AT twenty to two Shelta was ready, impeccably groomed, white exercise bandages on her forelegs, as the ground was on the hard side, mane as usual unplaited, white tail bandage on her perfectly pulled red tail, and her saddle and bridle gleaming darkly with much soap and polishing. Her blue and white checked summer sheet was rolled in front of the saddle, and fastened to the dees, so that she could wear it while she waited in the vicarage stable. Bobby wore full hunting kit, and she could not help wishing that it was cooler, as she brought Shelta out into the sunlight, and mounted. The other girls were bringing the ponies out, and Heath and Isabel mounted. In spite of the blazing sun Shelta was fresh. She danced across to the gate, and led the way briskly down the road towards the vicarage, breaking into a jog at every opportunity. Heath came next, riding Goldcrest without stirrups, as they were far too short for her, and Isabel and Yoland brought up the rear, Isabel riding Sailor, and Yoland on her bicycle.
Shelta was surprised and suspicious when Bobby turned her into the vicarage path, especially as the other ponies had gone on to the field gate, and she made her way round the side of the old, sprawling house to the stable yard with extreme caution, and many piercing snorts. But the cool stable met with her approval, a bucket of water by the door of the high sided, old-fashioned loose box, with its sliding door and bars reaching almost to the ceiling, clean straw under her feet, and a very little sweet meadow hay in a net to help her settle down. Bobby removed her tack, fastened the summer sheet round her, and left her in peace for an hour with the door securely bolted, and the bottom half of the outer door padlocked just in case anyone should go in and let her slip out. Bobby hurried across the garden and through the little gate into the vicarage meadow.
The ponies were stationed beneath two large horse chestnut trees in a corner near the flower tent, where they could not be missed by anyone approaching the marquee. A cardboard notice pinned to a small table at which one of the helpers sat to take the money read, “Sailor and Goldcrest are here by the kindness of the Bracken Hills Riding School. 6d. a ride”.
In the distance, beyond the flower tent, and the various stalls, which sold ice-cream, sweets, fruits, and candy floss, and ran the assorted games of any village fête, roll-a-penny, tombola, lucky dip, ball and bucket, hoop-la, and so on, Bobby could see the chairs ranged round the ring ropes, and her brightly painted jumps standing out brilliantly against the dusty grass. The opening speech by the patroness, the Mayoress of Hestonbridge, was just ending, and five minutes later Bobby and Yoland, taking first turns at leading, were hard at work, walking ponies ridden by excited children, little girls in frilly dresses and little boys in their best suits, up and down across the hot grass between the chestnut trees and the ice-cream stall about fifty yards away.
The time went surprisingly quickly. Bobby, glancing at her watch, suddenly realised that it was twenty to three, and that it was time she saddled Shelta, and began to exercise her before their demonstration. At the next change of riders she handed Goldcrest’s reins to Heath, and hurried away towards the garden gate.
Shelta was resting one hind leg and looking bored. At the sound of Bobby’s step she raised her head sharply and whinnied. It took only a few moments to saddle her, and Shelta, suddenly excited, followed Bobby round to the front of the house, and stood impatiently while she mounted.
The young man on duty at the field gate greeted them with a grin, and Shelta jogged through into the trampled field, and shrieked a greeting to Goldcrest and Sailor, who were still jogging tirelessly up and down, and Heath waved. Bobby waved back, and took Shelta off to a quiet corner behind the ring, where she could ride her round and get her going properly before three o’clock. Already people were taking their seats, for the sports would follow immediately after Bobby’s demonstration, and those parents with children competing naturally wanted a good seat.
The fête was certainly being run to time. Dead on three o’clock the Vicar, who was acting as announcer, took up his position by the loudspeaker van, and began to talk about the display. The seats had filled rapidly, and now there was not an empty chair left, and people were standing in the gaps where there were no seats, and even in places at the back. Yoland, Isabel, and Heath stood on a slight rise overlooking the ring, letting the ponies graze. Bobby rode Shelta through the entrance.
First she rode the mare round, trotting, cantering, and doing a few simple dressage movements, such as half passes, backing, and turns on the forehand, and some flying changes of leg at the canter, while the Vicar read a commentary, explaining what she was doing. Then, while Bobby walked the mare round the outside of the fences he told the audience something of Shelta’s history, how she had almost been sold for meat, when Bobby had saved her by buying her at the auction to which she had been sent after being ruined by bad riding, and how she had re-schooled the mare, and they had gone on to win all over England, including their great victories in the Queen Elizabeth Cup at White City, the title of Show Jumper of the Year at Harringay, and the B.S.J.A. spurs at the same show. He ended by expressing the sincere regrets of everyone who knew them for the tragedy that had befallen the Bracken Hills Riding School, their admiration for their courage in keeping open, and their hope that Guy would soon be home and well again. Then Bobby cantered Shelta towards the first fence.
