Pony Club Team Read online

  “He’ll probably swear at you and call you a conceited puppy like Sir Charles Dent did at the Boxing Day meet last year,” said David.

  “Oh, well, I can take it,” said Christopher.

  Merry Hemlock-Jones, riding quietly home along the road with her reins hanging loosely on Quaver’s neck, thought, it might be amusing. After all there’s nothing to do at home and Forbeson could certainly drive me over in the car each morning. It would be nice to escape White’s watchful eye and she would be able to wear her new jodhs or perhaps her breeches and boots and the dark blue coat which she kept for horse shows. She saw herself, tall, slim, long-legged and perfectly dressed on Quaver, looking well-bred and beautifully schooled; she imagined them making a half-pass in full view of the admiring Pony Club and an entranced Major Holbrooke. I must get round Daddy, decided Merry.

  * * *

  They must let me go to this, thought Dick Hayward, trotting Crispin along the grass verge of the Gunston road. I can’t spend all my life being coached and they wouldn’t let me be one of the horse breakers. If I could only learn all about dressage I shall be able to save my allowance when I’m at Oxford — if I ever get there — to buy a young horse and school him properly. As far as I can see that’s the only way I shall ever get another horse for I won’t part with you, old man, he thought, patting Crispin. It’s a good thing I’m small for my age; it would be frightful if I suddenly shot up.

  * * *

  “But it isn’t as though there’s a prize or anything,” protested June sullenly.

  “You never know, the Major might suddenly decide to award one,” suggested Mrs. Cresswell, “but apart from that you must do as the others do, my pet, or you’ll find yourself left out of things and you know that you wouldn’t like that.”

  “I wouldn’t care,” said June, “I hate all of them.”

  “Now don’t be silly, my dear,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “even if you don’t care for them now it will be different when you’re older and there are dances and cocktail parties. I shall ring up Major Holbrooke to-morrow and ask for full particulars; he must realise that Glory’s a valuable mare and can’t be turned out with a crowd of common ponies. Mr. Barington-Brown rang up while you were out,” Mrs. Cresswell went on. “He’s coming to see Wonder to-morrow.”

  “I hope you asked a good lot for her,” said June disagreeably.

  * * *

  Mary Compton thought, you wouldn’t catch me going to do dressage, or whatever it’s called, every day; all the others are horse mad. Anyway I can’t stand the Major, he’s always shouting at someone.

  It never entered the heads of Valentine Dale and Virginia Freeman that either of them could learn dressage. They never won anything at gymkhanas and when they hunted they rode at the back of the field with the elderly farmers, carefully avoiding all the jumps and going home at half-past two whether the hounds were running or not. Now they felt very content for they had exceeded their wildest expectations in passing ‘B’ test even though it had been rather a near thing.

  “My dear George, you’ll ruin their riding,” said Colonel Shellbourne to Major Holbrooke, “it’s such a pity; such a terrible mistake. They’re grand kids and fine little horsemen, but dressage, dressage, my dear fellow, it’s absurd; it’s the action of a madman. I do beg of you to reconsider the matter before it’s too late.”

  “Now look here, Harry,” said Major Holbrooke angrily, “we’ve had all this out before and it doesn’t get us anywhere. You’ve seen some of our children ride today and you know most of the others; if you care to come down again at the end of the fortnight’s dressage I shall be very pleased and if you don’t think that their riding has improved, I shall be very much surprised.”

  “What’s the use of being surprised when the ponies are all behind the bit and the children have turned into a lot of niggling little pokers?” demanded Colonel Shellbourne.

  “They won’t,” said Major Holbrooke. “You’re talking nonsense, Harry.”

  “Well, of all the obstinate, mulish, blockheaded fellows,” spluttered Colonel Shellbourne. “Damn it, man,” he roared suddenly, “I bet you ten pounds those children don’t ride as well when you’ve finished with your silly footlin’ circus tricks, as they do now.”

  “Take him on, George,” advised Captain Barton, who was having tea with the Holbrookes. “You’ll win.”

  “I don’t often bet,” said Major Holbrooke, “but I admit this is tempting. Can you afford to lose a tenner, Harry? And who is to decide whether the children ride better or worse?”

