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

by K. M. Peyton

  ‘Everyone will be at Brierley on Saturday,’ she thought, without enthusiasm. Besides Pearl’s family, her own mother and father had said they would like to come and see her ‘jump round’, and Ted and Ron had said they would ‘drop in’. None of this comforted Ruth at all. Now it was so close she wished desperately that it was over.

  On Friday night she cleaned her tack, and groomed Fly-by-Night in the field. The weather was dry and sharp, the evening sky pink and ploughed and calm. Fly-by-Night now stood tied up without protesting, but he still did not stand in the resigned way that Ruth so desired; he still fidgeted and gnawed the post, or tried to graze. But he did not bite her any more, and he never kicked. His feet were shapely, newly-shod (at McNair’s, as before), and his winter coat had thinned, and shone when the mud had been removed. ‘You’re not bad, for forty pounds,’ Ruth said to him, and he looked at her, four-square, cocky, his little white crescent shining in the dusk. To Ruth, he looked so marvellous she felt a lump come into the throat.

  That night she felt that she never slept at all, although she supposed afterwards that she must have done, on and off. She got up feeling sick, and thought how blissful it would be if she didn’t have to go. ‘Talk about a glutton for punishment!’ Ted remarked. ‘What time does the tumbril start rolling?’ Ruth tried to laugh, but it was impossible.

  She knew that her attitude was ridiculous, but it made no difference.

  She went out and groomed Fly-by-Night again, getting the mud off his feet as best she could. The day was damp and grey, fairly warm, but not very exciting. Somewhere there was a sun that suggested it might come through later. But it had not rained again, and the ground was fairly dry. ‘Thank goodness,’ Ruth thought, ‘I am going with the McNairs!’ The thought of setting out alone made her shiver. She fed Fly-by-Night and let him loose again, and went indoors and changed into Pearl’s jodphurs, and the jodphur boots and grown-out-of black jacket that Peter had lent her for the occasion. She had her own hat, shabby but serviceable, and a white school blouse and a rather frayed Pony Club tie – also Peter’s. She pulled her hair back with a rubber band, and looked at herself in the mirror, and thought she looked like someone at the Horse of the Year Show. ‘Hope we jump like it,’ she said to her reflection, and smiled and held out her hands for the silver trophy, like a photograph in Horse and Hound. But there would be no silver trophy for her, however well Fly-by-Night did, because she was in the same class as Peter. It was a wild dream indeed that made her think of rosettes, but, of course, dreams will rise to anything. When she went downstairs everyone remarked how smart she looked.

  ‘Do you want to take your sandwiches with you? Or shall we bring them in the car?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Oh, you bring them,’ Ruth said, not interested in food.

  ‘Tumbril’s coming up the road now,’ Ted said, from the kitchen door. Ruth gave a little shriek and hurried out to catch Fly-by-Night.

  Mr. McNair came in for a cup of coffee, and Peter and Ruth boxed Fly-by-Night, with Woodlark rolling a wild white eye at him over the top of the partition, and all the neighbours peering. Peter, too, looked strangely smart in a black jacket and tie; the decorum of his garb after jeans and polo-necked jerseys with holes in the elbows, emphasized the essential seriousness of the day, and Ruth felt a little more hollow inside. ‘I feel dreadful,’ she said bleakly.

  Peter said, ‘You’re mad! About a potty thing like this? We wouldn’t have bothered if Woodlark hadn’t got to be shown off.’

  ‘What if she does what she did last year?’

  ‘Last year she was scarcely broken in! Green as grass. It was daft to try it. That’s when Father was a bit off his rocker, between you and me and the gatepost.’

  Mr. McNair, no longer off his rocker, came cheerfully down the garden path and said, ‘Got everything, girl? Saddle and bridle aboard? All set to go?’

  Ruth nodded, and squashed into the front of the horse-box between Mr. McNair and Peter. Her parents came out and waved and shouted, ‘See you later!’ and the horse-box rolled away down the concrete road.

  ‘It’s started,’ Ruth thought, but now she felt calmer and more cheerful. After all, no worse could happen to her than happened to Peter last year, and he didn’t seem to think it mattered at all. He and his father were talking about a knock in the horse-box engine.

