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

by K. M. Peyton

  Olive poured him some tea. ‘Aren’t you going to eat anything?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. He sat looking at the stained white tablecloth and saw his world of dreams toppling like a pile of bricks before his eyes.

  He saw Sandstorm refusing three times in the ring; Tornado somersaulting over the wall. And everyone will say I lost my nerve the day I concussed myself, he thought.

  ‘He’s got cold feet about tomorrow,’ Jimmy told Olive.

  ‘Can you tell me why Mr. Booth’s been cutting the horses’ oats?’ he asked.

  ‘Couldn’t say,’ replied Jimmy, cutting himself a piece of cheese and reaching for the butter. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  Yes. Why haven’t I? wondered David. Really, everything’s my own fault. He stood up and, muttering, ‘I must clean my shoes,’ left the room.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Olive.

  ‘Can’t get on with Fred Booth. First of all he was cocky; now he’s the opposite.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the kid,’ said Olive.

  Much later he decided to visit Tornado. An awful feeling of loneliness hung over him, a black shadow separating him from friends and foes alike; his old sense of inferiority had come back. He felt empty inside, but couldn’t bear the thought of food. Olive and Jimmy had gone to the local. He might have read a book to escape from reality if there had been one in the bungalow, but the only reading matter besides the Daily Mirror was Olive’s magazines, which concerned themselves with romance and knitting patterns and occasionally babies.

  He could hear Olive and Jimmy coming back as he walked to the stables. The night was clear. Another fine day tomorrow, he thought.

  He crossed the yard, spoke quietly to Tornado, before he noticed that the light was on in the forage-room, though the door was shut.

  ‘Back in a moment. I’ll get you a handful of oats,’ he told Tornado.

  He was about to open the forage-room door when he heard voices inside.

  ‘I can’t let you have another bag till next week,’ said Fred Booth.

  ‘That’s all right. The same price then – a quid?’ asked his companion.

  David stood frozen. ‘Yes. Okay by you?’ asked Fred Booth.

  ‘Okay. The chickens are laying fine on it.’

  David wanted to flee, but now the door was open, the light dazzling his eyes, Mr. Booth saying, ‘Hullo, who is it?’ He couldn’t speak. He realised a great deal now. He knew that he and Mr. Booth could never be anything but enemies for ever. He stood there feeling like an eavesdropper, and guilty, though he knew that right was on his side. He’s a thief, he thought. He’s selling Major Seely’s oats. That’s why the horses’ rations have been cut. Do any of the others know? Sheila? Jimmy?

  ‘So it’s you. What are you doing roaming about at this time of night?’ asked Mr. Booth.

  David could move now. ‘Just taking a look at the horses. I saw the forage-room light was on,’ he answered.

  ‘This is a friend of mine. I should get along to bed if I were you,’ said Mr. Booth.

  He noticed a van parked by the yard entrance as he walked back to the bungalow. His mind was in a turmoil. He saw a hundred possibilities. Should he write at once to Major Seely? Send a telegram? He had no proof. Would Sheila support him if he told her?

  He longed for Pat’s company now. She would know at once what should be done. Perhaps he should write home for advice. The problem was still unresolved when he went to bed, not to sleep, but to lie tossing and turning till the small hours.

  He wakened feeling like a limp rag. He got out of bed thinking: I wish there wasn’t a show – longing more than anything to be able to go back to sleep. He didn’t bother to comb his hair or wash his face, simply dressed and plunged out into the cool morning air in his oldest jodhpurs, a shirt, and braces.

  Mr. Booth was already up. Jimmy and Sheila were starting to clean the loose-boxes. He was the last, unwashed, feeling too tired to care.

  The events of last evening seemed far removed from reality in the morning light. Much more real and of greater importance was the approaching show.

  David started to groom Tornado. ‘You’ll have to do all the work today,’ he told her.

  Because he felt untidy, Sheila appeared unusually spruce. She had curled her hair and her face was freshly made up.

  ‘Feeling better?’ she called to him across the yard.

  ‘Okay. I’d like a chat later with you,’ he said.

