by Kate Lattey
“The last rider in the jump-off will be Alexander Harrison riding Lucky in Love.”
I smile to myself at Lucky’s show name, picked out by Pip when she was riding him for the express purpose of embarrassing Alec when he took over the ride. I lead Dolly over to the ring to watch Alec’s round. Lucky is straining against his standing martingale and trying to get his tongue over the bit, but Alec’s hands are firm on the reins as he canters a circle, waiting for his bell. I forget about my own failure as I watch him jump a very quick clear round to win his class. At least someone’s had a good day. Without waiting for his prize giving, I lead Dolly back to the truck and untack her. I’m carrying her saddle up the ramp when Natalie rides past.
“Nice round,” I tell her. “I guess you found a pony you can ride too. Oh, no wait. You didn’t.”
“Well at least I know the rules and didn’t get myself eliminated,” she replies.
“At least I jumped a clear round!” I yell after her, but she rides on and ignores me. Alec jogs up on Lucky with a red ribbon around the pony’s neck and grins at me.
“Did you? Way to go.”
I confess my mistake as he jumps to the ground and pulls Lucky’s saddle off, but he just laughs.
“We’ve all done that. You only do it once,” he assures me. “At least you’re just here at a small show. Pip did it in her jump off at Horse of the Year one time. She was so mad at herself, she wouldn’t talk to anyone for the rest of the day.”
As we drive home with the tired ponies swaying in the back of the truck, Alec snoring next to me and Tabby humming along to Neil Diamond on the radio, I dream again about my own pony. One that I don’t need to kick into the jumps, unlike Dolly, but that has working brakes, unlike Snoopy. A pretty pony, unlike Jess, with a bit of fire in its belly, unlike Pan. A pony with manners, unlike Nugget, and good breeding, unlike Lucky. A pony of my own. It must be out there somewhere, just waiting for me to come along, maybe dreaming about a rider who will take it to shows and jump it over big fences. I stare out the window as we rumble through the countryside, glimpsing ponies under trees, dim shadows in the half light, rugged up against the cool night air.
CHAPTER NINE
Alec drops down next to me on the bus on Friday and tosses a copy of the local Trade & Exchange in my lap, jabbing a finger at a circled ad.
“Take a look at that one,” he tells me.
“Nice to see you too,” I reply, picking up the paper and reading.
PONY chestnut mare 14.2 7yo, gd jumping bloodlines, top SJ potential, sound, out of work, nds exper rider. $2500 ono. Hamltn.
“Could be all right,” I say noncommittally, tossing the paper back to him. He looks at me sideways. “It’s over budget,” I point out.
“Says ‘or near offer’ and it’s out of work, so it’ll be sitting around doing nothing and costing them money. You could try and bargain them down.” I shrug, and he hits me on the head with the paper. “Jay. Do you want a pony or not?”
“Of course. But who’s to know from a two-line ad like that whether the pony’s even worth looking at?”
“No way to tell unless you go see it. It’s not far away, just in Hamilton, and we’ve got to drop a horse off to some friends over there on the weekend anyway. Can’t hurt to ring these people and see if they’ll let us stop by to check out the pony on our way.”
He throws the T&E back into my lap and stands up as we get to Tegan’s stop, moving to his usual seat in the back of the bus. I show the ad to Tegan, and she’s predictably enthusiastic.
“Let’s go see it! I want to come. You have to bring me along. I can’t wait for you to get a pony! We can ride together every day.”
I remind her that I haven’t even called up yet, but promise to bring her along if I do decide to go see the chestnut mare.
I spend the day at school wondering about the pony in the advertisement, and by the time I get around to calling the owners, I’ve imagined her as being anything from a stunningly beautiful dream pony to bad-tempered bag of bones. The fact that her temperament isn’t mentioned at all in the ad worries me a little, but I figure they ran out of space and just put the important stuff down. I get all of my homework done, stomach churning the entire time, then tell myself to stop being stupid and get on with it. What’s the worst that can happen? I just hate getting my hopes up, time and again, and being disappointed, time and again. Finally, with Alec’s voice in my head telling me to harden up and get on with it, I dial the number. A man answers the phone.
