Six Ponies (28 page)

“Girls don’t like cleaning things,” said Jill. “And even if my tack is easier, you’re older than I am, so you ought to be quicker.”

“Children,” said Mrs. Morrisson angrily, “if you don’t stop arguing, you’ll go straight to bed, and if I hadn’t paid all the expensive entry fees, you wouldn’t go to the show to-morrow. Two more ungrateful children I’ve never known. You’ve got ponies, bicycles, and countless other toys and amusements, but all you do is to grumble and quarrel.”

“I don’t,” said Richard. “It’s Jill.”

“You liar,” said Jill. “I never quarrel or grumble when you’re away at school. Do I, Mummy?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Richard. “Well, anyway, I never quarrel with the chaps at school; it’s just that you’re a girl, and a jolly feeble one too.”

“I hate you,” said Jill. “And I bet Peter and Rufus do too. I bet that they’d like to kick you into little pieces, and I hope they both buck you off to-morrow.”

“Thanks very much,” said Richard. “I’m not going to argue with you; you’re too childish. Run along and play, dear.” And, picking up the latest copy of
Punch
, he began to look through it.

“Well, I’m going to clean my tack with something, even if it’s only shoe-polish,” said Jill. “And I hope that Major Holbrooke gives you a jolly long lecture on the state of yours.” And she ran out of the room, slamming the door.

Mrs. Cresswell and June rose early on the morning of the gymkhana. Wilson, the groom-gardener, hadn’t arrived when they went out to the stables, but they fed both the ponies and started to groom them. At least Mrs. Cresswell did. June’s part in the proceedings was limited mainly to criticism of her mother’s work. By eight o’clock, when Wilson came, Wonder had had her socks washed and Grey Dawn had practically been bathed, and they were left
in his charge while Mrs. Cresswell and June had breakfast. Afterwards Mrs. Cresswell plaited Grey Dawn, while Wilson body-brushed Golden Wonder and June watched.

“Oh, Mummy,” she said when the first plait was finished, “it’s all bristly. Look at those bits of hair sticking up.”

“All right, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “I’ll undo it and try again presently.”

“Mummy,” wailed June when the second plait was finished, “they’re so fat that they look like the Radcliffes’—simply awful.”

“I know, darling,” said Mrs. Cresswell patiently. “But her mane is so terribly thick; it’s not like Wonder’s, you know.”

“Beastly common animal,” said June. “I’m glad it’s not a big show. I shouldn’t like to be seen dead on her by Priscilla Exemouth or the Fredericks or any of the other people who ride at decent shows.”

“Nonsense, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. She’s not your pony, and everyone knows that you only broke her in for fun.”

“Well, after to-day I needn’t ride her any more, thank goodness,” said June. “I’ll just get that red rosette on her bridle and then I’ll say ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’ and send her back to the Major. He’ll sell her to a complete beginner, which’ll ruin her, but I shan’t care; it’s all she’s fit for, and I’m never going to mount anything but a thoroughbred or blood pony again.”

“You’re getting over-excited, my pet,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Would you like to go and lie down for a while?”

“Oh, Mummy,” said June, “you are stupid. Of course I’m not over-excited; I’m not even excited over a potty little show like this one. I know that it’ll be a walk-over for me, so what is there to get excited about? It’s not even as though the cups will be very big.”

“Pride comes before a fall, they say,” said Wilson. “And if you go on stuffing that grey pony with oats she will ’ave you off. You mark my words, Miss June.”

“You don’t know anything about it, Wilson,” said June
rudely. “If Dawn doesn’t have plenty of oats she hasn’t enough impulsion, and I can’t collect her. Anyway, I shouldn’t come off for a few bucks; I’m not Noel Kettering.”

“Ah, you take care,” said Wilson. “Major ’Olbrooke’s ’ead man, Blake, was saying down in the Plough the other night as ’ow she’d come on amazing—that’s what ’e said, amazing.”

“She needs to,” said June. “She was careering all over the place at the last rally on that dreadful skewbald pony which Evelyn Radcliffe spoiled.”

