Six Ponies (22 page)

On Saturday, the day of the rally, Major Holbrooke’s temper was stretched to its limit long before ten o’clock. To begin with, it was raining—pouring steadily and relentlessly out of one of those steel grey skies in which even the most confirmed optimist can find no hope of change. Then, to make matters worse, the bath water was cold—a rare occurrence at Folly Court, which made it all the more difficult to accept in a spirit of resignation; and finally, the Major found one of his grooms hitting Southwind’s foal with a pitchfork and had to give him the sack.

Altogether it was in an extremely disagreeable mood that Major Holbrooke strode out of the house at the sound of Beauty’s and Sunset’s hoofs coming up the drive.

“What the dickens did you come without a mackintosh for?” he asked angrily as he noticed Noel clad only in a school blazer.

“Sorry,” said Noel, instantly regretting she had come.

“I offered to lend her my other mack,” said Susan. “But it’s a tartan cape, and she thought it would be an insult to Beauty.”

“I suppose I’d better lend you one,” said the Major, ignoring Susan. “Not that it’ll be much good now; you’re simply soaked.”

“It’s all right, thank you,” said Noel. “I’m used to getting wet—I like it.”

“Well, personally I don’t,” said Major Holbrooke, “and I don’t propose to stand here getting wetter and wetter. You’d better take those ponies into the barn until the other children come.” He turned on his heel and marched into the house, banging the elegant white front door behind him.

“Goodness,” said Susan, “he was in a temper, and it’s not your fault if you haven’t got a mack.”

“Oh, do shut up about mackintoshes,” said Noel. “It’s me who’s getting wet, so why should everyone else interfere? I wish I’d never come to this beastly rally.”

“Well, it’s nice and dry in here anyway,” said Susan in soothing tones as she rode into the huge tithe barn, which stood by itself a little way from the stables. They both dismounted and waited in silence, Susan wondering what it must feel like to be poor. She knew that her parents hadn’t always been rich, but in all Valerie’s sombre stories of her impoverished childhood—when, apparently, she hadn’t had one half of the pleasures and advantages which Susan enjoyed—there had been no mention of the inconvenience of not having a mackintosh.

Soon John joined them. “Hallo,” he said, riding into the barn. “Isn’t it a beastly day?” And then, catching sight of Noel, “Gosh, you didn’t come without a mackintosh, did you?”

“Yes,” said Noel firmly.

“Gosh,” said John again, “whatever for? You didn’t think it was going to clear up?”

“No,” said Noel. “I’m not quite such a hopeless weather prophet as that. I haven’t got a mackintosh.” And she began to wonder why people despised one for not having clothes when ponies, pictures, books, and even music, were so much more important. She wondered, too, why she always thought she was going to enjoy rallies beforehand when she had been disillusioned so many times. John felt awkward waiting in silence. Why couldn’t one of the girls say something, he wondered, instead of standing there, Noel looking as though the world might end at any moment, and Susan, an embarrassed smile on her face, patting Sunset at intervals? “Stand still, can’t you?” he said crossly to Jet as she changed her weight to rest the other hind leg.

At last Hilary arrived. She rode to the barn door, closely followed by the Major, and said to the other horse-breakers,
“Hallo, isn’t it a foul day?” They said Hallo, and the Major, after silently handing Noel a mackintosh, said, “Come on, then, all of you; it isn’t going to stop, so we may as well resign ourselves to getting wet,” and he led the way down the drive to the field where the rallies were always held.

“But aren’t Richard and June coming?” asked Susan, trotting to catch up with him.

“No,” said the Major. “They both had appointments at the dentist’s. Rather a coincidence, wasn’t it?” John and Hilary noticed the sarcasm in the Major’s voice, but Susan said, “Yes, it does seem queer; perhaps they both had toothache. I know I should refuse to go on a Pony Club day unless I bad really
awful
toothache.”

By the time they reached the field Noel had managed to struggle into the mackintosh. It wasn’t much too big, except for the sleeves, and she guessed that it must belong to Mrs. Holbrooke. The Major opened the gate and asked the children to walk round the school a length behind each other. At first Hilary took the lead, but Rocket, which didn’t like the look of the strange field, would stop and shy every few yards, upsetting all the other ponies. To begin with, Major Holbrooke shouted instructions to Hilary. He told her to pat and speak to Rocket, then to use her legs, and when it seemed that he was just being naughty, to hit him. But Rocket went on shying, and when the Major gave the order to trot, he caused havoc. Every time he stopped, the other ponies, which, being unbalanced, were still rather hard to control, ran into him and each other. Hilary was becoming more and more flustered, and Rocket was beginning to believe in his up to now imaginary bogies when the Major, in exasperation, shouted to Noel, “You’re riding a schooled pony; for goodness’ sake take the lead.”