Shelta was magnificent. There were fourteen fences, arranged like an international course, for the Vicar had allowed her plenty of room. The most difficult was the treble, a double oxer, two strides, a white railway crossing gate, one stride, and out over a second crossing gate. Shelta jumped fast, taking her corners like a polo pony, and jumping as though a nation’s cup depended on her. Bobby forgot to worry about making mistakes. She was riding for the love of it, with the sun hot on her back, and her favourite mount fit and keen beneath her. It was like having wings, they worked in perfect sympathy with each other, the chestnut mare and her quiet, intent rider, deciding where to take off, and at what speed to approach, flying through the warm, rushing air, and landing with a light shock on the springy turf. Shelta did not touch a thing, her shoes flashed a good three inches clear of even the most difficult fence, and as they finished fast up the centre of the ring with a great, arching leap over the big triple, the applause thundered into the summer air, and sent the wood pigeons clattering up from the woods which fringed the meadow.
Bobby rode Shelta back into the ring to meet the applause, and the Vicar’s voice became audible over the loudspeaker, saying that after that truly magnificent display he would let the applause speak for everyone, and only offer a brief thanks to Miss Roberta Morton and her wonderful Shelta for coming that afternoon, and say how proud he was that they were members of his parish.
When Bobby got out of the ring at last, her ears still ringing from the tumultuous applause, she was surrounded by autograph hunters and people who wished to pat Shelta, speak to her, and take photographs, and it was half an hour before she got back to the vicarage stables, and carefully stabled her precious horse, with more hay, now that the event was over, and a refilled bucket of water. The chestnut was hardly damp, in spite of the weather, and Bobby left her locked securely into the cool stable, and returned to the field to help with the pony rides.
She was only a few feet from Goldcrest and Heath, who was leading him, when she noticed his rider, and stopped dead in astonishment. It was Annabel Dene. Almost unable to believe her eyes Bobby followed the pony into the shade of the chestnut trees, where Mrs. Dene was waiting, with a slightly dazed expression on her face. And when Annabel demanded another ride Bobby and Mrs. Dene exchanged looks of astonishment.
When Annabel had gone off for her next ride Mrs. Dene turned to Bobby.
“I can’t tell you how thankful I am about this,” she said. “It’s been dreadful up to now, bad dreams at night, and crying fits during the day too, at first. She’s been tearful and nervy ever since her fall, and we were really considering suing you for negligence, I’m afraid, she had changed so much. But now, well, I don’t know what to think. I lost Annabel while we were walking round the flower tent, and I was so astonished to find her riding that I haven’t even told my husband that I’ve found her. I think seeing other children riding the pony must have nerved her to try again.”
Heath returned with Goldcrest, and Annabel sitting on top, and demanding yet another ride.
“I’ll go and fetch my husband,” declared Mrs. Dene. “He must see this.”
She hurried away, and Bobby whispered to Heath, “How did you do it?”
“She was standing watching,” replied Heath. “And I asked her if she would like a ride. She said Yes, and here we are. She’d been watching the other kids ride him, and I suppose she decided that it wasn’t so terrifying as she remembered. She seems quite happy now.”
Mrs. Dene returned with her husband, a tall, loose limbed young man who was a popular dentist, and they stood watching their daughter until the queue grew so long that it was obvious that they must take Annabel off Goldcrest to give the other children a chance.
“Would you like to bring her for a ride tomorrow?” Heath asked Mrs. Dene.
“Would you like that, Annabel?” her mother asked her.
“Yes, please,” agreed Annabel, rubbing Goldcrest’s nose.
“Eleven o’clock,” suggested Heath, who knew that Goldcrest would be free then.
“Yes, fine. And you will take her out with something quiet, won’t you?” pleaded Mrs. Dene.
“Of course. We’ve got the perfect lead horse now,” Heath assured her, as Isabel nodded agreement to the unspoken idea of using Selina.
