Fortune and the Golden Trophy (5 page)

As the grey pony began to move deeper into The
Pines, following the path weaving swiftly between the trees, Issie instinctively clucked Fortune on to follow him. She gave the piebald a swift tap with her heels, urging him to trot and catch up to Mystic. But Issie had forgotten that Fortune wasn’t exactly a speedster. Despite the urgency in her voice and the repeated taps on his sides, the piebald pony stubbornly refused to hurry. He gave a grunt as he lurched into a slow trot and then the minute Issie stopped urging him on he fell back into a walk, ambling at a snail’s pace.

“Come on, Fortune!” Issie was beside herself with frustration, but it was no use getting worked up. It was already too late. The grey pony had whisked away ahead of them through the pine trees and Issie couldn’t see any sign of him. He was gone.

“You stupid piebald!” Issie had never been so angry at a horse. She knew it was wrong to shout at Fortune, but she couldn’t help it—she was furious! Mystic had been right there in front of her and because of this stubborn, lazy pony she had lost him! Had Mystic come to warn her of a new danger? Fortune had ruined her chances of finding out. But although Mystic was gone for now, something gave Issie a feeling that this wasn’t over yet. He would be back.

Fortune and Comet made a very cute sight together. The piebald and the skewbald were tied up side by side, brown patches next to black patches, by Avery’s horse truck waiting for the rally to get under way.

“Don’t they look like a matched set?” Stella said. “A bit like salt-and-pepper shakers, similar but not actually the same.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing even vaguely similar about Comet and Fortune,” Issie groaned. After her disastrous ride at the River Paddock she was feeling even gloomier at the prospect of riding the piebald at the pony-club rally today.

Issie hadn’t told her friends about what happened at The Pines. How could she when Stella and Kate didn’t
even know about Mystic? She had told them about Fortune’s nappy behaviour on their first ride together though, and how it was impossible to get the pony to listen to her.

“I’m sure Fortune will pep up now that he’s at pony club,” Stella said optimistically. “He’s probably one of those horses who likes an audience. He’ll perform in front of a crowd.”

The first rally of the new season was a big occasion and the fifty or so riders present were all dressed in the Chevalier Point colours, wearing navy jerseys and red ties. Some of them had even plaited their ponies up for the day—although it wasn’t required. Issie, Stella and Kate hadn’t bothered to plait, but they were turned out neatly. Stella had even made an effort and shoved her red curls under a hairnet for once. “I got tired of being told off at inspection,” she shrugged.

Pony-club rally days always kicked off with inspection. The whole club lined up in front of the clubroom and the instructors passed down the row of horses and riders, checking that tack was clean, safe and done up correctly, that the ponies were groomed properly and the riders’ uniforms weren’t sloppy.

“It’s like being in the army or something,” Stella
complained as they lined up. Issie looked down the row of horses and riders. Everyone was lined up straight except for her. “Come on, Fortune!” She gave the piebald a tap with her heels, but he stubbornly refused to move forward the two measly steps needed to line up with the others. Issie sighed. Fortune simply wouldn’t listen to her! How was she possibly going to get through an entire rally day on the pigheaded piebald?

Avery cast a glance in Issie’s direction, but he didn’t seem concerned that she was ruining his straight line. As head instructor it was his job to get the first rally of the season under way. “Lovely to see so many new faces here today,” Avery boomed. “We’ll be dividing the riders up into four groups. Any new members will be with Jacqui Anderson in the jumping arena. Can you all move off now and follow Jacqui over there?”

Avery waited a moment, giving the new riders a chance to follow their instructor off towards the far arena. Then he turned back to the remaining riders. “All our juniors raise your hands. Excellent! You’ll be with Taylor Wilson today, down at the far end of the club in the small arena. Intermediates? You’re doing games down in the far paddock with Mandy Jennings. Can you all head off now with your instructors, please? Senior riders,
please remain where you are. You’ll be with me in the main arena.”

The juniors and the intermediate riders peeled off, so that eventually only the Chevalier Point seniors remained. There were ten seniors at the club this season and all of them were present today. There were Issie, Stella and Kate, of course, and Dan and Ben. The Miller sisters, Pip and Catherine, were both back for the season on their matching grey ponies, and Morgan Chatswood-Smith was here today too for the first time in ages, still riding her pony Black Jack. Annabel Willets, having recovered from the broken arm she suffered last season on her palomino, Eddie, was back in the saddle.

