by K. M. Peyton
He tried to forget that he was going home. Tornado could smell the smoke of trains and advanced in leaps and bounds. A porter emerged from a door marked Parcel Office. ‘Your truck’s ready for loading,’ he said.
Presently he was sitting in the groom’s compartment with Tina on his knee licking his face. Tornado watched him with large eyes. His suitcase lay beside him on the seat.
He wished now that he had written home. There would be so much explaining to do, and he didn’t feel like explaining. He wanted simply to make another start.
He could see his father beginning, ‘Well, son . . .’ His mother upset, but behind him with her bottomless faith in his ability to ride as well as anyone in England.
It was a long time before the horse-box left the station. When it did it was on the end of a long train, and swayed and jolted, while outside the sun dried the hay lying in cut fields and gilded hurrying rivers gold, and lit the countryside with brilliance, giving beauty to everything it touched.
David sat, going back over his past; remembering past failures, past mistakes, past catastrophe. He had no confidence in himself now, and there was no Pat Lewisham to cheer him, because she was in London or at Henley or Wimbledon being a debutante. He half-envied her now; to have no need to work for anyone, to be able simply to enjoy yourself, seemed to him at that moment the most important thing in life. A paradise which he would never reach, because he had very little money and no talent.
It was a long journey, or, rather, it seemed so to David. Tina shared his sandwiches, but he had nothing for Tornado except crusts of bread, and could sense her growing hungry as the hours passed.
As they drew into Oxford Station past the cemetery and the gasworks, he began to panic. Supposing no one will have Tornado? Supposing I drop Tina on the way home and she cracks her skull? he thought frantically.
But when he was out of the town riding with Tina perched in front of him on the saddle, he felt calmer. He remembered the popular song, What will be, will be, and at that moment believed it. It was evening now; the hottest part of the day had passed. Farm implements rested in fields he knew, had hunted across, loved. Cows grazed, no longer besieged by flies. In farmyards motherly hens took their chicks to bed.
I’m going home, thought David, and saw the cottage soft in the evening light, his room the same as always, the Common framing a sunset of red and burnished gold.
It was a long ride; Tina fell asleep quite soon and lay across his knees, her lips drawn apart, showing small baby teeth. Tornado smelt the countryside, walked easily with a swing to her stride, as though she knew that she was going home.
They passed the Hall, the drive to the Hunt stables, where Tornado hesitated; they came to the Common and saw the sunset, and that the gorse was still in bloom.
They rode down Church Lane, saw the cottage, Mr. Smith digging the garden, the back door open, smelt the flowers in the front border.
The church clock chimed the hour; among the graves an old man sharpened his scythe.
‘Hullo. I’m back,’ called David, thinking: What will they say? Will they mind? Where shall I put Tornado?
HOME AGAIN
‘IT’S DAVID!’ CRIED his mother, leaving the hot iron she was using on a snow-white pillow case, so that presently a smell of scorching arose and she had to flee indoors again. ‘Whatever’s happened now? And you’ve brought Tornado too. Not that I’m not pleased to see you. Don’t think that.’
His father put down his fork, dusted his hands carefully on the seat of his trousers. ‘Been in a scrape?’ he asked.
David dismounted. ‘This is Tina,’ he announced, holding out his still-asleep puppy for both of them to see. He felt the weight of the whole world hanging round his shoulders. It was one of those moments which would be with him for always, one of the worst in his life.
He couldn’t look his parents in the face. He stood in the road shuffling his feet, a small boy again caught in the middle of a forbidden escapade.
‘It’s a long story,’ he said at last. ‘Do you think Mr. Jackson down at the farm would put up Tornado for the night?’
‘You haven’t done nothing terrible? Stolen or anything?’ asked his mother with a tremble in her voice.
David was hurt by the suggestion. He thought: She should know me better than that.
‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know what I’m saying,’ she cried.
‘It’s worth trying Jackson,’ said Mr. Smith.
