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

by K. M. Peyton

  Fly-by-Night seemed to have understood what it was all about now, as if he was enjoying himself, for he flew the first jump out in the open without a moment’s hesitation. There was a short stretch across the corner of a field, a jump out over a gap and a bundle of brushwood, then round in a circle, over some straw bales and back towards the wood again. The gate was the next obstacle, and Ruth felt a moment’s qualm. She thought perhaps Fly-by-Night wouldn’t fancy anything fussy now, after his unimpeded progress over the countryside.

  He pulled up in front of the gate because he had to, coming to a halt in long skidding slithers where the ground was already cut up and slippery. Ruth slipped down and took the string off the gate, shoving it open with her foot. Her legs felt all trembly.

  ‘Come on, Fly!’

  She was in front of him, pulling him, which he (as if knowing that this procedure was captioned ‘Bad’ in Ruth’s book) did not like. He did not move, but stared at her, his nostrils all wide and red with galloping. Ruth came round to his side and led him properly, and he went through, with a snort of suspicion. Ruth had to heave at him to stop, and managed to get the string back over the post by stretching both arms out to their fullest extent, one holding Fly and one dropping the string. It was not a polished performance, but they had been quite quick.

  When she came to mount again she realized immediately that her girths needed tightening, as the saddle started to slither round when she put her weight on the stirrup. She cursed and struggled, with Fly-by-Night going round in circles, heaving up the inch of loose with her clumsy, excited hands. Fly-by-Night trod on her foot, and lunged away into some brambles, and she half hopped, half fell after him, trying to keep him still. The mud was up to her ankles.

  ‘You beast! Wait!’

  He waited long enough for her to get half-way back in the saddle, but while she was still in mid-air he set off. Ruth pitched back on the cantle, the reins slithering through her fingers. A branch knocked her cap down over her eyes so that she could not see where she was going: she only knew that there was a great crashing of undergrowth all round her and that twigs and brambles were clawing at her like live animals. Suddenly there was a sharp blow and a pain down the side of her face that made her cry out. A branch seemed to break off with an explosion right in her ear. She thrust her cap back, but could still see nothing but a blur of clutching branches through which Fly-by-Night was forcing his way in a series of excited bounds. Whatever had hit her face was agonizing; she realized that she could not see for blood. When she put her hand up it came away all red.

  ‘Fly, stop it!’

  She pulled him to a halt by brute force, tears of sheer rage adding another impediment to her reeling vision. She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, and peered round for a way out of the predicament Fly had landed her in. There was no sign of a track anywhere, only impenetrable jungle.

  ‘Fly, we’re lost!’ she sobbed. She was outraged – nobody got lost in a Hunter Trials! She thought of Pearl, and choked with grief.

  ‘You idiot pony! You beastly idiot pony!’

  She mopped frantically at the blood and tears in an effort to see, and kicked Fly on into the thinnest bit of her surroundings that she could find. He crashed through and she bent down, choking and muttering, looking desperately for the salvation of a yellow flag. Suddenly, they were in the open. There were no flags, but at right-angles to their wild stampede through the bush a hoof-churned track appeared. Ruth’s sense of direction had become so confused since her blow on the head that she did not know which way to follow the path, but with what she afterwards thought of as a stroke of genius, she thought to look at the hoof-prints. Sunk deep and fast, they showed the way.

  Fly-by-Night set off at a canter again, and Ruth tried to sort herself out. She could feel nothing in her face now, and had no idea what had happened, but she did not seem to be feeling in any way indisposed. Rather she felt humiliated and a trifle damp, more with baby tears than blood. ‘Oh, you fool!’ she said to herself, cantering along the path, ashamed and angry. Getting lost, and crying . . . she was so incompetent it wasn’t true. Reviling herself for her stupidity, she came to the bank without expecting it. Fly-by-Night skidded to a halt and teetered on the lip of it, snorting. Ruth had a glimpse of a startled face staring from the far side, then Fly-by-Night went down in one bound, landing with a great splash in the stream. The person scoring shouted something, but Ruth had no idea what. She was too busy keeping her seat. Fly went through the brush, scattering it with a cracking and a crunching all across the ride, and they were flying away towards the jump out into the open. ‘The lovely open!’ Ruth thought. She felt as if she had been in the wood for ever, carving her way through, and wondered if she had been given up for lost. All sense of time had left her. She felt she had taken well over the time allowed already. Her eyes stung, and she still could not see very well, but she no longer knew why.