  “I shan’t lose it,” said Colonel Shellbourne, “so you needn’t worry about that and, tell you what, George, there are some Pony Club hunter trials near my place on Saturday the eighteenth. You bring the kids and their ponies down, I’ll put ’em up, and they can enter. It’s a nice little course and we’ll soon see what your dressage business has done to them. Both of us are man enough to admit it if we’re in the wrong.”

  “Right you are,” said Major Holbrooke.

  * * *

  It was Sunday. A hot summer Sunday with a breeze which just stirred the trees and prevented the day from becoming too hot. The sky was clear bright blue and seemed to promise another fine day to follow; the birds were singing and the bees were busy among the flowers.

  Most of the Pony Club members were having tea in their gardens. At the Priory the Radcliffes had laid their table under the big cedar on the lawn and now they were all eating bread, butter and honey and Mrs. Hunt’s special fruit cake and talking with their mouths full. At intervals they leapt to their feet to prevent Andrew, who wasn’t quite a year old, from eating a daisy or pulling the tails of Roly and Poly, their dachshunds.

  “I’ve only got to whiten the lining of Northwind’s saddle now,” said Hilary, “and then I’m ready, except for cleaning my shoes and brushing my crash cap.”

  “Oh lord, I’d forgotten my shoes,” said Roger, “and Sky Pilot’s saddle isn’t nearly clean yet, at least not by the Folly Court standard.”

  “Gosh,” said Evelyn, “what a fuss about a few days of dreary dressage. Honestly, I think you people have taken leave of your senses.”

  “So do I,” said Marga.

  “I’m sure you don’t want the name of Radcliffe disgraced by dirty tack,” said Hilary. “It’ll be quite peaceful once we’ve got the ponies at Folly Court.”

  “I don’t know so much about that,” said Roger, “there won’t be any frenzied tack cleaning, but what about the bicycles? You know what beasts they are; I shall be trying to put Scorpion’s chain on and you’ll be pumping furiously. By the way, which are you going to ride?”

  “Satan,” answered Hilary; “his bell doesn’t work, but his brakes aren’t quite so bad as Spitfire’s.”

  “If Spitfire’s bell works, I’ll put it on Satan for you,” offered Roger.

  “That would be marvellous,” said Hilary.

  “Margaret, there’s a perfectly good jam spoon,” said Dr. Radcliffe, noticing that his youngest daughter was helping herself to jam with her own knife.

  “It only makes more washing up,” said Margaret crossly, as she used the spoon.

  “I must say I think it’s extremely good of your Major Holbrooke to put up all these ponies,” said Dr. Radcliffe. “I only hope he knows what he’s letting himself in for when he undertakes to have a crowd of children there all day.”

  “He ought to,” said Mrs. Radcliffe, who, like her children, had red hair, “after all, he’s got three sons himself.”

  “He’s probably forgotten what they were like as children,” said the Doctor, “but anyway,” he went on, looking at Roger and Hilary, “do try to behave decently and don’t treat his garden as you do this one.”

  “I do wish I could go,” said James.

  “’Ware Andrew,” shrieked Mrs. Radcliffe, “he’s eating gravel.”

  * * *

  The Hemlock-Jones’s lawn was much tidier than the Radcliffe’s. There were no daisies growing in the bright
green turf, because the Brigadier employed three first-class gardeners and expected them to keep the garden in perfect order, so daisies were ruthlessly pulled up or poisoned with weedkiller wherever they appeared. Their tea table was much tidier too, it hadn’t been inefficiently laid by Marga and James with all the knives on the left side, no one had spilt the milk or dropped the honey spoon, no one thought of talking with their mouth full. Merry sat between her mother, who was tall, grey-haired and gracious — the sort of person who opens bazaars and sits on committees — and Mr. Bransome, a friend of her father’s, who had come to tea. They had been talking about the iniquities of the Government and now the Brigadier asked Mr. Bransome, “Do you know that mad fellow, Holbrooke?”

  “George Holbrooke, the Master of the West Barsetshire, do you mean?” asked Mr. Bransome. “No, I’ve never met him.”

