Pony Club Team Read online

  Pony Club Team

  Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  Contents

  Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  One Day Event

  Also available from Jane Badger Books

  THE NOEL AND HENRY SERIES

  Six Ponies

  Pony Club Team

  The Radney Riding Club

  One Day Event

  Pony Club Camp

  * * *

  All available from Jane Badger Books

  Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  A Short Biography

  Born in 1924, the eldest of the three Pullein-Thompson sisters (the others being the slightly younger twins, Diana and Christine), Josephine grew up in a somewhat bohemian household in Oxfordshire. With her sisters, she wrote several short stories and ran a riding school before firmly establishing herself as a writer. It Began with Picotee was the sisters’ first novel, published in 1946, and was written jointly by all three although they wrote individually from then on. At first, most notable for being the daughters of Joanna Cannan, a prolific writer whose work included children’s pony books and crime fiction, the sisters soon became well known as writers in their own right.

  Josephine went on to write over thirty novels. Most are children’s books in the pony books genre that the sisters dominated in the post-war period, although she also wrote some detective novels and non-fiction. She lived in London and was active in the English Centre of International PEN, the writers' organisation which campaigns for authors’ freedoms under authoritarian or tyrannical regimes. Josephine Pullein-Thompson died in 2014.

  * * *

  Vanessa Robertson

  1

  The rally was over. The Pony Club members rode down the two long gravelled drives away from Folly Court. The five red-headed Radcliffes, the three Minton boys — two on ponies and one riding a bicycle — and June Cresswell, were the only members to take the drive which led to the Hogshill road. The Radcliffes, all talking at the tops of their voices, were in front.

  “I thought it was a jolly good rally,” said James, the youngest Radcliffe present.

  “Well, you haven’t been to as many as we have,” said Evelyn, one of the fourteen year old twins. “When you have you won’t be so keen on them; all this schooling gets jolly boring, I can tell you.”

  “I hate it,” said Margaret, “and so does Pixie. I do think Major Holbrooke might let us have some races for a change.”

  “Oh, you’re never satisfied,” said Hilary, the other twin. “Surely we did enough jumping to please you today?”

  “It wasn’t bad,” answered Margaret. “But he never lets us have a jumping competition; you just go on and on going over the same potty little jumps.”

  “If you jumped them decently he might let you try something higher,” Roger, the eldest of the Radcliffes, told her.

  “Well, at least I don’t fall off all the time like the Mintons,” answered Margaret.

  “Ssh,” said James, for the Mintons were close behind.

  “You would if you had to ride Fireworks or Mousie,” said Hilary.

  “And it’s better to fall off than to look like a windmill,” added Roger.

  “All the same I agree with Marga,” said Evelyn. “It’s time Georgie Holbrooke thought of something besides this eternal schooling — it’s all right for the little ones, but the rest of us know the whole business by heart.”

  * * *

  “I disgraced myself today,” said Christopher Minton to his two brothers, David and Martin. “Three times is a record for one rally, I should think. You are an old devil,” he added, patting Fireworks, a black gelding of about fourteen hands.

  “Mousie was pretty good for her,” said David, “and Major Holbrooke said that her backing had improved.”

  “She jumped well too,” said Martin.

  “A lot of people fell off, didn’t they?” said Christopher. “Noel Kettering and Pat French and me and Simon and that new girl on the big brown horse.”

  “And Virginia Freeman,” said David.

  “Do get that bicycle out of the way,” interrupted a peevish voice from behind them. “I know Golden Glory’s going to tread on it if you keep twisting about in front of her and I don’t want her blemished.”

  “Look out David; you’d better let June come past,” said Christopher to his younger brother.

  “Your horse walks too fast for us,” he said politely to June.

  “Of course she does,” answered June. “Any decent horse can walk faster than a pony and one of the judges at the Barsetshire Agricultural Show said that Glory had an exceptionally long stride, even for a thoroughbred.”

  “That girl gets me down,” remarked Christopher when June was out of hearing.

  Four of the pupils from the Basset Riding School led the way down the drive to the Brampton-Lower Basset road. They were clattering along at a fast trot, which would have horrified Mrs. Maxton — the owner of the school — had she seen them, and which shocked Noel Kettering, John Manners and Susan Barington-Brown, who followed some distance behind.

  “Gosh, what a pace!” said John. “Are they trying to catch a train?”

  “Poor ponies,” said Susan. “What can their legs be like?”

  “The Frenches have no imagination,” said Noel. “They think ponies are soulless objects like bicycles, and Virginia and Jean copy them like sheep.”

  “Well, no one with any sense rides a bicycle full speed over sharp stones,” said John.

  “The Major wasn’t in a very good temper today, was he?” said Susan.

  “No, filthy,” agreed John. “Everyone was being ticked off right and left.”

  “I’m not surprised considering the crowd we had today,” said Noel. “There were more than twenty people and it must be awfully difficult when they range from Martin Minton and James Radcliffe to Anthony Rate and that new girl, who are practically grown up. It’s not like it was last summer when none of us knew anything, now we’re all at different stages.”