“What?” asked Noel before his words had had time to sink in, and then, realising what he had said, she became flustered, and gave Beauty a kick which made her leap forward and bump into Rocket, which had just given
another shy. Apologising to Hilary, Noel disentangled herself and took the lead. For a few moments all went well. They walked and trotted round the school, and Noel was just thinking that perhaps leading wasn’t so bad after all—she had always avoided it at both school and rallies, for there were usually plenty of people who wanted to lead, and she was content to hide herself in some inconspicuous place near the end of the line—when Major Holbrooke shouted, “Change the rein.”

“What?” asked Noel, though she had heard perfectly.

“Change the rein,” he repeated. Noel panicked. She knew that the Major meant her to go round the school the opposite way, for they had often done this at rallies before, but then she had blindly followed the person in front of her and never noticed how it was done. She wavered indecisively at the corner of the school. “Turn right,” shouted the Major, but Noel couldn’t remember which way was which; she took a chance and turned left out into the field. Susan, who was behind Noel and knew her right from left, turned right, and John and Hilary followed. Suddenly Sunset noticed that she was leading. She stopped dead, and Rocket and Jet, which were too close, ran into her. Giving an angry squeal, Sunset lashed out, catching Rocket on his forearm.

“Can’t you people even keep off each others’ tails?” asked the Major angrily. “What is the good of me trying to teach you to school ponies when you can’t even ride round a school a length apart?”

“Sorry,” said John and Hilary hastily.

“Is Rocket hurt?” asked Susan anxiously.

“He’s bleeding from this front leg,” said Noel, pointing. Hilary dismounted, and she and the Major examined the wound.

“I don’t think it’s much,” said Major Holbrooke. “Just a cut. It was lucky she caught him on the forearm and not on the knee; I don’t think it’ll make him lame. You’d better take him up to the stables,” the Major went on, speaking to Hilary, “and ask Blake to bathe it, then bring
him back and we’ll see if he’s sound.” Hilary led Rocket away and Major Holbrooke turned to the others. “Now, for goodness’ sake keep away from each other,” he said. “The next one may not be so lucky.”

“No,” said Susan. “And I don’t want you kicked, do I, Sunset? Even though you were horrid enough to kick Rocket.”

“Now,” said the Major, “where had we got to? Oh, yes, I remember,” he went on. “Noel had just tied everyone up in knots. Don’t you know how to change the rein?”

“No,” said Noel miserably.

“But we’ve done it at every Pony Club rally,” said the Major. “You must be half-asleep if you’ve never noticed.” Noel didn’t say anything; she stared hard at Beauty’s wet mane and felt herself grow redder and redder.

“Well, lead on round,” said Major Holbrooke. “I’d better try to teach you.”

Noel rode round the school, wishing she had never joined the Pony Club, and feeling that she would hate Major Holbrooke, Susan, and John for ever. Suddenly she realised that the Major was speaking. “Turn right,” he shouted. “Right, at the corner.” Noel felt near tears; she had forgotten which way was right again, and in despair she pulled Beauty up. Then John rode up beside her. “That way,” he said, pointing across the school.

“Where?” asked Noel.

“Look,” said Major Holbrooke, walking up and trying to speak calmly, “it’s obvious you don’t turn to the left, for that would lead you right off the school. Imagine you are riding in a covered school, keeping as close to the wall as you can. There will only be one way you can turn, won’t there? Inwards. When I tell you to change the rein,” he went on, “turn inwards, and ride diagonally across the school. Trot on.”

The next time Noel muddled through somehow, and when she had changed the rein several times the Major tried to teach her the diagonal change of hand, which she recognised as the figure that June had ridden on Grey Dawn.
But Noel was hopelessly confused, and the Major became more and more exasperated. Everyone was glad when Hilary returned with Rocket, and they were able to stop schooling while she trotted him up and down for the Major to see if he was lame. Happily he wasn’t, but Major Holbrooke gave Hilary another lecture about keeping off people’s tails, during which John would wink at Noel and Susan. Noel was too downcast to pay much attention, but Susan giggled until the Major heard. He thought she was laughing at him, so he was crosser than ever, and gave her a long lecture on how it wasn’t funny to kick another person’s pony, and how, if she had used her legs, Sunset wouldn’t have jibbed.