  For the third time Ruth passed through the gate on the top of Brierley Hill where the Pony Club flag fluttered out on its flag-pole by the gate. They were in plenty of time. The stewards were still trundling about in the Land-Rover and pegging out the collecting-ring.

  ‘You can go round the course now, before we unbox the ponies,’ Mr. McNair said.

  ‘Oh, heavens, all that way!’ Peter groaned. ‘I know it.’

  ‘Don’t be so cocky, young fellow-me-lad,’ said his father. ‘How do you know it isn’t quite different this year?’

  Peter groaned again, but climbed down and started plodding off across the field, a white-faced Ruth at his side. Several figures could be seen in the distance, doing the same thing, climbing laboriously over the fixed timber that they all hoped to fly faultlessly an hour or two later. It was downhill from the collecting-ring, to a ditch and fairly low fixed rail in a hedge, then a long gallop up the other side to the top end of the wood.

  ‘Take him away fast, as if you really mean it,’ Peter said. ‘Because a lot of them refuse the first jump, because they don’t like going away from the others. Once over, you’ve got lots of time to get sorted out, going up the hill. Golly, what a bore, hiking all this way!’

  At the top of the hill was a tiger trap into a wide ride through the wood. From this ride there was a detour through a very tangled part of the wood, over a large rotted tree-trunk, and back to the ride.

  ‘You’ll get your head knocked off here if you don’t duck,’ Peter said.

  At the end of the ride there was a tricky jump out which involved jumping up on to a bank, and out over a ditch with a rail fixed over it.

  ‘Woodlark takes things like this in one if I don’t watch out,’ Peter remarked.

  After a long plod round the adjoining fields, where the jumps were all fairly straightforward, the course led back into the wood again, through the gate.

  ‘I think I’ll get off for this,’ Ruth said.

  ‘If I get off I’ll never get on again,’ Peter said. Ruth thought the same thing might happen to her, but decided to take the risk. ‘He ought to be getting a bit weary by the time he gets this far. If he gets this far. He might be glad to stand.’

  The course-builders had apparently decided to give the bank where Woodlark had fallen a miss this year, for from the gate the course led up a narrow twisting path through the wood to the lip of a different bank which dropped some five feet into a bit of a stream. On the far side, so that the pony had to take off straight out of the stream, a big pile of branches had been thrown across the path to make an obstacle.

  ‘It’s easier than the other bank,’ Peter said. ‘Not so steep.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Ruth.

  ‘You’ve done worse banks than this at home.’

  ‘Sometimes I have,’ Ruth said. ‘But sometimes I haven’t.’

  Peter grinned. ‘All part of the lovely fun,’ he said.

  The course led out of the wood over an easy fence and back to the start on a parallel course to the way out, down the long hill, over the ditch and another rail some fifty feet away from the first jump of the course, and back up to the collecting-ring. By the time they had got to the bottom of the hill again they had caught up with several of the girls doing the course ahead of them.

  ‘Hullo, McNair. How many red rosettes are you picking up today?’ The girl who spoke was the one with malicious eyes who Ruth always thought of as Cat’s Eyes.

  ‘More than last year, I hope,’ Peter said shortly.

  Cat’s Eyes laughed, jeeringly. ‘Of course, I’d forgotten!’ She remembered now, with obvious glee. ‘Instead of going over the rails and through the g
ate you went through the rails and over the gate.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  The girl who was walking up the hill with Cat’s Eyes said, ‘You needn’t be so clever, Mercy. The day you get over the first jump will be more memorable than the day Peter doesn’t come in first.’

  Ruth thought, ‘Bully for you.’ The girl who spoke was called Jane Withenshawe, and had come second to Peter the year Ruth had first watched. Ruth, noting that Cat’s Eyes was really called Mercy, was amazed at the inaptness of it. As they made their way back to the horse-box she said, ‘Why is that girl so beastly?’

  ‘Born like it, I suppose,’ Peter said. ‘Jane’s all right. And her pony’s a cracker. Dad sold it to her three years ago.’

  Jane’s pony, Ruth remembered, was a bay gelding, very like Woodlark in looks, called Clipper. She remembered Peter asking Jane to pair with him, two years ago, and Jane showing in her face that she had wanted to say yes, but nobly refusing.

