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

by K. M. Peyton

  ‘A jumping job,’ cried Pat. ‘You can’t take another dead-end job. You’re going to jump for England. You know that.’

  His confidence was coming back. He was certain now that he could never say farewell to show jumping. He was determined now to make another beginning.

  ‘How much farther is it to the stables?’ asked Pat.

  ‘Are you coming the whole way?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He was ashamed to let her see his squalid room. He didn’t want her to see how low he had fallen. He didn’t want her to see Sid Page with his fingers stained with nicotine and his beery eyes; nor fat, bossy Muriel Page; nor the thirteen tired hirelings.

  ‘Oughtn’t you to be somewhere?’ he asked again.

  ‘I’m coming to see your puppy and to find out about Tornado. Don’t forget she was once more or less half mine,’ replied Pat firmly, as though she could read David’s thoughts.

  They hurried across the Park, and to David life was suddenly worth living again, though he couldn’t understand himself. How had he got into such a mess? Why had he stood calmly by while Mr. Carruthers had ridden away on Tornado? Why had he ever taken the job, for that matter?

  ‘I’ve been mad, haven’t I?’ he asked Pat.

  ‘You mean getting in such a mess? Yes. You have rather.’

  He had time to look at her now. She was wearing a checked summer dress, toeless sandals; her hair was casually done. She wasn’t so different from the Pat who had run the Elm Tree Riding School as his partner.

  ‘I’ve done silly things too. I suppose it’s all part of growing up,’ she said.

  ‘But I’ve been so feeble, sort of lukewarm,’ he said.

  She didn’t contradict him. They reached the other side of the Park. The roads were much quieter. The sky was streaked with red and gold. At that moment London looked beautiful – dreamy, mysterious, touched with gold, almost the capital David had imagined when he took the job at the Mews Stables.

  They passed the fish bar where David had eaten on his first evening.

  ‘I hope Tina’s all right,’ said David, remembering how she had sat on his knee and shared his supper. ‘I left her in my room.’

  ‘It would be awful if she was lost too,’ Pat replied.

  And now the awfulness of the whole day came back to him: the dreary ride in the afternoon round and round the Park, the endless stalls to be cleaned, the moment when the Pages had decided that Mr. Carruthers was to ride Tornado. How he had felt watching Tornado go out of the yard; the hours of waiting for her to come back, the realisation that something had happened, the moment when he had left the mews, ignoring the Pages, hating the whole world.

  He could see the entrance to the mews. Children were playing outside, though it was dark and quite late. Somewhere music drifted from an open window.

  ‘We’re nearly there. I don’t know what sort of reception I shall get. I left without a word,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose they’re paying you almost nothing. You always have needed someone nannying you. You’re hopeless on your own,’ said Pat with a grin.

  They were there now. He could see the lights were on in the Pages’ little untidy flat above the stables, which always seemed to smell of stale tobacco smoke, gas and wet clothes.

  ‘Be prepared for the worst,’ he told Pat.

  ‘I am,’ she said.

  If only Tornado’s there already, he thought, turning into the mews. With Pat to back me up, it’ll be easy enough to give in my notice. If only she’s there.

  ‘I’M NOT STAYING’

  BUT SHE WASN’T. Her stall stood dirty and empty. The harness-room was piled with dirty tack and smelt of beer; a dirty glass stood on the window-sill.

  David let out Tina. ‘Oh, isn’t she sweet?’ cried Pat.

  ‘I’m not going to show you my room; it’s too awful,’ said David.

  He felt exhausted again now. His exaltation at meeting Pat was wearing off. Reality stared him in his face.

  ‘Was Mr. Carruthers the sort of man to steal a horse?’ asked Pat.

  ‘Gosh! No. Look. That’s his car,’ replied David, pointing to the enormous Jaguar which stood parked in the mews.

  ‘Well, I suggest we start on the hospitals. The London Clinic first.’

  ‘The hospitals?’ cried David.

  ‘Mr. Carruthers must be in one. And as he’s rich, if he had any choice, he most likely chose the London Clinic. Where’s the telephone?’ replied Pat.

  ‘What about the Pages?’

