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

by K. M. Peyton

  He couldn’t help wondering which horse he would ride. Or would he try all the rideable ones?

  ‘Feel strange?’ asked Sheila. ‘The stallion’s called Royal Majesty – Majesty for short. Don’t you think he’s lovely?’ Her hands were full of grooming kit. ‘Here comes old Booth,’ she cried suddenly and fled.

  David didn’t like Mr. Booth; some instinct in his being warned him against him, though why exactly he couldn’t have said. He didn’t like his small grey eyes, which didn’t look at you. Nor the way he said, ‘So you’re David Smith.’

  ‘You look as though you need a job. There’s a pile of dirty tack in the saddle-room. What about getting down to it?’ asked Mr. Booth.

  ‘Yes. Right you are.’ David found the tack.

  ‘There’s a hot tap outside on the right,’ called Sheila from across the yard.

  There were seven dirty saddles and nine dirty bridles. He started to work. Outside Mr. Booth was feeding cut grass to the horses. Jimmy Bates was taking a skip round the boxes. Sheila appeared to be dressing a black horse’s off fore.

  Tornado was walking round and round her box. The clock in the tower said two forty-five.

  Presently a Scottie, a poodle, and spaniel came across the yard, followed by Major Seely. He spoke to Mr. Booth, looked across to the saddle-room. David had forgotten how nimble he appeared, and he looked every inch a horseman.

  ‘Hullo, David. So you’ve arrived. Had a good journey?’ he said, coming across the yard.

  They looked at Tornado together. ‘Nice little mare; but she needs to be a bit fitter,’ he said. ‘Has Jimmy showed you where you’re lodging? Is it all right? Do you think you’ll be comfortable?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

  They stood for some time in silence, leaning over the loose-box door looking at Tornado.

  ‘Well, we’ll have a little school this evening – see how you ride,’ said Major Seely. ‘The horses will go better when it’s a bit cooler.’

  He walked round the rest of the horses with Mr. Booth. David returned to the dirty tack, and Sheila appeared and said, ‘This is really my job.’

  They worked in silence for a time until Sheila said, ‘I wouldn’t be in your shoes.’

  ‘Why? I like the look of everything,’ David answered.

  ‘Major Seely yells like anything. He’ll have you bumping round the paddock without stirrups. He’ll lunge you for hours. I’d rather be just a groom, thank you.’

  ‘I don’t care so long as it improves my riding.’

  ‘If you’re a fanatic, that’s all right. I like other things – dancing, the cinema. I’ve heard Major Seely say to people, “If you’ve enough energy left after two hours in the school with me to want to dance, it simply means you haven’t been working enough.” I have really.’

  David felt his heart sinking. He longed suddenly now for the freedom of the Elm Tree Riding School, for the days when he and Pat had stood in the middle of a school instructing pupils. In spite of being poor, he had always been more or less his own master. Now he was a working pupil with pocket money of a pound a week and lodgings paid for by Major Seely.

  He realised now that he had never valued his freedom enough. He thought, I can always leave, but at the same time condemned the thought, because how could he return home and admit failure? He imagined his parents’ faces, though soon enough they would be on his side, his mother condemning Major Seely as she now condemned Pat.

  He thought: I shall have to stick it out for a bit, for a month at least.

  ‘That’s finished. Are you going to help me fill up the water-buckets?’ asked Sheila, hanging up the last bridle.

  THE FIRST DAYS

  HE RODE TWO horses that evening, big, honest, bay Jolly Roger and the dun mare, Sandstorm. As he rode the bay, he imagined his father calling, ‘You look like a tomtit on a round of beef, son,’ a favourite saying of his; and the bay did feel large, his ears seemed miles away, and David’s heels only reached halfway down his enormous sides. The first time he jumped he fell off, banging his nose and jarring his back, but remembering to spring to his feet and run after the bay calling, ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Major Seely stayed where he was leaning against his shooting stick watching David. Jolly Roger halted and stood snorting. He’ll never want me to stay on here now, thought David. Why did I ever come? I knew I wasn’t good enough. He caught the bay and struggled back into the saddle with an effort.