Annabel patted Goldcrest and Sailor for a bit longer, and then her parents took her off for an ice-cream, and the rides continued. Bobby’s heels were growing sore from her tight riding boots, though she had shed her black jacket and stock in the stables, and was cool in shirt sleeves. The afternoon meandered on in a golden glow, the sounds of voices and music, thin in the quiet air, the sun hot on backs and ponies’ necks, the smells of trampled grass, pear drops, and candy floss, and the golden sun sinking lower in the sky, throwing long shadows across the grass from the chestnut trees, and the stands. Gradually people began to go home, the sports ended, and the flowers and vegetables were removed from the show tent by their proud owners. The last child had the last ride, and was led unwillingly away by weary parents whose thoughts were on tea, and a quiet evening in a comfortable chair, and Bobby went to fetch Shelta.
The Vicar, looking more than ever like a farmer in shirt sleeves, with his straw-coloured hair standing on end, and his face reddened from the sun and heat, came down to the field gate to thank them all, and the three horses clattered away up the road, past the trickle of homeward bound families, Bobby in the lead, carrying her coat and Shelta’s sheet in front of the saddle, and Yoland now riding Sailor while Isabel took the bicycle. They crossed the field, which was hazy with slanting sunlight, and lined by long, deep shadows, the ponies were watered and given small feeds before being turned out, and Shelta was settled in her comfortable box with plenty to eat and a deep bed. The four girls started for their various homes through the slowly deepening summer dusk.
Annabel’s ride went beautifully. Bobby took her out, riding Selina herself, and leading Goldcrest, who had first been exercised by Yoland. Bobby was very careful with her charge, but after the first few minutes Annabel seemed quite happy again, and as talkative as ever. Rather to Bobby’s satisfaction they met Inga and Dora out exercising on the brown horse and the cob. The club had not used the paddock since the Kensington show, although nothing had been said about it by either side. Both girls obviously recognised Annabel and Inga especially looked surprised. Dora put her nose in the air, trying to look aloof, but with her jacket unbuttoned, her shirt open at the neck, and her jodhpurs splitting at the knee the effect was hardly what she had hoped. Inga said, “Good morning”, and Bobby replied. Annabel smiled happily. Bobby was also smiling to herself as they rode on.
Annabel’s happy face told its own story when they got home. Mrs. Dene booked another ride immediately for the following Wednesday.
Guy came home that Thursday by hospital car. It was a still, hot July day, the woods above Bracken were cool islands in the sea of heat which shimmered over the fast growing crops in the fields, and over the bracken and gorse on the commons, the heavy air smelt of hot grass and bracken, the vanilla of gorse, and the sharpness of pine, and all the windows of Cedarwood stood open to the still afternoon. It would probably be some time before Guy could go down to the stables, but it seemed to the girls, especially Bobby, like the ending of a long, bad dream. The builders were still busy in the main yard. The work was going slowly, but the boxes were beginning to take shape at last, although the site looked more like a builder’s yard than a riding school. Isabel continued to come regularly for lessons, and Phoenix was going so well that Bobby intended to put her on him again before much longer. His jumping was coming on tremendously, he was enormously bold, and would jump anything she put him at, and his mouth was by now almost normal. Only on very rare occasions did he become upset by the bit, and his schooling on the flat was also far better.
Mrs. Costello and Francine grew steadily even more attached to one another and Bobby taught her to lunge the little mare quietly, so that her re-schooling could gradually begin. Not that she thought Mrs. Costello would have much trouble, as Francine trusted her implicitly. The little grey was filling out, her ribs were vanishing beneath a healthy layer of fat, her quarters rounded, her neck began to arch and grow hard. The patchy coat was gone, she was sleek and smooth, with the dark dapples standing out more clearly on the pale background, and her cuts and scars were beginning to cover. Olwin and Nial went off to Italy for their holiday, taking Karen with them, but Mrs. Costello stayed happily at home with Jedda and Luke, coming down to the stables each day, bringing the dogs with her, and letting them roam about the field and make friends with Francine, who grew very fond of them.
At last the stable’s financial state seemed steadier, and Bobby and Heath began to take their full wages again. The International Horse Show was on at White City, but this year Bobby insisted that she gave it a miss. Guy wanted her to go, but it would have meant someone going with her to help with Shelta, as she could not manage completely alone all week, and as Heath certainly could not be spared it would mean employing someone for the job.
“There’s always next year,” Bobby reminded him. “And I can always take her to the Horse of the Year show in October. Things should be easier by then.”
And so Guy gave in, and Shelta stayed at home that week. Bobby watched several of the competitions on television, and on the Wednesday evening Bobby, Heath, Yoland, and Isabel all went up to London in the Goldmans’ car to see the competition for the George V Gold Cup, the biggest and most exciting individual contest in the show. It was finally won, after three jump offs, by the World Champion, a German, on a huge, calm bay horse who did not seem to need any effort to get him over the great fences. Keith Rhodes, jumping with his very different style and brilliant timing, was second on Rampant, and Ian Garland was third. Women could not compete in the George V cup.