David kissed Tina, buried his face in the tiny ruff of fur round her neck.
‘I’ve lost my job. That’s all,’ he said. ‘It’s a long story.’ Tornado stood eating the Smiths’ neatly trimmed thorn hedge. The smell of half-dried grass drifted gently towards them from the churchyard.
‘Well, I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,’ said his mother, rushing indoors to save her pillowcase.
Presently David was down at Mr. Jackson’s farm, holding Tornado, knocking on the back door, while Tina ate bread-and-milk in the Smiths’ kitchen.
He had crossed the Common, ridden down the slopes where once he had schooled Tornado.
‘Well, I’m willing to help you out for a day or two,’ said Mr. Jackson, and led David to an oblong paddock behind his house.
‘She won’t hurt the calves, will she?’ he asked.
‘No. She’s never hurt anything,’ replied David.
He watched the bay mare roll. He didn’t want to return to the cottage, to have to explain, to talk and talk, to listen to his parents’ opinions, his mother’s indignation; though in a way he was glad enough to be home.
He crossed the Common slowly, stood looking at the landscape, before he turned down Church Lane.
He found supper ready on the table.
‘I expect you’d like to eat first and talk after,’ suggested his father.
His mother had found a cardboard box for Tina, in which she had put an old blanket folded four times. The puppy was asleep again, and David wished for a moment that he was Tina, well fed, asleep, with no worries and nothing to explain.
He ate the plate of fish his mother passed him with bread and butter. He drank three cups of tea.
‘Well, this is how it happened . . .’ he began, determined to tell his parents every detail.
The next day he caught a meandering country ’bus into Oxford and bought Horse and Hound. He still couldn’t believe he had really lost his job. When he thought about it, his knees felt weak, and there would be a tight feeling in his throat and he’d think: But it’s true, I have. I’ve had the sack – and the thought would make him stop in his tracks, so that once an old lady tripped over his feet in the High, and a little later he held up all the traffic in the Cornmarket.
On the way home he scanned the columns of Horse and Hound, marking two or three situations with a pencil.
It was another perfect day – too perfect for anxiety or sorrow. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and Oxfordshire was a tranquil land of quiet, sunlit fields of cut hay, baled hay, hay being cut and baled and carried.
‘Any luck?’ asked his mother when he was home, slightly dazed from reading in the ’bus, from the crowds in Oxford, and from the journey which had revived so many old memories.
Sitting on the kitchen table he read out the advertisements he had scored with a pencil:
‘Groom wanted for well-known show stable. Must be lightweight and able to school ponies. Good wage for right applicant. Wilts.’
‘That’s not so far away. You could come home on your day off,’ said Mrs. Smith.
‘Boy or girl wanted to assist in busy London riding school. Some experience essential,’
continued David.
‘Groom wanted to help on farm in summer. Sole charge of point-to-pointers during winter months.’
‘They simply want a labourer. You would find you were doing the whole lot winter and summer,’ said Mrs. Smith. ‘Milking the cows and all.’
‘It’s a bad time of ye
ar really,’ said David. ‘There’s lots of jobs if only I could drive a horse-box. Otherwise most of them are for girls. If it was August I could get one in a Hunt stable tomorrow.’
He sat looking out of the window, trying to imagine himself in London, schooling ponies in Wiltshire, hay-making.
‘Isn’t there another paper?’ asked his mother.
‘Not with the same sort of advertisements.’
‘Why don’t you stay here a while? You know we like having you.’
‘I can’t do that,’ replied David, jumping off the table. ‘There’s Tina and Tornado to be considered too.’
‘Well, Tina’s all right here . . .’ began his mother.
‘But Tornado isn’t. Mr. Jackson only wants to have her a few days,’ cried David.
He climbed the stairs to his room, and in a mood of desperation replied to all three advertisements, stuffed them in his pocket and hurried to the post. He had written very little, simply stated his experience, mentioned Tornado and Tina, and said that he would only require pocket money and keep for his horse.