  ‘He feels big, doesn’t he? You’re not used to big horses?’ asked Major Seely.

  ‘No. I’m not really.’ He hated to admit it.

  He jumped the bay again, staying on, but only just, and feeling more depressed each moment.

  ‘That’s better. Now we’ll try Sandstorm,’ said Major Seely.

  She was an easier ride and very clever. He enjoyed jumping her.

  ‘She suits you better. Tomorrow we’ll do some work on the flat,’ said Major Seely.

  They put Sandstorm away, and stood talking for a time about Oxfordshire, about shows, about Sandstorm’s possibilities.

  ‘I’d like to see you on your own mare tomorrow,’ said Major Seely.

  They walked round the horses saying little. Tornado whinnied to David.

  It was still a lovely day, warm and tranquil, more like early September than May.

  ‘I’m keeping you from your supper. Leave the tack till the morning.’

  David had had tea with Jimmy Bates and Olive. There had been pilchards in tomato sauce as well as bread and butter, strong tea and little fancy cakes. He had complimented Olive on the cakes, though he preferred his mother’s. Now he said, ‘Well, good night, sir.’

  He felt rather lonely as he wandered in the direction of the Bates’s bungalow. It made him think of walking home across the Common after a happy day at the Riding School, imagine his mother in a faded overall pouring him tea, his father coming in. He felt nostalgic suddenly for familiar things, and was certain at the same time that nothing would ever be the same again. When he returned home he would see everything through new eyes because he had been away. How would the cottage look then? he wondered. He imagined everything would look smaller – his bedroom, the kitchen, the cottage itself.

  ‘Well, how did it go?’ asked Jimmy as he entered the bungalow.

  ‘Did you fall off?’

  The Bates were consoling.

  ‘That’s always the way,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Never mind. Major Seely will understand. Won’t he, Jimmy? I expect you were nervous,’ said Olive.

  There was bread and cheese, pickles, a little cold meat, tea again.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ said Olive.

  He realised now how tired he was; it seemed to come over him like a wave. Years might have passed since early morning.

  ‘The governor’s a good sort,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Would you like a bath? We have a bath,’ said Olive with pride.

  He had always bathed at home in a tin bath in front of the range.

  ‘I lit the copper specially,’ said Olive.

  They sat for a time after supper. Then David found his way to the bath, which was in the wash-house, and baled water from the copper. He felt too tired now to imagine anything. He only wanted to be in bed, to sleep and sleep.

  Jimmy and Olive called, ‘Good night’ through the door. ‘Don’t stop there too long. We’ll call you in the morning.’

  He switched off the lights on the way to his room. It was dark outside now. One of the horses was neighing and he wondered whether it could be Tornado.

  He clambered into his bed, which was modern with a walnut headpiece, and switched off the light. What a fool I was to fall off. I wish Major Seely had said something, he thought. He felt now that he would like to take a look at Tornado. Did she feel strange? he wondered, but before he could summon strength to get out of bed, cross the yard in the dark and find her box, he fell asleep.

  The next day he rode a little better. He spent a long time bumping round the scho
ol without stirrups, just as Sheila had prophesied. As he schooled Tornado, instructed by Major Seely, he could feel her going better each moment, and Major Seely was encouraging.

  ‘That’s good. That’s very good,’ he said, and, ‘You’re sitting better now. Drive, more drive, drive.’

  In the afternoon he was told to hack Jolly Roger, and Sheila was told to escort him on Parisian, an excitable thoroughbred. He felt much happier now. He was certain that his riding had already started to improve. Immense opportunities seemed to lie ahead. For the first time he could remember running the Riding School with Pat without pain.

  ‘Well, do you like it here?’ asked Sheila as they turned out of the yard, beneath a dappled sky.

  ‘Yes; and I’m learning a lot,’ he said.

  ‘Gosh, you are keen, aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so. I’ve always been keen on riding ever since I was a little boy.’

  ‘I’m too lazy. Besides, I’m going to get married next year,’ she said.

  ‘Congratulations,’ exclaimed David, remembering his brother Michael’s wedding, himself throwing confetti, the reception afterwards in the Village Hall, how strange his parents were in their best clothes.