Afterwards they walked round to the stables, much to Isabel’s awed delight, and one of the first people they met was Keith, who had just escaped from the crowd of autograph hunters outside the collecting ring. Bobby congratulated him on being second, and said what bad luck it was that he had lost the cup by only four faults.
“The old boy was magnificent,” said Keith, patting Rampant’s hard, hot, dark chestnut neck. “It was my fault. We were just a fraction too close to that last fence. But what happened to you this week? I was hoping you’d manage to come to this anyway. Surely Mathews could have given you one week off?”
“He wanted me to come,” replied Bobby. “But it wasn’t really possible. There’s so much to do at Bracken, and it would have meant someone coming with me. I hope I shall be able to take Shelta to Harringay though.”
The other girls had turned to watch the German horse go by on his way to his wood and canvas loose box, and Keith said quietly, “You know Bobby, that job with Hal still stands. You’re wasting Shelta by staying at Bracken. And it doesn’t look as though Mathews will ever do much showing again, does it? Bracken’s pretty well finished for that kind of thing.”
“It certainly will be if we all start walking out on Guy the moment things seem a bit difficult,” Bobby snapped back. “As for finished, it most certainly isn’t. We shan’t be able to do as much as usual this season, of course, but there’s no reason at all why we shouldn’t be right back to normal next year. And as for wasting Shelta, an easy season won’t hurt her. At least she won’t go stale.”
“No, but she won’t get any younger,” said Keith, rather shortly. “Still, I suppose I can’t force you to change your mind. If you prefer to use her for taking kids out on the leading rein, that’s your business. But I must say I think it’s a shame.”
He led Rampant on towards his box, and Bobby watched them go with rather mixed feelings. Of course she would love to be free to travel round the shows with Shelta, and perhaps another horse, to be part of the exciting, ragged routine of a show jumping stable during the height of the season, but suddenly she knew that, unless Guy was there too, she would never be really happy. And Bobby realised in that moment something that Heath had suspected for ages. She did, and always would, love Guy.
“Oh,” Isabel had turned back from watching the unsaddling of the German horse. “Has he gone? You are lucky, having him sweet on you Bobby. I think he’s terrific.”
“He’s all right, I suppose,” said Bobby, without enthusiasm. “I say, we’d better get back to the car. Your mother will be getting tired of waiting.” Mrs. Goldman had not come round to the stables with them, as she was tired of crowds.
They left the comparative peace of the sweet hay and horse scented stables, with their flickering pools of light and shadow, thrown by the dim electric light bulbs which hung in the boxes, and the brighter lighting outside, the quietly industrious grooms brushing over and rugging up their tired, internationally famous charges, and the equally famous riders helping, watching, talking to friends, or gossiping and smoking in small groups, loose jackets or coats thrown over their showing clothes, and walked with the hot, chattering crowd to the chaos of the crammed car park, where Mrs. Goldman was sitting in the car with all the windows open to the slight, cool breeze which had sprung up with the dusk. Half an hour later they left the busy, brightly lighted main roads behind them, and drove on through the dark, silent lanes towards Bracken. Bobby was still sorry that she had to miss White City, but now she was quite sure that if it meant leaving Guy show jumping was not the life for her.
Guy’s room on the ground floor at Cedarwood was gradually becoming the unofficial stable office. He helped them with the books, accounts, and correspondence, and people were constantly dropping in to see him, pupils and parents about lessons and bills, livery owners about schooling plans, and one day his ex-pupils, who had been sent to Charnley, arrived en masse to announce that they had all passed their B.H.S. preliminary instructors’ exams. This had to be celebrated, of course, and after the evening chores were finished they held a party in Guy’s room and on the lawn outside the open french windows, with the radiogram playing, drinking wine hastily fetched from Hestonbridge by Bobby in Mrs. Costello’s car, and eating a large variety of snacks which Mrs. Joyce had somehow conjured up from nowhere at a moment’s notice.
Hearing the music many of their friends from the village dropped in to see what was going on, and to have a drink and talk and dance for a bit on the shadowy lawn under the two great cedar trees. Bobby, who had been standing just inside the room, talking to someone in the garden, and watching the gay scene on the smooth lawn, turned back into the room and suddenly became aware that Guy was quietly watching her from the couch, to which he was now moved during the day. For a moment their eyes met, the sound of music and the chatter of the other people in the room seemed to fade, and a stillness fell over the two of them. Then Guy smiled, his rather serious, broad face lighting up, and Bobby smiled back, suddenly feeling incredibly happy and at home. Beside her Jessica’s voice suddenly said, “I say Bobby, I’ve just been hearing from Isabel how Phoenix is going. He sounds wonderful,” and the moment was gone. But Bobby remembered that moment for the rest of the evening.
