Riding With The Lyntons

by Diana Pullein-Thompson

  The Lyntons had seven horses and ponies in all. The chestnut seemed to be Paulla’s mount and was called Mercury. The big handsome black hunter, Buccaneer, appeared to be ridden mostly by Jon. He was a gelding, nine years old and fifteen two hands high. Then there was a bright-eyed bay pony called Firelight, which Jon said I could ride. He was about thirteen hands two inches. The two Dartmoor ponies, Jingle and Jangle, were usually ridden by Donald and Annette.

  “They buck like mad sometimes and we are often falling off,” Donald told me.

  “But we know how to fall,” swanked Annette. “That’s the important thing. Gillian always stays on too long and hurts herself.”

  “Firelight shies a bit. But I expect you’ll manage him,” Jon told me.

  “He looks wonderful,” I said, “and just the right size for me, too.”

  As I gazed happily at the bright bay head looking over the blue door, it seemed to me that all my most cherished dreams were coming true.

  Excepting Annette, I liked the Lyntons enormously. Nobody could be nicer than Jon and Paulla, I decided. I longed to dash home now and tell my parents of my successful visit. I was immensely grateful to Toots for biting me, for he had enabled me to go into the Lyntons’ house and meet them all.

  “One day you must come to tea with me. That is if you would like to,” I said.

  “Love to,” said Jon. “Only the whole family would be rather an invasion. You had better have us in ones or twos.”

  “You’re going to ride with us first. What about tomorrow morning?” suggested Paulla.

  “That would be marvellous,” I told them.

  “OK, ten o’clock sharp, then,” said Jon.

  “Now I must go. Thank you so much,” I said.

  “But the ladder,” Annette reminded me.

  I wanted to tell them that had been an excuse, that we didn’t need a ladder at all, but I hadn’t the courage. We went out to a field at the back of the yard and there was a long ladder hanging in a shed.

  “You’ll need this one for that oak. It’s a mighty big tree,” said Jon.

  “We’ll carry it down for you now,” said Paulla.

  I felt an awful fraud as we set off down the road, Paulla and Jon at each end of the ladder and myself in the middle.

  “Does your father think this is a good place for writing?” Jon asked politely.

  “Do you keep a car up by the pub?” said Paulla.

  I hoped my parents would be in the garden, so that they could see how nice the two eldest Lyntons were, but they had gone out for a walk together and the place was deserted.

  “We’ll put the ladder up against the tree for you,” said Jon.

  “It’s more than long enough,” laughed Paulla. “Which branches are you going to lop?”

  “Only one,” I said hurriedly. “I’m not sure which, Daddy says it makes the living-room dark.”

  “How funny,” said Paulla. “I wouldn’t have thought the tree was nearly near enough the cottage to darken any of the rooms.”

  “Well, anyway, he’s got a complex about one of the branches. You know what authors are,” I told them, backing awkwardly away towards the cottage.

  “I hope he won’t spoil the silhouette,” said Paulla. “It’s a wonderful tree, one of the finest oaks around here.”

  I was beginning to feel embarrassed. Daddy’s plan didn’t seem so good now, after all. But then how could we have known that the Lyntons had a strange affection for our oak tree?

  “Would you like to come inside and have some morning tea? I asked, and to my relief the Lyntons answered, “No.”

  “See you tomorrow, then,” they said, hurrying away up the lane – two tall figures in blue jeans and brown pullovers.

  Chapter Four

  We shall have to lop off something,” I said to my parents later that day at lunch. “The Lyntons will come to see what we have done, and they’ll think I’m mad if the tree is just the same.”

  “I don’t know how to lop,” said Daddy. “Anyway, I’ve no wish to spoil the tree. Can’t you say you made a mistake and I really wanted the ladder so that I could mend the roof?”

  “I shall seem such a fool. We talked so much about the oak. They’ll never swallow that lie.”

  “Tell them the truth then. It was all a put up story. They’ll be frightfully flattered,” suggested Daddy.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” I said.