  He felt he had to tell someone what he had seen and overheard. Sheila wasn’t reliable, but she must have an opinion one way or the other.

  ‘Okay by me, if there’s time,’ she said.

  He was ready by nine o’clock. He found Mr. Booth already loading the horses when he appeared in the yard, his jumping hat and stick under his arm.

  ‘Here you are, then,’ said Mr. Booth.

  He travelled with the horses. No one had suggested that he should ride in the car, and he preferred their company. He knew now that they were competing in a reasonably large show sixty miles away. He had learned that much from Sheila before he left. He had had no opportunity to discuss his discovery of the evening before with her.

  But when he left she had called, ‘See you tonight.’

  Travelling, he could only foresee disaster – refusals, fallen fences, himself falling off. Mr. Booth drove carefully and the journey seemed to drag on unbearably like a hideous, endless dream.

  They were late when they reached the show-ground. David knew that as they entered the ground, by the loudspeaker calling his number, by the riders in the collecting ring, and by the competitor jumping the large, well-planned course. He found that he was sweating, that the dream had become a nightmare from which there would be no awakening except to the fact that it was reality.

  ‘There’s plenty of time,’ said Mr. Booth, getting out of the car.

  But David knew there wasn’t. His hands were shaking. He couldn’t buckle Sandstorm’s throat-lash; and the loudspeaker was still calling his name.

  ‘Plenty of time,’ said Mr. Booth.

  David wanted to scream ‘There isn’t!’ as he sprang into Sandstorm’s saddle, cantered across to the collecting ring.

  ‘You’re late,’ said the steward. ‘Better go straight in.’

  His hands felt clammy on the reins. It was worse than a nightmare. Sandstorm was still stiff from the journey in the horse-box.

  He rode straight in, saw the usual horde of faces, women clutching bags, children sucking sweets, here and there a knowledgeable face mixed up with the crowd. Everything was the same, yet different, because for the first time he was afraid.

  He turned towards the first fence, felt Sandstorm settle into her stride. He hadn’t been able to study the course, he could only hope to follow the numbers. He let her choose her own pace, saying to himself over and over again, ‘David, don’t interfere. Sit still. Leave her alone.’

  They cleared the first three fences before he lost his way. He realised too late that he was jumping No. 5 and heard the judge blowing his whistle with a sudden feeling of sickness.

  ‘Will No. 46 leave the ring,’ announced the loudspeaker.

  He felt like a whipped cur as he left the ring.

  ‘Whatever happened to you?’ asked Mr. Booth.

  He couldn’t answer, because he could only have screamed, ‘It’s all your fault!’ and he had been brought up to believe things were his fault, not other people’s.

  He mounted Tornado. Somewhere a band was playing Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance; in the ring a competitor was jumping a faultless round.

  ‘Better do better this time,’ said Mr. Booth.

  There was time to ride Tornado round the showground, to look at the other competitors, to remember that she was off colour, to pray for a clear round.

  The feeling of sickness came back as he entered the ring. Tornado eyed the jumps without enthusiasm. There was a tightening in his throat, as though something was winding itself round his neck,
slowly throttling him. He let Tornado go as she liked; she tipped the second fence, the third, the fourth.

  He didn’t care – didn’t care about anything any more. No one clapped as he left the ring; he was the last competitor; the loudspeaker was calling numbers for the jump-off.

  ‘Well I never,’ said Mr. Booth.

  David thought he caught a gleam of satisfaction in his eye. He dismounted on to legs which felt as shaky as stilts. Now we can go home, he thought. It’s over. The worst has happened.

  They boxed the horses in silence.

  ‘No point in staying,’ said Mr. Booth.

  What will happen now? thought David. I’ll lose my job, I suppose. But it’s not as bad as losing your legs, going blind, becoming mad. Lots of people live without realising their ambitions. He felt calm now, rather as though he had just emerged from fighting a rough sea – exhausted, glad only that he had survived. He thought: There are other jobs. Major Seely must give me a reference of some sort. He can say I’m honest, that I have enthusiasm – at least that.

