Pony Stories (3 Book Bind-Up) (Red Fox Summer Reading Collections)

by K. M. Peyton

  The next day Fly-by-Night was better, but Ruth could think of nothing but the little brown bill that would come through the letter-box one morning, addressed, as likely as not, to her father. Her mother was furious about the blanket. When Ruth told Pearl, she just laughed.

  7

  PETER TAKES A FALL

  BY THE TIME the Pony Club Trials at Brierley came round again Fly-by-Night, in Ruth’s opinion, was not even fit to take to a Pony Club rally, let alone jump in a Hunter Trials. Ruth longed for the summer, for long evenings, for more riding and – most of all – for more grass. The brown bill from Mr. Richards did not come, but Ruth looked for it every day. Try as she might, she had managed to save no more than five shillings towards paying it, but she thought if she could wait until the grass came through, so that there was no more hay to buy, she would be able to save more. ‘Worry, worry, worry,’ Ron said. But he did not know about Mr. Richards. Nobody knew except Pearl.

  And at school Peter McNair was still an unattainable presence, a quiet boy, lately absent quite a lot. Ruth studied him in assembly, but could see no signs of ill health apart from, once, a black eye. Ruth put the black eye down to Woodlark, but had no way of knowing. She had given up any hope now of ever receiving any advice from Peter McNair, or even of speaking to him, and when she went to the Brierley Hunter Trials she expected – correctly, as it turned out – that he would see her without betraying any sign of recognition.

  Ruth went to the Brierley Hunter Trials determined that next year she would ride in it. And it was a sign of her progress to remember that last year, standing on the same ground, she did not even possess a pony, or even dare to hope that she ever might. However unsatisfactory she might consider her schooling of Fly-by-Night, at least she now had a potential entry. ‘It’s just up to me,’ she said to herself, which was in no way a comfort. But she went to Brierley this time, knowing what she wanted. ‘Just to get round, next year.’ Not even to win.

  It was warmer, this year, the air full of the smell of spring. The little wood was full of catkins, and the stream was swollen, the banks soft and peaty. Ruth walked the course, while the stewards were still pushing in the marker flags and the riders were converging at the gate at the top of the hill. The course was basically the same as the year before, but with variations. This year one jumped the course through the wood in the opposite direction, so that one jumped into it over a rail and down the steep bank, and left it by passing through the gate. Having considered all the difficulties, Ruth went back to the collecting-ring to wait for the start. She felt tight and nervous, thinking of next year. ‘Whatever shall I feel like next year?’ she wondered, and started to shiver.

  The girls’ faces this year were familiar. The girl whom Peter McNair had asked to pair with him was there, and the girl on the lazy grey who had objected to the idea. All the ponies looked competent and unworried; the girls sat and talked as if they were quite unconcerned. The ponies did not kick and go round in circles, nor even try to graze. They just stood. ‘If Fly just stood,’ Ruth thought enviously. It had never occurred to her before that it was something a pony had to learn.

  This year Peter McNair arrived in a modest single trailer driven by his father. The pony they unloaded from it was a bay mare of about fourteen hands, more like a show-pony than a hunter. She had a fine thoroughbred head with a white star, and an airy, floating movement that reminded Ruth of Milky Way. She would not have known who it was if she had not bought a programme, and seen the name Woodlark.

  ‘Woodlark!’ Ruth stared. She remembered vividly the wildness of the bay filly, galloping along the crest of the big field; she had not dreamed that even the McNairs could have tamed such a creature so quickly. The day after she had seen Woodlark she had bought Fly-by-Night. ‘They have had exactly the same time as I have had,’ she thought. And Fly-by-Night would not even trot in a circle!

  She would have been acutely depressed if Peter McNair had mounted and ridden away to sit unconcernedly in the collecting-ring. But her spirits lifted a little when she saw that the McNair magic was not so potent as she had supposed. Peter, in fact, looked unhappy, and seemed to be having a bitter argument with his father. Mr. McNair stood at the mare’s head while Peter saddled her, and his hands were full keeping her still: it was obvious that she was far from composed.