  ‘I haven’t a ring or anything yet. It’s just an understanding, if you know what I mean,’ said Sheila.

  It wasn’t like riding with Pat. Sheila talked without a pause; but the countryside was beautiful, and in the distance they could see the moors. And Jolly Roger was a calm, pleasant hack, well-schooled and well-mannered.

  ‘Leonard was in the same lodgings as me; now he’s at an agricultural college. When he’s got his diploma, we’re going to get married.’

  ‘And have a farm?’ asked David.

  There were banks on each side of them festooned with flowers. How do you jump a bank? he wondered. Do people jump them hunting? What happens when a horse hits a bank?

  He turned to ask Sheila, but she was still talking about Leonard.

  ‘He’s taller than you are,’ she said. ‘And he has lovely dark, curly hair.’

  David didn’t know what reply was expected, so he said nothing. The fields on each side of them now were filled with ewes and lambs. The clouds had gone and it was another warm day. David rolled up his sleeves.

  ‘Let’s trot,’ suggested Sheila, pushing Parisian with her heels.

  They trotted along a dusty lane, forded a river, walked up a slope strewn with boulders, trotted again, and all the time Sheila was talking. The horses were sweating now and David started to slow down Jolly Roger, but Sheila continued trotting, shouting remarks back over her shoulder.

  ‘Booth’s an old so-and-so. Jimmy’s not so bad. The governor’s fair, I’ll say that for him, but he thinks too much of Booth,’ she called.

  By Parisian’s behaviour, David guessed that they had turned for home. Sheila was sitting anyhow and Parisian was breaking into a canter at intervals and throwing his head in all directions. Sheila continued talking.

  ‘He used to jump a lot – jumped for England, someone said. You should see his lounge; it’s full of photos. What would you say his age was?’

  And then it happened; one moment Parisian was tearing along in front, with Sheila bobbing about on top, her pale hair windswept like a galloping palomino’s mane, the next they seemed to be pitching forward, folding up in front of his eyes. David wanted to cry, ‘Hi, stop! Hold him together. Collect him . . . drive, drive, drive . . .’ But it was too late now. Sheila had let Parisian tear along, unbalanced, throwing his head about, off the bit, all over the place, and now he was falling and there was nothing David could do but watch. Parisian fell on his knees. Sheila went on over his shoulder. For a moment time seemed to stand still. Then the dark brown thoroughbred scrambled to his feet, stepped on the end of his reins, threw his head in the air, trotted away, leaving a trail of blood behind him. His knees are broken, David thought; he’s scarred for ever and ever. Why didn’t I say ‘Let’s walk’ to Sheila? I knew she was riding badly. Why didn’t I do something?

  He looked at Sheila now, who lay in a heap, groaning faintly. He wanted to catch Parisian first. But supposing Sheila was badly hurt? He couldn’t simply leave her there and follow Parisian.

  He dismounted, bent over Sheila.

  ‘Are you hurt? Can you move?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I feel awful,’ she cried. ‘What will Major Seely say?’

  He didn’t know. He didn’t like to think. He wished that Sheila would get up. He couldn’t see Parisian now.

  ‘Try to get up,’ he said.

  She stood up. She wasn’t hurt; he could see that now. He was seized by a wave of anger.

  ‘You aren’t hurt at all. You were simply pretending,’ he cried, starting to follow the trail of blood, imagining joint oil leaking from gashed knees, trying to imagine how he would feel if someone had let Tornado stumble through bad riding and ruined her for ever.

  He could hear Sheila calling something to him from behind, but he didn’t listen. He had eyes now for only the trail of blood. He reached a road and saw Parisian grazing on a bank fifty yards ahead. Approaching him, he noticed how well he was put together. He had tremendous depth of girth, a long, sloping shoulder, beautiful limbs. He couldn’t find fault with his conformation, and it dawned on David that Parisian was probably a show horse, and that made everything ten times worse, because what use would he be for a show horse with scarred knees? Always he would be marked down – his career was ruined.

  Parisian raised his head and watched David approach. ‘Whoa, little horse, whoa,’ said David.

