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

by K. M. Peyton

  ‘Oh well, we’ll see. But in my experience work cures most things,’ replied Muriel Page.

  David didn’t speak again. The further they drove the drearier the streets seemed to become; then at last they turned into a mews and Muriel Page said, ‘Here we are.’

  Washing hung in one corner of the mews. David couldn’t see any horses looking over loose-box doors; but there was a smell of horse and the sound of hoofs kicking against a wall.

  ‘You’ve got a little room next to the harness-room,’ announced Muriel Page.

  They stepped out of the Buick into the hot afternoon. David couldn’t bear to think of Major Seely’s stable-yard now, though he saw for a moment the large, clean loose-boxes, the shining heads and necks and remembered the air of spaciousness and comfort which seemed to hang over everything.

  ‘We’ve got a stall ready for Tornado,’ said Muriel Page.

  The stables were on all levels. There was electric light, peat bedding. The horses were not thin, but they looked as though they never had quite enough to eat. Tornado’s stall was approached by a cobbled slope along which she walked gingerly, eyeing her surroundings with disdain. David’s room was small, with a narrow bed covered by a dingy eiderdown. A wash-handstand stood in one corner, an old rickety chest-of-drawers in another.

  ‘There’s a gas-ring in the harness-room if you want to make yourself a cup of Nescafe or cocoa at any time. You have breakfast and lunch with us,’ said his employer.

  He combed his hair in front of the cracked mirror above the wash-handstand, while Tina explored the room. He didn’t want to think any more now. He could understand Sheila’s attitude at this moment: a good job was worth everything in the world; he knew that now. He remembered someone saying to him once, ‘Never quarrel with your bread and butter,’ and he had quarrelled with his.

  He called Tina. Muriel Page was saddling a big bony grey.

  ‘Here. You must meet my husband. Sid, come and meet David,’ she called.

  Sidney Page reminded David of a pointer dog; long and lean, with a nose which never missed a chance; he shook David by the hand. ‘I hope you like it here,’ he said.

  The harness-room was full of dirty tack. The stalls needed cleaning. Tornado stood looking lost and bewildered. Her eyes seemed to reproach David when he looked at her, so that he turned away, hurrying to help his employers saddle horse after horse with dirty tack while outside the day seemed to grow hotter and fresh thunder rumbled louder even than the ceaseless roar of traffic.

  At six o’clock clients started to arrive. First two girls straight from office stools. They changed in the harness-room into slacks and fashionable blouses. They were pushed on to the big grey, who stood patiently with drooping ears, and on to a roan cob which had pigeon toes and a mane which needed hogging. The horses left the yard reluctantly as a large car turned in.

  ‘Here’s Mr. Carruthers. One of our wealthiest clients,’ said Muriel Page.

  Pupils continued arriving until eight o’clock, when at last the yard was empty except for David, Tornado and Tina.

  David had his instructions: he was to clean the fourteen stalls, fill the water-buckets, put hay in the racks. Working, he lost all sense of time, though quite soon clients started to return, handing him their mounts, saying, ‘We’ll be back the same time next week.’ Or ‘Are the Pages still out? Well, I’d better ring up.’ Or ‘You’re new here.’

  A tall girl in jodhpurs walked round the stalls until she saw Tornado.

  ‘Huh, a new horse by the look of it. A good-looker too. I’d like to try her next week,’ she said.

  ‘She’s mine. She’s not for pupils, I’m afraid,’ replied David.

  ‘But I’m not a pupil. I’ve ridden for years. You ask Mr. Page. I ride all the horses here,’ she replied.

  David couldn’t think of anything else to say. The day seemed suddenly unbearably long; the future stretched ahead of him, too awful to contemplate.

  He began to clean another stall, and tried to remember when he had last eaten, and wondered why he had been stupid enough to take the first job offered him.

  Presently the Pages came back with the beginners they had been escorting. David had finished the stalls; dusk had come, heavy with petrol fumes; the buckets were filled with water, the racks with hay.

  No one suggested cleaning the tack. The horses were brushed over quickly with dandy brushes. The lights were switched off.

