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

by K. M. Peyton

  And now she was going to London and he was going to his first job, and the sign which read The Elm Tree Riding School was in the shed behind the cottage, because David was sentimental and couldn’t bear to imagine one of the gardeners at the Hall chopping it for fire-wood.

  ‘We’re going to miss you, David; it’ll be funny not to hear you clumping down the stairs in the morning. It’s like we’re getting old,’ said Mrs. Smith, shutting the suitcase he had bought to take with him.

  He turned to his mother, who stood looking at him, her hair pinned behind her ears, wearing a faded pinafore. She had always backed him whenever he had made a decision. She had shared in his joys and sorrows. She had the wisdom of someone who has lived for many years in the country, observing other people, bringing up a family.

  ‘It’ll be quieter,’ David said, searching for words to express what he felt.

  ‘Are you going to say good-bye to her?’ asked Mrs. Smith with a sniff.

  Pat Lewisham had become ‘her’ to Mrs. Smith from the moment she had decided to become a debutante. Mrs. Smith couldn’t forgive her for letting down David.

  ‘Might as well. I’ve got to feed Tornado.’ He turned away from the window and his mother. Much still remained to be done. There was his tack to be given a last polish, everything to be put ready for the horse-box which would come in the morning to take himself and Tornado from the gentle fields and dreaming rivers of Oxfordshire to Devon, which he knew nothing about, but which he imagined abounded with tea-shops and amenities for tourists.

  ‘It’s such a long way,’ said Mrs. Smith for the twentieth time. ‘But we’ll be thinking of you, your Dad and me. It’ll seem funny without you.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it in time. You’ll have less to do; that’s one thing. No dirty jodhpurs and dungarees to wash.’

  ‘I wonder who’ll do your washing,’ mused Mrs. Smith.

  ‘I’m lodging with one of the grooms,’ said David, and wondered whether he would have a room to himself. He went down the stairs ahead of his mother, who was talking about his socks again.

  ‘I’d better go and see Tornado now,’ he said, looking round the cottage, at its shining black range, at the large scrubbed table, and the mantelpiece, where the cups he had won stood, polished by his mother so that you could see your face in them.

  ‘Don’t be too late,’ said Mrs. Smith.

  He crossed the Common living old memories. Here he had first learned to vault on to Melody’s narrow brown back; here he had hurried in a thunderstorm praying that all his pupils were safe after a runaway. How often he had crossed the Common on his way to the Hall, thousands and thousands of times, and perhaps, except for tomorrow morning this was the last time for many months.

  He reached the road, and presently passed the lane and the notice which said To The Kennels, which brought back other memories of himself, much younger, working among the hounds as kennel boy. He felt now that he had lived a great many years; yet the days before he started riding remained an insignificant blur. What had he done then? He couldn’t even remember. He turned down the stable drive. There were few hoof-prints now on the gravel. Nothing seemed to stir. . . . Once he had seemed to belong here, but now, because Pat had grown tired of their Riding School, he felt quite alien, as he had the first time, when as a small boy he had gone to tea at the Hall.

  Only one horse looked over the loose-box doors, and that was Tornado. The Hunt horses were out. Austin, the stud groom, was having an easy time; the other groom was helping on the farm.

  He had hoped that Pat would be in the yard waiting for him. But there was no sign of her anywhere, and the saddle-room they had used looked empty with only three saddles and a couple of bridles.

  Tornado was lonely and restless. She was sound now after her fall at the One Day Event where David had met Major Seely. David stood looking at her and felt a sense of happiness creep over him; at least he still had a horse, and Folly was only on loan, so she was still his too. He fetched a rubber and polished her bay coat. She was very fit, though since the One Day Event she had had no oats. She was a difficult horse; she trusted David, but if a stranger rode her she lost her head and became a bucking bronco.

  ‘We go tomorrow,’ David told her now. ‘And you’ve got to behave, do you hear?’

  In reply she nuzzled his pockets.

  ‘It’s the beginning of a new era for us,’ continued David. ‘Perhaps our big chance.’

