Six Ponies (24 page)

“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “I’ve never known anything, but advancing old age, teach children that.”

“It is extraordinarily how long it takes to get anything into their heads,” said Major Holbrooke. “I spent about twenty minutes trying to teach Noel Kettering to change the rein and I’m sure she doesn’t know now.”

“Well, of course, she is rather a vague child,” said Mrs. Holbrooke.

“Yes,” said the Major. “But it’s really amazing the way she’s got on with her riding.”

Chapter VIII

A
LL THROUGH
the next week Mrs. Kettering’s words rang in Noel’s ears. Each night she resolved to ask Major Holbrooke if she could have Romany. But each morning she wakened wondering how she could ever have been conceited enough to dream that he might say yes, or even, when it came to the point, that she would have the courage to ask him. She walked over to Folly Farm several times to talk to Romany, vowing that if she saw the Major she would ask him, but at the same time hoping with all her heart that she wouldn’t meet him. It was Richard Morrisson who decided her. They met in Bond’s, the Brampton bookseller. She was looking for a book on riding to buy with a book-token she had been sent for her birthday. Richard was rummaging among a pile of maps.

“Hallo,” said Noel.

“Hallo,” answered Richard rather crossly. “Isn’t this an inefficient shop?” he added after a pause. “One can’t get anything in these wretched cock-eyed provincial towns. London is the only place to shop.”

“Ssh,” said Noel, looking anxiously at Mr. Bond. “He’ll hear.”

“I hope he does,” said Richard, “then perhaps he’ll do something about it. I want a map of Buttonshire, and all he says is that if he
has
got one it’ll be among this pile, and I’ve been searching for
simply hours
.”

“Are you going for a riding tour or something?” asked Noel as she began to help look for the map.

“No,” said Richard. “A cycling one, with Michael Thorpington.”

“Gosh,” said Noel, “you are energetic. But what about Rufus? You won’t have much time to school him, will you?”

“I’m not going to be away all that long,” replied Richard
peevishly. “And anyway, I don’t see why I should devote my life to him. I’m not June Cresswell, you know. I have got a few interests beside horses. Anyway, if we do teach the wretched animals all this stuff the Major’s so keen on, they’ll only be mucked up by some feeble beginner; so why waste time?”

“If beginners are properly taught they don’t muck ponies up,” protested Noel indignantly. “Anyhow, the original idea was that the Pony Club members should learn to break and school, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I believe it was
, partly
,” said Richard. “But there was an ulterior motive, don’t you worry. I bet the old Colonel wanted his ponies broken in cheap. But apart from that, if you can ride decently and have average intelligence, you don’t need to be taught breaking and schooling—I mean it’s obvious, there’s nothing in it.”

“I don’t agree with you,” said Noel. “I think there’s a great deal in it. It seems to me that the more one learns about riding the more one finds there is to learn.”

“Oh, well,” said Richard in a patronising voice, “I wasn’t really including you. I mean, to put it quite frankly, you’re not much of a horsewoman, are you? Not that it’s your fault. I dare say that if you could get hold of a decent pony, and if you were to ride for as many years as I have, you’d be quite reasonable. But even then natural ability counts a terrific lot.” Noel felt herself go red with rage. She was filled with an almost overwhelming desire to smack Richard’s pink, self-satisfied face, but she controlled it, and said instead, “The Major seems to think that Susan is good enough to break a pony and she hasn’t been riding more than two years.” Richard looked up in surprise when he heard the angry note in her voice.

“Don’t get in a bait just because I said you weren’t all that good at riding,” he advised. “You weren’t thinking of asking the Major if you could take over Romany, I suppose?” He gave an incredulous laugh, as though the mere thought was out of the question, and added, “My sister might as well try to break—she’s no worse than you.”
Noel didn’t reply. She couldn’t trust her voice, and after a few moments Richard said, “I shall ask my father to get the map in London. I’m not going to waste my time messing about here. Cheerio,” and walked out of the shop.

