Prize Problems

by Janet Rising

  “So the wheelbarrow is the bull, have I got that right?” Alex asked me.

  I nodded. “That’s what Verano is saying. But it doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “Of course!” Alex looked like Bean when she finally understands what we’ve been saying to her. “That’s how they train bullfighting horses!”

  “To do what? Muck out?” giggled Amber.

  “They don’t use a real bull to train them,” Alex explained. “They start with a person pushing a wheel around—it’s like half a bicycle with horns on the handlebars and looks a bit like a wheelbarrow. It sounds crazy, but it works—the person working the wheel can change direction instantly, just like a bull. That’s why Verano acts so strangely when the wheelbarrows are on the yard! We’ll have to re-train him—but wait, can you explain to him, Pia, can you explain that wheelbarrows are nothing to do with bull fighting, and that he will never again be asked to train for anything like that? His new life will never involve such vigorous work. He has nothing to fear now. He is never going back to his bullfighting days. Can you tell him that?”

  “He can hear you,” I said as the gray sighed and relaxed.

  “Is this true?” he asked me.

  I nodded. “Never,” I said. “You will never work with the bull again, Verano. Your new life here will be completely bull-free.”

  Alex grinned. “I ought to employ you on a consultancy basis,” he said, walking on and stopping outside the bay’s stable. “What can you tell me about this horse, Pia?” Alex asked.

  I looked at the beautiful thoroughbred head looking out over the door. A thin stripe of white ran all the way from between his eyes to his nose. His ears flicked back and forth and his nostrils opened and closed like mini bellows as he weaved from side-to-side over the half-door. That the horse was disturbed by all of us taking over the yard was fairly obvious—no pony-whispering powers were needed to deduce that.

  “Please don’t choose me, please not me, not me, not me, not me…” the thoroughbred muttered to himself, and the ear flicking and weaving got more agitated the closer I got.

  “Why don’t you want to be chosen?” I asked, patting his silky neck. “What are you scared of?”

  The thoroughbred’s eyes opened even wider. “Oh, oh, oh, can you hear me? Can you hear me? How come, how come?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said softly. “I’m not going to choose you, just tell me what you’re so scared of.” I could feel everyone holding their breath behind me. It was so weird, doing this to order—something I hadn’t done since I’d been asked to go on TV to do Pony Whispering Live!

  “You’re not going to ride me? You’re not? You’re not?” repeated the Thoroughbred, almost forgetting to weave in his relief.

  “No. I just wonder why you don’t want me to,” I probed gently. Would the horse tell me why he was so fearful of being ridden? Had he been hurt?

  “I don’t like it, I don’t, I don’t. I don’t know what they want. They keep changing their minds. I do everything I’ve been told to do, but they’re never satisfied. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what they want. Why do they keep changing their minds? Why? How am I supposed to know? How? How?”

  I turned to Alex and repeated the thoroughbred’s fears.

  Alex nodded. “Lava Flow here used to be a racehorse. His new owner wants to show him in hack classes. The trouble is,” Alex went on, aware that we were all listening intently and hanging on his every word, “racehorses are trained in a totally different way to most horses.”

  “How come?” asked Zoe. “How different?”

  “Well, for a start, they’re almost never asked to do anything by themselves—they are always exercised in a string, they always have other horses around them. And did you know that when you take up rein contact on a cantering racehorse, that’s his cue to go faster?”

  “No way!” exclaimed Amber.

  “Oh yes,” said Alex, nodding solemnly, his graying hair flopping over his face so he had to brush it back with one hand. “The more you pull, the faster a racehorse goes. There are lots of other differences, too. Our job with Lava Flow is to retrain him. His new owner rode him exactly as she has ridden every other horse she’s owned. Her problem was that the other horses weren’t racehorses. It’s not only poor Lava Flow who is confused, his owner is, too. My job is to re-train the horse and his rider together.”

  “So you train riders, too?” asked Amber. I wondered whether she was going to ask Alex for a lesson.