He felt a little happier when the letters had disappeared into the red letter-box at the end of Church Lane. But presently he met a friend of his mother’s, who cried, ‘Well, David, it’s good to see you. Your mother said you were home on holiday. How does it feel to be back?’
His first thought was: So Mum’s ashamed of me losing my job – and he felt himself reddening and all the beauty seemed to have gone from the day.
‘Okay,’ he muttered, hurrying away down Church Lane.
If I don’t get any replies to my letters by Tuesday, I shall go to an agency, get anything, work in a builder’s yard, on a farm, anywhere as long as I can keep Tornado and Tina, he decided.
During the afternoon he took Tina with him to see Tornado. The day seemed endless. Hours seemed to have passed since he was in Oxford, yet it was the same day, and there would be tomorrow and Monday – no chance of a reply to his letters till Tuesday. And then he would have to write to say, ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ He couldn’t simply send a telegram saying, ‘Coming.’
And by Tuesday Mr. Jackson might be tired of Tornado grazing in his paddock. And there would still be a great many tiresome arrangements to be made about trains . . . about an insurance card, because he had never had one, and there would be the long hack to Oxford Station again.
He felt very depressed, probably more depressed than ever before, though there had been plenty of bad moments in his life.
He remembered one of his brother’s favourite quotations:
Not by Eastern windows only
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly
But westward, look! the land is bright!
But it gave him no more hope now than his mother’s ‘If you do what’s right, David, everything will come right. You’ll see.’
That evening his father said, ‘Why don’t you write to Major Seely yourself? Stand up for yourself. Tell him the truth.’
‘But I haven’t his address,’ began David.
‘It can be forwarded. He must have left an address. Stands to reason a busy man like Major Seely wouldn’t go away leaving no address.’
Why didn’t I think of that before? wondered David.
‘It seems like telling tales,’ David said.
‘There’s nothing wrong in telling the truth,’ replied his mother.
So he sat down and wrote:
‘DEAR MAJOR SEELY, – I am very sorry indeed that I have lost my job, because I was very happy riding your horses and liked staying with the Bates. I am very sorry that I rode Sandstorm so badly at the last show. I think it may have been because we were very late arriving, and the night before I saw Mr. Booth selling oats and was upset.
‘Thank you for teaching me so much.
‘Yours very sincerely,
‘DAVID SMITH’
He took the letter straight to the post because he was afraid otherwise he might change his mind and throw it on the kitchen range.
When it was safe in the box he thought: I wonder what ructions that will cause, if any – and started immediately to think of things he might have said which all sounded much better than what he had said. But now, of course, it was too late to write another letter, so he walked back along Church Lane for the fourth time that day, thinking: I’ll let Tina out. Then I’ll go to bed. Thank goodness today’s over.
Tuesday brought him a reply from the London riding school.
‘DEAR MR. SMITH [the letter ran], – We were very pleased to hear from you. We have a spare box, so could take your bay mare, and your puppy could sleep with you or in the saddle-room.
‘We have a stable of thirteen at present – four at livery, the rest our own – and you would be expected to escort rides as well as doing all the usual duties. We are shorthanded, so could you start some time this week, if you like the sound of the job? We suggest a starting wage of £1 and keep for the three of you.
‘Yours very sincerely,
‘MURIEL PAGE.
‘PS. – If you could travel to Paddington, we would provide transport for the rest of the way.
‘M. P.’
David passed the letter to his mother and tried to imagine himself in London, and started to think about Pat and wonder whether he would meet her one day in one of the parks when he was escorting pupils.
‘They sound in a great hurry. Are you going to take it?’ asked his mother.
‘Well, the others haven’t answered, and Mr. Jackson wants Tornado gone by Wednesday,’ replied David.
‘Couldn’t you put her anywhere else?’
