Six Ponies (10 page)

Oh, gosh, thought Noel, mummy will be cross! But still, she consoled herself, they were nearly over, and I should think it’s much nicer, even for flowers, to be cut off in the midst of their heyday than to linger on, rotting and uncared for, and finally die a sordid death on the rubbish heap or a martyred one on a bonfire.

Anyway, she told herself firmly, one can’t stop to bother about hollyhocks when Jill may be lying unconscious in a ditch. She caught the bay with an apple and made a rough
halter for him. Then she untied Wendy, mounted, and rode off down the lane.

Wendy was very lazy; she dawdled along as slowly as she could, and occasionally she suggested stopping to graze. But slowly though Wendy walked, the bay pony, which was feeling tired too, would not keep up. The farther they went the more he lagged, and long before they were half-way to Orchard Cottage Noel’s arm ached horribly. Once she thought of turning back, but then she thought of June and the Radcliffes. She knew they wouldn’t even have considered it for a moment. You
are
feeble, she told herself. How you can think you’re ever going to be good enough to ride at Olympia I don’t know. And, setting her teeth, she rode grimly on.

The early dusk of late September was falling as Noel rode up the drive to Orchard Cottage—which wasn’t a cottage at all, but a fairly large modern house built by the Morrissons’ father, who was a rising architect. There was no one about, and no one rushed out at the sound of hoofs scrunching on the gravel. Noel began to wonder what she would do if everyone was out searching for the ponies or sitting round Jill’s sick-bed in Brampton Cottage Hospital. But then she heard the strains of a wireless, so she dismounted and, leading the ponies up to the front door, pressed the bell. After a few minutes, during which Noel was filled with consternation lest she had come to the wrong house, the door was opened by a smart parlourmaid, who, on hearing that Noel had brought the ponies, said she would fetch the children. She bustled away, and Noel heard her call, “Master Richard. Miss Jill.”

The strains of the wireless stopped, and Richard’s voice asked, rather rudely, “What’s up now, Nancy? It’s not supper-time yet.”

“There’s a young lady at the door with the ponies,” answered Nancy.

“Jill—the ponies,” shouted Richard, and they both came tearing downstairs.

“Oh, hallo!” said Richard in surprise on seeing Noel. “Where
did
you find them?”

“Darling Wendy,” said Jill, throwing her arms round Wendy’s neck. “Are you all right?”

Mrs. Morrisson was sitting in her modern drawing-room, which looked like a picture of the ideal room in
Homes and Gardens
, wondering whether she would be able to afford both Nancy and Mrs. Bunting, the cook, now that Richard was leaving Ridgeside and going to an expensive public school, but hearing the noise from the hall, she came out to see what it was about, and Noel had to explain, all over again, exactly where she had found the ponies.

“I think you were simply wonderful to catch them and bring them all the way over here alone,” said Mrs. Morrisson. “We can’t thank you enough.” And to Jill and Richard, “Can we, darlings?”

“No,” said Richard, scowling.

“The poor darlings were worried to death,” went on Mrs. Morrisson. “They searched high and low all afternoon, and when they came home they were simply
exhausted
. But I said the ponies would be all right. Dear little Wendy is quite capable of looking after number one, that’s what I told Jilly, but she wouldn’t believe me—would you, darling?” And without giving Jill time to reply, she continued, “But mummies nearly always are right, you know, though their children never believe them.”

Neither Richard nor Jill said anything, and Noel, feeling very embarrassed, laughed awkwardly. Then Mrs. Morrisson said, “Well, come along, darlings. Pop them out in the paddock. I expect dear old Peter will be glad to have his pals home again. And now, Noel, what about you? Can I offer you a slice of cake or a glass of milk?”