The gymkhana, which was held in the park at Folly Court, started punctually. It was uncomfortably hot even at eleven o’clock, when the competitors for the first class, which was to decide which was the best trained of the New Forest ponies, walked into the ring. June, as usual, led the way. Thanks to Mrs. Cresswell’s washing, Grey Dawn’s coat was dazzling. Her plaits, in spite of June’s criticisms, were the best in the class, and her tack had been cleaned up to Richmond standard by Wilson. But something was lacking. Grey Dawn did not step out proudly to show off her smartness, nor were her ears pricked, or her eyes alive with interest. She dawdled, and each time June kicked her, with the heel on the side that the judges couldn’t see, she swished her tail. Perhaps this can hardly be wondered at, for she had been schooled five or six days a week since the Pony Club rally, when June had made her mother “feel a fool.” Close behind Grey Dawn walked Jet. John’s arms still ached from the grooming, and his fingers were sore from the pricks they had got as he plaited her, but it was worth it; and though the plaits might not be as neat as June’s or some of the others in the class, it was the first time he had tried, and he felt justly proud. The only thing he regretted was not trying Jet in a double bridle, for she looked very undressed—the only one of the six in a snaffle.

Richard, who followed John, had put Rufus in Peter’s pelham, which was too broad in the mouthpiece as well as stiff and dirty. Beside the other ponies Rufus looked very
untidy. The ten minutes which Richard had allowed for grooming him had been ignored by five years of dust and dirt; his mane was unplaited, and there were several burrs in his tail. Sweating from the gallop Richard had given him to get his back down, with his head low and his eyes dull and sulky, he was a forlorn sight, and looked more like an old pony than a young one. Rocket was a striking contrast: his golden coat shone like a ripe cornfield, and his plaits were only second in neatness to Grey Dawn’s. He walked briskly, looking about him with pricked ears and an air of complete confidence. After Rocket came Sunset. Her coat shone, but not with such brilliance; Bob’s breakfast had seemed more important to him. Her plaits were lumpy, and one was already coming unsewn, but her tack was clean and shining, especially the curb-chain, which Susan had taken to bed with her for its final polish. Sunset’s broad blaize gave her a look of placid contentment which was not belied by her manner. Last of all, and quite a long way behind the others, came Romany. She was excited; she wouldn’t walk, but jogged and went sideways. In spite of wearing nothing but an aertex shirt, Noel was becoming more hot and bothered with every moment. “Walk, Romany, walk,” she muttered, wishing that such things as gymkhanas did not exist. But Romany felt too excited to walk. Her rich chestnut parts shone, her white parts sparkled as she bounced round the ring. Her plaits—there were three chestnut and three white—were untidy, but her double bridle, which had spent most of its short life in neet’s-foot oil, shone brightly.

Major Holbrooke, his cousin, Colonel Shelbourne, and the three judges, Lady Wrench, Captain Barton, and Sir William Blount, stood in the middle of the ring looking critically at the competitors. The spectators hurried to the ringside, interested to see the fruits of the horse-breakers’ labours, and the gymkhana had really begun.

Good gracious, thought Mrs. Cresswell, some of them
have
come on. June
must
be careful, and she felt quite ill as she saw how unwillingly Grey Dawn was going.

“Doesn’t Rocket look lovely?” said James Radcliffe.

“Much the nicest pony there,” agreed Margaret.

“There’s Romany,” said Evelyn. “She looks quite different. I’m sure she’s grown. But why
is
Noel hanging back like that? She ought to be in the lead. Wait for the others to come round again,” she shouted to Noel as she passed. “You
must
take the lead.”

“O.K.,” said Noel, pulling Romany up and waiting. June was annoyed when she saw what Noel was doing, though actually it was to her advantage, for Dawn was nappy and followed better than she led. Once Romany was in the lead she settled down and walked out with her longest stride, peeping coyly at the judges to see if they were admiring her. When the order to trot was given, Noel was filled with alarm. She began to wish that she hadn’t taken the lead; she felt sure that she would do something silly; then she remembered Romany. She used her legs and felt the curb rein.

Jet was going well, thought John. Of course he hadn’t a chance, because she didn’t collect, but he felt sure that the Major would be pleased with her, and that, after all, was the main thing.

“Canter on,” said one of the judges. All the competitors remembered the diagonal aids, and all the ponies, except Rufus, who had never been taught, remembered what they meant. Suddenly the people at the back of the line found themselves overtaking the ones in front. Romany and Grey Dawn cantered too slowly for the rest of them. Rufus put his head down and started to pull—he galloped, passed everyone, and took the lead. John, Hilary, and Susan passed Noel and June. Soon they were told to walk, and then they were all called into the centre. They lined up in no particular order, though June was careful to put herself at the top. Noel was between Susan and Hilary.

“I got Sunset on the right leg,” Susan told her joyfully. “She was going awfully well. How did you get on?”

“Not too badly,” said Noel. “Romany was rather excited at first, but she’s calmed down now.”