“Hello, I’m calling about the pony you have advertised in the Trade & Exchange.”
“The what?”
“The pony.” My palms break into a sweat and I wonder if I’ve got the wrong number. “The ad says you have a chestnut pony for sale.”
“Oh.” The guy sounds mildly surprised. “Hang on.”
After a moment, a woman picks up the line. “Hello? You’re calling about the pony?”
“Yes, that’s right. Could you tell me a bit about her please?”
“Well, she’s a great wee jumper, she’ll go over anything. She’s been to a few shows, that was a couple of years ago, and she won some ribbons.”
There is a pause in conversation, and I grapple for another question. “And what’s her temperament like?”
“Her what?”
“Her temperament. Her personality. Is she quiet to handle, or…?” I let the question trail off.
The woman is all business. “Will this pony be for you?”
I say yes.
“Because she needs an experienced rider. She comes from great jumping bloodlines and she’ll go to the top with the right person, but she’s not a beginner’s pony. She’s not mean, just a bit spirited. Got some Arab in her, she can get a bit flighty at times. Is that okay with you?”
“Yes, that’s fine. I just wondered, you know…”
“She’s a chestnut mare.” As though that’s a description of her temperament rather than her appearance. “Look, I have plans for dinner tonight, so I need to know if you’re going to come look at her.”
“I’d like to,” I tell her quickly. “I was hoping I could come tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” The woman sounds a bit surprised. “You are keen, aren’t you?”
I explain that my friends are going to Hamilton anyway.
“Ah, so you’re wanting to kill two birds with one stone,” the woman says, which is an ugly analogy but undeniably true. “Well yes, I suppose that would be all right. We’re going on holiday next week and we’ll be away for a fortnight, so if you take a shine to her I suppose you could have her on trial until we get back.”
My heart leaps in my chest. “That would be wonderful. What time tomorrow would suit you?”
“Two o’clock,” she says, and I quickly agree.
“Fine. Good. See you then,” and she hangs up the phone abruptly before I can find out where she lives and get directions to where we’re supposed to be going. After calling her back to find out, I ring Alec and told him what I’ve arranged. He laughs and agrees the woman sounds a bit mad, but says that doesn’t necessarily mean that her pony is no good. I send Tegan a text message, as she’s supposed to be doing homework and not talking to friends so I can’t call her directly.
Going 2 c the pony 2moro @ 2. u still wanna come?
I get a quick response.
Ah no I cant im grounded! Bloody mum. Is alec going?
Tegan and Alec have become friends, his no-nonsense approach to riding sitting far better with her than the endless perfectionism insisted on by her family’s dressage enthusiasts. I reply in the affirmative.
O thats gd, man im gutted I cant come but gd luck, I hope its not as mental as the last 1!
We stop for lunch with Alec’s aunt and Tabby spends ages cuddling her tiny baby and chatting for hours, making me jittery and worrying that we’ll be late. Tabby doesn’t appear to notice and Alec just laughs at me, but I finally manage to alert Tabby to the time and we dash over to see the p
ony, arriving by quarter past two.
A large blonde woman comes out the front as we park the truck and strides over to us, extending a pudgy hand with thick horny fingernails.
“You must be the little girl come to see the pony,” she says, squashing my hand and shaking my arm nearly out of its socket. “Nice to meet you. I’m Carolyn.”
She leads us behind the house and down to a field out the back, where three horses are grazing. Alec shoots me a questioning look as Carolyn chatters away, seeming quite friendly and far less abrupt this morning. I shrug, and kick his ankle in response.
We go through the gate and I look over at the horses. There’s a fleabitten grey with a sunken neck and a tattered canvas cover that’s slipped badly to one side, a big bay with a broad blaze, and a very fat, shaggy chestnut pony with an ugly square head and knobbly knees. My heart sinks as I realise we’ve been taken in again.
“That’s the pony there,” the woman says, jabbing a finger at a willow tree in the far corner of the field. I look again and see a fourth horse under the tree. Carolyn tosses me a halter and tells me to go catch the mare, assuring me that she’s “Easy enough to get, if you have any common sense.”
