Six Ponies (31 page)

“Mummy,” said June, who wasn’t listening, “do ask the collecting steward if I can go first. I don’t want the take-off spoiled by everyone refusing. You know what it’s like at Pony Club Gymkhanas.”

“Yes, darling, I will,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Just a moment.” Collecting stewards invariably gave in to Mrs. Cresswell, so, as usual, June was the first competitor. As she cantered down to the start people pointed her out to each other. “She’ll win. She always does,” they said. Or, “There’s the Cresswell girl; she’s sure to do a clear round.” Mrs. Cresswell was tense with suspense as June rode at the first jump—the usual brush fence. She cleared it easily, and also the gate. Mrs. Cresswell sighed with relief as June increased her pace for the parallel bars, and again as she steadied Wonder for the post and rails. The stile, wall, and triple were all straightforward, and in a few moments June had done a clear round. The spectators clapped, Mrs. Cresswell relaxed, and there was an unsporting silence from the collecting ring.

“Next competitor, Hilary Radcliffe on Rocket,” said the collecting steward.

“Good luck, Hilary,” shouted the other competitors.

Rocket shied at the jumps as he cantered down to the start, and when Hilary rode him at the brush fence he slowed up and refused. Evelyn groaned and said, “I told her that he would.”

“Hit him, Hilary,” muttered Margaret. But Hilary didn’t hit Rocket. She patted him and said, “That’s all right, old man, have a look—it’s only a jump.” Rocket
sniffed the brush fence, and then, to the amusement of the crowd, he began to eat the gorse. Hilary turned him and rode at it again. This time Rocket knew what she wanted. He approached the fence slowly and cat-jumped, unseating Hilary slightly; but in spite of being ridden most determinedly, he refused again at the gate. Once more Hilary made him inspect the jump, and once more he cleared it easily the second time.

“I should think that she’s out of it now,” said Evelyn.

Rocket jumped the parallel bars, the post and rails and the stile clumsily, but without mishap; then he took a dislike to the wall and refused it twice. He finished by taking a lathe off the triple.

“Five and a half faults,” said Evelyn. “That was better than I expected. Jolly well ridden, Hilary,” she shouted as she rode into the ring. She was the next competitor. Northwind jumped his usual careless round; three lathes and the stile fell to his hind-legs, and he had one refusal at the wall. Christopher Minton followed Evelyn. He fell off three times and had five refusals, but everyone clapped because he finished the course. As he rode out of the ring, grinning broadly and patting Mousie, he shouted, “I never expected to get round,” to the people who were still waiting in the collecting ring. Felicity Rate, like Anthony, had three refusals at the first jump, and, as the relieved Tinker cantered briskly out, Clarrissa Penn came in to jump a clear round on Sweet William. Everyone applauded wildly except Mrs. Cresswell, who decided that fate was treating June very cruelly.

The Frenches jumped next, and Pat lost his South African stamp, for he had nine faults to Charles’ seven. Simon Wentwood and Rusty jumped a good round until they came to the triple, where they refused three times; and then James Radcliffe’s number was called. He rode into the ring with a set expression, ignoring the cries of “Good luck” from sympathetic people who knew that it was his first show. Darkie jumped the brush fence and the gate in fine style, but James didn’t ride her fast enough at the parallel bars,
and she knocked them down with her hind-legs. She cleared the stile, but had one refusal at the wall and knocked down the triple. “Five faults,” said Hilary. “That’s not bad for his first time.”

“Go on, Marga,” said Evelyn, “you’re next. Good luck.” Though Pixie never jumped in such good style as Darkie, she could jump higher, and Margaret had expected to have less faults than James. She rode with great determination, but without much thought, and by taking both the parallel bars and the triple too fast, caused Pixie to knock them down with her fore-legs.