  Ruth heard McNair say, ‘Of course she’ll go round. I haven’t brought her all this way just for the drive.’ His voice was very curt, the sort one would not wish to argue with, and Peter said no more. His head was under the saddle flap as he did up the girths and Ruth could not see his expression. She was fascinated, eavesdropping from a discreet distance.

  When the mare was saddled, Peter mounted. He sat very still in the saddle, not saying anything, his face closed up and showing nothing. His father led the mare for a few paces and then let go, and Peter kept her walking, away from the crowd and the horse-boxes. Ruth thought, ‘From the way the mare goes, it must feel like sitting on a volcano.’ She thought, too, that Woodlark was one pony that would not stand still in the collecting-ring. Peter made no attempt to bring her near any of the other ponies, but kept her out of the way, walking and trotting.

  ‘Perhaps she’s not so different from Fly after all,’ Ruth reflected. ‘Except that she’s got Peter, and Fly’s only got me.’

  She had not attempted to jump Fly-by-Night yet, except over poles on the ground and small ditches, which did not trouble him. Some of the jumps on the trial course looked quite big to her eyes, although very clean and inviting. She thought the nastiest was the jump over the rail and down into the wood, and decided to stand there, in the same place as last year, so that she could see most of the course. A man sat on a camp-stool in the wood, with a score-sheet on his lap. Ruth stood by the hedge and waited for the first pony to come, glad of the warm sun.

  Some of the ponies did fast competent rounds, but many of them were not at all marvellous, and Ruth, as is the way with competitors, felt very cheered. This course was a thing between oneself and one’s pony: half the time one was alone, out in the country, and there were no spectators apart from one’s fellow competitors, who knew what it felt like, and the adults scoring on their camp-stools. ‘I shall get round,’ Ruth said to herself. ‘Oh, I shall do it!’

  Woodlark jumped last in the class for twelve-to fourteen-year-olds, having been kept out of the collecting-ring until it was nearly empty. Ruth recognized her by her gallop: she went up the hill as if on wings, twice as fast as any of the other competitors. Whether Peter had her under control or not Ruth could not tell, until she appeared on the far side of the wood, still galloping, and Ruth assumed she must have cleared the intervening obstacles. Peter was just sitting there, not pulling at her nor seeming – from a distance – in any way alarmed; in fact, as they flew a fence out in the country it looked to Ruth so easy that for a moment she wondered why she was so worried about trying it herself. And why Peter himself had seemed unhappy about the idea. But as the mare circled for home and came at her floating gallop across the field to what Ruth thought of as ‘her’ jump, Ruth began to change her mind.

  The jump into the wood was cramped between trees and the bank down to the stream was poached and steep. Most ponies had slithered down it on their hocks, or gone down in surprised and unseating bounds. It was not an obstacle to take fast, and Peter was pulling Woodlark up in plenty of time. As she came nearer, Ruth could see that, although Peter had her collected, she looked very wild, and anything but an easy ride. Peter was watching the dark hole into the wood, frowning, and Woodlark, held back, was taking great bounds up into the air like a Lipizzaner stallion. Peter eased his hands. The mare plunged forward, fast, and galloped at the rail, but at the last moment she decided she didn’t like the look of it, and stopped.

  Unfortunately she had left it a fraction too late. Skidding in the mud, she cannoned into the rail and pitched right over it in a spectacular cartwheel. Ruth saw her shoulders drop, her tail fly up in the air. There was the splattering
of mud clods and a crashing of branches, then some anguished snorts, a cry of anger, or pain, and a lot more splashing. Ruth ran forward, more by instinct than inclination, but as she got to the splintered rail Woodlark came bounding back up the bank, wild-eyed. She hesitated at the top, quivering, too frightened to jump out, and too frightened to go back. Her reins were over her neck and trailing between her forelegs.

  Ruth knew she ought to try to catch her, and tried a soothing address, but her voice came out anything but soothing. Woodlark, churning about, saw her, swung away – but the man taking scores was coming up the bank behind her. Woodlark, cornered, swung round again and jumped, clean and high.

  ‘Catch her!’ the man bawled at Ruth.