  “I think you can put the blame on Daddy,” Mummy told me. “Everyone thinks authors are mad. Just tell them that your father changed his mind after all, especially when you told him about the Lyntons and the silhouette. Say he hadn’t thought of the silhouette til you mentioned it.”

  “I favour the truth,” said Daddy, “but if you are afraid you’re welcome to put all the blame on me.”

  “It’s all very well to tell me what to say, but one of you will have to help me back with the ladder,” I said, suddenly seeing the funny side and becoming overcome with giggles.

  “Yes, that’s a point,” said Daddy, “and it will have to be me. I suppose I could tell them the truth. It will sound jolly funny coming from a grown-up.”

  “If only Annette isn’t there,” I mused. “She’s so sharp and scornful.”

  “I refuse to be intimidated by a girl of nine. That’s settled then. I’ll help you back with the ladder at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “What are you going to say?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t jump my fences before I meet them. I expect I shall tell the truth when the moment comes. I’m not going to be made to feel small by a pack of children. Now the subject is closed for today,” said Daddy.

  “And stop worrying over tiny things, Lesley, for goodness’ sake. You’ll give yourself an anxiety complex one of these days,” said Mummy. “It will all come right in the end, darling. The Lyntons sound far too nice to make a ‘thing’ out of an oak tree. Don’t be so afraid of saying something silly.”

  That night I dreamed about my ride the next day, and it wasn’t a pleasant dream. I lost my socks and when I found them I lost my jersey. By the time I had collected everything together it was eleven o’clock and when I reached the Lyntons’ place I found they had set out without me. The yard was deserted, I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had missed everything. And then I wakened to find it was a clear sparkling morning. I jumped out of bed and looked at my clock. It was half-past eight, I had overslept. I dressed quickly, putting on fawn jodhpurs and a dark green polo-collared pullover. Downstairs Mummy was frying bacon and eggs.

  “I was just going to waken you,” she said, as I rushed into the kitchen. “It’s all right, you’ve got plenty of time.”

  “I hope Daddy isn’t too late,” I said.

  “Darling, do stop worrying. Now sit down and eat breakfast. You can have yours now, in the kitchen in the warm. I don’t want any help, thank you.”

  I sat down at the table close to the coal range and gobbled my bacon and eggs, and then I made toast for us all.

  I love our kitchen on cold winter mornings; it is so warm and cheerful, with the blazing range and the blue dresser gay with bright coloured crockery, very different from our cream kitchenette in London with its bright gas stove and its red and white cabinet and table.

  When I had finished making toast I rushed upstairs and made my bed, and then I finished my breakfast when Mummy was eating hers, and afterwards I helped her wash up. Daddy had worked till after one the night before and now he was still asleep.

  “I’ll go and waken him. If he’s not ready in time you’ll have to take the ladder back another day,” said Mummy.

  Of course, he wasn’t ready. He was still shaving at ten o’clock. But you couldn’t blame him, as he had been working till one.

  “Actually, it’s much better to leave the ladder till tomorrow,” he said. “I thought it over in bed last night. We ought to leave them a day or two to get the oak tree out of their minds. I’m sure they expected us to keep it for quite a whil
e.

  As the clock struck ten I walked into the Lyntons’ stable yard and was greeted by Toots and Brecon. This time the Scottie didn’t bite me.

  The six horses and ponies were all in the stable.

  “I’ve groomed Firelight for you,” said Paulla. “Here’s his tack.”

  “I’m sorry. I ought to have come earlier. I could have groomed him,” I said guiltily.

  “Don’t be silly. We told you ten o’clock. We are not very sociable in the early morning, so it’s best not to come before then.”

  “Have you cut the oak yet?” asked Annette.

  “No, Daddy didn’t have time yesterday,” I told her.

  “Perhaps he’ll change his mind.”

  “If he’s got any sense he will,” remarked Donald, saddling Jangle as he spoke.

  Presently we were all mounted and we made a fine clatter as we set off down the drive.

  “We decided it was too frosty to ride in the field,” said Jon.

  Firelight was very fresh; he danced from side to side of the road and occasionally snatched at the reins.

