MONDAY started very quietly. They had no riders in the morning, and things were gradually beginning to settle into the new routine. It seemed impossible that over a week could have passed since the fire, thought Bobby, as they began to saddle up for the two o’clock ride, which would consist of fairly small children. Bobby decided to take them out for a hack, as at that age they often had difficulty in concentrating for long periods in the school. She was riding Snow Goose herself, and leading Goldcrest. Goose was a sweet natured horse, and could be relied on not to kick at a lead, but he was also the stable clown. If there was a hole to fall into, or wire to trip over, Snow Goose was certain to find it. He would shy violently at a shadow, a piece of paper, or a white stone, and yet walk calmly past enormous, bubbling tar boilers, or rattling, smoking tractors. But on the whole he was reasonably safe for escort work, and Goldcrest led well from him. The other three children would ride Nobby, Sailor, and Ballerina, a fourteen-hand dun mare from the field, twenty years old, and mother of five foals.
It was a pleasantly warm, fine afternoon when Bobby and the ride started out, Bobby in the lead on the striding grey thoroughbred, with the stocky, thick necked chestnut pony jogging alongside, and the others ambling after them. Heath watched them leave, and then returned to the job of hosing Dorcas’s sprained shoulder, a task that had to be done daily, for an hour.
Annabel Dene was certainly promising, decided Bobby, looking down at Goldcrest and his confident, seven-year-old rider, as they turned off the road into a thickly hedged bridle path. It was only her fifth lesson, apart from her first two half hours, being led round the paddock to get the feel of the pony, and already she was rising happily to the trot, keeping some kind of sensible contact with her pony’s mouth all the time, and unlike most small children she never showed any desire to hang on to her saddle, but had enough natural balance to remain in position through almost any normal manoeuvre. She was a talkative child too, and Bobby was kept busy answering questions as they trotted on up the lane.
At the top of this Bobby turned to the left, into a wider track which would take them through a farmyard, and down the farm lane into a stretch of woodland. The farmyard gate, as usual, stood open, and Bobby led the way through. It was a rambling place, low, brick built buildings, small side yards, a few bullocks in a big pen, the usual moth-eaten hens pecking and scratching in the earth. Bobby had ridden through it hundreds of times. The horses were always fascinated, going with pricked ears and springs under their feet, ready to leap away from a danger that never appeared. Snow Goose seemed quite calm, the bold, aloof thoroughbred. Bobby was keeping one eye on her ride, and the other on Snow Goose’s half pricked ears, when the unexpected happened. A door in one of the buildings was suddenly flung open, and a bundle of empty sacks flew out, landing under Snow Goose’s startled nose with a soft flop. The ride exploded. Snow Goose whipped round, away from Goldcrest, the chestnut pony leaped the other way, snatching the leading rein through Bobby’s fingers, Ballerina and Sailor were through a gap into one of the smaller yards, snorting their indignation, and Nobby cannoned into Snow Goose, who was trying to flee for home. Goldcrest gave one startled jump, found himself free, amidst all the sudden excitement, and was off with two light hearted kicks into the farm lane. Annabel shrieked, and then the chestnut pony was out of sight, though Bobby could still hear the clatter of his hooves on the stony lane.
“Jump off, wait here for me, and don’t let them go,” she ordered the remains of her ride.
The children obeyed, rather glad to be on solid ground, and Bobby hit Snow Goose, who was refusing to pass the sacks. The big grey gave one outraged snort, tucked in his tail, and fled in pursuit of Goldcrest.
Bobby did not dare to let the horse gallop, in case the noise of his approach made Goldcrest go faster still, but she did let him canter, keeping a firm hold of his head as he shied, swerving from side to side of the lane, and pretending that there were untold dangers in the hedges on either side. They came round a long bend, floundering over the cart ruts, and Snow Goose suddenly flung up his head and stopped dead. Bobby went up his neck, banging her nose on his arched crest, and somehow forced herself back into the saddle. Then, realising what had happened, she flung herself to the ground.