At the far end of the row, looking thoroughly bored as usual, was Natasha Tucker. She was mounted on Romeo, her stunningly beautiful Selle Francais. Issie gazed at the handsome chestnut gelding and couldn’t help feeling jealous. Romeo shone like a newly-minted copper coin, his glossy coat polished to a perfect sheen, no doubt by one of the grooms at Ginty McLintoch’s stables where he was kept. His mane was expertly pulled and Ginty’s team must have spent ages that morning making sure that the two socks on his hind legs looked like they had been soaked in Persil—they were so unbelievably white.

Issie had put a fair bit of effort into getting Fortune groomed for today, but no matter how much elbow grease she applied to the piebald he was still a tubby, scruffy pony. How could Issie and Fortune possibly compete with a fancy French-bred hack like that?

The fact that Romeo was the best-looking horse at Chevalier Point certainly hadn’t escaped Natasha. She had seen Issie’s eyes hungrily admiring him and as Avery’s ride began to move off towards the arena she took great pleasure in riding past Issie and muttering under her breath, “That is the ugliest piebald I have ever seen!”

Issie had learnt a long time ago to ignore Natasha’s stinging comments, but this one really hurt. She wished that Fortune would step into the arena and teach Stuck-up Tucker a lesson by performing like a superstar. But it just wasn’t going to happen. If anything, Fortune’s attitude was even worse than his looks. He was nappy and stubborn, plodding forward like a total slow poke.

When Avery asked them to trot Issie had to give him a kick to get him moving and the minute she stopped urging him on with her heels Fortune came to a sudden stop. Issie, who wasn’t expecting it, lurched forward and nearly flew over his ears.

“Come on, Fortune…urghh!” Issie gave the piebald
another vigorous tap with her heels. He didn’t move.

“Having problems?” Avery asked as he walked over to see what was wrong.

Issie felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Here she was, a senior rider, and she couldn’t even make her horse trot!

“He was like this the other day in the paddock too. He’s being really nappy and he won’t do what I tell him to,” she admitted.

“Mr Avery?” Natasha called out. “Should Isadora be riding in the senior group if she can’t even make that pony trot? We’re trying to train for the Tucker Trophy and she’s slowing us all down.”

Avery took in Natasha’s smug smirk. “I’m sure you’ll cope, Natasha,” he replied flatly. “Just warm up by yourselves for ten minutes,” he told the rest of the ride. Natasha sat and glared a bit longer, then she rolled her eyes and rode off to join the other seniors who were warming their horses up at the far end of the ring.

Avery turned his attention back to Issie and Fortune. “Hop off a minute,” he said. “I want to double-check that there’s nothing wrong with your tack. Fortune might be in pain, which would explain why he’s being reluctant.”

Issie slid down from the saddle and held Fortune’s
reins while Avery worked his way around the pony, checking the fit of the saddle and picking up Fortune’s hooves to make sure he didn’t have a stone bruise or anything else that might be making him sore.

“Well,” Avery assessed, “I can’t find anything wrong. This pony seems fine. Apart from the fact he’s extremely fat and clearly unfit from lack of work. If you ask me, it’s carrying all that extra weight that’s causing his nappy attitude.”

“Really?” Issie was surprised.

“Absolutely,” Avery said. “If you were dreadfully overweight, you wouldn’t want to go for a trot either, would you? Being fat is very bad for horses. This horse is so out of shape, he runs the risk of foundering.”

“Is that serious?” asked Issie.

Avery nodded. “Very. Overweight ponies can actually die from founder. Fortune needs to lose that tummy of his before he can be a happy, healthy horse.”

Avery ran a hand over Fortune’s sizeable belly. “Unfortunately, I suspect he’s got into this state because he’s what you’d call a ‘good do-er’“

“What does that mean?” Issie asked.

“It means that Fortune can get fat on the smell of an oily rag.” Avery smiled. “He needs to be kept on reduced
rations. He must be grazed on limited pasture.”

“But how am I supposed to do that?” Issie grumbled. “There’s loads of long grass at the River Paddock—how am I going to stop him eating?”

“Graze him here from now on,” Avery suggested. “The pony-club paddocks are smaller than the ones at the River Paddock and there’s less grass. You should graze him here on short grass for at least the next few weeks while the spring growth is coming through. In fact, if I were you, I’d put him in the parking paddock near the entrance—there’s hardly any grass in there at all.”