‘But the others haven’t answered. I can’t wait till next week’s Horse and Hound.’ He could see himself now in London, the bustle in the streets; he would be in one of the greatest capitals in the world; there must be compensations to be found for the loss of peace, fresh air, and dreaming villages.
‘I can always leave if I don’t like it.’
‘That’s no way to talk,’ retorted his mother sharply. ‘I don’t like to hear a son of mine talking that way. Get a bad name, you will. You’re lucky to get a job as it is without a reference. When I was young, if you had no reference you were as good as finished.’
He didn’t listen, though. He could only think: I’ve got a job, anyway. For a second he forgot completely the thrill of the show ring, of the feeling that came over him waiting to go into the ring, that competing had always meant more to him than almost anything else.
Then it came to him with a rush, and, standing there, he thought: I’ll never jump for England now. It’s farewell show jumping. But I know now I’m not good enough. I probably never was. Devon was my testing-ground and I failed.
He sat down and wrote accepting the job at a weekly wage of £1. He looked up the trains, rang up the station from the kiosk and booked a box for Thursday. He added a postscript to his letter giving his time of arrival and posted it.
And then at last he felt free of anxiety. It’s settled now. I can’t go back on it, there’s no sense in worrying any more, he thought, and with an effort shoved all his ambitions into the back of his mind, and thought: From now on I’m a groom in a London riding school, and that’s good enough for me.
LONDON
THURSDAY FOUND DAVID in a train again, determined to like his new job, ‘looking on the bright side,’ as his mother said.
Tornado had been difficult to box this time, imagining, no doubt, another long journey without food and water. But David had made plans in advance, and now she munched mixture hay from a hay-net, while Tina lay on the seat watching David. His mother had packed him plenty of food. Because he had only been to London once before, to the circus in the Pony Club ’bus, he was excited. He saw it as a city of pageantry, a place where anything could happen, but most of all as a city of opportunity.
There was no one to meet him at Paddington. The horse-box was shunted down a siding and left. The station was unbearably hot; p
eople hurried by with cases, with umbrellas and newspapers under their arms. Trains were announced over the loudspeaker. To David it all seemed very far from Oxfordshire and Devon.
He longed for a drink of lemon squash, but didn’t dare to leave the box for fear of missing Muriel Page. He fell to thinking about her. Was she young or old? Fat or thin? He imagined her slim, with neat, short hair, but when she came at last she was large, with her hair in a net.
‘So you’ve arrived. You are David Smith? Good. The trailer’s just outside the station. We’d better unbox your mare,’ she said.
She looked Tornado over. ‘Nice-looking mare,’ she said.
The trailer was a ramshackle affair, towed by an ancient Buick which had evidently known better days. The trailer ramp swayed under Tornado’s hoofs.
‘We don’t use it a lot now. We used to when we went to shows, but we haven’t time nowadays for gadding about,’ said Muriel Page.
David tried to smile; but there was a sinking feeling in his inside. Climbing into the Buick, he realised for the first time how hard it was going to be to say farewell to his ambitions.
‘She’ll be useful for some of our gentlemen,’ said Muriel Page, starting the engine.
For a second he couldn’t think who she was speaking about; then he knew it was Tornado.
‘You mean my mare. But she’s difficult; she was vicious when I bought her. Didn’t I mention her in my letter?’ asked David. He knew he had: he had written very firmly, ‘She is only suitable for escorting rides.’
‘Oh well, we’ll soon knock some sense into her,’ replied Muriel Page.
Tina looked out of the window at London. Thunder rumbled in the air. David felt stifled, too horrified by everything to speak. Gone was the golden city of opportunity. Instead, he saw Tornado becoming a tired, overworked hireling before his eyes; himself no more than a groom working among listless, overworked horses.
Lightning flashed, thunder crashed; Tina tried to hide under the seat. In the streets people ran for cover as the first rain fell.
David decided to speak. ‘I’m thinking of your gentlemen’s necks. The only time she was ridden by anyone besides myself, she bucked him straight off, and he was a well-known judge,’ he said.