“I should love some cake, if it’s not an awful nuisance,” said Noel, “but no milk, thank you.” So while Jill and Richard led the ponies away, Noel followed Mrs. Morrisson into the drawing-room and waited while she rang the bell for Nancy and told her to bring some cake. To Noel the room looked very bare and empty. It was unadorned with the years’ collection of objects, such as she and her parents had had so much difficulty to find room for in Russet Cottage.
There, weapons from Professor Kettering’s collection hung on all the walls, while Egyptian curios and Noel’s godfather’s sculpture sat cheek by jowl with tin horses, china dogs, and gambolling foals. But here one picture of nameless blue flowers, one vase of autumn leaves and berries, and a white plaster cast of a shepherd boy playing a flute, were all there was to give character to the ideal room. The few books were held neatly in place by book-ends, and Noel imagined Mrs. Morrisson’s start of horror if she were to see the books at Russet Cottage, which, having overflowed the shelves and cupboards, were piled in corners and on top of the larder meat-safe. Mrs. Morrisson made bright conversation about schools and ponies while Nancy fetched the cake, and the more effusive she became the more tongue-tied Noel felt. When at last the cake—which was chocolate and very good—did come, Noel gobbled it quickly and then said she must go, for it was getting darker every moment. She thanked Mrs. Morrisson, who told her all over again how wonderful she had been, and then she set off for home at a brisk run.

It was not such a long way home, for Noel was able to go by the footpath, which was a short cut; you couldn’t ride that way, as there were several stiles, but it was much nicer and much quicker than going round by the road. It was a lovely night, warm and windy, and the pale moon which lighted Noel’s way was languidly casting grotesque shadows across the fields and making the most ordinary and everyday things secret and silver. But all the beauties of nature could not prevent Noel’s legs from aching, and she did wish that Mrs. Morrisson had offered to drive her home. At last she reached the cottage and, opening the door, she stood blinking after the darkness. Mrs. Kettering, wearing a gay Hungarian peasant apron, was frying bacon and eggs. Simple Simon’s golden coat shone brightly in the circle of lamplight. “Hallo,” said Noel. “Did you wonder where I was? I’m awfully sorry about the hollyhocks. . . .”

Chapter IV

I
T WAS ON
the following Wednesday that Major Holbrooke, having once again summoned all the horse-breakers to Folly Court, gave another lecture and demonstration—this time on the second stage in breaking, that of backing the young horse, and teaching him the elementary aids.

Beforehand, Noel hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that she was unable to go—she was in bed with a very bad cold—but afterwards, when Susan had told her all she could remember, which was not a lot, Noel thought it sounded so interesting that she was very disappointed not to have been there.

The Major had asked everyone a great many questions about the behaviour of his or her pony and what it had been named. June’s, which, as you know, was called Grey Dawn, had apparently learned a great deal. She could walk, trot and canter on the lunge-rein; she could be groomed, have her feet picked out and wear a saddle and snaffle bridle. The Major had laid great emphasis on the fact that none of the ponies were to wear anything but a snaffle bit, preferably a rubber one, at his earlier lecture. He said he hoped June hadn’t hurried Grey Dawn in her lungeing, but June and Mrs. Cresswell, who had come too, both assured him that she hadn’t; they said that Dawn lunged perfectly, and was not at all hotted-up or excitable. Some of the other children were rather downcast by this long list of Grey Dawn’s accomplishments. John wondered whether June would beat them all again; it looked like it, he thought, for his pony certainly couldn’t canter on the lunge-rein yet.

Then the Radcliffes had told how their ponies, which they named, after a good deal of argument, Rocket and Romany, were both behaving quite well. Evelyn’s, which was Romany, could canter on the lunge-rein, but would not let her hind-feet be picked up, and though Evelyn didn’t
mention this, she cow-kicked when she was groomed or girthed up, while Rocket, though not so far on with his lungeing, would let you do anything with him in the stable, and Hilary had already lain across his back on her tummy without any objection on his part. Major Holbrooke seemed to think Rocket a promising pupil when he heard this, which surprised Evelyn, for though she hadn’t said anything to Hilary, she privately thought him much too quiet and lazy, and while Romany had learned to canter after her second lesson, Rocket still couldn’t after his sixth.

Richard, who, after a terrible row with his mother, who wanted him to call his pony Tinker Bell so that he would match with Peter and Wendy, had named the bay Red Rufus, in a fit of rashness brought about by a foolish desire not to sound “small” in front of June Cresswell, gave Red Rufus an untruthfully good report. He said that he could walk, trot and canter on the lunge-rein, but he did not mention that he usually escaped at least twice in a lesson and galloped about the field. He said that Rufus could wear a saddle and bridle, but he did not add that it sometimes took half an hour to put the bridle on.