  Fly-by-Night, going now as if he would never stop, flew over the fence out into the field. Ruth had to turn him down the hill, but otherwise there was nothing to do, only sit there, and see the people in the collecting-ring on the opposite slope, and think, ‘Here I come! I’ve done it!’ She felt wonderful. She did not feel as if she belonged to earth at all. She felt that nothing in the whole world could ever worry her again, nothing could possibly go wrong, nothing could detract. Fly-by-Night went over the ditch at the bottom as if he was Woodlark herself, and then she was back beside Major Banks, who was clicking his stop-watch ‘Steady on!’ called the Major.

  Ruth heaved, wondering if Fly-by-Night was all set to go round again, but the pony got the message, and dropped into an unseating trot. Ruth bounced and pulled again. Someone came up and took Fly-by-Night’s rein and said, ‘Whatever have you done to your face?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She didn’t say it, but she didn’t care either. She felt wonderful. She saw Ted and Ron coming towards her, and grinned at them idiotically.

  ‘I say, whatever have you done to your face?’ Ted said.

  Major Banks came up with the woman out of the collecting-ring and said to her, ‘Mrs. Marshall will take you to the First Aid, dear.’

  ‘I think she ought to be put down,’ Ted said. ‘It’s the only humane thing to do.’

  Major Banks stared at Ted, and Ted said hastily, ‘She’s my sister. I’ll take her to the First Aid, if you like.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said the Major. ‘We can’t really spare Mrs. Marshall for a minute or two. It’s that van by the Land-Rover. There’s a St. John’s man there. He’ll see to her.’

  He looked at Ruth again, rather doubtfully, and went off back to the start. Ruth looked round for Peter, but saw that he was trapped by the Pymms once more, over by the horse-box, so decided she had better get the First Aid chore over. She slid off Fly-by-Night on to her trembly legs, and patted his damp neck.

  ‘Wasn’t he marvellous?’

  ‘You did jolly well, from what we could see,’ Ron said. ‘No more than we expected though. I’ll hold Fly if you like, while you go with Ted.’

  ‘Yes, come on, you’re losing gore like a stuck pig,’ Ted said. ‘Come to St. John, where Mercy is eliminated.’

  ‘Where what?’

  ‘That’s what that woman said. Mercy is eliminated. Didn’t you hear her? We liked that, we did.’

  Ruth could see that Ted was in one of his dotty moods. They all went to the St. John’s Ambulance van, where the man looked very pleased to have something to do. Ruth discovered that her borrowed jacket and tie were all spotted with blood, which worried her more than the wound itself, which, when she was cleaned up, was discovered to be a small but deep cut just below her right eye. It was swelling fast, which was the reason she couldn’t see very well.

  ‘You’re very lucky, my dear,’ said the St. John’s man. ‘Very lucky it missed your eye.’

  Ruth thought it a matter of opinion as to why, as the only injury of the day, she was to be considered lucky, but did not say so. Ted said, ‘Very lucky.
Mercy is not eliminated after all.’

  Ruth was decorated with a sticking-plaster that obscured her vision still farther, and given a cup of tea, then she went back up the hill with Ted and Ron, leading Fly-by-Night. The sun, having struggled hard all morning, was just coming out. It had a summer warmth in it, which fitted in: Ruth knew that this was a day when nothing now could go wrong. She was in a stupor of warm, deep-seated bliss. The excitement and the sickening nervousness had given way to a radiance she had never experienced before. She could feel her face smiling idiotically. She could not stop it.

  They were almost back at the horse-box when Ted spotted their parents coming across the grass towards them.

  ‘You’ve missed the act of the century,’ Ted greeted them.

  ‘Oh, whatever have you done to your face?’ Mrs. Hollis said to Ruth. ‘What happened? Did you fall?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You got round all right?’

