and rode round the field several times. When she came back to the gate she said, “Of course, she’s completely unschooled, her mouth is like iron, she doesn’t understand any of the aids, and she’s awfully nappy—you can feel her edging towards the gate the whole time.”
“Well, you mustn’t be too critical, dear,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “You have to remember that you’d never ridden anything but good ones until you had Dawn, and now that you’ve trained her you’ve forgotten what she was like to start with. I expect Susan thoroughly enjoys playing around with little Sunset, and she’ll make a nice mount for a small kiddy on the leading-rein, for she seems quiet enough.”
“Oh, yes, she’ll do for a beginner,” said June contemptuously.
Then Mrs. Cresswell told June that they must take Dawn in or she would catch a chill, and Noel and Susan said that they must go home to their teas. They all walked up to the stables, three portable wooden loose-boxes, and, while June put Dawn away, Mrs. Cresswell showed Noel and Susan Golden Wonder, who looked very smart—clipped and rugged up—and all the rosettes June had won, which were displayed in a glass case in the harness-room. She offered to take them indoors and show them June’s cups and the nineteen riding-sticks she had won, but they said that they really must go, and after thanking both Mrs. Cresswell and June, they rode hastily away.
“Have you noticed how accomplished Beauty is becoming under my talented tuition, Susan?” asked Noel as soon as they were out of earshot.
“I knew she’d swank,” said Susan. “We’ve wasted hours of our ride and not learned a thing.”
“Yes, I have,” said Noel. “You wait, I’ll give you a few tips next Saturday, for you’re only a small kiddy slopping along on the leading-rein on a dead-quiet cart-pony, while I’ve ridden at some of the biggest shows in the country.”
“Oh, do shut up,” said Susan. “If you learned anything I didn’t, and I don’t see why they should be so beastly about Sunset. Why should she cart horrid, whining children about on the leading-rein?”
“It’s no good going on like this,” said Noel, becoming serious. “You’ve simply got to school her properly.”
“I can’t,” said Susan. “You know I’m hopeless at that sort of thing.”
“Well, I can’t tell my right hand from my left,” said Noel, “and that makes it awfully difficult to work out complicated aids, but if we don’t learn som
ehow we shall never be famous horsewomen or good enough to ride at Olympia.”
“I’m sure I shall never be famous,” said Susan, “or good enough to ride at Olympia, however hard I try.”
“Don’t be such a defeatist,” said Noel. “You haven’t tried yet.”
“How are we to learn?” asked Susan. “We can’t ask Major Holbrooke before the holidays, and there’s no one else.”
“There are other experts,” said Noel, “and they all write books. Surely we could learn from them?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t,” said Susan. “I’ve got a book on riding. Uncle Vic. gave it to me last Christmas, but I only got to page six—it’s terribly dull.”
“Can I borrow it?” asked Noel, willing to catch at any straw. “You never know, it might be just what we need. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we schooled Rusty and Sunset and we were able to give June a little show?”
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