In front of her stood a group of strange horses. A plump girl with short, frizzy brown hair, and wearing brown slacks and tweed hacking jacket, was bending over Annabel, who lay very still in the middle of the lane, her hard hat beside her, and her straight, silky fair hair falling over her white face. Another girl, who wore her light brown hair in a bunch down her back, and whose pretty face looked rather pale, sat on a dark grey pony with a white head, holding Goldcrest’s reins. There were several other horses behind her. The plump girl looked up as Bobby approached, towing Snow Goose.
“Is she with you?” she asked.
“Yes,” agreed Bobby, her eyes on Annabel’s white face and closed eyes. “Is she much hurt, do you think?”
“I think she’s only concussed,” replied the girl. “Her hat came off before she did, and she landed on the back of her head. The pony stopped short when he met us.”
Bobby took off her jacket, and covered the child with it. Then she turned to the girl.
“Would you mind staying with her while I go back to the farm and telephone for an ambulance?” she asked.
“No, of course we don’t mind,” said the girl.
Bobby thanked her, remounted Snow Goose, and sent him cantering back down the lane to the farm. A group of people had gathered round the children and their ponies: several labourers, a young, blonde woman who was probably the farmer’s wife, and a thin girl in jersey, breeches, and wellington boots. They all turned as Bobby rode into the yard.
“Couldn’t you find her?” asked Jill, the dark-haired child who had been riding Ballerina.
Yes,” replied Bobby, sliding off Snow Goose. “Someone is looking after her. Could I use your ’phone?” she asked the blonde woman.
“Yes of course. Here Lorna, hold the horse,” the woman instructed the thin girl.
Lorna obeyed, and the woman escorted Bobby to the house, questioning her about Annabel, and showed her to the telephone. Five minutes later Bobby was hurrying Snow Goose back down the lane, leaving the children holding their ponies in the yard. Annabel was still unconscious, and Bobby hoped that the ambulance would hurry. Recently she seemed to be involved in nothing but accidents. The plump girl, who looked about twenty-five, seemed to have taken charge of the situation. Bobby learned that she and her companions were on their way to take over the Low Lane stables, and were in fact the Abbington and District Riding Club. Bobby introduced herself, and the plump girl, Inga Jacobs, was being sympathetic about the fire when the ambulance arrived.
The ambulance crew confirmed Inga’s opinion of concussion, told Bobby that Bracken stables seemed to be their best customers, and loaded Annabel cheerfully into their gleaming white van. Then they drove slowly away down the lane, and Inga took possession of her nice looking, fifteen two bay gelding. Bobby collected Goldcrest from the pale girl, remounted Snow Goose, and started to ride back towards the farm with the riding club. Inga apparently ran the club, with the help of her sister, Dora, and the other members paid livery, and a small subscription each. They were also willing to take a few other liveries, but not riders.
Bobby left them when they reached the farm, to remount her riders, and as it was by now too late to finish the ride that she had planned she took the children straight home. Mrs. Dene was already there, waiting for Annabel. It was a difficult interview, to say the least. Mrs. Dene paused to tell Bobby exactly what she thought of incompetent instructresses who took rides from horses that shied, and then dashed off to the hospital, ignoring Bobby’s insistence that any horse would shy if sacks were flung unexpectedly under its nose. Unfortunately Mrs. Dene had seen Snow Goose being ridden in the field by Guy, when the grey was very fresh after a few days’ rest, and she was convinced that he was dangerous. She drove rapidly away towards Hestonbridge, and Bobby wandered miserably back to unsaddle Snow Goose.
They gave the hospital time to examine Annabel, and then Bobby telephoned them. The report could have been better. Annabel had come round, and fallen asleep, but she was suffering from shock, and was having dreams in which Goldcrest bolted with her again, and threw her into a dark pit, and she kept waking up crying. Bobby was very upset. She had seen dozens of children and adults fall off, but though a few had lost their nerve she had never known anyone to be as badly upset as this. And Annabel had previously been so confident that a fall should have meant little to her. But of course she had always felt safe on a pony up to now, Bobby realised. She could not even remember a ride on which another pony had played up in front of the child. It was possible that for some reason Annabel had never realised that she might fall off; she had such an exceptional sense of balance that she had never had to overcome that first feeling of insecurity before learning to trot. If this had not happened she might later have become an exceptionally good rider, but she was a very sensitive, highly strung child, and after this accident Bobby was afraid that she might never ride again. She said as much to Heath, who was more encouraging.
