Six Ponies (8 page)

Susan made sure that there was water and hay in the youngster’s box and a feed for Beauty, and then, when he had finished mopping his brow, Mr. Barington-Brown said that it was half-past one, and that if they didn’t hurry into lunch they’d have mother after them, and led the way through the dark Victorian shrubbery to the house.

Basset Towers was a very ugly house. It had been built by an eccentric shipowner, who had a great deal of money but no taste. Besides being built in a hideous red brick, it was too high for its length, and at each corner there was a pepper-pot turret, which made it look quite absurd.

The Barington-Browns had only lived at Basset for about a year; before that they had had a house in Manchester near Mr. Barington-Brown’s factory. When Susan’s mother, who was rather a snob, decided to live in the country, she had chosen Basset Towers, partly because it was the right size and she thought that the rooms were convenient, and partly because she thought that Basset Towers would be a smart postal address. But then she, like the shipowner, had no taste, though perhaps there was more excuse for her, who had always lived in Manchester, than for the shipowner, who had been a sailor to start with, and had sailed
all over the world and seen many lovely buildings in places like Rome, Athens, and Constantinople.

Noel took an instant dislike to Mrs. Barington-Brown, who was tall, gaunt and acid looking, and whose hand, when Noel shook it, was cold and fish-like. Noel thought she looked awfully old—more like Susan’s grandmother than her mother. Then Valerie came in. She, too, was tall and thin; her blonde hair was piled in elaborate curls on top of her head, and she had sticking-out teeth and a discontented expression. Noel shook hands with her, and then Mrs. Barington-Brown told Susan to take “her little friend” to wash, so Susan took Noel upstairs to a very pink bathroom. They washed with pink soap, and afterwards Susan did her hair, which was in two neat, fair plaits, and Noel made a feeble attempt to flatten her unruly black shock. When Susan was ready they cantered down to lunch, which was saddle of mutton, followed by chocolate souffle. Noel was given enormous helpings, far more than she could eat, and, except for offering her more, no one made much conversation. Mr. Barington-Brown told one story—a very dull one—about Snowball, while Mrs. Barington-Brown argued with Valerie as to whether the lounge needed redecorating.

After an even longer pause than usual, when everyone looked at their plates and Noel felt terribly embarrassed, Mrs. Barington-Brown asked in her very refined voice:

“When is your father coming home from Egypt, Noel?”

“Not until next summer,” replied Noel, rather surprised that she knew he was there.

“He’s one of those people who dig up bits of china and mummies and such-like, isn’t he?” asked Mr. Barington-Brown.

“Really, Albert!” said Mrs. Barington-Brown before Noel could reply. “How can you be so ignorant! Professor Kettering is an eminent archæologist, and he’s written several very deep books on the subject. Isn’t that right, Noel?”

“He’s written some books,” said Noel, “but they look rather boring to me.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Barington-Brown with a laugh, “I’m sure no one expects you to bother your little head with such things. I don’t believe Susan ever opens a book except when she’s at school—eh, Susan?”

“Noel’s awfully clever, Daddy,” said Susan, blushing slightly. “She reads Dickens.”

“My word! Does she?” said Mr. Barington-Brown, looking at Noel as though she were some strange creature from another world. “You are taking after your dad, then.”

“Oh,
no
,” said Noel, feeling more embarrassed than ever. “I’m terribly stupid—I’m hopeless at geometry, and I’m sure I could never learn Greek.”

“Well, we can’t all be good at everything,” said Mr. Barington-Brown. “And, for myself, I can’t say I’ve much faith in all this education. But, there, mother’s keen on it—isn’t she, Susan?”

“Yes, worse luck,” said Susan. “She wants me to stay at school until I’m eighteen. Ugh! Just think of it—five more years.”

“Don’t chatter so much, Susan,” said Mrs. Barington-Brown sharply. “But pass Noel a peach.”

“No, thank you,” said Noel, who had already eaten two and was beginning to feel sick.