Noel stood gazing with sightless eyes at
Sunshine Sayings, a book of moral verse by Pansy Paisley
, for at least five minutes after Richard had gone. Her brain whirled furiously in a vicious circle. I’d like to push him in a really stagnant pond, thought some outraged part of her; and she saw the pink face peering through a curtain of slime and the straw-coloured hair festooned with duckweed. Why should he say I’m not good enough to break and school?

Ah, but why get in such a fury when he agrees with you? asked some cooler part of her annoyingly. You know you said you couldn’t ask the Major about Romany because you knew you weren’t a good enough rider.

Yes, but there’s no need for him to rub it in, replied the hot-headed part of her sulkily.

It was a little tactless, certainly, allowed the level-headed part, but nothing to get in a temper about. If you ask me, you had a sneaking feeling that you were good enough, but you won’t admit it for fear of being thought conceited, which, of course, you are.

I’m not, said the hot-headed part angrily.

Well, then, you must be jealous of Richard, because he can ride better than you, suggested the level-headed part coldly.

If I ride as badly as that sack of potatoes I may as well give up, stormed the hot-headed part.

Ah, now we’re getting down to brass tacks, said the cool half in the most irritating manner. You must think you’re good enough to break ponies if you think you ride better than some of the actual horse-breakers.

I didn’t say anything of the sort, replied the heated half, but it’s obvious to any one that . . .

“Can I help you?” asked Mr. Bond in his high crackling voice.

“Oh,” said Noel, jumping; “er—no, I mean—yes. Have you got
From Shetland to Show Hack
, by Colonel Archibald Snake, or
The Lane to Success
, a treatise on training show jumpers, by ‘Clear Round?’ ” Mr. Bond peered round his shop, looking, thought Noel, like a very elderly tortoise, and then said he was afraid he hadn’t either work in stock, but that he would be very pleased to order them. After some thought Noel decided to order
From Shetland to Show Hack
, because “Showman” in his review had said that Colonel Snake’s clearly and concisely written work would be invaluable to both beginner and expert. When Mr. Bond had written down all the particulars and promised to have the book by the end of the following week, Noel walked into the street and continued her argument, gazing at the fascinating confusion of knives and tools in Flaptons’, the ironmongers, window.

It’s no good losing your temper, the cool half of her told the other; you’ve got to face facts. Either you’re jolly conceited and believe you ride well enough to break a pony, or else you’re the sort of person who flies into petty tempers about nothing. Gosh, thought Noel, I can’t go on like this. I shall go raving mad. I’ll have to ask Major Holbrooke about Romany, and that’ll settle it one way or the other. Filled with determination, she glanced at the Town Hall clock, and decided that she just had time to get to Folly Court and back before lunch.

At first Noel walked fast, whistling the “Barcarole” from the
Contes d’Hoffmann
to keep her courage up. But the nearer she drew to Folly Court the slower she walked; and when she reached the Towers she gave up whistling and began to feel cold and sick, as though she was going in for a horse show or some vital exam. As she walked through the tall wrought-iron gates her knees felt weak, but telling herself that it was because she had forgotten to have any elevenses, she walked a few steps up the drive before the last shreds of confidence deserted her. How could she ever have been so utterly crazy as to think she could ride well enough, she asked herself. She imagined the Major’s
scornful laugh and heard him say, Whatever put that fantastic idea into your head? I’m sorry, but I couldn’t dream of it; I’ve got my cousin and the pony to consider, and where Evelyn Radcliffe failed how can
you
hope to succeed?

Oh gosh, thought Noel, stopping dead in her tracks, I’d better go back. But then she thought of Shelley, Van Gogh, Charles Goodyear, and Winston Churchill—they had all had horrid moments and they had all taken the plunge. She walked on, feeling herself grow smaller and smaller under the critical gaze of the eyes, which she was, quite wrongly, sure were looking from the tall Georgian windows of Folly Court. She knocked with the shining brass door-knocker. A tiny muffled sound was borne away on the breeze. She waited. Nothing happened. Of course no one will hear that, she thought, and knocked again. This time it sounded like thunder, and as the noise died away, Jackson, the Holbrookes’ manservant, opened the door.