I walk across the field alone, halter in hand, her words about common sense ringing in my ears. I don’t want to make a fool of myself. The pony stands with her ears pricked, watching me coming towards her. The field is badly rutted and hasn’t been mucked out in a long time, and I pass a water trough less than half-filled with slimy green water.
“Poor pony,” I tell her as I approach, knowing I’m out of earshot of her owner. “This place is pretty dire, isn’t it?” She’s wearing a canvas cover and neckrug, so it’s hard to judge her conformation, but she has a pretty head with a slight Arab dish to it, curved ears and a thin silky forelock hanging over a large white star. She raises her head warily as I approach, so I fish out a piece of carrot from my pocket and hold it out to her. The pony stretches her elegant neck forward, nostrils quivering and eyes lighting up, and lips the carrot off my hand. She lets me catch her without any fuss, and leads quietly back to the others. She steps lightly over the uneven ground, occasionally nudging me for more pieces of carrot. As we approach the shed, the bay horse walks towards us, looking for his share of the carrots. My mare pins her ears flat back, squeals and kicks out at the other horse, who strikes a foreleg out in retaliation. I tug at the pony’s rope as I hear the owner yell at the bay and she runs at it, waving a rope at its face. The horse spins around and trots away. I pat the little mare’s neck to reassure her.
Carolyn is shaking her head. “Told you. Chestnut mares, who’d have them? My daughter insisted on this one, said she’d make a superstar out of her, and then what happened? She met a boy and gave up riding. Most of them do, you know.”
I shoot Alec a sideways look, and he winks at me as we tie the mare up by the shed and take her cover off. She obviously hasn’t had a good grooming in a while and is a bit underweight. I run my hand across her side, feeling the ribs under her dull coat, and desperately hope I can take her home. She doesn’t belong in this place. Tabby and Alec walk around her, looking at her conformation, and seem to approve. Carolyn drags out a couple of brushes, and we flick the worst of the mud off her and tack her up. She stands reasonably quietly, although she’s sensitive to the hard brushes, and stamps and swishes her tail a lot at the buzzing flies. We lead the mare out to the woman’s arena, which is barely half the size of a regular arena and more square than rectangular.
“You ready to hop on?” Carolyn asks me, and I look at Tabby.
“We’d like to see her ridden first,” Tabby tells the woman.
“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Carolyn seems surprised. “I don’t have a rider for her at the moment. My daughter’s gone to Aussie on holiday. And I certainly don’t ride her, I’m much too big!” She laughs loudly, a hoarse guffaw, and Tabby looks at me questioningly.
I object. “I was never told that.”
The woman gives Tabby a teenagers-what-do-they-know look and sighs. “Well, if she’s not brave enough to jump on, what about your boy? Do you ride?” she asks Alec.
Never one to refuse a challenge, Alec agrees and borrowing my helmet, swings up onto the pony’s back. She shuffles a little under his weight, but he pats her neck and talks to her, and she settles. He lets her walk out on a long rein to begin with, and as he circles her in the tiny arena, Tabby gets more information out of the woman, who has pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one up. As she inhales, I notice the deep lines around her mouth and resolve never to take up smoking.
“We got her as a four year old, so we’ve had her about three years now. Never did much with her, my daughter planned to show jump her but then she got interested in boys and just left the poor pony to rot in the field. I kept her for a while, thought Genevieve might get back into it, but she’s outgrown her now anyway, so there’s no point in the pony going to waste out here.”
I agree whole-heartedly to myself, my eyes fixed on the mare. She’s walking out well and Alec is calm and quiet on her back, occasionally patting her neck reassuringly. He doesn’t have a lot of patience with nervy horses, but he can deal with them if he has to. I like a horse that pays attention to its rider and wants some reassurance of my existence, rather than battering along regardless of what I’m doing on top.
Tabby keeps up her questioning. “What’s her breeding?”
“I’ve got her papers in the house, dug them out when we put her up for sale. Sire was an Irish Thoroughbred called Final Countdown, he’s bred some useful jumpers. You’ll have heard of him, I’m sure,” and Tabby nods, her expression giving nothing away about her opinion of the horse. “Out of an Arab pony. Bit flighty those Arabs, not my type of horse at all. But nice to look at.”