“Well, if she’s had sufficient,” went on Mrs. Barington-Brown, “you had better take her up to your playroom, Susan; and if you go over to Brampton, be sure to be back in time to change for tea, as we’ve company.”

Jill had rather an unpleasant journey into Brampton, for though she found she could manage Peter and Wendy easily, she was exasperated by Richard’s remarks on Major Holbrooke’s incredible mentality in liking the Pimpernel books and finding any of Dickens dull. However, not having read any of the works, she was hardly in a position to argue, though, as Richard kindly pointed out, she couldn’t be
expected to have read much, for she was only eleven, and a girl at that.

As they rode into the town they noticed that it was busier than usual, and they realised, to their dismay, that it was market day, when the otherwise quiet little town became a mass of traffic, stalls, and people.

“Gosh, that’s torn it,” said Richard. “How on earth are we going to get this brute through the market-place?”

“We can’t go back now,” said Jill. “It’s simply
miles
round by Friars’ Fenchurch.”

“No, we can’t go right round there,” agreed Richard. “We shall just have to risk it; but I should think that if you ride ahead this animal will follow.”

“All right,” said Jill. “But I do hope Peter doesn’t shy. I know I shall fall off if he does.”

“For goodness’ sake don’t start being feeble,” said Richard disagreeably; “and do hurry up. We’re hours late for lunch already.”

“It’s a good thing Mrs. Holbrooke rang mummy up,” said Jill, “or she’d have been awfully cross, for she said we were to be back by one.”

“She’ll be in a bait, don’t you worry,” said Richard. “But I can’t see what she wants to make such a fuss for; she could easily have asked old Bunting to cut us some sandwiches and then it wouldn’t have mattered what time we got back. Dash it all,” he went on, “I’m in the ‘Schol’ form at school
and
captain of cricket. She can’t go on treating me as though I were a kid.”

“Do stop criticising mummy,” said Jill. “It must be your fault anyway, for she’s not nearly so cross when you’re away at school.”

“It’s all very well for you,” said Richard. “Girls
like
staying at home and keeping clean, but boys are different. Except for not being able to ride and having to swot, I’d rather be at school than at home any day. We have some pretty good ‘rags’ there. . . .” And he was still telling Jill about one of the “rags” as they turned into the market-place. When the bay pony saw the crowd of people and
the stalls, with their gaily striped awnings, he stopped and gazed with wide, frightened eyes. Richard tried to pull him forward, and Jill rode on ahead, hoping he would follow when he saw the other ponies weren’t afraid. He did, for a few steps, and then the owner of a near-by stall came out of it, flapping the orange and white awning as he did so. This was too much for the bay. With a snort he whirled round and, knocking Richard into the gutter, he galloped back up the road to Basset.

Richard lay in the gutter for a few minutes, wondering whether his arm, which hurt horribly, was broken, and thinking what a sensation he would cause if he went back to school with it in a sling. Then realising where he was, he scrambled to his feet, just as the bay pony, which had been turned by a man on a bicycle, came galloping back. Jill, who had dismounted at the first sign of trouble, let go of Peter and Wendy and, with a shrill shriek, fled to the comparative safety of the chemist’s doorway. Richard stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms and shouting, in a half-hearted attempt to stop the pony. Then when he was almost upon him he, too, took cover in the doorway of the chemist’s shop. The bay pony galloped up the High Street, followed by Wendy, her reins and stirrups flying, and disappeared round the corner by the church. But Peter, being a greedier and more phlegmatic character, didn’t bother to follow them. Instead, he found a vegetable stall, the owner of which had gone to see what the excitement was about, and started to make the most of it.

“Oh, Jill, you are feeble,” said Richard. “Why ever did you let them go?”

“I couldn’t help it,” said Jill tearfully. “Anyway, you let go of the bay first, and now Wendy will be run over.” And she began to sniff.

“For goodness’ sake shut up,” said Richard. “Did you see which way Peter went?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Jill, “and I don’t care either. I know Wendy will be killed or else she’ll slip and break her leg, and then she’ll have to be put to sleep, and it’s
all your fault for having one of Major Holbrooke’s beastly ponies.”