  ‘I’m not going to bother about them,’ cried Pat.

  ‘But what are you going to say?’

  ‘I’m going to find out exactly what did happen.’

  The London Clinic said that they had admitted Mr. Carruthers, who was suffering from slight shock after a riding accident. He had left at nine o’clock. They knew only that he had been thrown by a dangerous horse. They refused to disclose his home address.

  ‘Now we’ll have to find his telephone number,’ said Pat, replacing the receiver and picking up one of the Pages’ directories. ‘By the sound of him, I should say South Kensington.’

  David couldn’t understand Pat’s remarks. But he was happy to have her take charge.

  ‘Here we are. I bet that’s him. Do you happen to know his initials?’ she asked a few seconds later.

  ‘No. He called Mr. Page Sid, but he was very much the gentleman – at least, the Pages seemed to think so.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. If he had any manners at all, he would have rung up here from the London Clinic.’

  ‘But perhaps he did.’

  ‘Well, you said you waited three hours, didn’t you?’ asked Pat, dialling a number on the dial David couldn’t understand at all, since it seemed to be composed mainly of letters.

  ‘He’s gone out – obviously night-clubbing. The maid says he’s had a nasty accident. A nasty horse bucked him off in a Park somewhere or other. I expect he’s night-clubbing by now,’ said Pat a few minutes later.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ wondered David.

  Pat started to walk round the saddle-room biting her nails. ‘I’m surprised the police haven’t found her by now,’ she said presently.

  David could hear footsteps outside.

  ‘Is that you, David? Wherever have you been?’ called Muriel Page.

  ‘Looking for Tornado.’

  Muriel Page was in her dressing-gown.

  ‘I can’t understand what’s happened to her,’ she said in an exasperated voice. ‘I shall never forgive you if she’s thrown Mr. Carruthers.’

  ‘And we’ll never forgive you for letting him ride her,’ cried Pat.

  ‘Who’s this girl?’ cried Muriel Page.

  ‘Miss Lewisham,’ replied David stiffly. Standing there, he suddenly discovered that he hated Muriel Page to an extent which shocked him. ‘As soon as I’ve found her I’m leaving,’ he announced, feeling suddenly strong enough to face anything.

  ‘You have to give a week’s notice.’

  ‘Well, I am not going to. I’m not staying another hour once I have my horse.’

  ‘You’ll have no reference.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  The telephone rang. Pat picked up the receiver. ‘Yes, it is. Oh good. You’ve found her, then. The Brewery Stables. Where did you say? Yes. I know. I’m sorry to have given you so much trouble. Yes. Well, that’s something. Thank you very much.’

  She put down the receiver. ‘The police have traced Tornado. She’s in a brewery stable roughly seven miles from here. She seems to have crossed most of London. They want us to leave her there till morning,’ she said.

  ‘Is she hurt?’ cried David.

  ‘They don’t think so.’

  He stood there in a daze, anxiety ebbing away. He picked up Tina.

  ‘Well, that’s something. Now perhaps you’ll change your mind about this nonsense about leaving,’ said Muriel Page.

  David was too tired to argue. He felt now that he only wanted to s
leep on a comfortable bed, but his bed wasn’t comfortable. He hated his room. He had risen at six that morning; he had worked all day; now he only heard Pat talking through a mist.

  ‘He certainly is. He’s coming to spend the night at my aunt’s. I’m ringing for a taxi now,’ she said.

  After that there seemed to be an argument. And at some time Mr. Page appeared.

  ‘He can’t leave, can he?’ cried Muriel Page. ‘I won’t have it.’

  ‘A week’s notice is the rule,’ agreed Sid Page.

  ‘Go and pack, David. Would you like me to help?’ asked Pat.

  He took Tina with him, bundled his few belongings into his suitcase. Pat was waiting outside the door. ‘What awful people they are. Come on. Here’s the taxi.’

  A moment later they were travelling through an almost deserted London.

  ‘Won’t your aunt mind?’ asked David.

  ‘No. She’s the best-natured person in the world. Nothing upsets Aunt Jill,’ Pat replied. ‘You can have the spare room. It’s always ready for guests.’