“But won’t he starve?” Issie was worried.

“A pony like that? Not a chance!” Avery said. “It’s for his own good, Issie. If you keep him on short grass, give him no more than a handful of hard feed and make sure you’re doing some conditioning work on him, trotting for at least thirty minutes every day, then you’ll have him fit in a matter of weeks.”

Issie groaned. “Does it have to be trotting? His trot is awful to ride—it’s super-bouncy.” Then she added, “That is, when I can actually make him trot at all. He’s such a lump.”

Avery frowned. “It’ll take a while to get him fit, but in the meantime I have the short-term solution to Fortune’s
sluggish attitude—but you’re not going to like it.”

“I’ll try anything. He’s totally impossible.”

“Take this then,” Avery said. He held out his brown leather riding crop, which he used during lessons—never on horses—to whack against his long riding boots for emphasis when he was making a point to his pupils.

Issie shook her head. “I never carry a whip, Tom. I don’t like using them.”

“I’m not asking you to use it, Issie,” Avery said. “I’m asking you to trust me and take it.”

Issie put out her hand and Avery stepped around so that he was standing directly in front of Fortune where the horse could clearly see him. Then he handed Issie the crop in a deliberate manner, as if he was moving in slow motion.

“Do you see what I’m doing here?” he asked. “I want to be certain that Fortune is totally aware of the fact that I’m handing this whip to you.”

Issie was puzzled. “Why?”

“Because,” Avery explained, “I’m giving you the crop for psychological purposes.”

Issie was horrified. “But I don’t want to hit him!”

“Shhh,” Avery replied. “You and I know that—but Fortune doesn’t. It’s a mind trick, you see. Often all you
need to do is carry a whip. Once a nappy horse knows that you’ve got it in your hands you won’t even need to use it on him.”

Issie took the whip from Avery.

“Now,” her instructor said, “this time, instead of banging away at Fortune with your ankles to get him to move off, give him one single tap behind your leg with the crop, just to let him know that it’s there.” Avery was right. The very moment Issie touched Fortune with the whip the piebald responded by stepping forward without any fuss.

“Ohmygod!” Issie couldn’t believe it. Fortune’s walk was no longer slug-like, but brisk and swingy.

“Now ask him again, reinforcing your leg with a light tap of the crop, and go into trot,” Avery said. Issie did as her instructor asked and Fortune moved forward instantly. His trot was still horribly bouncy of course, but at least she could keep her balance now that she didn’t have to flap about to make him trot.

“How is he?” asked Avery.

“He’s going much better,” Issie admitted.

“Excellent,” Avery said. “Join the back of the ride and let’s get some work done. Rising trot, please, everyone!”

By the end of the lesson, Issie had been given a plan
of action by Avery, who was quite convinced that with lots of road work and a new diet Fortune would become a different horse.

“I’m going to start doing conditioning work tomorrow,” Issie told Stella as the girls tied up the horses for lunch break. “Avery says Fortune will have a complete change of personality once he’s been on reduced rations.”

Stella looked over at Natasha Tucker who had already tied Romeo up and was sitting down to lunch with her mum. “Maybe we should reduce Stuck-up Tucker’s rations and see if her personality changes. I heard what she said to you in the arena. What a mega-cow!”

Kate pulled a sour face and did her best Natasha imitation, mocking the bratty blonde’s high-pitched voice, “
Some of us are training for the Tucker Trophy, you know
.”

The three girls rolled around on the picnic blanket laughing. “Imagine how annoying it’s going to be if she actually wins that stupid trophy,” Stella pointed out. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stand being at the same pony club as her.”

“The awful thing is, she probably will win it at this rate,” Issie groaned. “She’s got the best horse.”

Issie couldn’t help but compare the elegant purebred Romeo, standing handsomely beside Natasha’s
glamorous silver and blue horse truck, with little fatty Fortune, who was busily snuffling at his hay net like a truffle pig. Maybe Natasha’s catty comment at the AGM was true. With a horse like Romeo perhaps she really was out of Issie’s league. It hadn’t mattered so much when the girls were younger, but now they were at senior level, having a good horse made all the difference. Natasha was cruel—but she might also be right.

Lunch break was over and the afternoon lesson was just about to begin when the new pony-club president arrived. Dressed in a suit, with his Italian loafers freshly polished and gleaming, Oliver Tucker strode across the field towards his daughter.