  Ruth made a rugby tackle at Woodlark’s head, and caught a handful of mane. She gripped tight and Woodlark pulled her off her balance. She cried out as Woodlark trod hard on her foot, groped up with her other hand for something better than mane, and fell over as the mare stumbled, treading on her reins. Fortunately, as Ruth fell she caught the vital rein, and held on tight. Woodlark started off with a great bound, but was brought up abruptly. Ruth felt herself dragged across the grass, but somehow managed to get to her feet again, winded and unable to utter a word, soothing or otherwise. But at this moment the man caught up with her and Ruth saw his hairy tweed arm reach over beside her own. Woodlark was captured. Ruth let go, shaken.

  ‘Well done, my dear,’ said the man. ‘It was misguided of me to shout “Catch her”, but I know this mare. We wouldn’t have got our hands on her for a fortnight if once she’d got away.’

  Ruth nodded, still panting. Even the large man had his hands full holding Woodlark. She turned round to see what had happened to Peter, and saw him emerging from the wood, climbing the rail. Ruth expected him to look shocked and pale, but, apart from the fact that he was covered in mud, he looked as if nothing untoward had happened at all.

  ‘Is she all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Seems to be,’ the man said.

  There seemed to be no question of Peter’s not continuing, in spite of the severity of the fall. After a brief examination of the mare’s forelegs, he went round to the near-side to mount, while the man endeavoured to hold her. Woodlark was in a frenzy of nervous excitement, swinging round in circles, her hind legs bunched beneath her. Peter stood patiently, waiting his moment, then was up and in the saddle with one movement, so that the mare scarcely knew it.

  The man grinned and said, ‘Your father selling this as a child’s first pony?’

  ‘More like tenth, I should think,’ Peter said.

  ‘Wait till I get back to my seat.’

  The man let go and hurried away, and Peter turned the mare away and cantered her in a tight circle. Ruth went back to her spot in the hedge, not envying Peter at all. He went to the bar slowly, holding the mare in, so that she was almost cantering on the spot. Peter’s face showed nothing but intense concentration. Ruth held her breath for him, more nervous than he. She could see the wildness in the mare’s eyes, and the curbed energy in her pirouetting hind legs. With a lesser rider she would have run out, or stopped, but, by what seemed a miracle to Ruth, Peter got her clear over the bar and down the bank in impeccable style. He rode her through the wood, twisting and turning through the trees, but when she saw the way out through the gate, and the open field beyond, she fought for her bit, pulling like a train. Peter managed to stop her, but then could not get her to approach the gate at all. Thwarted in her desire to do as she wished, Woodlark started to go up on her hind legs.

  Ruth groaned to herself, watching the exhibition with a sweaty feeling, as if she were personally involved. ‘Suppose Fly-by-Night does this next year?’ she thought. But immediately she knew that Fly-by-Night was no Woodlark, exasperating as she might find him at times. Peter was on his own with Woodlark, fighting a personal battle, for Ruth could see that the stewards up the hill were getting ready for the next class, having given up waiting for the reappearance of the little mare out of the wood. The scoring man was waiting, but impatiently, knowing that his score-sheet was wanted up the field. Presently the girl Ruth called Cat’s Eyes came cantering down the field on the grey pony to collect it, and the man climbed up the muddy bank to hand it over.

  ‘Major Banks says please will you clear the course,’ she said.

  The man turned round and bawled through the wood, ‘Will you retire, please, Peter!’

  As Peter had been trying to get out of the wood for the last five minutes, Ruth did not see that the instruction was going to alter anything for him. Woodlark, covered with sweat, was still napping sulkily, but with less vigour, and was appreciably nearer to the gate. Given time, Peter was going to win, but his orders to retire altered the situation. Ruth, watching, and thinking, ‘Whatever will he do?’ did not guess that the problem could be so easily resolved. Peter turned Woodlark away from the gate and cantered her back some forty feet along the path. Then, turning her sharply on her hocks, he sent her off at a sharp pace towards the gate. She flew the obstacle with at least two feet to spare and galloped away back to the collecting-ring.

  Ruth went back up the hill, tired, as if she had confronted all Peter’s problems herself. Every time she thought of herself doing it all on Fly-by-Night she went hot and cold with fright. ‘If I feel like this now,’ she thought, ‘what will I feel like on the actual day?’ It was a daunting thought, to be countered with scornful, Ron-like opinions to put the whole thing in its proper place: a potty Pony Club competition without even any spectators . . . as if it mattered whether one fell in a ditch or won a red rosette. It was a nothing . . . fun for the kiddies . . .