  He wanted to thank Pat for everything. He tried to make up a little speech beginning, ‘But for you . . .’ But words wouldn’t come. Nothing made sense any more. For a moment he imagined himself home, then he fell sideways asleep. He was too tired to eat. Aunt Jill appeared through a mist in a dressing-gown.

  Pat shepherded him up lushly carpeted stairs into a room with flowered chintz curtains. She put Tina in an armchair, placing a blanket on it first.

  ‘I should fall into bed,’ she said.

  ‘But I haven’t washed.’

  ‘Do it in the morning.’

  The room made him think of rooms he had seen in films. He undressed, put on his pyjamas. Once in bed, he seemed to be floating on a cloud. He felt Tina jump on to his feet before he fell asleep.

  The sun wakened him. The room bewildered him until he remembered. He lay then feeling like someone in a book, out of this world, staring at the elegant dressing-table, seeing for the first time that there was a green basin, feeling like a millionaire, a king, a film star.

  Tina had gone. He imagined Pat walking her, London alive outside, Tornado champing in the brewery stables.

  Ten minutes later he was walking downstairs. He could smell bacon cooking and realised suddenly that he was ravenous. He thought: What do I do now? I wish Pat would appear. I can’t even remember what her aunt looks like.

  He had put on his best riding clothes, looked out of the window of his room, and seen that in this part of London there was little traffic besides a horse and milk trolley, taxis, an occasional car.

  He thought: What a lot I shall have to tell Mum when I get home. Perhaps she’ll stop hating Pat now. Or will she be furious at me giving up my job?

  Pat came in with Tina as he reached the hall. ‘Hullo. You’re just in time for breakfast. Tina was whining, so I took her out for a run. She is sweet.’

  Aunt Jill presided over the breakfast table. ‘You look better this morning,’ she told David.

  ‘You were hardly compos mentis last night,’ said Pat.

  ‘What dreadful people you’ve been working for,’ remarked Aunt Jill, pouring David an enormous cup of coffee.

  He didn’t want to be pitied, so he changed the subject.

  ‘How do we get to Tornado?’ he asked.

  ‘On a ’bus. We’ve worked it all out,’ replied Pat.

  He ate a great deal, though he felt like sticking halfway through the coffee, because until now he had always had tea for breakfast.

  ‘How are you going to manage to get the horse home? I’m afraid I haven’t got room for it here. Pat darling, I must fly if I’m going to call at Fortnum’s on my way to that fashion show,’ said Aunt Jill.

  David tried to work out a plan.

  ‘You can do anything you like except stable your horse in my house, David. Stay as long as you like,’ said Aunt Jill as she left.

  ‘We’d better ring up the station and see what they can do about a train for Tornado,’ said Pat. ‘Then I’ll ring up home and say she’ll be in the park till further notice. Swallow’s there, so she won’t be alone.’

  ‘Will that be all right?’

  ‘Why on earth not? Come on. Let’s telephone.’

  They managed to arrange a horse-box for three o’clock that afternoon. Then David collected his suitcase and they set off for the brewery stable, taking it in turn to carry Tina.

  ‘It’s lucky I met you,’ said David.

  ‘I’ve been hoping you’d write for ages. I thought you’d write to say “Thank you” for the horse. I thought of calling on your parents once to ask how you were, but I know your mother doesn’t like me,’ replied Pat, staring away down the street along which they were walking. ‘I wanted to know how you were doing; then I saw the piece about you and Sandstorm in Horse and Hound, and knew you were all right, that you were going to jump for England one day just as you always said. You can imagine the shock I got when I met you last night looking on the verge of suicide. I couldn’t think what you were doing. Here’s our ’bus stop,’ she added, stopping.

  ‘I’ve been pretty stupid really. Somehow I didn’t think you wanted to go on knowing me. You going to London and all,’ said David.

  ‘That wasn’t all me. My parents have wanted me to for ages. They were afraid I’d turn into a Muriel Page,’ replied Pat.

  ‘But you couldn’t. Nothing could make you look like her,’ cried David.

  They climbed on a ’bus, clambered up the stairs.