“Don’t be silly, she’ll get over it,” she told the younger girl. “It may take a bit of time to get her confidence back, but she’ll be all right in time. I don’t suppose these nightmares mean anything more than that she remembers having a fright. She was bound to fall off some day, everyone does.”
“Yes, but it was a pretty bad fall, especially for a first,” Bobby reminded her. “I only hope Miss Wilson doesn’t get to hear about it, or bang goes that hope. Not that Guy seemed to think it was much of a hope, anyway.”
She was taking down Phoenix’s cavesson and the lungeing rein, ready to give the chestnut a lesson, and Heath looked at her rather anxiously. She wondered if it had struck Bobby, as it had her, that Guy was a little afraid to think too much of the future, when he might be able to take so little active part in it, if he could not ride, and possibly not even walk far.
They did not tell Guy about Annabel, as it would only worry him, and would serve no useful purpose if he did know, and there was no word from Mrs. Dene during the next few days. They met several members of the Abbington club out exercising, and they appeared to be settling in well. Bobby started to ride Phoenix quietly in the school, on a loose rein, finding that he was quite ready to obey her if she was very quiet with him. She had him in an ordinary jointed snaffle with a thick mouthpiece, and a drop noseband, a combination which did not seem to upset him unduly, and in which she intended to start re-schooling him.
Heath arranged for the workmen to start the rebuilding as soon as possible, for the longer they were without proper accommodation the more custom they were likely to lose. If any livery owners did decide to replace their lost animals, there was at present no room for them, and with Low Lane nearby, and Inga Jacobs eager for liveries, there was no time to be wasted.
On Thursday Bobby at last plucked up enough courage to telephone Mrs. Dene and ask about Annabel. Mrs. Dene was only just able to be civil. Annabel had returned home after a couple of nights in hospital, but she was still having nightmares, and was nervy and tearful during the day. Bobby hardly dared to suggest that the child came for a ride as soon as she was well enough, but Mrs. Dene saw the sense in the idea, and rather reluctantly agreed, and booked Annabel a half-hour, on a date in ten days’ time.
By the end of that ten days the rebuilding had started, and Phoenix had greatly improved. He could be ridden on quiet hacks, in the company of something sensible, such as Cloisonné, or the well-mannered June Evening, and he seemed to enjoy his lessons. He still could not bear to be held too tightly, and it was useless to try to fight him at all. Bobby soon found that the only thing to do was reason with him very patiently and quietly, using her legs, and keeping her hands as still as possible, always driving him on to his bit, so that he could be controlled by light rein aids, and keeping him balanced all the time. As long as he was handled gently during the next few months Bobby saw no reason why he should not one day become a very good, normal ride.
They decided to use Goldcrest again for Annabel’s lesson, so that the child had no chance to develop a complex about him. Heath rode him for an hour in the morning, finding him perfectly behaved, though rather lazy. Mrs. Dene’s old Austin stopped outside the yard just before two o’clock, and she and Annabel appeared in the gateway. Annabel looked petrified, Bobby was sorry to see. Her eyes were red, as though she had been crying most of the morning, and her face was pale and frightened. Goldcrest was looking over his box door, little red ears pricked, an innocent expression in his big, dark eyes. Bobby opened the box door.
“Come and speak to him,” she urged Annabel. “He’s very sorry that he let you fall off him. Tell him you’ve forgiven him.”
Annabel took two steps forward, and then hesitated.
“See, he wants to make friends,” Bobby told the child, as Goldcrest made a deep wuffling sound in his nostrils. Annabel stared at the pony, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks. Bobby could feel Mrs. Dene’s gaze fixed accusingly on her, and tried to ignore it.