  “Only with their horses,” Alex replied. “You’re completely right, Pia. We knew this horse’s problem stemmed from his past training being incompatible with his new owner. But it isn’t just the horse which has to adapt—his owner needs to understand and change her riding, too. I’m just glad he doesn’t have any other problems we don’t know about. The confusion will be easy to clear up and then Lava Flow should be a lot more relaxed and happy with himself and his environment.”

  “The horses here are so lucky—coming to you, Alex,” said Annabelle, even more in love with her hero than before. Behind her, Amber rolled her eyes and pretended to gag.

  “How come you know so much about horses?” asked Bean. “Oh,” she said, her hand flying to her mouth, “I didn’t mean that to sound the way it did. I mean, how did you learn it all?”

  “By watching horses, by thinking about them, by trying to think like them,” Alex explained with a smile. “The more you watch horses and try to understand what motivates them, you learn all the time. No time spent watching horses is wasted. If you can take time to just sit and watch a group of horses or ponies in a field, you can learn so much.”

  “Remember to sit safely outside the field, won’t you?” interjected Annabelle, her health-and-safety hat firmly nailed to her head.

  “Oh, absolutely, Annabelle,” Alex agreed. Annabelle visibly melted. Honestly, Alex must have noticed, or perhaps he was used to women falling at his feet. Even my mom had flirted with him when she met him at the TV studios. I shuddered when I remembered. So not a good memory!

  “Any more questions?” Alex asked us.

  “Have you ever met a horse you couldn’t help?” Amber asked.

  “There have been a few I haven’t been able to fathom,” Alex admitted. “Some horses have been so abused—usually unintentionally—that they’re on the verge of madness. It’s always sad when that occurs, but I’m not a magician, I can only do so much. Sometimes I ask Emma Ellison—you’ll remember her, Pia—to assist me. She can sometimes reach horses that have shut off from humans too much for me to connect with. But of course, if I ever get another horse I can’t help in future, I know the Pony Whisperer is there to give me a hand!” and he winked at me and I felt myself go red. Was he teasing or did he mean it?

  I did remember Emma Ellison—self-confessed horse healer. She had been a kind of full of herself but Alex thought a lot of her so I reckoned Emma had to have something.

  “Do you think nervous riders can become good riders?” Grace whispered.

  “I think nervous riders often make the best riders,” Alex said, smiling. “They are often more empathic and intuitive, and their sensitivity makes horses like and trust them. So the answer is definitely yes—if a nervous person works at their riding, it will pay off.”

  “What does empathic mean?” asked Bean.

  “Oh, sorry—it means someone who can put themselves in another person’s place and sympathize with their feelings. That’s empathy. To be a good horse trainer, you need to be able to put yourself in each horse’s skin and see things as they see them. It’s easy to judge from our own perspective, but we don’t always know how horses view things, and what has happened to make them the way they are. Now let me take you all for a tour of my place. And feel free to ask any questions as we go around.”

  We had the most fantastic tour. As well as the st
ables we saw the indoor and outdoor schools, a training pen, the most gorgeous tack room (which would have passed any inspection Annabelle and her clipboard cared to make), an immaculate feed room and Alex’s office. There were photographs of Alex with famous horsey people, and press cuttings and features of him all over the walls.

  “Is this you with Zara Phillips?” Amber asked, pointing to a picture taken at Badminton Horse Trials in England.

  Alex nodded.

  “What’s she like?” said Amber.

  “Honestly Amber, what are you like?” said Zoe, digging her in the ribs.

  “What?” said Amber.

  Alex laughed and told us about the famous people he’d met during the course of his career and answered all our questions, although he must have answered the same ones time and time again. And then it was time to go. We all said good-bye, patted the horses again (they said good-bye too, although no one heard them but me), and then climbed back into the van.

  “That was just awesome!” Amber declared.

  “Totally fantastic!” her sister agreed.

  “Wow, you two agreeing with each other—that has to be a first!” observed Bean.

  “I wish Alex Willard was my dad,” muttered Grace.