  He remembered the incident of the night before, and for a second it seemed that he held Mr. Booth helpless like a fly in the palm of his hand. Then he thought: But supposing no one believes me? I haven’t any proof. Why should anyone believe my word against his?

  They were travelling again now – much faster this time, it seemed to David.

  I suppose Mr. Booth will write to the Seelys, he thought next. Probably he does regularly. Had we been friends, he might have found excuses. As it is, he’ll write the worst he can.

  They passed the moors, and lonely cottages standing by themselves like lost people who have pitched their tents in exposed places, unable to go on any longer. They passed through a town. The horses stood calmly munching hay. David remembered suddenly that he hadn’t eaten. He couldn’t remember breakfast, and he hadn’t eaten the night before. Probably Olive had put out a large package of sandwiches, but he hadn’t seen them. He remembered his puppy. What could he do with her if he lost his job? What with Tornado?

  I can go home, he thought.

  Presently he saw the drive. The yard with its clock tower, the grey pigeons. They turned in. We’re back, he thought, and braced himself to meet Sheila and Jimmy, while in one of the loose-boxes a horse neighed.

  ‘I’M BACK’

  ‘DON’T BE SO gloomy,’ said Sheila later as she and David stood together in the saddle-room cleaning tack. ‘You make the governor into such an ogre. He’ll just think you need some more instruction. After all, he’s show-jumped himself. He knows what it’s like.’

  ‘If only I knew what Mr. Booth was going to write,’ sighed David.

  He felt very tired. He wanted to sleep and sleep. He had found Olive’s sandwiches and eaten them. Jimmy had handed him a letter from his mother.

  ‘Write soon,’ she said. ‘People are always asking after you.’

  But he knew he wouldn’t write until he had good news. Or until the news was so bad it couldn’t be worse.

  ‘Anyway, if you do lose your job you can always get another one,’ said Sheila with the voice of experience.

  ‘But what about Tornado and my puppy?’

  ‘They’re a handicap, it’s true. I suppose at a pinch you could sell Tornado.’

  But he knew he couldn’t. It would be like selling a part of himself. She was tied up with his successful past, and he couldn’t let that go. Looking at her, reminding himself that she was his, he could remember that once he had been a success, and what he had achieved once he might achieve again.

  ‘Well, I’m knocking off. It’s been a long day. Only three weeks now and then Leonard will be back,’ said Sheila.

  She combed her flaxen hair, shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Well, good night, David. Don’t always look on the black side.’

  He felt worse when she had gone. The awfulness of the day came rushing back and he had to remind himself again: It would be worse to lose my legs, to go mad, to be blind.

  Tea was waiting in the bungalow.

  ‘So you didn’t do so well today,’ said Olive. ‘Never mind. You can’t always win, you know. You mustn’t be a bad loser.’

  She doesn’t understand, he thought. She doesn’t know how badly I rode. If only it was simply a matter of being a good or bad loser – if that was all.

  ‘Better luck next time. That’s what I always say,’ continued Olive.

  It was a relief to find that Jimmy was out. He could let his mind wander crazily like a sleep-walker through the last month while she talked.

  ‘What about the washing-up?’ he asked when they had finished tea.

  ‘It’ll keep.’

  ‘I’m going to bed, then.’

  ‘What about supper?’

  ‘Don’t bother about me. I’ve had lots of tea, thanks all the same.’

  It was wonderful to climb into bed; to pull the bedclothes up to his eyes, to feel like a wounded animal returning to its lair, a long journey over, to feel oblivion, to sleep and sleep.

  Nothing happened for nearly a week. David rode the horses. His despair ebbed away. Perhaps Mr. Booth hadn’t written, he thought.

  He had told Sheila about Mr. Booth selling the oats.

  ‘Gosh! Lots of grooms do that. If you’d seen some of the things some stud grooms do when the boss is away! Why, at one place the head groom was letting out the horses for seven-and-six an hour,’ she said.

  ‘But didn’t you do anything?’

  ‘What could I do?’

  ‘Well, write to the boss,’ said David.