“Come and stroke him,” she urged Annabel.
Very timidly Annabel touched Goldcrest’s nose with shaky fingers. The pony nuzzled her gently, and Bobby said, “Give him this,” and pressed a carrot into the child’s hand. Annabel obeyed, still timidly, and Bobby persuaded her to lead Goldcrest out, and then to agree to sit on him, “Just to let him know you aren’t cross with him.”
Annabel allowed herself to be lifted into the saddle, but Bobby was horrified by the change in the once gay, confident little girl. Annabel clung to the pommel, her hands trembling, stiff as a ramrod, her wide blue eyes fixed imploringly on her mother. Bobby told her to pat the pony, and very uncertainly Annabel touched his neck with a timid hand. Bobby pretended to be adjusting the throat lash, and examining the pony’s legs, and gradually Annabel seemed to relax.
“Would you like him to walk on?” asked Bobby.
“All right,” agreed Annabel, who, only twelve days before, had been begging to trot all the way, and demanding to know when she could learn to canter and jump.
Bobby led Goldcrest very slowly forward, keeping one hand on Annabel’s rigid knee. Mrs. Dene watched them go with great apprehension, although the chestnut pony seemed quite happy to dawdle along beside Bobby. After a few minutes Annabel began to look slightly less tense, though she was still nothing like her old, confident self, and Bobby stopped holding her, and walked beside the pony’s girth, one hand on the saddle flap behind the child’s leg, ready to grab her again if anything should happen.
At the top of the field they turned to walk alongside the high thorn hedge beyond which the grass kept horses were running, and at the sound of Goldcrest moving along the other side the loose horses wandered up to investigate, sniffing through the hedge at him, and squealing a little. Goldcrest ignored them, and Annabel smiled for the first time, looking up to where Cloisonné was stretching her neck like a giraffe to look over the hedge. At that moment there was a tremendous back fire on the road behind them. Startled, the loose horses streamed away across their field with a thunder of hooves, and Goldcrest jumped forward at the same moment that Bobby grabbed Annabel’s knee. Annabel screamed, and leaned sideways to fling her arms round Bobby’s neck, almost overbalancing her with the sudden weight. Goldcrest, brought up short by Bobby’s hold on his mouth, swung round her in a circle, and Annabel, who insisted on clinging on to Bobby’s neck, was dragged off sideways. Bobby caught the child, letting Goldcrest go, and he instantly began to graze. Bobby set Annabel down on her feet, and Mrs. Dene began to run across the field as the child began to scream on the verge of hysteria.
“So this is your idea of a cure.” Mrs. Dene picked up her daughter, her face scarlet with fright and anger. “You should be ashamed of yourself. You shouldn’t be allowed to have charge of small children, or of any child for that matter. I shall make sure that none of my friends allow their children to come here again.”
She carried her daughter away across the field, leaving Bobby aghast at the misfortune and injustice of it all. Heath was staring after Mrs. Dene from the door of June’s box, and Bobby began to lead Goldcrest towards her. She was beginning to have a horrible feeling that nothing was ever going to turn out right again. It was bad enough at any time to ruin anyone’s nerve, especially a child’s, without the added knowledge of the damage it might do to Bracken stables. If they lost many of their younger pupils they would be about finished. The children were at present the mainstay of the school, with mostly ponies left in use, and Bobby knew that Mrs. Dene had quite a lot of influence in the district. She was the wife of a dentist in nearby Abbington, was secretary of a woman’s club, and was on the committees of several other clubs in the area. She could do Bracken a great deal of damage if she really decided that they were not safe to teach children. And all because of two very unfortunate accidents, which Bobby was unable to see how she could have prevented. And who would have expected Annabel, of all children, to do anything as silly as flinging her arms round someone’s neck instead of grabbing the mane, or saddle or something if she felt unsafe. It was the kind of thing a nervous child was liable to do on its very first ride, before it realised that it was far easier to hang on to something on the pony itself, and far safer.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Heath assured her, as Bobby tied Goldcrest to a ring in the wall. “I was watching it all. You couldn’t have been more careful. I think it was a miracle that you managed to stop Annabel having a proper fall. Things like this do happen to everyone.”