  “Oh wow, so do I!” yelled Bean. “Although I do love my own dad, of course,” she mumbled, hastily.

  “I’m going to be a horse behaviorist when I leave school,” said Ellie.

  “The man’s amazing,” I said, looking out of the van window and watching the stables get smaller and smaller as Annabelle drove us away and back toward High Grove Farm.

  I know, I thought as we turned a corner and Alex’s yard disappeared altogether, my mind returning to my big problem, I’ll ask James to keep an eye on Drum for me. Without Cat knowing. That wouldn’t be too much to ask, would it? He’d understand.

  I pulled my cell out of my pocket and started texting. Then I read it back. It made me sound desperate, and jealous and insecure. Snapping my phone shut I shoved it back in my pocket, the text unsent. It made me sound all those things because they were true. And I didn’t want anyone else to know that. Except me.

  Chapter 12

  Self-elected social secretary Amber had decided that Wednesday night was Midnight Feast Night.

  “We absolutely have to have one,” she declared, tearing off her T-shirt, which had been well and truly slimed by Verano’s slobber and replacing it with a clean one with the slogan I’m such a horsey babe across the front. “It’s compulsory on a riding vacation, everyone knows that. And besides,” she added, flashing me a look, “I want to tell everyone at the riding school that I’ve midnight-feasted with the Pony Whisperer!”

  I felt my toes curl up inside my trainers in embarrassment, even though I knew Amber was pulling my leg.

  “Yes, you’re a total dark horse!” exclaimed Zoe. “And you have to tell us what our ponies are saying. You just have to!”

  Not likely, I thought, deciding I’d have to do some considerable embellishment of characters to make sure that for one thing no one was disappointed and for another I didn’t get lynched when they discovered the truth about their darling mounts. I’d learned my lesson there!

  “It must be absolutely fantastic being able to hear ponies,” sighed Grace, fishing Major out from the bedside drawer and making him canter across her duvet.

  “Not always,” I said. “Sometimes, they say things I’d rather not hear.”

  “Like what?” questioned Zoe.

  “Oh, er…” That I’d already said too much proved that I hadn’t learned any lessons at all! “Oh, the ponies know all sorts of things which we don’t.”

  “You can’t prove anything, though,” said Ellie slowly, eyeing me. “I mean,” she continued, her head on one side, “whatever the ponies tell you, everyone else only has your word that they’ve said it. What if they don’t believe you?”

  “If you’d ever heard Pia in action, you’d believe her all right,” said Bean loyally. “If it hadn’t been for Pia, my Tiffany would probably still be wearing her noseband, and still be head-shaking. She really helped me—and lots of other people at the yard.”

  I was desperate to change the subject. “Let’s plan our midnight feast, instead,” I suggested.

  “Now you’re talking!” said Amber, piling on more lip gloss.

  “What are we going to eat?” asked Grace, trotting Major over her pillow and across her bedside table. Major then leapt onto the shelves next to the shower-rooms, soaring across the doorway onto matching shelves on the other side of the room where Ellie sat on her bed concentrating very hard on rummaging through one of her bags. She had her back to Amber, intent on ignoring her. After the spat they’d had at Alex Willard’s, Ellie was totally over Amber. The trouble was, Amber hadn’t seemed to notice.

  “We have to steal some stuff from dinner—and we all need to buy some things from the snack shop,” Amber ordered us. The snack shop was a rather glamorous name for a closet in the dining room full of cookies and chocolate bars for sale. There were also postcards and stamps so I’d dutifully sent a postcard to my mom, and another to my dad and Skinny Lynny, telling them what a fabulous time I was having. Mom had phoned me again and told me again how well it was going with the hairless Andy. I wished she wouldn’t share so much.

  “And it has to be at midnight!” declared Amber.

  “Oh, why does it?” moaned Zoe, doing up her sneakers. “I’ll never stay awake that long. Why can’t we have it as soon as we go to bed?”

  “Because it will be a quarter-past-ten feast then, won’t it, stupid? I’ll set the alarm on my phone. It’ll be fantastic!” her sister told her.