At last, thought Susan, as her number was called, in spite of having taken off her coat, she was far too hot and was longing to exchange the glare and heat of the collecting ring for the shade of one of the many chestnut trees which were scattered about the park. “Come on, Beauty,” she said, and they cantered up the ring. They cleared the brush fence and the gate, but crashed the parallel bars. Susan remembered to steady Beauty for the post and rails, and they made a lovely jump over both them and the stile. But Beauty didn’t like the look of the wall, and, as Susan didn’t use her legs enough, Beauty refused. Oh, golly, thought Susan, I mustn’t have three refusals. She turned and rode at it again, using every ounce of energy that she possessed. Beauty flew over. Susan patted her and turned for the triple. They cleared that too, and galloped out of the ring. Richard followed Susan, but his round was not such a good one. He had four refusals—two at the gate and two at the wall—as well as crashing the parallel bars, which were becoming rather battered in appearance. Michael Thorpington, who jumped next, had even more faults than Richard. Mouldy, his depressed-looking brown dock-tailed cob refused each fence twice, and then jumped, knocking it down. John had to wait while the stewards mended the wall, and then he rode into the ring, trying to feel calm and confident. “We must do a good round,” he told Turpin as he turned him for the brush fence, and evidently Dick Turpin decided to oblige, for, to Mrs. Cresswell’s horror, he cleared everything.

“Jolly good, John,” said Hilary as he rode out. “I’ve never seen Turpin jump so well.”

“It’s the forward seat,” said John. “It makes all the difference.”

“Is number forty-six here?” asked the collecting steward. “Come on, number forty-six.”

“Are there any more competitors?” shouted the judges impatiently.

“Will number forty-six come at once,” bellowed the collecting steward, wishing that he had not let Major Holbrooke persuade him to take this tiresome job.

“Noel, you’re number forty-six,” said Evelyn. “For goodness’ sake go on. Half-asleep as usual,” she said to Hilary as Noel rode hastily into the ring.

“Why can’t you attend?” asked the collecting steward crossly. “I’ve been calling your number for about half an hour.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Noel.

“Oh, it’s Noel,” said Major Holbrooke to his fellow-judges. “No wonder we had such a long wait. She was probably lost in thought, but I didn’t expect her to enter for the jumping.”

“That
is
a nice pony,” said Sir William.

Noel wished that she hadn’t entered for the jumping as, with her heart in her mouth, she rode at the brush fence. Never had a jump looked so formidable, and the nearer she drew, the taller it seemed to become. Romany, who was nervous too, jumped high into the air, clearing the brush by nearly a foot, and unseating Noel, who was unable to get back into the saddle in time to ride her at the gate, which, consequently, she refused. Noel made her look at the gate, thinking how awful it would be if they had three refusals; it might ruin Romany’s jumping for ever. But, second try, Romany flew over, and cantered on to clear the parallel bars, the post and rails and the stile. Now Noel was really enjoying herself. The jumps had shrunk to a reasonable height, and she felt she could go on flying over them for ever. But Romany was very suspicious of the wall, and, in
spite of Noel’s frantic kicks, she slowed up and refused. Noel let her look at it and sniff it for a few moments. Romany soon decided that it was harmless, and when Noel rode her at it again she cleared it easily. Then they jumped the triple perfectly, and galloped out of the ring amid applause from everyone who knew that Romany was one of the New Forest ponies. In the collecting ring the Pony Club members patted Romany and congratulated Noel, who felt very embarrassed. She couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound conceited, so she just blushed and patted Romany too. The judges soon created a diversion by calling for June, Clarrissa, and John to jump off. Everybody agreed that now the course really was enormous, just as big as in the senior jumping. June looked cool and collected, and was ignoring her mother’s frantic signals, which were obviously advice on how to take the course, now that it was higher, as she rode down to the start. She took the brush fence slowly; she cleared it and the gate; but did not increase her pace enough for the parallel bars, which Wonder crashed with her fore-feet. “Four faults,” said someone. June cleared all the rest of the course, and then Clarrissa cantered down the ring. Sweet William found the course too high; he brushed through the brush fence and then knocked down everything but the stile. “Bad luck,” shouted the Pony Club members regretfully. They knew now that June would win. The jumps loomed and leered at John as he waited at the start, but Turpin seemed fresh and eager to be off, which gave him confidence. “Come on, old man,” he said as he rode at the first jump. They cleared it, and the gate, and the parallel bars; John’s spirits soared, but as they went over the post and rails he heard the sound of a rail falling. “Careful, Turpin,” he said, steadying him for the wall. They flew over it and turned for the triple. John strained every nerve to get the take-off right. Turpin was pulling, but he held him back, gradually letting him gain speed as they neared the jump. Then, three strides away, he let him go. They soared through the air, and, by the clapping, John knew that they had cleared it. He jumped off Turpin as
soon as they were out of the ring, and gave him all the oats and bread that he had in his pockets.