“But why all at once?” demanded Bobby, beginning to unsaddle the pony. “It’s as though there was a curse on these stables. When I first came here Guy was having a struggle to keep going, and no sooner is Bracken getting famous than all this happens, and he’s worse off than ever. The next thing will be something going wrong with Phoenix. He’s too good to be true at present. Eight guineas a week livery, and he hasn’t even bucked me off yet.”
“Don’t worry, there’s still time,” replied Heath encouragingly. “I think we’ll earn that eight guineas when Isabel takes over, if only with our shattered nerves.”
Bobby agreed that they would. Heath was getting ready to take the three o’clock ride in the indoor school, and Bobby decided to take Shelta out. The show season was not yet fully into its stride, but Shelta was already very fit, and when Bobby had mounted she danced across the field towards the gate, Arabian head and tail high, calling loudly to the horses in the fields to look at her, and executing a few fancy steps for their benefit, and Bobby’s discomfort.
“Wild woman,” she said to Shelta, as they turned out into the road.
The chestnut mare flicked an ear back to listen, and dropped her nose, flexing suddenly in the bridle, and all at once behaving as a well-schooled, famous, nine-year-old mare should.
They went Bobby’s favourite ride, along a bridle path between high hawthorn hedges, heavy with hot scented flowers, Shelta’s dancing hooves disturbing the meadow-sweet and nettles which grew from either bank, and up through the silent beech woods, where her hooves thudded softly on deep carpets of fallen leaves and soft mud, and Bobby’s voice, as she spoke to the mare, echoed among the tall, smooth grey boles of the trees, under the high, arched roof of light green through which the sun fell in dappling patches on to the dark red leaves and chalky patches in the wide cart track. They crossed a stony track, a sharp right turn through a gap in the untidy hedge, and they were on the open hillside, with the short downland grass under foot, and the skylarks singing high above in the blue air, while three counties lay spread below them, and in the distance the blue, hazy slopes of the South Downs rose up to meet the brilliant spring sky.
Here, Shelta knew, lay one of the best gallops in Surrey. Her whole body twitched with eagerness, she smelt the clear air, and snatched at her bit. Bobby held her back for a moment, enjoying the tremendous eagerness of her horse, and the suddenly bunched power behind the saddle, and then she dropped her hands to the mare, and let her go. Shelta ducked her head and was off, extending like a racehorse, neck stretched, ears pricking, then flattening, as her speed increased. The short, flower starred turf flashed beneath her flying hooves, springing up again in the prints of her shoes, fragrant with wild thyme, and warm grass. The clean air blew into Bobby’s face, whipping the loose tendrils of brown hair back from her ears, below her cap, and Shelta galloped on with the great, free stride of her Derby-winning grand-sire, and the eagerness of her Arabian father. Her high set tail streamed behind her like a red banner, her neck was warm and hard under Bobby’s hands, her gleaming shoulders bunched with muscle under the smooth, red hide. They galloped for over a mile, with the green grass beneath them and the dazzling sky around them, before Bobby sat down in the saddle and tightened her feel on the narrow, supple reins. Shelta responded at once, her gallop slowed smoothly to a canter, her neck arched, her head came in, her hocks were under her, as they came easily back to a trot, and as easily to a walk, starting quietly down the chalky path which led back to the fields behind Bracken.
Bobby was riding slowly towards home along quiet, winding bridle paths, and round fields of young crops, beside high, green hedges and banks starred with late primroses and wood sorrel, where branches laden with red and white blossoms caught her legs and tugged at Shelta’s mane, the thick, spiced scent hanging heavily on the warm spring air, when Inga and Dora Jacobs caught up with her. Inga was riding her bay, and Dora, who was very like her older sister, though her hair was a little smoother and fairer, was riding a fat, dock-tailed roan cob with a short, stumpy stride. Shelta greeted them with several snorts and little squeals, and Inga’s nice, breedy bay arched his neck, and looked gallant.