“Is Major Holbrooke at home, please?” asked Noel, hoping that he wasn’t.

“Yes, Miss,” replied Jackson. “He’s in the stable yard, if you’d care to go round?”

“Yes, I will,” said Noel, cursing fate. “Thank you very much.” With her knees feeling weaker than ever, she crossed the rose garden and walked under the red brick archway into the stable yard.

Major Holbrooke was talking to a tall man in corduroy trousers, whom Noel recognised as Mr. Thomas, the vet.

“Well, thank you very much for coming,” the Major was saying.

“That’s quite all right,” said Mr. Thomas. “I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with her now, but I should certainly keep her on a light diet for a day or two.”

“Good morning, Noel,” said Major Holbrooke as he turned and caught sight of her hovering indecisively in the background.

“Good morning,” replied Noel.

“Well, cheerio,” said Mr. Thomas, and he got into his car and drove down the drive.

“A lovely day, isn’t it?” said Major Holbrooke to Noel, whose mouth had gone dry.

“Yes, it is a lovely day,” she mumbled in agreement as she racked her brain frantically for a way to get on the subject of Romany.

“Southwind has just had a bad attack of colic,” said Major Holbrooke, making conversation while he wondered why Noel had come to see him.

“I hope she’s better now,” said Noel, wishing for an earthquake or an eclipse.

“Yes, she is, thank you,” said Major Holbrooke. “But the routine of the stable has been upset because Blake had to spend most of the night with her, so he has gone to bed now and left me in charge. I was just in the middle of feeding when Thomas came. Have you seen our forage-room? It’s really rather nice,” and, picking up a bucket, he led the way past the saddle-room to the long low building where the forage was kept.

“That’s a very labour-saving device,” he said, pointing at a machine in the corner. “An electric chaff-cutter.”

“I came to ask you if I could have Romany,” said Noel, suddenly taking the plunge. “I mean to school; but I suppose I’m much too bad a rider.” Her voice trailed away, and she stood looking at her feet and wondering why she always did such idiotic things.

“Well, it’s like this, Noel,” said Major Holbrooke slowly as he seated himself on a corn-bin, “officially Romany was sent back because Evelyn let her younger brother and sister ride her, which, quite rightly, she had been forbidden to do, and, as I expect you know, James came off and broke his arm. But, besides this, Dr. Radcliffe told me that he didn’t think Romany was going very well; he said she seemed far too excitable and that it was all Evelyn could do to control her. Now I should imagine that the pony’s been thoroughly hotted up,” the Major went on, “but there’s nothing vicious about her; she’s a very nice-tempered little thing, and,
personally, I think you should be able to manage her. You’ve improved quite a lot lately and you’ve a good deal of horse-sense. You must realise, though, that you’ll have to put a good deal of work into her. It’s not all fun reschooling a spoilt pony—in fact it’s often very disheartening. But if your parents agree, and if you’re quite sure you want to, you can try your hand with Romany.”

“Oh, thanks awfully,” said Noel. “Mummy has already said I can have her if you think that I am a good enough rider. Do you think I am? I don’t want to make her worse.”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” said Major Holbrooke, getting up from the corn-bin. “Have you got a saddle and bridle?”

“No,” said Noel, “not at the moment, but I expect I can acquire them.”

“There’s no need to do that,” said the Major. “I’ve got the tack which belonged to my youngest son’s first pony. I was keeping it for my grandchildren, but it’ll do it good to be used.” When he had fed Gay Crusader and Harmony, Major Holbrooke led the way to the saddle-room, and, from a cupboard, produced a saddle, complete with girths, stirrups and leathers, and a bridle with a rubber snaffle-bit. Then, after collecting a halter and some oats, they walked down to the field where Romany was turned out. She looked lovelier than ever, thought Noel, in spite of being much too fat and covered with mud and grass stains. Her candid brown eyes shone gaily, her absurd mane, half-chestnut and half-white, stood on end, and the neat white star on her otherwise chestnut forehead gave her a very intelligent expression. “She’s grown, hasn’t she?” Noel asked the Major.