  ‘I expect you’re hungry. I’m afraid we can’t offer you a meal, because we’re going out, but there’s a very good fish bar just down the road,’ said Muriel Page. Her husband stood in the saddle-room drinking beer.

  ‘Bit young to start swilling this stuff yet, aren’t you, David?’ he asked, showing a row of pointed decaying teeth.

  David took Tina with him. The fish bar was crowded, but presently he was seated with a plate of fish and chips, a cup of tea, vinegar, bread and butter.

  He sat eating looking at the other people, with Tina on his knee sharing his supper. And I imagined I might meet Pat, he remembered, and tried to laugh, but felt only a choking sensation in his throat and a piercing sense of loss which seemed to penetrate his whole being, leaving him without hope. Sitting there with Cockney voices calling to one another, while outside ’buses passed the window, and the street lights came on to compete with the fading summer sun, he thought: All these years I’ve been living in a kind of dream world, where people have helped me, found me horses, given me a start. I’ve never realised how lucky I’ve been, never appreciated the meal waiting for me every evening at home, never understood that the world was really quite different; that one must fight for everything in life. Sitting there, he felt that he was seeing life as it really was for the first time; he lost all sense of time watching the people come and go, until at last a woman in a white overall tapped him on the shoulder. ‘We are closing now,’ she said, pointing to the clock.

  It was eleven-thirty. He plunged out into the street. People walked along the pavement arm in arm; shops were lighted. Two policemen passed and stopped further down the street to try a door.

  David found his way back to his room, gave Tina a drink from a bucket, undressed, fell into bed. Somewhere below him a late Tube train rumbled, from the road came a screech of brakes. He slept, dreaming he was at home, at school again, being teased by the other boys for his love of horses, until suddenly the scene changed and two policemen pursued him through the streets of London waving truncheons.

  THE MEETING

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON David escorted two children on the only ponies at the Mews Stables, Cherry and Dicky.

  Cherry was a chestnut mare of twelve-two and Dicky a little grey pony of just eleven hands. They were both quiet and elderly. David rode Tornado and took his pupils Timothy and Jean in the Park, around which ran a tan track provided for riders.

  They were meek, well-washed children who had come accompanied by a nanny. Their riding clothes fitted perfectly and each carried an elegant riding stick. They answered politely when David spoke to them, but neither began a conversation on their own account. Tornado was strung up after nearly twenty-four hours in her stall; she was difficult to manage and started to buck the moment they reached the Park.

  When she had settled a little David started to question the children.

  ‘Do you know where the withers are?’ he asked Jean.

  She looked bewildered and answered in a whisper. ‘No. No, I don’t.’

  Timothy had never heard of a throat lash, and neither knew that both their ponies were wearing snaffles.

  In the evening the big grey was discovered to be lame.

  ‘We’ll have to change everyone round and use your mare. He’ll do for Carruthers,’ Mr. Page said.

  David put down the two water buckets he was carrying.

  ‘She isn’t reliable. Really she isn’t.’ He knew he sounded unconvincing. He thought: What will Mum say if I lose another job? I can’t go home again this time.

  ‘Mr. Carruthers is qu
ite a fair rider. He’ll manage her all right,’ replied Sid Page.

  There seemed nothing more to say. David picked up the water-buckets again, and presently with a dismal heart saddled Tornado with his own saddle. Further down in another stall the big grey, who had been given by someone the unsuitable name of Imp, stood resting a swollen foreleg.

  Tina followed David like a shadow, small and tireless, but with a worn look on her puppy face which made David feel guilty, because he knew now that London was no place for a sheep-dog puppy, that she didn’t belong to the noisy mews and dusty streets, but to hills and wild valleys and windswept moors. He picked her up and stood stroking her until Muriel Page appeared and said, ‘Seven more sets of tack to go on yet, David.’

  He saddled more horses. He tried not to think about Tornado, to forget about the prizes she had won, but quite suddenly he thought, I’d much better sell her. Perhaps Major Seely would be interested if I advertised her in Horse and Hound.

  ‘Which animal did you say I was to ride tonight?’ asked Mr. Carruthers, walking through the stables.

  ‘Lead her out, David,’ said Muriel Page.