All the boxes were full now, including those which had been repaired in the main yard, but owing to lack of room a number of horses who would have been better kept in had to run out.
“If only the rebuilding was finished,” sighed Heath, as they tramped back from the field one morning with a variety of horses and ponies. “Half an hour again this morning, chasing this little beast in circles,” she gave Ballerina’s head rope a tug to make her keep up, as the pony was lagging behind the others, hoping to make Heath let her go, and regain her freedom.
“She’s certainly a nuisance,” agreed Bobby, checking Pink Froth’s impetuousness as the little mare tried to dash ahead.
But the rebuilding was still going on, slowly but steadily, and the trail round the fields each morning had to continue, quite enjoyable in good weather, when there was no hurry, but maddening on a wet morning, with a big ride due out, all the ponies plastered in wet mud, and Ballerina at her most irritating, always about an inch out of reach, but still succeeding in grabbing mouthfuls of oats from the bucket. Annabel had continued to ride, and her confidence increased in bounds. Her nightmares and nerviness had vanished, and she was once again the happy, fearless child that they had first known.
Guy’s first visit to the stables was when Mrs. Costello drove him down in her new car, a snappy green and fawn Hillman Minx. She drove right into the yard, which no longer bore much resemblance to the way it had looked on the night of the fire now that half the boxes were almost rebuilt and the blackened walls which backed on to the field were softened by rain, and with the stacks of bricks and mounds of cement standing on the churned cinders, but Guy was still shocked by the sight. The workmen stopped work, as they were rather apt to do on the least excuse, to see what was going on, and Mrs. Costello drove slowly on across the field to the other boxes.
The girls paraded Sand Piper, Phoenix, Selina, and Francine for Guy’s inspection. He admired the chestnut very much, and complimented Mrs. Costello on Francine’s vast improvement, for he had seen a photograph of her which had been taken when she first came to Bracken. Only Silver Fountain, who was brought out last, still bore signs of the fire, in the shape of a still badly shortened mane and tail, and one bad scar on his off hind pastern which he would never lose. Dorcas, who was still slightly lame, was turned away for a few weeks longer. The little stallion stuck his nose inside the car, demanding food, and Guy presented him with an apple.
“It doesn’t seem to have affected his appetite, or his cheek,” he remarked, as Silver crunched the apple appreciatively, dribbling juice over the car seat, and the inside of the open door. “You know, in spite of the way the stables burned, I hadn’t quite realised what it must look like.”
“It’s a lot better than it was,” Heath told him. “When we first saw it the next morning we almost gave up. It looked an impossible mess, and all the horses were bundles of nerves. Dorcas, Coffee, and Silver were lame, and so many were dead that it seemed ridiculous to go on booking rides and trying to pretend that it hadn’t made any difference.”
“I suppose in a way I had the best of that,” said Guy. “I was pretty well doped for the first couple of days, and by the time I came out of it the worst was over, and everyone was assuring me that it wasn’t so bad as I’d thought, and that you were managing beautifully. That seems to be true, certainly. And we seem to be getting out of the wood slowly.”
But Bobby wondered just how much like normal it would really seem, when the boxes were finished, and the workmen gone. They had far fewer horses than they used to have, and certainly they had lost a lot of custom, people who were showing no signs of returning, although there were now enough horses to accommodate more riders. And they had received no inquiries about them taking young horses to school since Phoenix’s performance at Kensington, which, Bobby had gathered from various remarks overheard at shows, many people still remembered. There was especially one remark made by a knowledgeable looking onlooker by the collecting ring. “Yes, that’s Roberta Morton’s Shelta,” he had been saying. “She’s the only decent horse in Guy Mathews’ stables now. They’ve gone down badly since the ’plane crash. Never seemed able to pull up again, but of course he can’t ride any more. It makes a difference to the way things are run, you know, bound to.” Then Shelta had moved restlessly, and Bobby had heard no more. But that, she knew, was how too many people were thinking. Somehow they still had to prove that Bracken was as good as it had always been, and could still produce a young horse capable of holding his own in good company. Phoenix, of course, was their chief hope, though Isabel had yet to ride him again. If only he could win something worth while … But Isabel would have to be on him, and Bobby was by no means certain that she would be able to manage him when she did ride him.
