Pony Club Team Read online

  “They might,” said Martin sceptically.

  “Ssh,” said David, “I’m going to ask you another; what is a stargazer?”

  “Oh, I know that,” said Christopher. “It’s a horse which sticks its head in the air and looks at the sky. They’re awfully difficult to stop; they bang you on the nose and you have to ride them in martingales.”

  “Good,” said David.

  “Come on,” said Martin. “Surely that’s enough; the trains are all ready and the eleven-two is getting up steam.”

  “One more question,” said David, turning over several pages at once. “How many pounds of oats does a fourteen hand pony, doing regular work, need a day?”

  “Oh gosh, a bucketful,” said Christopher, “but I haven’t an idea how many pounds that would be.”

  “Well, guess,” said David.

  “Hurry up,” added Martin.

  “Three pounds,” guessed Christopher.

  “No,” said David, “this book says, ‘a fourteen-hand pony which is being worked regularly may have from five to eight pounds of oats daily.’ Still I suppose three is better than nothing.”

  “I wonder how many oats Fireworks and Mousie have?” said Christopher. “Not nearly as much as that I’m sure.”

  “We might borrow the kitchen scales and weigh them to-night,” suggested David.

  * * *

  “Oh, do stop bothering me about that stupid test, Mummy,” said June Cresswell. “I’m sure that I know enough for it since Major Holbrooke said that Noel and Susan and John were good enough to try.”

  “Now, June dear, do listen a moment to what I have to say,” said Mrs. Cresswell, a sharp-featured woman with severely waved iron-grey hair. “I’m quite satisfied that your riding is well above the standard required; you know more about hunting than most of the Associates, whatever airs they may put on, but it’s your stable management, my pet, that worries me, for Wilson does the greater part of your stable work, but some of those children have to do every bit themselves and that gives them an advantage.”

  “Oh, Mummy, how can you be so silly?” asked June. “What they do isn’t stable management. They just drag their common muddy animals in and out of the field, brush them with a dandy brush and throw them a bit of hay in the winter. They don’t know anything about looking after a pony properly; they’ve hardly ever seen rugs and bandages.”

  “Well, perhaps you’re right, my dear,” said Mrs. Creswell, “but you can’t trust them; you know how they tried to do you down at the gymkhana last year; I really think that you should read the chapter on first aid in the veterinary book and ask Hodges to give you a few tips on shoeing.”

  “Hodges doesn’t know anything,” replied June. “You know he said that Glory had thin soles and flat feet.”

  * * *

  “I don’t think our theory’s too bad,” said Roger Radcliffe, sitting on the edge of the stable water butt, “but has any one an idea how to put on leg bandages?”

  “Not a clue,” replied Evelyn, who was lying on a patch of grass nearby. “Anyway I think it’s a jolly silly thing to ask Pony Club members to do, because ponies never need their legs bandaged — it’s only thoroughbred weeds with no bone.”

  “Oh, Evelyn,” said Hilary, “don’t you remember the rally at the end of the Christmas holidays after Roger had gone back to school? Blake — you know, the Major’s stud groom — showed us how to put them on and explained their different uses.”

  “1 remember the rally vaguely,” said Evelyn, rolling over on her back, “it was frightfully dull; only the earnest people like you and Noel listened, Christopher stuck a pin into Susan and the Frenches were fooling about; they always do of course, unless the Major’s there to keep them in order.”

  “Well, there were exercise bandages,” said Hilary. “Those were for support, rather the same idea as wearing a strap round one’s wrist for tennis. The actual bandages were the same as tail bandages and one put them on as tightly as possible over cotton wool. They only covered the cannon bone, but the stable bandages — which were made of a sort of woolly flannel, as far as I remember — were put on very loosely with no cotton wool and they began right up by the knee or hock and went right over the fetlock and back up the leg again. They were to be used on horses with clipped legs, for drying wet legs after hunting and on horses that were ill. There’s probably lots more that I’ve forgotten,” she went on, “so we’d better look it up somewhere.”