  ‘Yes. A branch hit me, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh dear. Never mind. I suppose it was lucky it wasn’t your eye. We’re terribly sorry we missed you, dear –’

  ‘But you won’t be sorry when you hear the reason why,’ her father interrupted. Ruth looked at him. He looked quite different from how she had ever seen him before. He looked just like she felt. And she knew the reason why.

  ‘The house?’ she said. ‘It’s all right? She said we could have it – Mr. Lacey’s house?’

  ‘That’s right. She made up her mind at last. We can move in whenever we like.’

  Ruth said nothing. All she could see was the two acres under its covering of snow, the sun shining on it, and the bird marks making lace patterns. She saw Fly-by-Night turned out there, and another, shadowy pony, a companion for Fly. In her dreams, it was Milky Way, in foal to an Arab stallion, never to be hauled about by Pearl again. (Because she knew now that miracles happened.) There was a stable for Fly-by-Night, and a yard paved with bricks . . .

  ‘Say something,’ said Ted.

  ‘Please give us your opinion, Miss Hollis.’ Ron was grinning.

  Her father gave her a little pat on the shoulder and said, ‘Leave the child alone. Her constitution isn’t up to all this excitement in one day.’

  ‘Her constitution needs a few sandwiches, by the look of it,’ her mother said. ‘Can’t you tie that pony up somewhere, so we can have our lunch?’

  Ruth noticed, for the first time, that the event was over and the ponies were all tied up and their owners picnicking. She saw Peter coming up the hill on Woodlark, carrying a red rosette in his hand, and behind him was the bay, Clipper, with a blue rosette tied to his browband. Peter saw her and shouted across:

  ‘Go on! Are you dreaming?’

  He came across, grinning. ‘Major Banks wants you, over by the Land-Rover.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ruth turned to set off for the Land-Rover, but Peter said to her, ‘Take Fly, you idiot.’

  ‘What for? Why does he want to see me? My face is all right.’

  Peter made a despairing face. He spoke to her very slowly, as if to a foreigner: ‘He – wants – to – give – you – a – rosette.’

  The miracles were coming in shoals. White as a sheet, Ruth tightened Fly-by-Night’s girths and mounted, and followed Peter down to the Land-Rover. (Her parents said to Ted, ‘Do you think she’s all right? She does look queer.’ Ted said, ‘She probably thinks she’s been killed and has arrived in heaven.’ ‘Don’t talk like that, Ted,’ his mother said severely.)

  When Major Banks saw Peter he said, ‘What, you don’t want another one, do you? Wait till this afternoon.’ He was standing with all the score-sheets spread out on a little table, and a boxful of rosettes. He looked very cheerful.

  ‘No, sir, it’s Ruth. You said she had won one.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. You came sixth, dear. Very good show. How’s your face? All right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Ruth took the white rosette he handed her.

  ‘Lucky it wasn’t your eye, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s the lot, then. Go and have your lunch. Well done.’

  Ruth rode slowly back towards the horse-box with Peter. She was speechless. Peter looked at her, smiling.

  ‘Shock too much for you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You’ll ride pairs with me this afternoon?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘Not Clipper? I can’t see out of one eye.’

  ‘What does that matter? The other eye’s enough, isn’t it? Fly’ll take you.’

  ‘All right. Yes.’

  Ruth rode back to her parents, and Ted and Ron, who were eating sandwiches in the car. When she glanced behind she saw Peter giving his red rosette to Pearl, as if it were a discarded programme. She looked down at her own, shining white in her fingers, and started to count the miracles that had happened that day. The radiance was still spreading. The white rosette would be her dearest treasure until the day of her death.

  ‘Have a sandwich?’ said Ted.

  A SUMMER OF HORSES

  Carol Fenner

  This book is for Esther singing to birds

  And Faith with her honest eloquent eye

  For Beautiful Grace who always ran fastest

  For Beth with her shoulder against the sky

  1

  NO ONE WAS there to meet them. After scrambling to collect their luggage from the compartment under the bus, the two girls hauled their suitcases into the waiting room. There they stood in desolate silence watching the other passengers leave the station. The big room with its fluorescent lights seemed to grow colder and damper as it emptied.