  ‘But I hadn’t his address. Besides, what’s the point of stirring up trouble? He was a jolly good stud groom, all the same,’ Sheila replied.

  Sandstorm and Tornado were back on their proper rations. Mr. Booth spoke now to David, though not more than to give orders or to comment on the weather.

  Then on a sunlit day when flaming June was living up to her name, and a cuckoo had been calling ‘Cuckoo, cuck, cuckoo’ since early morning, and David had fetched his puppy and decided to call it Tina, his world collapsed.

  Mr. Booth found him in the saddle-room.

  ‘I’ve had a letter from the boss,’ he said. ‘He’s not pleased by the way you’re riding the horses. He can’t come back for a month, and so he thinks it’s better if you leave. I have a week’s wages for you here.’

  For a moment everything seemed black. Is this really happening? thought David.

  He couldn’t think of anything to say – could only stand, seeing the future all too clearly, repeating to himself again and again: He thinks it’s better that you leave.

  ‘Of course, we’re all sorry. That goes without saying,’ said Mr. Booth.

  He wanted to shout, ‘You know that’s not true. You’ve always disliked me because of your son, and later because I knew about the oats.’ But instead he muttered, ‘Thank you for telling me,’ as though it was a moment for politeness!

  He thought: I’ve got the sack – and felt the shame which it had brought to his forebears to have to say the same thing. He took the money offered by Mr. Booth without noticing. The future held nothing but disgrace.

  Presently David noticed that Mr. Booth had left. He had been fetching Jolly Roger’s tack; he had planned a long ride; there seemed no point in riding now. He found he still had an egg-butt snaffle bridle slung over his arm. He hung it up, stood looking round the saddle-room, thinking: I’ve lost my job. What do I do next? Where do I go from here?

  He wandered aimlessly round the yard, before he walked the half-mile to the nearest kiosk and found himself saying, ‘Is that the station? I want to box a horse to Oxford tomorrow. Is that possible?’

  It took a long time, but when everything was fixed for seven-thirty in the morning, it was still only three o’clock.

  ‘So you’re leaving,’ said Olive when he went in to tea.

  ‘That’s right. Seven-thirty in the morning.’ He couldn’t help feeling ashamed. None of his family had ever lost a job before.
It was a matter of pride; it was possible to leave of your own free will, but to be given the sack was something which didn’t happen to the Smiths.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry. Never mind. Don’t be miserable,’ said Olive.

  She helped him pack. ‘Are you taking your horse?’

  ‘Yes; and the puppy.’

  ‘Got anywhere to keep the horse.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I can’t understand Major Seely. It’s not like him. I don’t trust Mr. Booth myself. Jimmy says he’s all right, but . . .’

  But what? thought David. ‘Mum’s always said if you do what’s right everything comes right, but I can’t see it. Not now, anyway,’ said David suddenly.

  ‘Well, there’s still time,’ answered Olive. ‘I wish I’d known before that you were leaving. I’d have ironed some of your things. They look a proper sight, really they do.’

  The morning was grey, as grey and dismal as David’s mood as he put his tack on Tornado.

  Mr. Booth had offered to take the puppy and David’s suitcase to the station in the car, an offer David could gladly refuse, since he had ordered a taxi for the purpose.

  Olive had handed him a parcel of sandwiches and a thermos of tea.

  ‘Don’t bother to send back the thermos; we’ve got another,’ she said.

  Jimmy and Sheila had said good-bye as a sort of greeting when they arrived. Now he had only to leave.

  He mounted, looked at the yard, rode out into the greyness of the morning. Tonight I shall be home, he thought. If there’s nowhere else for Tornado, I shall have to ask permission to put her in the Hunt stables. He saw himself arriving at the cottage, his mother looking up from her cooking, crying out with surprise. Tomorrow I can buy Horse and Hound and start looking for another job, he decided. He came to the station, and there was the taxi with Tina looking out of the back window wriggling her behind. It was sleepy as country stations are in the early morning. Nothing seemed to stir; over everything hung the greyness of the morning which was soon to clear giving place to a perfect day.