  He put down Tina, who was in his arms again. He felt very small suddenly looking at Mr. Carruthers, who was tall, and looked taller because he was smoking with a long cigarette-holder. He wanted to say something and was overwhelmed by a desire to cry, ‘You can’t ride her! She’s mine!’ But he felt suddenly like a small boy again, and forced back the words rising to his lips, and led out Tornado without a word.

  ‘Quite a good sort. Where did you pick her up, Mrs. Page?’ asked Mr. Carruthers.

  Muriel Page answered in almost a whisper, so that David knew at once that she was telling a lie, most likely pretending she’s theirs, he thought with a rush of bitterness.

  ‘She’s not an easy ride,’ he told Mr. Carruthers, pulling down the stirrups.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ replied Mr. Carruthers confidently. ‘I’ve ridden a good many.’ He mounted while David held the offside stirrup, felt in his pocket, handed David a shilling. ‘Odd sort of saddle you’ve put on her,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a jumping one,’ replied David.

  ‘Would you like it changed? We can easily change it, sir,’ said Sid Page, coming forward all bows and obsequious smiles because Mr. Carruthers was the stable’s richest and most regular customer.

  ‘No. Don’t worry, Sid,’ said Mr. Carruthers, kicking Tornado, riding out of the yard, while David thought: Perhaps she’ll behave all right – and didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry, because if she was good he was afraid she’d take more customers, more and more until she was just a tired hireling like the other horses.

  ‘You see, David. All she needs is a little work,’ said Muriel Page.

  David was suddenly too sad to speak. He picked up Tina; stared at the stables, but saw only rows of jumps, himself on Tornado; the One Day Event, the last few shows he had ridden in.

  ‘If you keep on picking up that dog, she’ll give up walking altogether soon,’ said Sid Page.

  Three hours later the Pages and David stood in the mews yard together. Every horse was home except Tornado.

  David’s face was devoid of all colour. He looked like a ghost; he felt too tired to talk, too tired for anything. He could only think: Something’s happened to Tornado. Imagine her galloping through London traffic riderless, see her slipping, falling, hear the screech of brakes.

  ‘It’s not the first time Mr. Carruthers has stayed out late. If he likes a horse, he’s inclined to go on and on, look up his friends, get a drink from a pub. Isn’t he, Muriel?’ asked Sid Page, going to the harness-room to pour himself a glass of beer.

  ‘I’m going to look for them,’ said David, walking straight out of the mews, ignoring what Muriel Page called after him.

  He ran to the Park, stood scanning the riding track without much hope. Why didn’t I stop Mr. Carruthers riding her? Why haven’t I more spirit? What’s happened to me? he thought, hurrying across the Park to the West Gate, standing staring at the constant flow of traffic passing outside, suddenly deciding: I’ll hand in my notice. I’m not going to stay with the Pages any longer. I’ve still got some of Tornado’s prize-money left. I’ll manage somehow. Nothing could be worse than life as it is at present.

  He looked so odd standing in the gateway staring at the traffic, that a woman asked, ‘Are you all right, dear? Not ill or anything?’

  ‘I’ve lost a horse,’ said David.

  The woman looked at him as though he was mad and hurried on.

  David ran into the street. The shops were closed. Workers hurried home. Outside a cinema there was a queue. David felt a little mad. His life, his whole world, seemed quite shattered. Supposing I never find her. Supposing she’s already dead? he thought.

  I’ve been too proud, he thought. I was afraid to stay at home for fear of people learning the truth. I needn’t have quarrelled with Mr. Booth. At that moment he nearly walked under a ’bus.

  ‘Why don’t you look where you’re going?’ the driver shouted.

  ‘It’s boys like you what cause the accidents,’ called a woman.

  He was lost in a world which wasn’t his. He didn’t know where to go next, who to ask, ‘Have you seen a loose horse, please?’

  He started to run, dodging people on the pavement, knocking over a bicycle which leaned against a kerb. Sweat was pouring down his face now. He was wearing his old clothes; he was beginning to look like someone on the run, someone hunted.

  He stopped to ask a woman selling newspapers, ‘Have you seen a loose horse, please? Or a tall man riding a bay mare?’