  Outside there were footsteps on the gravel.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Pat. ‘I thought you would be here.’ She had blue eyes, and chestnut hair which glinted copper in the sun; but David hated to look at her now, because she had changed. Once she had had an uncared-for, windswept look. Now she made him think of people in shiny magazines, people who moved in a different world than his. There was a barrier now between them, which he often felt nothing would break. And because they had spent so much time together he missed the old Pat.

  ‘Are you all packed?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Mum’s packed.’

  ‘Excited?’

  They were making conversation like strangers.

  ‘Yes and no,’ he said.

  ‘I’m going to look out for you in Horse and Hound. You know: Promising young David Smith is now riding for . . .’ she said.

  ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ he cried, suddenly wishing that Pat would go, so that he could forget that once there had been horses of their own in the yard, not just Tornado, and pupils, and a telephone in the saddle-room; that once it had been alive, seething with activity, instead of shut up, dead till the hunting season started, as it was now.

  ‘You’re miserable, aren’t you?’ Pat asked.

  ‘No; I’m not,’ he said, suddenly determined not to care.

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  He fetched Tornado hay and water. Pat was wearing a flowered cotton dress and high-heeled, sling-back shoes. He supposed that was how she would always dress now – no more dungarees and open-necked shirts.

  ‘Well, I really came to say good-bye – you know, good-bye, good luck and everything. And I brought you this,’ she said, pressing a small parcel into his hand. He started to open it, but she said, ‘Not now. Later. Good-bye.’

  A moment later Pat had disappeared and it seemed another chapter of his life had ended. Inside the package he found a small statuette of a horse in beaten copper.

  He stood and looked at it for a long time before he put it in his pocket and started for home.

  And now there was twilight on the Common, and he saw two rabbits bobbing among the gorse bushes, the first he had seen since the myxamatosis epidemic. He met several people he knew and they all stopped to talk.

  ‘We hear you’re leaving us then, David,’ they said. And ‘Well, best of luck in your new job,’ or simply, ‘All the best, son.’

  David had never left home before, and because of this he couldn’t imagine himself living anywhere else.

  He shook all these people seriously by the hand, saying, ‘Thank you very much,’ and ‘Good-bye.’

  He found his father was home.

  ‘Well, your last night in the old home. How do you feel, son?’ asked Mr. Smith.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You’ll make out all right. Time you left home, though we’ll miss you. We’ll be thinking of him, won’t we, Mother?’

  ‘That’s what I keep telling him,’ said Mrs. Smith.

  ‘I hope Tornado settles down all right. She’s so highly strung,’ said David.

  ‘You and that horse!’ cried Mrs. Smith.

  It was like any evening at home really, thought David, glancing round the kitchen again, and yet it was his last evening; and in a way he was glad, because now he would be standing on his own feet, learning his own worth; finding whether he had the talent to become a first-class rider, perhaps the best in the land. The future awaited him like a precipice waiting to be climbed, and as his mother passed him a cup of tea he felt capable of climbing it.

&nb
sp; ‘Now, eat a good tea. Remember you’ve got a long journey in front of you tomorrow and only sandwiches for lunch,’ said Mrs. Smith.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ he said, and saw himself arriving – a stable yard with pigeons fluttering on tiled roofs, Major Seely coming to greet him with outstretched hand.

  ARRIVING

  HE SAID GOOD-BYE to his mother; she looked suddenly older as she said, ‘You’ll write, won’t you? We’ll be thinking about you.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll write,’ he promised.

  He was wearing his best jodhpurs. He had two pairs now, the worst patched all over by his mother. It was early. His parents had risen to say good-bye.

  ‘Remember hard work never hurt anyone, son, but them what’s afraid of it; and it kills them,’ said his father.

  ‘I will.’ He was impatient to be gone by this time. He was the last of the Smith children to leave the cottage where they had all grown up. Susan worked now as a secretary in London, and seemed almost a stranger when she came back, smart and efficient, talking about films and nylons. His brothers had both won scholarships to Cambridge and held responsible jobs. He felt like the last fledgeling to leave the nest. He kissed his mother, said, ‘Good-bye, Dad,’ and walked away without looking back, carrying his suitcase.