  “He wants to lead,” Paulla told me. “You had better go to the front.”

  It was a glorious morning, crisp and clear, with blue skies, bright sunshine and a tingle in the air. My fingers and toes had been cold when I started, but now they grew warmer, as I concentrated all my efforts on riding well and controlling Firelight.

  I looked carefully at the Lyntons; they all sat very naturally but correctly, too. Jon and Paulla were the best riders of the five, I decided. Gillian looked a little nervous, and Donald and Annette’s toes went down when they cantered.

  When Firelight had settled down Jon came and rode beside me, and asked politely whether we had lopped the oak yet. I gave him the same answer as I had given Annette and then, to change the subject, I started to question him about Firelight. Where had the Lyntons bought him? I asked, Was he a good jumper?

  Soon we turned off the road on to a stretch of heath, and, as the ground was not too hard and frosty here, we had a canter. Jingle bucked and Annette fell off and, in spite of all her swanking of the day before, burst into tears.

  Gillian and I helped her up again; and Paulla suggested that Donald and Annette should change mounts, as Jangle was apparently quieter than Jingle, but Annette flatly refused to do so.

  “I’m not going to be beaten by Jingle,” she said obstinately.

  “You don’t think of our nerves,” grumbled Paulla. “Mummy will be upset with us all if you really hurt yourself.”

  I was becoming used to Firelight by now and I found him a lovely ride. He had a long stride and was full of bounce: in fact, he was much more lively than any pony I had ridden in London.

  The whole of that first hack was full of enchantment. I had never met any children quite like the Lyntons before. My London friends had been less outspoken and more complex – or so it seemed to me now – and although they would always be my friends and I would rush to see them when I was in London, I was beginning to feel more at home with the Lyntons in two days, than I had felt with anyone else in so short a space of time.

  When we got back from our ride, I groomed and fed Firelight; and Jon showed me the saddle-room and the forage shed.

  “I’m afraid we don’t clean the tack as often as we should – only once a week instead of every day,” he said, looking at the bunch of dirty bridles hanging from a large hook in the centre of the room. “But life is too short to spend all one’s time grooming, mucking out and tack-cleaning, and I think it’s a mistake to make a toil out of a pleasure.”

  “Come back this afternoon if you like, Lesley,” suggested Paulla. “I don’t know what we’ll be doing – mucking about indoors I expect.”

  “I would love to,” I told them.

  At lunch I told my parents all about the ride. They were very pleased that I had enjoyed myself so much, although Mummy was rather fussy about my leg, because my jodhpurs had made it start to bleed again.

  I told Daddy what I had said about the oak tree, and he said he was sorry that he hadn’t been able to take back the ladder with me in the morning, but if I was going back in the afternoon why not do it then? There was no need for him to meet the Lyntons (he was rather shunning people since we had settled in the country), we could just put the ladder in the shed, and I could tell the children that we had brought it back, having decided against lopping the tree, which was jolly nearly true.

  Then we talked about Christmas which was close at hand now. My parents said we must spend the whole of the next day shopping in our nearest big town, Pynemouth, which is forty miles from Sparrow Cottage. I made out a Christmas list of all the things I wanted. They were mostly connected with riding. It read like this:

  Riding stick

  Riding gloves (yellow with woolly lining)

  Stirrups

  Stirrup leathers

  Dandy brush

  Body brush

  Curry comb

  Breaking and Schooling by Captain Fillet

  Pony Management by Jean Lang

  Art books

  Fountain pen

  Blue jeans

  At two o’clock Daddy and I set off with the ladder. It was rather heavy for me although I had the lightest end and, every now and then, we had to stop and rest.

  We had hung it up in the shed, when a voice said, “Hallo, and what are you doing here?” And there standing behind us was an enormous man with a large blond beard. I think we both jumped; and then for a moment we were silent. He was such a very imposing figure.

  “We borrowed the Lyntons’ ladder and now we are returning it,” said Daddy at last, and then he gave his most charming smile, and we both began to laugh a little.