  “Had a very good war, and all that,” said the Brigadier, “but he’s not quite my line of country. He’s mad keen on this Pony Club business and now he’s running a dressage course, whatever that may be. Anyway the upshot of it is that this young lady’s off to-morrow morning at nine. Rides her horse to Folly Court, keeps the animal there for ten days and only reappears in the evenings herself.”

  “I’m so looking forward to it,” said Merry enthusiastically. “I’m sure it’s going to be wonderful fun.”

  “I do hope that a sandwich luncheon every day won’t give you indigestion, darling,” said her mother. “I must tell Forbeson to make sure you have both your sandwiches and your mackintosh each day.”

  “I’ve told White to pack up a huge parcel of things for Quaver,” said Merry, “and he’s marked all his brushes so that they can’t be muddled up with anyone else’s. I’m taking both his double bridle and snaffle, two martingales and a pair of overreach boots as well as all the usual rugs and bandages.”

  “I only hope Holbrooke doesn’t let you break your neck,” said the Brigadier. “I don’t trust that fella’s hare-brained schemes.”

  “Oh, Daddy darling, don’t be so morbid,” cried Merry.”

  * * *

  Fenchurch House, square, solid and built in grey stone, had a very small garden with a tiny lawn, on which the Minton family were having tea. Because Fenchurch was a long way from Folly Court, Mrs. Holbrooke had asked Christopher to stay during the dressage course and, as he had never stayed with anyone except relations before, he felt slightly nervous and was wondering how he was going to keep up his best manners for a fortnight.

  “Look, you’d better take my riding stick; it’s in better repair than yours,” said David, and Martin offered to lend Christopher his best tie — a green one, covered in tiny galloping horses. “You’ve a clean shirt for every other day,” said Mrs. Minton, “two very decayed ones for emergencies and your best white shirt for the hunter trials.”

  “Now, mind you behave yourself, Christopher,” said Mr. Minton, “don’t bolt your food or slide down the banisters; don’t shriek or slam doors. Remember to say thank you, call Major Holbrooke Sir and open doors for ladies.”

  “Gosh, I shall never remember all that,” said Christopher.

  “Now, remember to ring up if you need anything,” said Mrs. Minton, “and mind you tell Mrs. Holbrooke if you feel ill.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Barington-Brown didn’t approve of tea in the garden. She thought that wasps stung one, caterpillars crawled on one and nameless insects fell into the jam, so Susan, and Noel, who was staying at The Towers, for her parents had already started on their lecture tour, sat in the lounge with plates and cups and saucers perched perilously on their knees or the arms of their chairs.

  “I do hope I’m sensible to ride Wonder,” said Susan. “It’ll be awful if she goes badly; everyone will know that it’s my fault, but poor Beauty will be worn out if she has to carry me every day.”

  “June will be awfully pleased if Wonder doesn’t go properly,” said Noel, “but still you’ll get expert advice from the Major.”

  “You’ll have to behave at Folly Court,” said Susan. “No upsetting the milk; I’m glad it’s not me, I can’t keep my best manners up for a whole day, much less fourteen.”

  “You should be ashamed, Susan,” said Mrs. Barington-Brown.

  “Your manners are much better than mine, Susan,” said Noel.

  “Oh, they’re not,” answered Susan. “I can’t make conversation at all.”

  “Well, you don’t spill things or forget to supply your neighbour with food like I do,” said Noel.

  “I wonder who are the other members staying at Folly Court?” said Susan. “They must be people from the Gunston direction, I should think, but not Dick; he’s coming over each day, he told me so.”

  “How is your cup, Noel?” asked Mrs. Barington-Brown.

  * * *

  At Dormers, the Cresswell’s modernised Elizabethan cottage, the rustic garden furniture was tidily arranged on the crazy paving and the chocolate biscuits and the little iced cakes were melting in the sunshine. Mrs. Cresswell was telephoning. June picked the bark off the garden seat until her curiosity became too much for her and then she stood in the cottage doorway and tried to gather what her mother’s conversation was about.