  He had packed the horse Pat had given him; simply to remind him of old times, he told himself. Otherwise, he was determined to forget Pat.

  A mist hung over the Common, and the same two rabbits were playing among the gorse bushes. He could hear hounds singing as he passed the lane to the kennels, and he thought: That’ll fetch Bert (the Huntsman) from his bed.

  He had said good-bye to the Hunt staff a couple of days back.

  They had wished him all the best, and Bert had said, ‘We’ll miss you, David,’ like his mother.

  He wondered now what it felt like to live in a place where you are new and don’t belong. It’ll be a new experience, he thought, turning down the drive to the stables.

  Tornado whinnied to him. He fetched her a feed – the last of the Riding School’s bran and crushed oats.

  He stood his tack with his suitcase in the yard. The mist was clearing. Cocks were heralding another day.

  Presently he could hear the horse-box. By this time Tornado had finished her feed, so he led her out into the sunlight. He felt quite funny now, looking round the yard; perhaps for the last time, because he would never return unless Pat invited him. He could hear the horse-box coming up the drive and there was a lump in his throat, and he wished that there was someone to say, ‘Come back soon, David. Don’t worry; you’ll be a success. There’s no doubt about that.’ But there wasn’t; there was just the yard he loved and Tornado turning this way and that in the sunlight. Major Seely had sent the horse-box, and it was large and sumptuous, with a chromium horse on the bonnet.

  ‘Well, David, aren’t you going to say good-bye, just for old times’ sake?’ called a voice, and there was Mr. Austin, half asleep, coming to greet him. And coming towards him from the Hall was Maudie, the Lewisham’s help, who had always had a soft spot for David.

  ‘I had to say good-bye,’ she told him and, leaning forward, kissed his cheek. ‘Now behave yourself,’ she added.

  Standing there, he felt that these were his real friends.

  ‘Well, if you don’t like it, come back. We’ll always be able to find you a job in the Hunt stables,’ said Mr. Austin.

  David had never been able to make Mr. Austin understand that, although he loved the hunting field, it was to the show rings and cross-country events that he belonged.

  Now he said, ‘Thank you. I’ll never be out of a job, then.’

  They loaded Tornado. ‘Okay, then?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Best of luck,’ called Mr. Austin.

  ‘Be good,’ said Maudie.

  The horse-box was moving now. They were leaving; the yard was growing smaller. He was on his way to begin his new life. He stood in the groom’s compartment talking to Tornado. He didn’t feel strange any more, only determined to succeed.

  They turned left when they reached the road. There were people bicycling to work, milk being delivered. The day had really begun. He remembered the days when he had delivered papers, and had belonged to this early-morning world. He had travelled a long way since then, and he meant to travel further. You get what you deserve from life, he thought; one must never blame circumstances for failure; there is always a way round. He had always felt that, though often he was completely devoid of confidence in himself.

  He turned to Tornado. ‘We have great days ahead of us,’ he said. He leaned out of the window watching familiar fields pass, until they reached country he didn’t know – the Vale of Pewsey, vast and open, Swindon – and as they travelled he rode across the landscape, galloping carefree across the Vale, clattering through the busy streets of Swindon.

  They stopped at Frome for elevenses.

  ‘We’ll be there just about two, mate,’ said the driver.

  ‘What’s the place like?’

  ‘Pretty good.’

  Tornado was restless, tired of the narrow confines of the horse-box. David was anxious to arrive. Supposing he hated the place? Couldn’t get on with the grooms? He was filled with anxiety now.

  They drove on through Glastonbury, past small farmsteads, luscious fields, orchards, through stone villages. It looked very different from Oxfordshire to David, and he didn’t see many horses, though plenty of prosperous milking cows. What are the people like? he wondered, and found that he was missing Pat. It seemed funny to travel so far with no one to talk to.