“Hello,” said Bobby. “How are you settling in?”
“Oh, pretty well,” replied Inga, straightening a lock of her mount’s black mane. “The only thing we really find wrong with the place is that there’s nowhere decent to school. The Captain’s little manège is nothing like large enough to jump properly in, and it’s quite useless for practising for cross-country events. We’ve attempted to build fences on the common, or in the woods, for that, but they always get dismantled within a couple of days, and the materials vanish, so it isn’t much use. But actually we did have an idea about that. We wondered if we could possibly use your paddock, say once or twice a week? We’d pay, of course, and if we broke any jumps we’d replace or mend them. Do you think it would be possible? It would be a tremendous help. We aren’t a very big club, and the inter-club competitions are our chief interest. We really formed the Abbington and District so that we’d be eligible to compete.”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t use our paddock,” Bobby told her. “Of course, some of our show jumps were wrecked in the crash, but there are still a good few left, and the cross-country course is all right.”
“Gosh, have you got a proper one?” asked Dora.
“Yes, we’ve got quite a decent one,” said Bobby. “Guy built it some time ago. Several fences are adjustable, but they’re all pretty solid. Look, I’ll have to talk it over with Guy and Heath, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be all right. Can I ’phone you to confirm it?”
“Yes, any time. Do you know the Low Lane number?” asked Inga.
“We’ve got it somewhere,” replied Bobby.
“There’s only five of us,” said Inga. “We hope to get more members eventually. We’ve got a very uneven team at the moment.”
They rode together as far as the road, and then the Jacobs turned to the right, and after promising again to telephone them, Bobby rode on towards Bracken stables.
When she entered the field Heath was just emerging from the school with a crowd of ponies and riders, who looked hot and dishevelled after exercises without stirrups, and over grids. Bobby, feeling suddenly guiltily conscious of her own cool and collected appearance, dismounted hastily, bundled Shelta into her box, and began to help Heath with the sorting out and unsaddling. Ponies from the field were tethered to rings and posts, given drinks, and then feeds, stabled ponies drank deeply, and had their buckets refilled by eager helpers. Shelta and Phoenix leaned over their doors, watching with interest, and June glanced out with a mouthful of bedding, decided that her searchings for hay were more important, and disappeared again. Silver Fountain watched everything with a proprietary air, the only stallion in the stable, and therefore lord of all, whickering to his favourites, glowering at Phoenix, whom he hated, with ears flat and teeth showing, and looking suddenly innocent as Heath walked past with an armful of saddles on her way to the tack room. There was, for once, no evening school, and so when they had turned the ponies out, and fed and settled the others they would be finished for the night. The workmen were drifting towards home, pulling on jackets, and lighting fresh cigarettes, as the girls turned into the barn to put out the rest of the feeds. The shadowy interior smelt of summer hay fields and rich, warm clover. While Heath measured out the feeds Bobby told her about the Abbington and District Riding Club’s request. Heath was very interested.
“I’m sure Guy will agree,” she said. “What ought we to charge them, I wonder? Not too much, but every little will help. Ten shillings an hour, do you think?”
“Something like that,” agreed Bobby. “You know, we must get on with the breaking and schooling. Jupiter and Scotch will have forgotten what little they knew, and Scotch hasn’t even been backed yet. His owner will be getting impatient if we put it off much longer. I wonder how Mrs. Costello is? We haven’t heard a word from her since the fire. It is a shame. Nightingale was about the only thing she was really fond of.”
“Except her daughter,” Heath reminded her. “And she could never be bothered with her mother. It must be awful for Mrs. Costello, living with someone who doesn’t really want her.”
Bobby agreed, remembering how Nightingale’s owner used to adore him, even hating to leave him after a ride, and in spite of her rather dumpy, unsuitable figure, striving her hardest to ride well, and do her beautiful little horse justice. If only there was some way of replacing him, thought Bobby, as she entered Shelta’s box with her feed. But she doubted if Mrs. Costello would ever want another horse.