Richard’s reply was drowned by furious shouts from the owner of the vegetable stall, who had returned to find a large brown pony eating apples and carrots as fast as he could. Richard guessed it must be Peter who was causing the shouts, so he ran towards them, and found a fat man with a red face waving a walking-stick at Peter and shouting loudly, though in such a very broad Barsetshire accent that Richard could not understand one word of what he was saying—which was perhaps just as well!

Richard ran up to Peter and made a grab at his rein, but Peter, who had found out long before that he could frighten Richard if he wanted to, laid back his ears, bared his teeth and pretended he was going to bite. Richard jumped backwards and, thus encouraged, Peter walked after him.
Richard began to run, and, to the joy of the crowd, Peter broke into a trot and chased him quite a way down the street before turning back to have another feed at the vegetable stall. Meanwhile Mr. Charr, the owner of the stall, thinking Peter had gone for good, began to tidy up the vegetables, but he hadn’t done much when Peter came trotting back and, rudely pushing Mr. Charr aside, buried his nose in a box of the best Cox’s Orange Pippins. They were the ones which were kept for show; the maggotty ones which Mr. Charr sold his customers were kept discreetly out of sight. Giving a yell of rage, Mr. Charr started to belabour Peter with his walking-stick, but Peter just turned on him and, being a coward, he too fled down the street, amid the derisive shouts of the even larger crowd which had collected.

It so happened that, as they ate their lunch, Mrs. Cresswell and June had decided to go into Brampton that very afternoon to buy a head-collar and lunge-rein for Grey Dawn, as they had named the grey mare. Mrs. Cresswell told June that she must begin the pony’s training as quickly as possible, for, she said, the other children were such jealous little things that they were sure to make a dead set at June and do all in their power to beat her.

As they drove into Brampton they remarked on the noise, which was unusually loud even for market day.

“I do hope,” said Mrs. Cresswell anxiously, “that there isn’t a fire or anything else that might spread and upset Wonder.”

“Don’t be so silly, Mummy,” said June. “There’d be a glow in the sky.”

“Quite right, dear. I never thought of that,” said Mrs. Cresswell as she brought the car to a standstill in front of the saddler’s. It was a very small shop, with a low timbered roof and, sandwiched as it was between the post office—the only modern building in the town—and the King’s Head Hotel, which was tall, narrow, and of the late Georgian period, it looked absurd. But in spite of its unimposing
appearance, Mr. Woodstock’s shop was well known in Barsetshire for its excellent saddlery.

To the Cresswells’ annoyance, Mr. Woodstock wasn’t in his shop. They waited impatiently for a few minutes, June ringing the bell and grumbling, and then, as the laughter and shouting from the market-place attracted their curiosity, they walked round, past the Norman church—for which Brampton was famous—and into the High Street. There they saw Peter chasing Mr. Charr, whose face was redder than ever, up the street for the second time, while Richard stood, in an agony of embarrassment and indecision, with his hands in his pockets, and the crowd shrieked, guffawed, cried or whooped with joy according to age and temperament.

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Cresswell. “It’s that stuck-up Morrisson boy’s pony. Whatever is it doing here? He must have had an accident.”

“Look! There he is,” said June, pointing. “Why ever doesn’t he catch Peter instead of standing?”

“I can’t imagine,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “Come along, June,” she went on, “we’d better catch the pony before there’s an accident.” And she hurried after Peter, which, having dealt with Mr. Charr, was trotting back to the vegetable stall. Richard did stretch out a hand in a feeble attempt to grab the reins as Peter trotted past, but he made a threatening face, so Richard hastily retired to the pavement.

“Well, really,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “I do believe that great boy is frightened of the pony.” And she walked straight up to Peter, which had its nose in the apple box again, and took hold of its reins. Peter started to make a face at her, but then, realising she wasn’t frightened, he stopped and just stood, looking as calm and good-natured as he possibly could, to the amazement of the crowd and Richard’s chagrin.