John, the only unscathed member of the party, did not remain so for long. The Major, having asked them all to ride circles, soon discovered that John wasn’t loosening his outside rein, and was, therefore, preventing Jet from following the order—to turn her head and neck inwards, that his inside rein was giving. When he remembered to do this, John forgot to use his outside leg, so that Jet’s quarters, which should have been turned inwards, were straight with the rest of her and she wasn’t making a circle at all. When John had learned to circle properly, the Major told Noel to canter a figure of eight, an exercise which, he said, was too advanced for the young ponies at the moment. Noel rode the figure of eight with a flying change in the middle, and she was feeling quite pleased with herself until the Major said that she had ridden at the extended, instead of the collected, canter, and asked her whether she knew anything about collection. Of course Noel didn’t, so the Major went on to explain that she must sit down in the saddle and use her legs and seat to get her pony’s hocks under him. Once he was balanced, with his hocks in the right place, a schooled horse could, and should, be collected by a little finger. Strength was unnecessary and must never be used. Then Major Holbrooke told the horse-breakers that the young ponies weren’t ready to be taught collection yet, but he hoped that some, at any rate, would be advanced enough by
the summer holidays. It was, he said, quite fatal to teach collection too early, for if a pony wasn’t balanced, you would have to pull his head in by force, and such severe use of the reins would, naturally, hurt his mouth. To avoid the pain, the wretched animal would recourse to some bad habit: pulling, stargazing, overbending—all ways of escaping too rough use of the bit. When their ponies were going well, the Major went on, in a balanced manner, which could be told by their head-carriage and the ease with which they could change from fast to slow paces, pull up, and back-rein—when they could walk, trot, and canter round the school, turn on the forehand and haunches, pass, and lead on the correct leg at the canter, then the horse-breakers might think of riding their pupils in double bridles. The only way to obtain balance and the improved head-carriage, which would automatically follow, the Major continued, was to keep on with the schooling, the balancing exercises that the school figures were designed to provide. Looking at Noel, the Major said that the diagonal, counter, and reversed changes of hand, half-voltes and circles, should all be practised. Lungeing, riding up and down hills and across rough ground or plough, were also very helpful in balancing a young horse.

“Noel,” said Susan, when Major Holbrooke finished speaking, “June shouldn’t be riding Grey Dawn in a double bridle yet.”

“Ssh,” said Noel, “the Major will hear.”

“Now,” said Major Holbrooke, “has any one any questions to ask?” And, when no one answered, he said, “Come on, I’m sure you don’t know everything.”

“If it’s so easy to spoil a horse by riding him in a double bridle, why not teach him to collect in a snaffle?” asked Susan.

“Because only one horse in a thousand will collect in a snaffle,” said the Major. “But first let us make it quite clear what we mean by collection. We have already said that, first and foremost, our horses must have his hocks under him, he must be full of impulsion—that is, eager to go,
and yet under complete control, between our legs and our little fingers. To allow us to have this control our horse must bend his head at the poll, drop his nose, and flex his lower jaw to the bit, and that is where a double bridle comes in. As you know, a double bridle consists of a snaffle, or bridoon, as it is often called, and a curb bit with a curb chain. The snaffle’s job is to raise our horse’s head. Bring Beauty here, Noel, I want to demonstrate. Now look,” the Major went on, taking Beauty’s reins, “when I feel the snaffle rein she raises her head, but leaves her nose poked out. The curb, in conjunction with the curb-chain, will make her drop her nose, arch her neck, and flex her lower jaw. See, I feel the curb rein, the bit acts on the bars of her mouth, the chain in the curb groove, and instantly she drops her nose. I am going to feel the rein again,” the Major continued, “and this time I want you to watch the curb chain. Notice how it tightens and presses into the curb groove and you will realise why you must always make sure that it is flat and not twisted. Come a little nearer and you will see that the mouthpiece of the curb can slide up and down the cheek for about half an inch. This is very important. As you see, when the curb rein is loose, the mouthpiece lies at the bottom of the slide, but directly I tighten the rein it begins to slide upwards to the top, where it remains until I slacken the rein again. As the mouthpiece rises there is a greater amount of cheek below it, and therefore a greater leverage, which exerts more pressure on the bars of the mouth, and by means of the curb chain, in the curb groove. In fact, the longer the horse takes to obey the bit the more severe it becomes. Being an intelligent animal, he soon realises this, and, to avoid the increasing discomfort, he will flex at the lightest feel of the curb rein.”