  By the time they had unboxed the two ponies the class for the youngest children, twelve and under, had started. Ruth’s stomach felt cold again as she fetched Fly-by-Night’s tack and started to saddle him up. There was no sign of her family as yet, for which she was profoundly grateful, but the Pymm Jaguar was parked inside the gate. Mr. McNair went across to intercept them, in response to Peter’s muttered plea.

  Peter mounted Woodlark, and waited for Ruth to tighten her girths. Woodlark pivoted impatiently, flexing to her curb, her fine black mane lifting in the breeze. By comparison Fly-by-Night was sturdy, tough and masculine where the mare was all female elegance. Side by side with Peter, Ruth realized for the first time that Fly-by-Night was quite small, and that she had grown quite a lot during the last year. To give him the aids now she had to put her legs back to find his sides. She had an instant’s panic: ‘I am growing out of him!’ but as quickly she thrust the thought from her mind. There would be time, later, to worry about that. But the thought added to her nervousness.

  They walked and trotted up and down the top of the field, out of the way of the course. Ruth felt Fly-by-Night eager and bouncing beneath her, and herself stiff with nerves, her fingers like wood. Peter did not appear to be at all concerned, but he was riding Woodlark with considerable attention, not just passing the time away chatting, like most of the girls. When they eventually went down to the collecting-ring Ruth noticed several curious glances sent in her direction, and it occurred to her that being with Peter had given her a sort of standing already, although she had not done anything yet. It frightened her, and yet was a comfort at the same time. Being with Peter, she did not have to think for herself, just follow Woodlark, stand still when she stood still, and walk about when she walked about. Only, when her number was called by the steward, she would be on her own.

  ‘I wish I could go first and get it over!’ she said miserably to Peter, as the steward started checking them over. She knew she was about three-quarters of the way down the list, five behind Peter. This would be the longest hour of her life. The first girl was already away, cantering crabwise down the hill.

  ‘We’ll walk round a bit more,’ Peter decided. ‘It’s too cold just to stand.’

  Walking round a bit more, Ruth remembered all sorts of things she didn’t know.

  ‘Does the fastest round win?’

  ‘No. Speed doesn’t matter, unless you’re so slow you exceed the time allowed. I shouldn’t think that would happen to Fly-by-Night.’

  ‘How do they score then?’

  ‘Five for knocking anything down, ten for first refusal, twenty for second, thirty for falling off, ten for not shutting a gate, two for hitting a marker.’

  ‘Oh.’ The words went out of Ruth’s mind as soon as Peter had spoken them. She could see Pearl, looking very elegant in jade-green tweed, with her long hair blowing in the wind, talking to Mr. McNair; she could see Jane Withenshawe out in the country going at a terrific lick on the bold Clipper; of her parents there was still no sign. The wind was cold and it looked like rain. Ruth felt very sick.

  ‘I’d better go back. There’s only three before Woodlark now,’ Peter said.

  Ruth followed him back. Mr. McNair came over with the Pymms and Peter had to be polite. Ruth was under no such obligation, which was fortunate, as Pearl said to her, ‘Golly, you don’t think you’re going to get him round, do you?’

  Ruth glowered at her. She had no wits to think of a reply, so rode off to the other side of the collecting-ring. Peter came past to go to the start, and for one awful moment Ruth could not stop Fly-by-Night from following Woodlark.

  ‘Not you!’ the steward shouted at her, and she managed to turn Fly-by-Night round just in time, before Peter put Woodlark into a canter. She hustled him furiously back into the ring, and saw Pearl grinning.

  All the parts of Peter’s round that she could see were faultless, and he came back very fast down the hill and flew the jump at the bottom as if it were six times its actual size. When Woodlark came back she was very excited, and Peter had to take her away and walk her about to cool her off, so Ruth did not get a chance to hear how he had done. Mr. McNair was looking very satisfied, and smoking cigars with Mr. Pymm, so Ruth assumed that all was well.

  Several of the rounds, from what one could see from the collecting-ring, appeared to be faultless, but what went on in the wood, where all the tricky bits were, was not revealed. The steward, a smart woman in sheepskin and suède, said to her, ‘You’re the next. Don’t go away, will you?’ She checked out the next departure, which was Cat’s Eyes’, and said, ‘You’re new, aren’t you? I haven’t seen your pony up here before.’