  She soon realised that her mother was talking to Major Holbrooke and she scowled, for she had no wish to go on the dressage course. “What did he want?” she asked sullenly when her mother had finished speaking.

  “Just to settle everything,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “I’ve at last made him realise that Glory’s a valuable mare and cannot be turned out with other animals or in a strange field. He offered a loose-box, but he said that he had made it a condition of the course that everyone was to be entirely responsible for their own mount, that meant that you would have to clean out her stable, which I told him was out of the question.”

  “I should jolly well hope so,” said June. “What does he think Wilson’s paid for?”

  “Well, it’s all settled now, dear,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “I’m going to drive you and Glory over in the trailer each morning — she’s to have a loose-box at lunchtime and I’m going to fetch you back in the evening.”

  “What a lot of bother for some silly dressage, which I know already,” said June ungraciously. “Honestly, Mummy, you are a fool.”

  “Really, June, what a way to speak to your mother,” said Mrs. Cresswell sharply. “I buy you an expensive animal and this is all the return I get; unless you take more trouble you’ll find that Barington-Brown child beating you on Wonder, then you’ll look a fool having your new animal beaten by the one that you’ve sold.”

  * * *

  Mr. and Mrs. Hayward were out to tea and Dick had his brought to him in the library; it seemed too much trouble to have it taken out to the garden just for one person.

  The library was Dick’s favourite room; it was the shabbiest in the house and, being at the end of a long passage, visitors hardly ever discovered it. He loathed visitors, or at least the smart ones which his parents invited down from London nearly every week-end. They always made the mistake of treating him as though he was twelve and then, when they heard his real age, they looked at him pityingly — or so he imagined. Now he shut the book he had been reading, drank his third cup of tea and gave the last slice of chocolate cake to Cliff, a wheaten-coloured Cairn, who had been sitting beside him with a hopeful expression. Time to turn Crispin out, thought Dick and he walked down to the stable with his hands in his pockets whistling softly to himself. Since his parents had agreed to his going on the dressage course, Dick had been giving Crispin two feeds of oats and an extra good groom every day. It was worth it, he thought, as he led him down to the field, the old fellow had never looked fitter. He sat on the gate for a little and watched Crispin grazing under the slanting evening sun. He admired the pony’s shining dark brown coat, his black points, one white sock and the crooked race down his forehead. Not for all the smart show horses in the world, thought Dick, would he part with Crispin.

  * * *

  J
ohn Manners, hot, dusty and tired, flung the pitchforks in the barn, grabbed a bucket of corn and began to fling it round the farmyard for the hens and ducks, which came tearing in from the neighbouring fields. He had spent the whole afternoon helping his father to stook the barley in the pond meadow so that it would be ready for the men to cart next day. It was the least he could do, he thought, considering that he was going away for the next fortnight, but now it was five o’clock and he still had to have tea, pack, feed the dogs, clean his shoes and Turpin’s tack and shut up the hens. He would never be ready, he thought despondently; how could he be ready to start for Folly Court at nine next morning? He fetched his tack from the stable; the new double bridle was still very stiff and badly in need of neat’s foot oil; his saddle looked disgracefully dirty; it was nearly a fortnight since he had cleaned it. Oh curse everything, thought John, carrying his tack into the kitchen.

  “Tea, John,” called his mother from the garden.

  “Hurry up and wash, John,” shouted his father from the hall. “Coming,” answered John crossly. But at tea his mother said, “I’ve done most of your packing, John. Your father’s lending you his revelation suitcase — it’s smarter than the one you take to school — and I’ve made the dogs’ dinners because I felt sure that you’d be in a hurry.”

  “Thanks awfully, Mum,” said John, feeling as though a load had been lifted from his mind.

  * * *

  “It’s a bit thick,” said Henry Thornton, “to make me share a room with this John what’s-his-name and not to tell me what he’s like. Come on, Aunt Carol, allay my fears. I asked Uncle George, but he only looked at me disapprovingly and said that it would do me good to share a room. I’m sure John’s tough. Does he sleep with his window open top and bottom, whatever the weather and wake one at dawn with hearty advice about cold baths?”