“One can hardly recognise her,” said Hilary from the other side. “She’s much taller and not nearly so weedy. I’ve never seen her in a double bridle before; it suits her.”

“Aren’t my plaits awful?” said Noel as Captain Barton came up to ask June to give a show. Now I’ll surprise them, thought June. So far she hadn’t paid much attention to the other competitors, but she felt quite sure that they had made complete fools of themselves as usual, and, full of confidence, she gave Grey Dawn a kick and rode out from the line. Grey Dawn wanted to be nappy. She edged towards the other ponies, but June kicked her into a canter, and saying angrily, “Come on, you stupid, lazy animal,” rode a figure of eight. Though Dawn dropped her nose and flexed her lower jaw, she did it without energy or impulsion. Her hocks trailed out behind her, and when June gave her the aid to change legs she only changed in front.

“Disunited!” said Noel in surprise.

“What?” said Hilary.

“Is she?” asked Susan, both at once.

“I think so,” said Noel, overcome with embarrassment on finding that she had spoken aloud. June pulled up and backed.

“Her head’s too low,” said Susan of Grey Dawn.

“Yes,” said Hilary. “I believe it is. In fact she looks over-bent to me.” John, who was next in the line, wracked his brain for an original show. Richard hit Rufus, who was trying to graze.

“What is she trying to do now?” asked Hilary as Grey Dawn ran backwards across the ring.

“A turn on the haunches, I think,” said Noel. “They should never be attempted by beginners,” she added with a grin at Susan.

“Well, it doesn’t look much like one,” said Susan. “Not that I shall do any better.” June finished her show by riding passes at the walk, trot and canter, but, because Grey Dawn was behind the bit, her quarters were inclined to lead her forehand, which, of course, spoiled them completely.

“Next, please,” shouted Captain Barton as June cantered back to her place.

“Gosh, it’s me,” said John, riding forward.

“Good luck,” said Susan. John gave a watery grin as he trotted off. He cantered a circle to either hand, pulling up to change legs in the middle. He back-reined, turned on the forehand, dismounted and mounted. Jet stood perfectly, and finally jumped the brush fence very neatly.

“That was jolly good,” said Hilary in a surprised voice, and she tried to think of some more things for Rocket to do. Richard was supposed to follow John, but Rufus didn’t want to leave the other ponies, and each time Richard got him away he charged back with his mouth open and his head down. Richard’s face became red with rage and exertion as he tugged at the reins and kicked furiously, well aware that he was being made to look a complete fool, a disaster he dreaded nearly as much as Mrs. Cresswell. But he was unable to get Rufus under control, and after a few minutes Sir William waved to him to stop, and called for the next person. Richard’s feelings can be imagined, and while the other competitors gave their shows, he sat slumped in the saddle, feeling himself a target for hundreds of scornful eyes and trying to think of excuses.

Susan, who followed Richard, started badly. Flustered, because she was called sooner than she had expected, she gave Sunset a terrific kick. Sunset leaped forward into a canter. Susan looked for the leading leg and cantered a circle on it, then she pulled up to canter on the other leg. Unfortunately, Sunset didn’t change, and, worse still, she didn’t notice that she hadn’t, but cantered gaily round until Noel shouted to her as she passed, then she pulled up and started again. Afterwards she turned on the forehand and backed. Now it was Noel’s turn. As she had watched the other horse-breakers’ shows, she gradually became sure that hers was too difficult. Considering the mistakes each person was making, she felt that it was conceited of her to suppose that she could possibly accomplish the show that she had mapped out. “You’ve bitten off more than you can chew,”
she told herself. But it was too late to make any alterations. Captain Barton had called her for the third time. Suddenly her needle, which had been growing worse each moment, disappeared; she rode forward at the extended walk, changed to the collected walk, then the collected trot. She cantered a figure of eight, Romany made a perfect flying change. Noel patted her, overjoyed, for this was where she had feared a mistake. Pulling up, she back-reined, and rode full passes at the walk to either side, and half-passes at the walk, trot and canter. Romany’s collection was effortless, and it was obvious to everyone that she and Noel were in perfect time. As they cantered back to their place, there was scattered applause from the few onlookers who had been interested enough to come before lunch. Hilary, the only competitor left to give a show, had felt fairly confident of success until she had seen Noel’s performance. Now this was shattered. She trotted out from the end of the line, feeling sure that, however well Rocket went, she could only be second. She walked a circle, cantered a figure of eight, pulling up to change legs; she turned on the forehand, back-reined, and started straight off into a canter. To finish, she jumped the stile.