The great experiment came a few days later. Phoenix had been going beautifully, without showing a sign of temperament, and Bobby decided that it was now or never. She and Isabel were both in the school, Isabel riding Snow Goose, who had lately been on his best behaviour, and Bobby on the chestnut. Isabel was thrilled, but rather apprehensive, as they changed horses. And Phoenix went like a dream. Bobby did not ask them to do anything much, but though Isabel was rather tense Phoenix did not put a foot wrong. Bobby wished that Guy could have been watching, to give her advice on how fast to take them. But he was not yet up to sitting in the balcony or the centre of the school, and so she would have to rely on her own judgement. At the end of the lesson, as Isabel by then seemed much more at home and relaxed, she let her take Phoenix over two low poles, which they negotiated with ease. Afterwards Bobby jumped the chestnut in the paddock, feeling yet again his tremendous scope and power. He had almost forgotten his old habit of rushing, and Bobby would cheerfully have tried him round the Aintree fences had she been given the opportunity.
Later that afternoon Bobby and Isabel held a conference with Guy about the chestnut’s future career. Isabel wanted to start riding him as much as possible now that she had got over her first anxiety on him, and she also wanted to hack him.
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” Guy told her. “The best way to get used to him again would be to ride him about the countryside. Just enjoy yourselves, don’t worry about his schooling or your position for a couple of weeks.”
“Oh good,” exclaimed Isabel. “Will you come with me sometimes Bobby? We could have some wonderful rides.”
“I work, don’t forget,” Bobby reminded her. “But I’ll certainly come when I can, and Yoland can ride with you at the week-ends and in the evenings, if you like. She’s always grumbling about having to exercise Coffee alone so much.”
And so, during the next few weeks, Isabel and Phoenix began to form a partnership, hacking across the hills and through the woods and commonland that surrounded Bracken Hills. Bobby accompanied them whenever possible, usually on Shelta, who was now being taken to a show almost every Saturday, and sometimes during the week as well, and who did little escort work. Jupiter left, returning to his owner at his home in Fern Dene, but there was still Scotch to be schooled, and he too was used sometimes to accompany Isabel. One day Bobby managed to take an extra afternoon off and they took Phoenix and Shelta for a long, wandering ride over the North Downs, enjoying the breath-taking views across Surrey into Sussex, and the hazy blue South Downs in the distance.
Isabel at last became completely relaxed in Phoenix’s saddle, cantering happily beside Bobby and her gay, glowing mare, jumping logs, ditches, and little fences whenever they could find them, and joining eagerly in an illegal race along the edge of a training gallop which stretched for several miles across the rolling, bracken-patched commonland. The two horses were well matched for speed, and Shelta was only a nose in front when they pulled up breathlessly to turn off the gallops down a sandy path which led gradually towards home. That ride marked the turning point in Phoenix’s career with Isabel. They had accepted each other, and when she tried jumping him again in two days’ time the difference was very marked. Isabel no longer clung desperately to the chestnut’s mane when he jumped, and Phoenix no longer managed to dash away with her after landing. They needed polish, but the confidence was there, and it would only take practice and experience to turn them into a formidable combination.
Guy now began to come down to the stables regularly in a wheel chair, from which he watched some of the schooling, and began to conduct a few lessons. He was very interested in the progress of Isabel and Phoenix, and he gave both Isabel and Bobby a great deal of advice. Isabel was still using Guy’s Sowter saddle, but she had put her name on the firm’s long waiting list for one of her own. Phoenix’s dressage was improving still further, and he was learning to get round a twisting course of show jumps, as well as to gallop across country.
August was passing, a glowing month of sun and ripening corn, crimson poppies, and crowded flower borders, of long, lazy rides across the dusty, sun-burned countryside, and occasional nights when it was too hot to sleep, and the thunder rumbled across the skies, while flickering sheet lightning lit up the woods and fields and the whole world seemed to wait breathlessly for the rain, which would eventually arrive in a brief and cooling downpour, flooding the ditches and the guttering, and running off the parched fields more quickly than it could sink in. It was also a month of summer holidays and horse shows, with dozens of children arguing over the small ponies and Shelta and Coffee going smoothly round the courses of bright jumps, then travelling home either lazily in the horse box or perhaps more enjoyably, for their riders anyway, in clattering strings through the dusk filled lanes, with the coloured ribbons flying from their bridles, and their riders talking and singing, at ease in their saddles. One day Bobby was jumping Scotch in the paddock, with Guy watching from his chair, when the pony got completely wrong at one of the low sets of parallel poles, got a pole between his forelegs, and came down with her. Bobby landed flat on her back, with all the breath knocked out of her, and the first thing she saw clearly was Guy, who could by now walk short distances, bending over her with a look of sheer desperation in his eyes as he thought that she was badly hurt.