Alec shortens his reins and asks the pony to trot. She jumps forward eagerly, and I remember to ask the most important question.
“What’s her name?”
“Final something, I forget. It’s on her papers.”
I nod. “But what do you call her for short?”
Carolyn shrugs. “I don’t remember what Genna used to call her. She’s just the pony.”
I stare at the woman in disbelief, wondering how anyone could own a pony for three years and never even give her a proper name. I feel even more sorry for the little mare, who is now moving quickly around the ring. Alec turns her across the circle and changes direction. She’s unbalanced on the turn, being so out of shape, but doesn’t stumble and rights herself easily. Alec asks her to canter, and she flings her head into the air and rushes forward, but picks up the correct lead. We’d already been to see one supposedly great show jumper that was unable to pick up its left lead. The owner had tried to tell us that the pony was so sure-footed that it could make tight left turns on its right lead, but we’d walked away pretty quickly. It had been a shame because the pony jumped nicely, but Tabby assured me that an injury was causing the inability to canter in one direction and the pony was probably up to its eyeballs on painkillers.
Alec is sitting deep in the saddle, holding the mare firmly between hand and leg, not letting her get away from him. After a couple of quick circles, she steadies her stride and gets into a proper rhythm, moving with ease and grace across the turf, turning easily and responding to Alec’s light aids. There’s not much muscle on her light frame, her neck is thin and held high, giving a slightly giraffe-like impression, and her unease shows in the slight roll of her eye. But I can see now, so easily, the pony she could be. I can imagine myself cantering her into the ring, her copper coat glistening in the sun and neatly pulled mane ruffling in the light breeze, her slender legs dancing across the grassy turf. I can feel my own legs against her sides, the thickness of rubber reins taut between my fingers. I hear the sound of the jostling crowd and know that all eyes are on us as we canter around the ring. We hold their attention and admiration as they watch us jump easily over the highest obstacles. In my mind, the chestnut pony�
�s neck is arched, tail proudly aloft, her dark eyes bright and full of life and enthusiasm.
My attention flickers back to the scruffy reality in front of me, but I can see the potential in her so clearly. Please don’t let there be anything wrong with her, I beg silently as Alec reins the mare in and looks towards a couple of oil drums and poles by the side of the arena.
“Any chance of putting up a jump?”
Tabby and I quickly set to rolling the drums out and building a cross-rail.
“What do you think of her?” I ask, hearing the tension in my voice. So much relies on his answer.
“Depends if she can jump,” he says matter-of-factly. Seeing my face, he throws me a bone. “She’s got a nice canter, plenty of spring in it. The power’s there to get her over the fence, if she’s got a mind to try, but you can’t make a horse want to jump – they either do or they don’t.”
The pony eyes the barrels suspiciously and dances a little on the spot, tossing her pretty head. Alec puts her into a canter and rides her towards the jump, and she pricks her ears and leaps over easily. After jumping it a couple more times from either direction, he tells us to put it up. I lift the pole and put it straight across the top of the drums, making an upright jump about a metre in height. The pony is keen and jumps the barrels confidently. Alec takes her over it again and then tells his mum to “make it scary”. Tabby unzips her bright blue windbreaker and hangs it over the top rail of the jump. It’s a test to see how brave the pony is, one that I’ve seen her use before.
“Most horses will jump things at home, they get used to the same fences,” she’d explained to me the first time I’d seen her do it. “This tests their nerve, lets us see how they approach unknown or scary jumps.”
The chestnut pony hasn’t noticed anything untoward yet and is prancing around, eager to get back to the jump. Alec asks her to canter and then reins her in on the turn, and she lifts her front feet off the ground mid-stride, fighting to get to the jump. He sits tight and lets her canter on, and she starts to rush at the barrels, then baulks when she sees the coat hanging over the top pole. Alec sits deep and urges her on, nudging her with his heels, and she surges forward with her eyes rolling and leaps over the jump, clearing it by an extra foot. I break into a grin.