  “I suppose that we could practise both kinds with tail bandages,” said Roger, “unless Doc’s got a flannel bandage that would do in the surgery. I’ll go and try for cotton wool anyway. I’m frightfully hungry,” he went on as he got down from the water butt. “You might see if you can persuade Hunty to give us some ‘elevenses,’ Jim; you know you’re the best at managing her.”

  “O.K.,” said James. “What does everyone want? Bread and cheese?”

  * * *

  Dick Hayward, brown-haired and brown-eyed and small for his age, which was sixteen, walked out of his black and white Elizabethan house and down a gravelled path between clipped yew hedges, to the field where Crispin, his seventeen-year-old pony, was turned out. Dick wasn’t bothering about “B” test because he had passed it the summer holidays before last, when Miss Mitchell had been running the Pony Club; but, he decided, he might as well ride over to Folly Court on Tuesday. Pony Club rallies were always good value and he had missed the last one because it had been his coaching day. If he ever finished being crammed for the school certificate, thought Dick, he would re-read all his horsy books and have a shot at “A” test. As he crossed the field he decided that now he would put Crispin in the stable, away from the flies, and after tea, when it would be cooler, he would go for his favourite ride; along the Roman road, down Stark Dyke and home by the Hogshill bridle path and the main road.

  * * *

  “It’s ridiculous,” said Brigadier Hemlock-Jones angrily, “I don’t know what this fella Holbrooke’s thinking of. I don’t pay a man so that you shall spend your time looking after those horses, bandaging and tack cleaning and the whole bally business. How’s White to occupy himself while you’re doing all the work, may I ask?”

  “But, Daddy darling,” said Merry in her most soothing voice, “it isn’t Major Holbrooke, it’s the Pony Club, which sets the tests, and only the weeniest bit of it’s on stable management; the rest’s riding and how to behave in the hunting field.”

  “Well, they ought to fail the lot on their hunting manners,” said the Brigadier firmly. “I’ve never seen such a lot of wretched little thrusters, never in my life; can’t move for ’em.”

  “Oh, Daddy, you know you said that John Manners opened three gates for you when they met at Sledgers last season.”

  “And so he ought, so he ought,” answered the Brigadier, slightly squashed.

  “Well, darling, if I ever have a groom of my own I shan’t be able to tell him where he’s wrong if I don’t know how things should be done.”

  “Always employ a first-class man and trust him implicitly,” answered the Brigadier and then he added, “Well, run along and play at stable boy, if you must, my dear; I’ve got some important letters to write.”

  “Thank you, Daddy,” said Merry, as she left the room. She changed her shoes for jodhpur boots and put on her perfectly tailored second best riding coat and then she hurried out to the stables.

  “Hullo, darlings,” she said to Quaver, her brown half-bred gelding and Crotchet, her chestnut three-quarter-bred mare. “Good morning, White,” she said to her father’s groom. “I want you to teach me how to rug up, bandage and clean tack; I’m going to take the Pony Club ‘B’ test next week.”

  * * *

  “Pass?” said Mr. Barington-Brown to Susan, “not likely. You’ve got a head like a sieve, you have, in one ear — out the other; you’ll be bottom, that’s where you’ll be.”

  “Oh, Daddy, how can you?” said Susan. “I’ve got the needle badly enough now, without you making me
worse. Anyway, I don’t think that I shall quite be bottom because Christopher Minton’s going in for it and he hasn’t even taken ‘C’ yet.”

  “Well, I tell you what,” said Mr. Barington-Brown, “if you pass this test I’ll get you a couple of them posh rugs with your initials in the corner — like the Major has. One for Beauty and one for this new pony.”

  “Oh goody,” said Susan and then she added, “Oh dear, but I’m sure that I shan’t pass.”

  2

  The ordeal was over; everyone had been examined. The examiners, Mrs. Hornsey, a hard woman to hounds, Captain Barton, an equitation expert, and Colonel Shellbourne, Major Holbrooke’s cousin Harry, had pocketed their notebooks, filled with fateful marks and were eating a delicious lunch in the long white Georgian dining-room of Folly Court.

  The ponies had been watered and, tied to the iron railings, were eating their feeds; the Pony Club members sat or sprawled in the shade of an oak and discussed the examiners, the questions and who was likely to have passed.