“It’s all right,” she gasped, struggling up. “I’m all right.”
“Oh my darling,” Guy had his arm round her. “I was afraid … “
But the only word that Bobby heard was “darling”, as Heath came rushing up to see what had happened, and Scotch tried to buck himself out of the discomfort of a slipping saddle. And her heart sang as the pony was caught, the saddle replaced, and Heath gave her a leg up. Naturally, Scotch was slightly nervous at first, but he rapidly recovered his confidence, and he was certainly showing more concentration by the time his lesson ended. And Bobby knew that she would never forget that morning.
After that day there was no longer any secret in the fact that Bobby and Guy meant a great deal to each other. Heath, of course, had always thought so, but to most of the others it was a surprise, and Bobby got rather tired of all the meaning looks and smiles that she saw going on whenever she and Guy happened to meet. But life was too wonderful for it really to bother her, and the others soon got used to the idea.
Not long afterwards Isabel took Phoenix to a show, their first since the Kensington event. It was only a small affair, and Bobby did not take Shelta, but drove Guy over in Mrs. Costello’s car instead, as its owner preferred to spend the day with Francine. Mrs. Costello had ridden her little mare for the first time the day before, very quietly inside the school, and though rather nervous and jittery, Francine had on the whole gone very well. Mrs. Costello had asked her to do nothing but walk and stop, and the mare showed every sign of settling down gradually into a nice little ride. She carried herself well, once she had relaxed, and seemed happy with the rubber snaffle in which her owner rode her.
Heath rode out of the gate on the gentle Selina, followed by a string of gymkhana-bound children and Isabel on Phoenix, and Bobby loaded the head collars, lunches, mackintoshes, and grooming tools into the car, in which Guy was already sitting. He was certainly much better, but they all knew that it would definitely never be wise for him to ride any fast or rough work, though he should be able to hack something steady if he wanted to. But Bobby, remembering the dreadful night of the fire, and Guy trapped under the heavy beam in the burning stable, knew that it could easily have been a great deal worse.
Phoenix went beautifully in the jumping. He won the open class with such ease that several people complained that professionals should not be allowed to enter for such small events, and afterwards he was quite happy to stand tied up near the other ponies while excited children rushed to and fro with them, and Bobby and Heath endeavoured to sort out who was supposed to ride what in each event. Annabel was competing in the under ten trotting race, and the musical poles for children fourteen and under, Goldcrest being led in each case by Bobby. Between them they managed to come second in the trotting race, to Annabel’s enormous delight, although they were unplaced in the musical poles. Annabel spent the rest of the afternoon following Goldcrest adoringly everywhere he went, seemingly unable to take her eyes off him.
Isabel was delighted by her success in the jumping, and Guy told her that, if she liked, she could enter Phoenix for the Stonefell Park one day event, which was to be held in just under a month’s time.
“Gosh, I’d love to,” she declared. “Though I’m sure to fall off, or let him run away with me, and I’ll certainly forget the dressage test and get lost in the cross-country.”
Guy laughed. “Even if you don’t get over the first fence it’ll be experience for you both,” he told her. “And there’s no reason why you shouldn’t do very well. He’s bold enough for anything, the course won’t be very big, it wasn’t last year, and he’s certainly fit.”
And so Phoenix was entered for the novice section of the Stonefell Park horse trials, and schooling him became a really earnest business. Isabel was frantically learning the dressage test, and practising the various movements with her horse, though not in sequence, in case he should begin to anticipate her orders. He was also schooled over varied courses of show jumps and cross-country fences, taken daily for walking and trotting exercise on the roads and along bridle paths, his corn was increased, and Bobby’s arms ached almost constantly from wisping and grooming him.
“I only hope Isabel will be able to hold him with all that muscle,” remarked Heath one day, pausing to look at the chestnut, whose dark red coat glowed with health over his bulging muscles, and whose crest was as hard as iron.
“She’ll hold him all right,” Bobby assured her. “I can still hardly believe that she’s the same girl who rode him at Kensington.”
“Nor can I,” agreed Heath. “It’s an absolute miracle.”
“I still say it’s very much due to Colonel Crisp,” said Bobby. “Isabel would never have attempted to ride Phoenix again if he hadn’t advised her to. And of course Guy did a tremendous lot towards it. He told me what to do, and got Isabel going for those long rides, and now he’s doing a lot of the instructing.”