  ‘Yes – er – no –’

  ‘Don’t look so frightened!’ the woman said. ‘Your pony looks as if he could do it standing on his head.’

  Her few kind words wrung a grateful smile out of Ruth. She watched Cat’s Eyes’ grey gelding canter very slowly down from the start to stop at the first fence. She realized that she probably would not have to wait much longer, for the grey did not look as if he intended to go any farther. The steward apparently thought so, too, as she said, ‘Are you ready, dear?’

  Ruth nodded. At the same moment, a yell of ‘Ruth!’ rent the air, and she turned round, startled, to see Ted and Ron standing at the ropes, looking very out of place in their motor-bike gear and crash-helmets. Ted did a boxer’s hand-clasp over his head and shouted, ‘Attagirl!’

  ‘Go down to the start now, dear,’ said the steward. ‘Mercy is eliminated.’

  Ruth gave Fly-by-Night a panic-stricken kick with her heels and he bounded forward into a fast trot, nearly cannoning into the returning grey, who came home at a far more eager pace than he had left.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

  She steered Fly-by-Night for the flag where Major Banks was standing, and managed to pull up in the right place. He checked her number, glanced at his stop-watch, and said, ‘Off you go, then.’

  Ruth, having somehow expected a roll of drums and a flash of lightning to herald her performance, was amazed to find herself cantering down the hill, completely on her own. The short grass was smooth and inviting, the rails at the bottom looked piffling; beyond, the hill stretched up to the tall elms on its crest where the rooks were cawing and a gleam of sunlight was passing. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Ruth no longer felt frightened. She felt excited, and fantastically happy.

  She knew Fly-by-Night was not going to refuse the rails, by the feel of him. She knew, too, that when she felt like she did now refusals did not happen. She had not waited two years merely to refuse the first fence. Fly-by-Night went over it like Woodlark herself, so big and bold that Ruth almost lost a stirrup, and had to take a clutch of mane to steady herself.

  After the jump he steadied himself, and Ruth could feel him wondering what he was up to, galloping across this strange countryside with no Woodlark beside him.

  ‘Come on, Fly. This is in earnest,’ Ruth said to him happily, and he flicked an ear back at her, from deep in his thick ma
ne, and Ruth saw the steam of his breath and the shining edge of his eyes, and leaned forward in the saddle, feeling invincible.

  The tiger trap into the wood was solid, and Ruth felt the pony’s momentary surprise, and instant’s doubt. To dispel it, she closed her legs hard. Fly gave a little grunt, and jumped it in a rather unpleasant popping style, which left Ruth up in the air when he was already down. But Peter had said nothing about marks for style. Ruth had a glimpse of a man on a shooting-stick making a mark on his score-sheet, then the roof of the wood closed over her, and Fly-by-Night’s hoofs were muffled by the thick, soft ground. She looked up, and saw the marker flag for the left turn just ahead. She pulled up sharply, in a soft smother of leaves, and Fly-by-Night turned on to the narrow detour that led to the fallen log. He was at home in the wood, after all his pounding round the McNair estate; he had learned to do sharp turns through the trees, and scramble under the scrub while Ruth leant close over his withers, ducking for the branches. They came upon the log suddenly. Fly had no time to hesitate; he was over, and Ruth swung him round for the open ride beyond. She had forgotten the tricky jump at the end of the ride, and after the pleasant ease of the canter down the wide path she came to the bank with a lurch of fear. Fly-by-Night went up on the top with more of a scramble than a jump, and then stood there, boggle-eyed, staring into the ditch. Ruth unashamedly took a large bunch of mane in both hands, gave him plenty of rein and drummed hard with her legs.

  ‘Come on! You must!’

  Her urgency communicated, for after a moment’s uneasy pawing at the ground, he jumped out over the ditch and rail in one almighty bound, with such suddenness that only her handfuls of mane kept Ruth aboard. With only a slight pang at her lack of professional poise, she headed Fly-by-Night out across the open grass, and as his shining hoofs flung out beneath her she was full of a sense of exhilaration at what they had already achieved. Even if she did not look smooth and calm like Peter, she got there just the same – so far. At least Ted and Ron and Pearl would see that she had managed half-way; she was not disgraced, whatever happened.