  “They weren’t too bad,” said John Manners, with his mouth full of cheese sandwich. “At least, they weren’t as bad as I expected, but after all the trouble I took to learn about shoeing all they asked was how to tell when a pony needed new shoes; that was one of the questions when I took ‘C’. I expected to be asked something about featheredge shoes or pritchels or rolled toes.”

  “Thank goodness we weren’t. I made some frightful bloomers as it was,” said Christopher Minton gaily. “Honestly, I was a complete idiot, I said that a fourteen-hand pony needed eight pounds of food a day; I muddled it up with how many oats he was to have.”

  “I forgot where the gaskin was, but of course I’ve remembered now,” said Susan. “That’s just like me, and my stable bandages were terribly lumpy.”

  “The cotton wool kept slipping from under my exercise ones,” said Noel.

  “I tied the tapes on the tendons; Colonel Shellbourne ticked me off about it,” said Virginia Freeman.

  “And me,” said Valentine Dale.

  “I couldn’t remember why horses wore bandages at all,” said Mary Compton.

  “Oh, Mary,” said June in rather a scornful voice. “Surely you couldn’t forget a thing like that?”

  “Well, I did,” said Mary, reddening slightly.

  “I forgot everything,” said Noel tactfully. “At least, I knew it really, but I couldn’t explain it properly — I’m sure I haven’t passed.”

  “Nor have I,” said a chorus of voices.

  “I was hopeless at adjusting the double bridle,” said Roger Radcliffe, “but I did remember the difference between splints and spavins.”

  “So I should hope,” said Evelyn.

  “The riding part looked fairly easy,” said Dick, who had been in charge of the jump all morning.

  “It wasn’t bad,” said Susan, “but I expect I cantered on the wrong leg and didn’t notice! What did you say for the aids for turning at the trot, Noel?” she asked.

  “Just the usual,” answered Noel, “you know — sit down, left rein, right leg and weight to the left.”

  “Gosh, I didn’t say anything about sitting down,” said John.

  “And I forgot all about leaning to the left,” said Christopher. “Well, that settles it; I’m dead certain I haven’t passed now.”

  “So am I,” groaned Susan.

  “The Major’ll be put out if none of us have passed,” said John.

  “I’m sure that we can’t all have failed,” said June Cresswell.

  “No, of course we can’t,” agreed Evelyn.

  “I don’t know,” said Noel thoughtfully; “they asked such easy questions they probably expected very accurate answers.”

  “They didn’t get much accuracy from me,” said Christopher, “but they were jolly decent — they gave me lots of hints.”

  “Here they are,” said Susan. “Oh dear, I do feel awful.”

  “Prepare yourselves for the worst, everyone,” said Roger.

  “Cross your fingers,” advised Christopher.

  “They look in good tempers, anyway,” remarked Noel.

  The children got to their feet, brushing the grass from their clothes and pushing their hair out of their eyes, as the grown-ups approached, Colonel Shellbourne in the lead carrying the results. The Colonel told the members to gather round and then, having cleared his throat, he began, “I’m very glad to tell you, very glad indeed, that everyone has passed.”

  “Gosh,” said the Pony Club members, looking at each other in surprise. Susan saw two ponies in elegant day rugs. John thought that with the ten shillings his father had promised him he would be able to afford a new bridle for Turpin. June thought, there, I told Mummy I should pass; she was a fool making me read that stupid book, even Christopher’s passed. I expect I shall be top, but it depends whether they give a lot of marks for riding.

  Noel thought, Hurray, and thank goodness that’s over, and Christopher thought Gosh! won’t David and Martin be surprised? Roger thought, thank heavens, Evelyn thought, I knew we would, and Hilary, I hope we’ve all got about the same marks.