  They were in Devon when they stopped to eat their sandwiches. It was very hot even for May. The countryside had changed. There were little rolling fields fenced by banks, and most of the villages had one wide street.

  ‘Soon be there now, mate,’ said the driver.

  David fed Tornado, and they fetched her water from a tumbling river nearby. He imagined his mother at home eating by herself in the kitchen, most likely cold meat and pickles and bread and butter, because she never bothered to cook if she was by herself.

  What was Pat doing? he wondered. When would she go to London? He supposed she would be visiting Wimbledon, Henley. Would she go to the Royal Windsor Show? he wondered.

  ‘Better get going now, mate,’ said the driver.

  The climbed back into the horse-box.

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather ride in the cab?’ asked the driver.

  ‘No, thanks. I think I’d better stay with the mare.’ Tornado was very restless now; she chewed the partition, and several times set into the back of the compartment with her heels. And David wanted to keep his eyes glued to the window, because any place might be Major Seely’s Hampton House. A great many old fears came back to him now; he started to doubt his riding ability; to wonder why he had ever accepted the job. He felt he would have done better to become nothing more than a groom, under a good stud groom.

  Then they were turning down a drive and he could see a clock tower, rows of loose-boxes, horses looking across a sunlit yard. He felt quite sick then. Everything seemed bigger than he had expected, smarter. He could see the chimneys of the house, an elegant garden. I’m here, he thought. I’m making a new beginning. This is my testing-ground. Here I shall know whether I will ever become a first-class rider or whether I belong for ever to the ranks of mediocrity.

  The horse-box stopped.

  ‘Here we are, mate,’ called the driver.

  All around were horses looking at them with inquisitive eyes. As David stepped out on to the gravelled yard, a groom emerged from a loose-box.

  ‘Hullo. So you’re David,’ he said. ‘How’s the mare? Did she travel all right?’

  ‘Not too badly.’

  The driver was letting down the ramp. The fair girl David had seen at the One Day Event appeared.

  ‘Hullo. You’ve arrived, then,’ she said.

  Tornado came out of the box with a rush. Her tail bandage had slipped; she had rubbed one of her hocks
against the back of the partition.

  ‘Useful sort of mare,’ said the groom.

  ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ asked the girl. They put Tornado in a box which stood ready.

  The driver said, ‘All the best, mate,’ and got into his cab and drove away, leaving David’s suitcase standing small and forlorn in the yard.

  ‘Have you had some dinner?’ asked the groom.

  David had time to look at his companions now. The girl was slim, with a great deal of fair soft hair. She was taller than David and, he guessed, about his own age. The groom wore breeches and gaiters, braces, a flannel shirt without a collar, and working boots.

  ‘Well, you’d better come along and see the Missis. You’re lodging with us,’ he said.

  There was no sign of Major Seely; and now David could hardly remember what he looked like.

  ‘I’m Bates, Jimmy Bates,’ said the groom. ‘The girl you were talking to is Sheila; then there’s the stud groom, Mr. Booth. He runs the place when the governor’s away.’

  ‘Is he away now?’ asked David.

  ‘No. But he’ll be going away later on.’

  They had been walking behind the stables. Now they came to a small, single-storied building.

  ‘My place,’ said Mr. Bates. ‘Olive, ’ere’s our lodger come to see you.’

  Olive was younger than Mr. Bates, David thought, with dark hair which was still in curlers.

  ‘Pleased to meet you I’m sure,’ she said, shaking his hand.

  His room was small, with lino on the floor, a modern bed, a small mat, and an armchair.

  ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable here. Would you like a cup of tea? Have you had dinner?’

  They all had a cup of tea in the kitchen. Then David and Mr. Bates returned to the stables.

  ‘Have a look round the horses. I must be getting on. The governor should be here any time,’ he said.

  The horses were large, well built, except for one dun mare who was little more than fifteen hands. There was a chestnut-stallion, who stood in a box apart from the others. There was a hunter mare with a foal which David judged to be little more than a week old.