“He
did
jump well,” said Susan, “only having two faults round that huge course.”

“They don’t look so high when you get close to them,” said John. The collecting steward called John’s, June’s, Clarrissa’s, and Noel’s numbers, and the first three who were expecting the summons rode into the ring. “Number forty-six,” shouted the collecting steward again. “Noel,” shrieked everyone as they recognised her number. “What is it?” asked Noel, who was thinking about something else.

“You’re fourth,” said Susan. “Quick!”

“Go on, you idiot, go in,” said Evelyn.

“Come along now,” said the collecting steward. “You really can’t hold the show up in this way.”

“But it can’t be me,” said Noel. “I had two faults.”

“Go in and don’t argue,” said the collecting steward crossly.

“Of course it’s you,” said Evelyn. Noel cantered in, still hardly able to believe her ears, and lined up with the others. John was feeling very pleased with himself. He had remembered to take his hat off to Lady Wrench, and she had said that she thought Turpin jumped in such good style. June felt furious; she hadn’t a single red rosette, and for her the show was over. Clarrissa thought how good Sweet William had been. She was sure that he would have won but for her being so fat and heavy. When Noel had been given her rosette, they cantered round the ring, and John was most indignant because June galloped past him and took the lead though she was only second.

There was a short interval for tea while the bending poles were being put up and the judges for the gymkhana events took over. They were Mrs. Mills, a smart woman who always hunted side-saddle; and a man called Colin Brent, who invariably wore sporting clothes and attended all the horsy events in the county, but had never been seen to ride. The bending, for which, as usual, there was a very large entry, took a long time. But the collecting steward
put Noel into the first heat before, he said, she had a chance to disappear or go to sleep. She was against Christopher Minton and Charles French. Romany went fearfully fast, in fact too fast, and she knocked down the last pole but one. Christopher was very slow and Charles won easily.

“Bad luck, Noel,” said Susan. “But you don’t need any more rosettes; Romany’s simply covered.”

“She’s been marvellous,” said Noel. “But the show’s nearly over,” and she rode sadly away to find her mother.

To Noel’s surprise she found her talking to the Major and his cousin.

“Ah, here she is,” said Cousin Harry, who saw Noel first.

“Festooned with rosettes; disgusting sight,” said Major Holbrooke, looking round. “You’ll have to be careful, Mrs. Kettering,” he went on, trying to look serious. “You’ll have her growing up into a pot-hunter. We were just discussing your prize,” he said to Noel. “My cousin’s had a brainwave. Haven’t you, Harry?”

“I don’t know that I’d call it that,” said Cousin Harry, “but I’m delighted with the way this little skewbald goes—really delighted. Never seen anything like it. But to keep to the point, the Major wouldn’t let me decide on the prize before; he said I was to wait and see who won it. Well, now, it seems that you haven’t a pony of your own, and I have an unbroken four-year-old—just fourteen hands—which I found in dreadful condition just recovering from strangles. I had to buy her, but ever since I’ve been at my wits’ end to know what to do with her, and now your mother’s agreed that I can give her to you.”

“Give her to me? A pony?” asked Noel, quite incredulous.

“A real live pony,” said Major Holbrooke, imitating Noel’s surprised voice.

“Gosh, I should love her,” said Noel.