Then John explained that he hadn’t settled on a name for his pony yet. He had thought of Black Bess, Jackdaw, Nightmare, and Midnight, but he didn’t really think that any of them suited her. So, for the moment, he just called her Blackie.

The three elder Radcliffes gave superior smiles and made meaning faces at each other when they heard this, for they heartily despised such childish names, and though two of their ponies were called Darkie and Pixie, it was because they had christened them many years ago: Darkie when Roger was six and the twins four, and Pixie two years later. Now they were older they regretted their choice, but they agreed that you couldn’t change a pony’s name after eight years just because your tastes had altered. Lately, they felt, the honour of the stable had been fully restored by the sophisticated names of Northwind, Rocket, and Romany. But, as Evelyn said afterwards, John could not be excused
by youth, for he was jolly nearly fourteen, and Roger added scornfully that he was probably suffering from arrested development.

Susan was the last person to give her account. She said that Sunset, as she had named the bay mare, was very quiet to lead about, but would not lunge to the right without a struggle, and, though quiet to groom, was very naughty to saddle.

Major Holbrooke explained that probably Sunset was better balanced to one side—horses often were—and, naturally, she preferred going round the way that was easiest; but, he went on, the only cure was to make her equally well balanced on the right side, and this was best done by lungeing her twice as much to this side as to the other. If Susan gave into her now, he could assure her that she would have exactly the same trouble all over again when it came to circling and leading off at the canter on a special leg, but if she found she couldn’t make the pony lunge to the right at all, she was to give him a ring and he would come over and help her.

As for the saddling, the Major felt pretty certain that either Susan had put the saddle on with a bang or else she had pinched Sunset with the girth; unless, of course, the saddle didn’t fit or the pony had girth-galls. Susan said she had looked very carefully, and she was sure that Sunset hadn’t any girth-galls; and, as the saddle, which her father had bought specially, fitted perfectly, she thought it must be her bad saddling. Major Holbrooke told Susan to be very careful in future, and then, when Sunset found she wasn’t going to be hurt, she would give up making a fuss. He went on to give them all a great deal of good advice, and, among other things, he suggested that those who had the misfortune to go to boarding schools should ask a parent, brother or sister to pay their ponies an occasional visit, and perhaps even put a halter on and lead them about during the term. Then, when he had reminded them once again that any one who got into difficulties was to ring him up, they all went into the house for lemonade and cake.

To her intense disgust, Mrs. Holbrooke, who had been lurking in the flamingo’s cage all morning to avoid meeting Mrs. Cresswell, was cornered by her in the hall, and had to listen to a very long story about June’s perseverance in teaching Grey Dawn to canter on the lunge-rein. Actually she didn’t listen, she just said, “Oh, yes?” and “Really?” at intervals, and at the end she said, “Well, you never can tell, can you?” Luckily Mrs. Cresswell’s attention had also wandered; she was thinking how much better dressed June looked than any of the other children, so she didn’t notice Mrs. Holbrooke’s absentminded and rather incongruous remarks.

When everyone had gone and the Holbrookes were drinking a before-lunch glass of sherry, Mrs. Holbrooke asked the Major if he thought the children were getting on all right.

“I think so,” replied Major Holbrooke thoughtfully. “The Barington-Brown child was the only one which seemed to have had any trouble so far. Her pony is evidently a bit one-sided, and it looks as though she’s pinched her with the girth, but, apart from her, they all seem to be doing pretty well.”

“Mrs. Cresswell seemed pleased with the grey’s progress,” said Mrs. Holbrooke.

“Well, actually,” said the Major, “I’m afraid they may be taking her a bit too fast, but they insisted she’s going well and never becomes upset or excited.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “I expect Mrs. Cresswell was laying it on a bit thick. You know what she is: June must always be one better than the others.”

“It’s a most tiresome complex,” said Major Holbrooke, “and so bad for the child, but I suppose it’s an excess of maternal instinct. What that woman needs is
six
children; then she wouldn’t have time to make such a fuss about one.”

“What strikes me as so odd,” said Mrs. Holbrooke, “is that she has to boast when June is so obviously a much
better rider than any of the others. I mean, people generally boast to bolster themselves up, because at heart they feel inferior, but it can’t be that with Mrs. Cresswell.”