“And I suppose you did nothing?” asked Heath. “You just sat by and watched. Really Bobby, don’t you want any credit for it?”
“What’s this she doesn’t want credit for?” asked Guy, coming stiffly up to them and putting his arm round Bobby.
“Phoenix,” replied Heath.
“I was only saying that most of the improvement is due to Colonel Crisp’s advice and your teaching,” Bobby told him.
“And I suppose Phoenix schooled himself solemnly in the field while we weren’t here,” said Guy, laughing at her.
“Idiot,” retorted Bobby, laughing as she turned back to grooming Phoenix.
On the day before Stonefell Park, Isabel took Phoenix for his usual slow exercise, and when they returned Bobby gave him an extremely thorough grooming, and she and Isabel cleaned his tack with immense care, even polishing the buckles on the stirrup leathers and girth, washing the leg and tail bandages, cleaning the head collar and whitening the rope. Isabel worked with a faraway expression, muttering the dressage test to herself, and Bobby told her to leave it alone until next day, as she was word perfect, and further anxious learning was only liable to muddle her. Rather reluctantly Isabel put the paper into her pocket.
“It would be so awful if I made a mess of things again, after Kensington,” she said. “People might think you hadn’t taught me properly, and you certainly have. I’d hate to let you and Phoenix down.”
“You won’t,” Bobby assured her. “I’m certain of that. Come and help us feed, and forget tomorrow for a bit.”
Isabel obeyed, and they joined Heath, who was putting out feeds in the barn. The yard looked very different now. The new boxes were finished, and it only remained for the workmen to clear up their debris and depart. Only the single row of broken walls, with their blackened edges and grass growing in the crevices, remained to show where sudden tragedy had struck. The girls paused for a moment in the barn doorway to look round the yard. Guy, sitting in his chair, was talking to the foreman, and the other remaining workmen were loading unused bricks into a lorry.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” exclaimed Heath. “We’ll have the horses back in here by next week, or earlier. Things will really be back to normal at last.”
Bobby agreed that it was wonderful, but she was still not certain that it would really seem the same as before the fire. Somehow people seemed to have rather forgotten their existence. A lot could depend on Phoenix’s performance at Stonefell Park next day, as there would be a lot of well-known people there, besides many onlookers, and if Phoenix went well it could prove the real turning point back to their old position as a really good, efficient, reliable stable with a full yard, money in the bank, and a secure future. But if he went badly it could do the opposite, frighten people with young horses needing schooling into sending them somewhere else, turn away prospective pupils, and rekindle the harmful rumours that they were going downhill and were just about finished. She suddenly wished that tomorrow was over.
It had hardly rained for over a month now, and the ground was very hard. But Phoenix had legs like iron, and at least it should not be too slippery, decided Bobby, as they returned to Cedarwood that evening. Guy would be coming to Stonefell Park the following day in the Goldmans’ station wagon, but he would not be able to walk round the cross-country course with them, and would have to be driven to some vantage point in the car. Bobby and Heath were both going, and Yoland would feed in for them at lunch time, as the event was being held on a Thursday, which was not a particularly busy day at Bracken. They had been warning their pupils for two weeks that there would be no riding that day.
Bobby woke on the morning of the one day event to the dismal sound of rain pattering on the window of her room, and for a moment she had visions of Phoenix skating round the cross-country course, and turning somersaults into a quarry as big as the one at Badminton. Then she got out of bed and went across to the window to discover one large dark cloud hanging overhead, surrounded by the clear blue sky of early morning. Even as she watched the cloud moved away, and sunlight flooded the garden, and shone into her room, lighting unusual corners near the ceiling at this very early hour. But as she and Heath walked down to the stables later the sun vanished again, and another cloud swept rain across the valley.
“It’s more like April than September,” complained Heath, as they hurried for the shelter of the tack room. “Let’s hope this is the last shower.”
“We can always hope,” agreed Bobby, looking towards the horizon, banked with grey layers of cloud, from which the showers seemed to break away to drift across the blue centre of the sky, and draw their curtains of rain across Bracken. “But I think it’s going to be really changeable, as the weather forecast would tell us.”
“Oh well, let’s hope Phoenix gets all the bright intervals,” said Heath, as they collected pitch-forks and brooms, and started the mucking out.
Isabel arrived later in the station wagon driven by her mother. She was very nervous, but of what she might do wrong rather than of Phoenix. She, Heath, and Bobby were to travel in the box with the chestnut while Mr. Joyce drove. Mrs. Goldman went on to collect Guy.