  “There were two or three rather near squeaks,” Colonel Shellbourne went on. “I’ll begin with the scraped throughs and work up the list. Virginia Freeman, Valentine Dale, Mary Compton, Christopher Minton, Merry Hemlock-Jones. Then we have a batch of people in the sixties — it’s out of one hundred marks — June Cresswell, Susan Barington-Brown, Evelyn Radcliffe, and then four of you who attained a really excellent standard: they were John Manners, Noel Kettering, Roger and Hilary Radcliffe. We really were delighted with you four; you obviously had both your riding theory and your stable management at your fingertips. I must add,” the Colonel went on, “that I think it very creditable that you should all pass and, on behalf of my fellow examiners and myself, I wish to congratulate you all on a really excellent show and, of course, Major Holbrooke for the way he has taught you. You must feel proud of them, George.”

  “Well, actually,” said Major Holbrooke, looking rather ill-humoured, “I’m not at all proud of them. They’re quite nice children and they ride quite nicely, but they’re not horsemen yet. I’ve spent the last week trying to think of a way to improve your riding,” he went on, turning and speaking to the members, “and now I have a plan. I want to find from six to twelve really keen people prepared to devote a fortnight of their holidays to improving themselves and their ponies. I propose to turn the ponies out here and my wife will put up one or two members if necessary. We will ride every morning, and sometimes for a short time in the afternoons — that’ll mean picnic lunches — everyone will be expected to look after his own pony and clean his own tack. We shall do a certain amount of jumping and hacking, but most of our time will be devoted to dressage; that is, ordinary schooling done with far greater precision and accuracy than is usual, particularly with this Pony Club.

  “Now I don’t expect any answers today; you must, of course, all ask your parents their views, but we shall start on Monday week.”

  “Think of it,” said Evelyn, as she rode away from Folly Court, “a fortnight’s schooling. Georgie Holbrooke must be stark staring mad if he thinks any one will go.”

  “I don’t know so much about that,” said Roger. “I think it sounds rather interesting: it will improve Sky Pilot anyway.”

  “Get him behind the bit, you mean,” said Evelyn.

  “I should like to go,” said Hilary, “but it’s going to be a bit awkward over ponies. Rocket can’t be expected to carry me every day for a fortnight.” She patted her chestnut of thirteen hands as she spoke; he had been her pupil in the days of the horse breakers and Dr. Radcliffe had bought him from Colonel Shellbourne.

  “Well, I’ve already said that I don’t want to go, so you can have Northwind if you want him,” said Evelyn, “but don’t blame me if he’s completely ruined by this beastly dressage.”

  “It seems rather mean to leave you with only the little ponies to ride,” said Hilary, “but, anyway, we’
d better ask the parents before we begin to make plans.”

  * * *

  I do hope that Dad will let me, thought John, riding home along the shaded winding road to Lower Basset, but we shall be harvesting, I suppose, and I know what that means. There’s always tons to do. If I’m not actually carting I shall be doing all the jobs which no one else has got time to do. Anyway, Dad thinks dressage is silly. He’ll say it’s “high falutin’ ” or one of the Major’s fads. Still, he ought to be in a good temper to-night, now that I’ve passed ‘B’ test.

  * * *

  I shall go, thought Susan with certainty as she rode past the dusty shrubbery to the stables. Everyone will be glad to get rid of me for so much of each day. Bob, the gardener’s boy — fair-haired and freckled was waiting to take Beauty. “Your mother said you was to ’urry in,” he said.

  Susan, hurrying into the ugly red brick house with the pepper pot turrets at either end, thought, of course it’ll be dull without Noel, but I expect I shall know some of the others.

  * * *

  Noel, riding down Long Lane to Russet Cottage, felt furious and miserable at the same time. Why did Major Holbrooke have to arrange the dressage course for the very fortnight her family were going away? Why did her father have to lecture on fossils and mummies and Egyptian habits B.C.? She, the only Pony Club member who really cared about dressage, was to miss everything; fate was beastly, she decided, and she felt that she hated everyone.

  * * *

  When Christopher had finished letting off steam, as he called it, by sliding down the banisters, shrieking at the top of his voice and wrestling with both his brothers at once on the hall floor, he got up and pushing his fair hair, which persisted in being curly, despite all his attempts to flatten it with water, out of his eyes, he said, “Of course, I’m not nearly good enough to learn dressage, but I may as well ask old Holbrooke; after all, he can’t kill me, can he?”