  Obviously Mr. McNair did not think it a nothing. When Ruth got to the top of the hill she saw that Woodlark was already unsaddled and ready to go into the trailer. Mr. McNair stood by her with a sharp look in his eyes, smoking a cigarette and not looking at all sympathetic. He was talking to Peter and, although Ruth could not hear what he was saying, she could tell that it was nasty. She watched from a distance, pricking with indignation. McNair ought to be glad that Peter was alive, after a fall like that, she thought. But Peter, coming out of the horse-box, did not seem to be upset. His face, as usual, showed no expression, but Ruth thought that, if he had any feelings at all, he must be fed up.

  She hoped, after catching Woodlark in that spectacular fashion, Peter might remember her face and acknowledge her the next time they passed at school. But when school started again, Peter, in blazer and flannels, was as remote as he had ever been.

  It was spring, and the grass was growing; the sun had warmth again. Ruth decided to start learning about butterflies.

  8

  ‘IN NEED OF CARE AND PROTECTION’

  RON, THE EVER-HELPFUL, said he had a good book on butterflies which he would lend her. Ruth did not think the idea was likely to bear fruit, and could not help getting the giggles when the boys inquired politely how the lepidoptery was going.

  One spring evening, when Ruth was leaning on the kitchen window-sill, thinking how nicely the grass was growing, the familiar racket of the motor bike came to a crescendo in the drive outside, shutting out the noise of next door’s lawn-mower. Mrs. Hollis automatically went to the oven to get Ted’s dinner out, but when the door opened it was Ron who stood there, not Ted.

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Hollis,’ he said in a queer voice.

  Ruth looked up sharply. Ron was as white as a sheet.

  ‘What is it?’ her mother said.

  ‘It’s Ted. He – he’s –’

  ‘He’s had an accident?’

  Ruth felt herself go cold all over. Her mother stood by the oven, tense, bright-eyed.

  Ron nodded.

  ‘How bad is it?’ How sharp, how cool her mother was, Ruth thought, amazed. Just as if she had expected it all the time. It was Ron who looked terrible. Ruth was shivering.

  ‘He’s not – not dead. I don’t know how bad. They’ve taken him to Burnt Wood casualty.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Mrs. Hollis said
to Ron. ‘Here.’ She pulled a chair out for him, and took his crash-helmet. ‘The kettle’s boiling. I’ll make you a cup of tea, and some brandy in it.’ She sounded completely matter-of-fact, as if Ron had come to tell her that Ted would be late for tea. Ron buried his face in his hands and said, ‘I didn’t know it could happen like that, so quick. Oh God, it was awful.’ He was almost crying.

  Mrs. Hollis was very gentle with Ron, as if what had happened to Ted was of no importance. Ruth, enormously impressed by her mother’s self-control, could not stop crying. Nothing like this had ever touched her before: the evening remained fixed in her memory ever afterwards as the blackest thing that had ever happened. When her father came home he took her mother to the hospital, where she stayed all night and the next day as well. The hours passed like days. Ted was critically ill with concussion and several fractures. Ruth, like Ron, could not believe that the irrepressible Ted could possibly be extinguished so simply, in spite of the fact that the newspapers were full of tales of fatal accidents every day; she prayed stubbornly, as up till now she had only prayed for Fly-by-Night, and every morning woke to the feeling that she came to think of as ‘a dark cloud’. The house seemed quite different without Ted in it.

  Ruth thought that if Ted merely went on living her dark cloud would dissolve and life would, by comparison, become rosy and sweet once more. But life, of course – she realized rather bitterly a few weeks later – is not so simple. Ted was pronounced out of danger, but the consequences of the accident now spread a different sort of gloom through the house.

  Ruth, washing up in the kitchen, heard her father say to her mother over his cup of tea, ‘It’s only when a thing like this happens that it comes home to me how much we’ve been counting on Ted’s money. It was all wrong, of course, but knowing his tenner a week was there was always a nice thought. It’s been nothing but worry since we saddled ourselves with this mortgage.’