  “Won’t we have to brush our teeth again after?” asked Grace. Major took a giant leap onto Ellie’s bed.

  “Oh, for goodness sake, you’re a bunch of old women!” exclaimed Amber, tearing a brush through her hair.

  “No we’re not!” argued Bean. “You’re right though, it is mandatory. I’m in!”

  “And me,” I agreed, glad the subject of the feast had replaced that of my pony-whispering powers.

  “Me too,” said Ellie, deciding to join in at last. “Get your stupid pony off my bed, Grace!”

  “Okay, no one say a word at dinner,” said Amber. “But everyone has to wear something with pockets so we can sneak some fruit or cake or something for later.”

  “Isn’t that stealing?” asked Grace doubtfully, holding Major close and daring to glare back at Ellie.

  “Of course not,” retorted Ellie, “we’re just going to eat it later.”

  “It’s deferred consumption,” Amber told us.

  I put on my vest—it had two big pockets—and hoped Epona wouldn’t mind sharing hers with some smuggled edibles.

  Our planned food heist ensured plenty of giggling at the table. Mrs. Reeve kept shaking her head and saying, “I don’t know what’s got into you all tonight,” to which Amber replied that we were over excited at having met the amazing, hugely talented, incredibly famous Alex Willard, and did Mrs. Reeve know that she had a real-life celebrity staying with her, Pia Edwards, the Pony Whisperer, as recognized by Alex Willard?

  Mrs. Reeve didn’t have a clue who I was, so she just smiled indulgently at Amber. “And you’re all extra hungry tonight!” she remarked, replacing an empty plate with yet another, full of cookies. Of course, this prompted another spate of giggles from everyone as we smuggled the cookies into our pockets without being spotted. Almost.

  “Amber, dear, there’s no need to take a cookie for later, you know you can come and get something to eat at any time,” Mrs. Reeve said reproachfully, shaking her head.

  Amber aimed a grin at her. “You caught me, Mrs. R.!” she exclaimed, holding up her hands before replacing the cookie on the plate. “I’m so used to doing it at home, I forgot.”

&nbs
p; “Well, don’t put it back!” her sister exclaimed. “No one wants to eat it now your mitts have been all over it. Gross!”

  With our pockets bulging, we all tumbled into the living room where Annabelle and Sharon unveiled the evening’s entertainment—a karaoke machine.

  “Wow!” shouted Zoe, “Karaoke night!” She and Amber did a celebratory high-five with a delighted whoop. I heard Grace groan beside me and sympathized. I wasn’t very excited either. I like singing to Drummer, but he always complains and tells me I’m tone deaf, not that he’s any better!

  But do you know what, Karaoke was a lot of fun! Amber and Zoe stole the show with a duet—they even had a dance to go with it—and everyone clapped like crazy when they’d finished, it was so good. Ellie kept losing her way with the bouncing ball and had to re-start twice. Grace kept stopping and saying she was bad, which was totally annoying. If she’d given it a real try, she’d have been OK. I made a complete mess of my song, but Bean was amazing. She sang really, really well in a very clear voice, and she moved, too, just like a pop star—everyone cheered her on. I suppose her family’s musical talents had to rub off on her in some way.

  Annabelle and Sharon had a go, too, which was hilarious as Annabelle sang a very long (too long!), sad ballad with a very wobbly voice and a quivering chin, and Sharon belted out a heavy metal number, complete with air guitar and head banging. I could so imagine Sharon at a heavy metal concert, wearing studded leather and black lipstick, puffing on a cigarette.

  And then it was time for bed.

  Chapter 13

  Pia, wake up!” I heard someone say, and I felt them shaking my shoulder.

  “Go away!” I said. I didn’t want to wake up. I was working for Alex Willard and helping a huge chestnut horse with hang-ups.

  “Have some dessert!” the voice whispered again.

  Alex receded and the huge chestnut horse morphed into an out-of-focus chocolate brownie.