  ‘I love travelling right on the top,’ Pat said, thinking: He’s changed. I don’t know how quite, but he has.

  I still don’t understand her, decided David, but then I never have.

  ‘Until I met you I had really said farewell to show jumping. Now I know I never can,’ David told her. ‘I thought I was no good.’

  ‘Even after you’d seen that bit about you in Horse and Hound? Major Seely’s the man I can’t understand. Surely he must realise Mr. Booth’s crooked,’ Pat answered.

  They changed ’buses. The day was warming up. Tired shoppers turned homeward laden with baskets, shuffling aching feet.

  ‘I never got to know him very well, you know. I wasn’t there long enough,’ David said.

  They sat in silence, each thinking about David’s adventures, until Pat said, ‘Anyway, if you want a reference, Daddy will give you one. Surely you’ve always known that. For that matter, I bet he could find you a jolly good job if you asked him.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  ‘This is where we get off again,’ said Pat.

  The stables were at the end of a dead-end street. Clean and airy, high-ceilinged and well-ventilated, they were a pleasant contrast to the Mews Stables. A little man in breeches and gaiters greeted them. ‘You’ve come for the little mare, then. We put her in the box at the end. She seemed a bit reckless. I’m afraid your saddle’s in poor shape,’ he said.

  My saddle! thought David. He had forgotten about it, never considered that it might be damaged beyond repair.

  ‘The girth’s broke on one side too,’ said the stableman. Tornado looked very small in the old fashioned box obviously built for an enormous dray horse. She was turning round and round, churning up the straw. She whinnied when she saw David.

  ‘I’ll get her harness for you,’ the man said.

  ‘She’s been beautifully groomed,’ Pat said. ‘Have you any money? We must give the stables a pound. Look at all the hay she’s got.’

  They mended the girth with string. The tree of the saddle was broken; the reins had lost their buckle; one saddle flap was torn.

  ‘Poor David, your lovely saddle,’ said Pat.

  They thanked the stable-man, gave him a pound and said, ‘For her keep and your trouble and everything.’

  David mounted, rode out of the yard feeling like a free man. Tornado was sound; she walked with pricked ears. He had met Pat again and they were friends. He was never going back to the Mews Stables; with Colonel Lew
isham’s help, he’d find another job; hope ran through him like water down a thirsty throat, giving him strength to begin again. Third time lucky, he told himself, beginning to whistle softly.

  ‘Hi! Wait for me,’ cried Pat. ‘Remember I’ve got your suitcase as well as Tina, and I’m not on the ’bus yet.’

  He took the case. ‘If you hadn’t put on a dress, you could have ridden,’ he told her.

  ‘I’ve only got dresses in London. How was I to know I was going to meet you and Tornado yesterday?’

  ‘I’m like a bad penny. I always turn up again. We’re both bad pennies, aren’t we, Tornado?’ he asked his mare, leaning forward to stroke her neck.

  Pat thought he looked like he always had again now. Last night he had seemed suddenly old, but now the furrows had gone from his forehead, his hair was falling forward as it always had, and he was laughing, smiling like he had in the days when they had started their riding school.

  She thought of him riding home from Oxford and how quiet the landscape would be after London, and how untroubled.

  She thought of the cottage kitchen, which always seemed to smell of pastry, and saw Mrs. Smith rushing out to greet him. She remembered all the good things Maudie had said about David when he had gone, and how her father’s stud groom said, ‘The yard isn’t the same place without David. He’s a good lad, and that’s no mistake.’

  ‘I don’t like to ride while you walk,’ David said.

  ‘Here’s my ’bus. See you at Paddington,’ cried Pat, seizing the suitcase and dashing away down the road, thinking: Everyone likes David except awful people like the Pages, and even they didn’t want him to leave.

  A LETTER

  THEY MET AT Paddington. The horse-box was waiting down a siding.

  ‘I seem to spend all my time putting poor Tornado on trains,’ David said.

  ‘While I was waiting for you I rang up home. It’s all right. You can put Tornado in the park, and Daddy says of course he’ll write you a reference,’ Pat said.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘So I shouldn’t rush into a job. You’ve got your prize-money. Surely you can stay at home for a bit.’