  ‘I think we should have gotten off at the last stop,’ said Gem, her voice hissing with worry.

  Faith glared at her older sister. ‘No way,’ she snorted. But she was worried too. They were supposed to be met by their mother’s old college friend, and Faith couldn’t remember what Beth Holbein looked like. The woman was a rare visitor to their home in the suburbs of Chicago. She never talked much at their chatty dinner table.

  ‘She might be late,’ Faith’s mother had warned them. ‘She tends to pile too much into her day.’

  Their mother often talked about her quiet friend. Beth could lift enough bales of hay to load a truck. She drove tractors and a big horse trailer. If her old pickup truck broke down, she could lift up the hood and fix it. Faith’s father said the reason Beth didn’t get married was because . . . ‘Ye gods! She scares men away!’ Beth could do many things that often only strong men do.

  Perhaps this Saturday was one of the piled-up days, thought Faith. Or perhaps they were at the wrong station. Resentment that she had been holding in check rose up in her. She didn’t want to be in this dismal, ugly station in the middle of rural Michigan. She wanted to be home, where her mother’s fine voice hummed and sang through the tall rooms of their comfortable old house. She wanted to help her father do chores – empty wastebaskets and fold laundry, pick up twigs from their neatly tended lawn. She wanted to be home, where her brand-new twin baby brothers were just beginning to belong. They were tiny as puppies, with miniature fists and little curled toes.

  I could have helped with the twins, she thought for the hundredth time. And Dad and I could have fixed the meals all summer. Gem would’ve been at the beach or on the phone. There’s no way we could have been any extra trouble.

  ‘Why isn’t she here?’ hissed Gem angrily and Faith snapped back to the present.

  ‘Ye gods! What a place!’ Gem’s sour gaze swept the barren room and stopped at a door marked WOMEN. ‘I think I’ll try the ladies’ room,’ she announced and stalked off, her big canvas bag slung over her shoulder.

  Faith watched her go with a mixture of envy and disdain. ‘Trying’ the ladies’ room meant her sister would comb her hair and brush her eyebrows and adjust her makeup. Gem was beautiful, with a lion’s mane of sandy gold hair. Her real name was Grace Marie, after a great-grandmother, but nobod
y called her that. She was fourteen, a track star and a flirt. If there was no place to jog and no one to flirt with, Gem combed her hair.

  Faith deserted the luggage to walk to the door and look out through the screen. It was late afternoon and the mid-June sun was soft in the parking lot. A gas station-store across the street had a dog-eared sign, OPEN, in the window. But no one seemed to be around. Down the empty street Faith could see a crossing where a dirt road met the paved one. Gem was right. What a place. Not even enough traffic to pave all the roads.

  Gem came back more sour than before. ‘I hate this farm idea of theirs,’ she ranted. ‘I hate animals.’ She glared at Faith as if it were her fault instead of their parents’. ‘You should get along fine, you’re such an animal lover. But me – I won’t have any company except for a ten-year-old mouse brain.’

  ‘What about me?’ cried Faith. ‘I’ve got a boy-crazy sister with bulging muscles and toilet paper wadded down into her bra. Some company!’ Then she added maliciously, ‘I think it’s going to be great. You’re such an athlete. You probably can do chores and stuff like that . . . clean out stalls full of manure. I think it’ll be a perfect summer for you. Eleven weeks of horse manure!’ The sisters glared at each other in the empty waiting room.

  ‘You might just hunt up that number we’re supposed to call in an emergency,’ Faith said, spite still nasty in her voice. ‘That is, if you haven’t packed it in with your high heels and perfume!’

  Gem slipped her hand into the depths of her canvas bag, rummaged around and haughtily produced a folded paper.

  But there was no answer when they called the number from an old-fashioned pay phone. Faith had a dismal image of a faceless Beth waiting at another station in some distant town.

  An hour passed. People began to arrive for the next bus. And Beth arrived, too. Faith recognized her from the window. She recalled the shining ponytail – hair the color of dark honey pulled back from the tanned face. But she also knew for certain it was Beth because she clopped into the parking lot in a horse-drawn buggy.