  ‘A horse, dearie? No I’m afraid I haven’t. Thank you, sir,’ she added as someone pressed threepence into her hand and took a paper. ‘I should ask the police, dearie. They’ll know if there’s been an accident.’

  He glanced at her pile of papers to make sure there wasn’t a paragraph headed: Well-known business man killed in riding accident. But though a baby had been murdered, a woman strangled and a Countess divorced, there was no mention of an accident.

  ‘I should. Really, I should,’ added the news-vendor.

  David said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There’s a police station on the corner three streets down. Thank you, madam. Good evening, sir.’

  He left her still selling papers. He stopped to wipe his face with a handkerchief. Why didn’t I think of going to the police before? he wondered. When I get back to the mews I’m going to hurl Pat’s bronze horse away, he decided a moment later. It’s brought me nothing but bad luck. And I’ll never believe my mother’s saying about if you do what’s right everything will come right, not ever again, he swore to himself, looking frantically for a police station.

  I must have missed it, he thought a moment later, entering a residential area, where large houses stood in gardens and the street was lined with trees. I’ll look a fool if Mr. Carruthers turned up at the stables half an hour ago looking as cool as the Thames in winter, he thought.

  A pram stood chained to basement railings. Two people in evening dress passed in a taxi.

  ‘But it is,’ cried a voice. ‘I thought it was. Hullo, David. Whatever are you doing here?’

  There were feet running towards him from behind. He didn’t want to turn round; he was so afraid of being disappointed.

  It can’t be Pat, he thought. It can’t.

  ‘Whatever are you doing? I thought you were in Devon,’ cried Pat, halting beside him, out of breath from running, looking not a day older, just the same as always except for the clothes she was wearing, which were elegant compared to the patched jeans she so often wore in the old days.

  ‘I’ve lost Tornado,’ replied David, and felt suddenly like breaking down altogether.

  ‘Why are you here? Are you competing at the White City or something?’ asked Pat.

  ‘It’ll take too long to explain now. I must find Tornado. Do you know where there’s a police station?’ David answered.

&nbs
p; ‘No. But we can easily dial 999. Look. There’s a kiosk just down the street,’ cried Pat, and started to run ahead of him, crying back over her shoulder, ‘We won’t need any money if we dial 999.’

  They reached the kiosk. ‘You’d better do it,’ said Pat.

  David dialled 999. ‘Fire, Police, Ambulance?’ asked a voice.

  ‘Police,’ replied David, thinking suddenly: But supposing she isn’t lost after all. I should have rung the stables first. But he was through now, explaining, saying, ‘I’ve lost a bay mare. Yes. I think there’s been an accident.’

  Presently he was outside again talking to Pat. ‘It’s awful supposing she isn’t lost after all,’ he said.

  ‘I think you had better tell me the whole story,’ suggested Pat.

  Walking along the street towards the Park, he told her everything; and as he told her a great deal of his despair ebbed away.

  She listened in silence until he had finished. Then she said, ‘I think you’ve had a perfectly awful time. I feel like ringing up Major Seely this very moment. I can’t believe things like that really happen.’

  ‘And what have you been doing? Oughtn’t you to be going somewhere? Weren’t you on your way somewhere? I don’t want to delay you,’ said David, who felt much calmer now.

  ‘No. I’d been out to supper. That’s all. I’m not much good at being a debutante really. I’m not pretty enough. I want to see your puppy. She sounds sweet,’ replied Pat.

  ‘I’m afraid she’ll get distemper. That’s another thing,’ he said.

  ‘Haven’t you had her inoculated?’

  ‘She isn’t old enough.’

  ‘What did the police say?’

  ‘They’re going to make inquiries. They’ll notify the stables if they discover anything,’ replied David.

  ‘Poor Tornado. London can’t be her cup of tea.’

  ‘It isn’t. She’s beginning to look like a captive animal. And her coat’s dull. A few more weeks at the Mews Stables and you would hardly recognise her,’ David said. ‘But I’m going. I decided that about an hour ago. I’m not staying. It’s too awful. I’m going to get another job,’ he added.