  Already there were flies buzzing round Parisian’s knees. David wanted to run, to drive them off. He couldn’t bear the thought of them sucking Parisian’s blood, perhaps infecting his wounds. But he restrained himself, because if he ran Parisian might trot away, and that would be disastrous.

  Another moment and he had hold of the broken rein, was bending down looking at two bleeding knees, while Jolly Roger stood patiently watching. One was worse than the other; one was very bad indeed. David felt quite sick as he looked at the worst. It was deep and full of grit and dirt, and bled slowly and obstinately, but not fast enough to warrant a torniquet, he judged.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ cried Sheila, suddenly behind him. ‘I couldn’t help him falling, silly horse.’

  She was near to tears.

  ‘How far are we from home?’ asked David, suddenly calm.

  ‘About a mile.’

  ‘We’d better have a box, then. Can you take Jolly Roger and get someone to come with a trailer or something?’

  ‘Is he very bad? What will Major Seely say? It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘I’ll stay with Parisian,’ said David. ‘Accidents will happen,’ he added, recalling a saying of his mother’s.

  Sheila mounted Jolly Roger.

  ‘Go carefully. Don’t hurry,’ said David, wondering whether she had ever ridden the bay before.

  He talked to Parisian while he waited. ‘You’ll be all right soon,’ he said, ‘We’ll get you home, and then you can have some lovely hay and cut grass. You’ll be all right soon.’

  But he thought at the same time: Will he? What will they do with him if he’s stiff in front for ever?

  Time seemed to pass very slowly. More and more flies gathered until they were swarming round Parisian as though they had their own form of telepathy and could send messages to one another, ‘Injured horse on bank. Very tasty.’

  I should have told Sheila to telephone for the vet, too, David thought. Perhaps Major Seely isn’t at home. Perhaps Mr. Booth gives anti-tetanus injections himself; some stud grooms do.

  At last he saw a car and trailer coming. He started to wave, and saw that Mr. Booth was driving, with Sheila sitting beside him.

  ‘Here’s the trailer. You’ll be home soon now,’ he told Parisian.

  ‘Now what’s ’appened?’ asked Mr. Booth, getting out of the car and bending down to look at Parisian’s knees.

  ‘D
one them good and proper, hasn’t he? Clumsy beggar. We’d better get him home and have a proper look at them.’

  Parisian was very stiff now. He would only move his forelegs with a great deal of persuasion. They had to push and coax him into the trailer.

  ‘He’ll never make a show horse now,’ said Mr. Booth gloomily, starting up the engine. ‘What were you two doing anyway? Racing, I suppose.’

  ‘We were trotting,’ said David.

  ‘He just fell. I don’t know why,’ added Sheila.

  ‘One can’t trust anyone nowadays. All they want to do is tear about,’ replied Mr. Booth.

  David didn’t say anything. He sensed that Mr. Booth didn’t like him, and the thought filled him with gloom.

  And he felt gloomy, too, because he had known Sheila was riding Parisian badly and had done nothing.

  But nothing would silence Sheila’s tongue.

  ‘He was very fresh. He wanted to be in front all the time, didn’t he, David? It excites him being in company. It wasn’t my fault,’ she said.

  That’s what small children say. They break things, fall down, forget to shut gates, and they always say, ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ thought David.

  ‘I don’t like to think what the governor will say,’ said Mr. Booth, turning up the drive.

  Sheila was crying now. ‘I wish Leonard was here,’ she whispered to David. ‘It wasn’t my fault, was it?’

  ‘No; it wasn’t. It might happen to anyone,’ said David. Jimmy Bates was taking a skip round the boxes. Tornado was munching a feed. The sun had turned a fiery red in the sky.

  ‘I’m sorry for you two. What were you up to?’ called Jimmy.

  ‘They were only trotting,’ said Mr. Booth with sarcasm.

  ‘He’ll be back presently,’ said Jimmy, crossing the yard to look at Parisian.

  ‘Proper mucked himself up, hasn’t he?’ asked Mr. Booth.

  ‘Doesn’t look too good,’ agreed Jimmy. ‘Never mind, Sheila. Cheer up. It happens to the best of us. When I was a lad I lost a racehorse. Went right through Newmarket it did, the blighter . . .’