  “It’s quite true,” said John, “and it would be much more fun without all these little ones; like it was in the days of the horse-breakers.” Noel thought of the summer holidays the year before when she and John and Susan had been breaking in three of Major Holbrooke’s cousin’s New Forest ponies. She patted her grey pony Sonnet, which had been her prize as the best horse-breaker. “That was fun,” she said, “but of course there were only six of us.”

  “I wish we could do something like that again,” said John.

  “I wish we could have a Pony Club camp,” said Susan, “other branches do.”

  “The Radcliffes asked the Major,” said John, pulling up Dick Turpin, his roan cob, for now they had reached the road, “and he said that they could have as many camps as they liked if they found someone to organise them, but that he wasn’t qualified to see that we cleaned our teeth and changed our wet socks and that when he put up tents they always fell down.”

  “He is a defeatist,” said Noel.

  “I do wish there was someone nice who would run a camp,” said Susan. “I should love to sleep out and I’m never allowed to at home.”

  “Why on earth not?” asked John.

  “Oh, Mummy’s fussy,” answered Susan.

  “Well, good-bye,” said John. “See you at this test day business on Tuesday. I’m sure I shan’t pass ‘B’ but my Father’s promised me ten shillings if I do, so I’m going to make superhuman efforts.”
r />   “Of course you’ll pass,” said Susan, and Noel asked, “Why did you have to remind me? Now I’ve got the needle.”

  “Oh, Noel, you can’t have,” said Susan as they turned towards Brampton.

  “You always say that,” said Noel, “but I have got it, honestly. Beauty jumped jolly well today,” she went on, looking at Susan’s brown pony. “I wish that Sonnet was better, but I do think she’s improving. It takes such ages to school a horse.” She sighed, “I don’t think she’ll be ready for the gymkhana,” she said.

  “That’s ages away,” said Susan, “surely she’ll be good enough by then.”

  “But I’ve got to go away on this beastly expedition of Daddy’s,” said Noel. “Waste a whole fortnight while he lectures on Egyptian relics or something. I’m fed up, I can tell you.”

  “Oh dear,” said Susan, “and Daddy says I’m too big for Beauty. It’s really Mummy’s fault; she’s getting a bit horsy at last and she keeps telling Daddy that I look a sight on Beauty. But I’m not going to sell her, I’ve made that quite clear, I’m going to go on riding her a bit and lend her to friends occasionally and next year I might breed from her.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Noel.

  “Are you coming over to school to-morrow?” asked Susan, when she reached the gate of her house — Basset Towers.

  “No, I don’t think so,” answered Noel. “Sonnet had better have a rest. She’s had a fairly strenuous time today and she’s only a five-year-old and not at all fit.”

  “Well, I’ll come over to Russet Cottage then,” said Susan. “I want you to ask me some questions; I’m sure I don’t know enough stable management for ‘B’ test.”

  “O.K.” said Noel.

  * * *

  A long way behind the other Pony Club members rode Anthony and Felicity Rate; they were holding Tinker and Topper back on short tight reins and at intervals they tried to persuade the two sweating, sidling animals to walk with sharp cries of “whoa,” “stop it” and “walk can’t you?”

  “I could drink six glasses of lemonade,” said Simon Wentwood, catching up with Noel.

  Major and Mrs. Holbrooke were having tea in the garden at Folly Court. The Major swallowed his fifth egg sandwich and handed his empty cup to his wife for some more tea. “This weather’s far too hot for Pony Club rallies,” he said, “those children have nearly killed me.”

  “You had a lot today, didn’t you?” asked Mrs. Holbrooke. “I only watched from the windows — I steered clear of the paddock because I felt in no mood for mothers — but there seemed to be dozens of children.”

  “Yes, dozens,” agreed the Major, “and all equally hopeless.”

  “Oh, George, how can you?” said his wife. “You know that you’ve got a few children who are very good indeed and an extremely high general standard of riding. Your cousin Harry’s always telling you … ”

  “Harry’s a fool,” interrupted Major Holbrooke. “Just because the standard of riding is higher here than in some pony clubs, he thinks we should all pat ourselves on the back and relax. He doesn’t realise that it’s not nearly high enough; that, taking England as a whole, the standard is disgracefully low, especially considering our opportunities. The fact of the matter is that there are far too many mediocre riders about and that, either by having good horses or by rising the smallest fraction above the average, anyone can win a quite unwarrantable number of prizes. Then they think ‘I’m wonderful’ and they never bother to improve themselves or their horses any further. Yet half of them haven’t the faintest idea what a well-schooled horse feels like and they simply don’t appreciate the finer points of riding.”

  “I’m sure it’s not as bad as that,” said Mrs. Holbrooke.