  “You mean my ladder. I’m Frank Lynton. I suppose my kids lent it to you. Are you the new people down at the cottage? What did you want it for?” asked the man with the beard.

  “The oak, you know the branches,” said Daddy.

  “Not going to spoil that lovely tree, are you? It’s one of the finest oaks for many miles around. Any forestry expert will tell you that.”

  “No, we haven’t lopped it, after all,” said Daddy. “We’ve left it just as it is.”

  “Well, I’m going to do some hedging. Good day to you,” said Mr Lynton, turning on his heel and walking back the way he had come.

  “Not a very attractive personality, I’ve seen his face somewhere before, but I can’t think where,” said Daddy. “I wonder what he does for a living. I’m going back now. Have a nice afternoon, Lesley.”

  I felt a bit shy, as I knocked on the front door of the Lyntons’ house. Perhaps they didn’t really mean me to come back, perhaps they were just being polite, I thought.

  Annette opened it for me. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Paulla and John are in the school-room. You had better go up there.”

  I found them playing gramophone records on an Edwardian gramophone with a horn. The songs were all hopelessly out of date: old tunes like “Tipperary,” “Let the Great Big World Keep Turning,” “Round the Marble Arch,” and so on.

  “We don’t like modern songs. We have a ‘thing’ about them,” Jon told me.

  “But of course, we never go to the theatre. If we did we might find we loved some of the numbers from the new shows,” added Paulla.

  “Gillian’s more highbrow and she plays the piano, too,” Jon told me.

  “We are terribly out of date. You come from London. Tell us what’s the rage there now?” asked Paulla.

  I told them then about the few plays I had seen in the summer and autumn; and then we played some more records, and then it was time for me to go home to tea.

  “Come again and ride tomorrow,” said Jon.

  I explained about the Christmas shopping and they said I could come and ride the day after that.

  “You really do us a service,” said Jon. “We get so very Lynton-minded in the holidays. It’s good for us to have an outsider amongst us. Do come again soon.”


  I left feeling elated. I am slow at making friends. I take the whole matter of friendship far too seriously. My parents say I am bad at human relationships because I am an only child. They say I rely far too much on them for everything. I think they may be right. I know I think far too much about my own character, and I am inclined to attach too much importance to words and actions which were never meant to be important.

  Today, however, I felt I had been a success. The Lyntons liked me and that boosted my morale. I decided as I walked back, to buy them each a Christmas present. Darkness was falling: a grey mist crept down from the hills, light as gossamer, elusive as human breath on a cold day. Frost lay already on the hedges and the grass was crisp underfoot. Down below I could see the lights of Sparrow Cottage. My parents had been shopping in the morning. There would be crumpets for tea – crumpets, Devon honey and Cornish butter. I stopped and gazed down into our little valley.

  It’s a moment I shall always remember, because it was a moment of complete undiluted happiness, a moment which is engraved on my memory as deeply as the disasters which were to occur later.

  Chapter Five

  It was fun Christmas shopping, although we had left it rather late and Pynemouth was terribly crowded, and Daddy thought Mummy and I took too long choosing presents.

  I bought Mary, Susan and John each a book, and then I spent simply ages choosing a scarf for Mummy and a silk handkerchief for Daddy. After that I started to think about the Lyntons. At first I had decided to get them things for their ponies, like brushes and tail bandages and then, on second thoughts, I had remembered that their saddle-room looked well stocked and I had changed my mind. In the end I chose a French record for Jon, which Daddy recommended: it was called “Le Fiacre” and it started and finished with the sound of horse’s hoofs.

  For Paulla I bought a pair of yellow riding gloves; and then I felt in a dilemma because I could not think what to buy for the other three whom I really knew very little. To make matters worse my money was running out. I only had seven and sixpence left. Finally, I chose a little picture of three red horses by Pieter Brueghel for Donald, which cost 4s 6d., a scarf for Gillian which cost 3s. 5d., and a paper-backed book for Annette which cost 2s. 6d. I had to borrow some money from Mummy to pay for the three presents, but I knew I could pay her back after Christmas, because I have four aunts who always give me money.