  “Well, look at our Pony Club,” said the Major. “Just because those children can pass and back rein and turn from the halt, make their ponies canter on a given leg and do what they think is changing legs, you and Harry and all of them think they can ride. None of you realise the enormous difference between executing these few simple movements and executing them with the precision and accuracy and the science and the skill which constitutes horsemanship. Half the world can draw but how many of them are artists? What these children don’t realise,” he went on, “is that any one, who is properly taught, can reach the stage which they have, but that it is only by their own effort and energy that they will go beyond it.”

  “But you can’t expect everyone to take riding as seriously as you do,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “After all, there are tennis and swimming and team games, there are the theatre and the cinema and a hundred other amusements to fill the meagre time left to the modern child by school and homework.”

  “Well, there’s a certain responsibility in having a horse or pony,” said the Major. “You can’t treat it like a tennis racket and if they’re going to ride they must leave out a few of the other amusements and take it seriously.”

  “I don’t see how you’re going to persuade them to do that,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. The Major helped himself to a slice of chocolate cake.

  “If I could get hold of a few of the very keen ones,” he said thoughtfully, “and give them some really concentrated instruction for about a week or ten days, I believe that I could show them what real riding is like and then, afterwards, they would always have something at which to aim.”

  “Well, if it’s only a week or ten days you want them for, why on earth don’t you have them?” asked Mrs. Holbrooke.

  “Have them?” said the Major. “But my dear Carol, the keen members are scattered all over Barsetshire and I can’t teach dressage to children mounted on unfit ponies, which have already hacked seven or eight miles.”

  “Can’t we have the ponies to stay?” suggested Mrs. Holbrooke. “And the children, too, for that matter. It would be rather fun; this place has been much too quiet lately.”

  “There certainly wouldn’t be any quiet if we had half the Pony Club staying here,” said the Major, “and I don’t suppose much of the place would be left standing either.”

  “They’d be nice friends for Henry,” said Mrs. Holbrooke. “I suppose that you’ve forgotten that your nephew is coming to stay for three weeks?”

  “Oh heavens! I had forgotten,” said the Major. “I suppose I shall have to find something for him to ride. Well, I’ll think over this mad scheme of yours and I might sound the members at the test day next week.”

  * * *

  The industry among the members of the West Barsetshire Pony Club was quite exceptional during the week-end before test day. Everyone seemed to be borrowing books on stable management from everyone else and then persuading their brothers, sisters, friends or parents to ask them the points of the horse or questions about splints and spavins.

  “A horse’s temperature in health is between 99 degrees and 101 degrees,” muttered Noel as she collected an apple and a halter with which to catch Sonnet. “Young horses and thoroughbreds have higher temperatures than ordinary horses. There are two kinds of colic; spasmodic and flatulent,” she murmured as she climbed the gate into Farmer Trent’s forty-acre meadow where Sonnet was turned out. I’m sure I shall fail, she thought, as she walked towards the four chestnut trees, under which Sonnet always sheltered on hot days.

  Noel’s heart filled, as always, with love and pride when her little grey mare whinnied and appeared from the shadow of the trees. Sonnet might not be a show pony but with her finely made head, which had a faintly Arabian look about it, her kind eye, dappled coat and darker mane and tail, she was everything that Noel desired. One day she would be a good jumper and really well-schooled, but at the moment life was rather disheartening; it seemed that when at last the term with its prep and netball matches was over, one’s parents merely dragged one away from one’s pony to go on a beastly lecturing tour. Noel rode Sonnet back across the field and put her into the portable loose-box, which Professor Kettering had bought for her when he had been paid the royalties on his book about Egypt. Then fetching The Complete Horsem
aster, which John Manners had loaned her, Noel settled down under an apple tree in the garden. “Laminitis or fever of the feet is an inflamed condition of the fleshy leaves beneath the wall of the hoof and covering the coffin bone,” read Noel.

  Down at Lower Basset Farm John Manners shut his book with an angry bang. He was fed up with buffers and rasps and pincers and pritchels; his head felt stuffy and his eyes ached; he was sure that he knew less about shoeing than when he had begun to swot it up. He would take Turpin for a ride before lunch, he decided, a ride with a gallop so that he could forget all about test day. After all it would be quite bad enough when he failed the exam, without ruining his life beforehand. For once Turpin was in a field close to the farm so it didn’t take long to bring him into the stable, which he shared with two cart horses. No risen clenches, thought John, looking at his shoes, and I see Hodges shod you with rolled toes behind.

  * * *

  In the schoolroom at Fenchurch House, David was testing Christopher. “Another name for the second thigh?” he asked.

  “Oh gosh,” said Christopher, who was sitting on the big scrubbed deal table, “don’t say I’ve forgotten that again. Oh gosh,” he went on, hunching himself up and resting his head on his knees, “you know, I have.”

  “Gaskin, you fathead,” said David, and Martin who was crawling about on the floor setting out their jointly owned railway said, “You’ll never pass ‘B’.”

  “No, I haven’t the ghost of a chance,” agreed Christopher, “but I expect I shall get ‘C’, everyone says that it’s superly easy; anyway, I may as well have a shot at ‘B’, after all the examiners might be mad.”