“This will be your last day, won’t it?” Mrs Munro asked as she stood at the kitchen table making sandwiches for Jacky to take with her to the riding school.
“Yes,” agreed Jacky. “Tomorrow all the ponies will be sold.”
“You’ll need to find somewhere else to ride,” said Mrs Munro, trying to cheer her daughter up. “Perhaps you’ll find somewhere better than Miss Henderson’s. You were always saying that her horses were too old and they didn’t get enough to eat. There must be other riding schools in the district. We’ll find somewhere else.”
“But it won’t be the same,” sighed Jacky.
“Nothing is ever the same,” said Mrs Munro. “You can’t go through life expecting things not to change. Only make yourself miserable if you do.”
“But I don’t want things to stay the same,” Jacky thought as she cycled slowly out to the riding school. “I didn’t want to spend all my life riding Miss Henderson’s old horses. This year I was going to ride Flicka. I was going to start and take her to Pony Club things and jump her at the gymkhana.”
“Look where you’re going on that bike,” a motorist yelled at Jacky as he swerved to avoid her.
“Gosh, sorry,” said Jacky, realizing that she had been riding along in the middle of the road, her head full of the dream of jumping Flicka, of painted jumps in the ring, the crowd’s applause as Flicka cantered out after a clear round and the silken rosette fluttering from Flicka’s bridle.
“Fat lot of good being sorry,” snorted the driver, “after you’ve caused an accident.”
Keeping well in to the side of the road Jacky pedalled on. The basket of her bike was filled with apples and carrots for Flicka. She had kept two pounds of the money she’d made to buy food for Flicka, the rest she’d given to the old man who played the clarinet in Tarent. Her mother had said it was a silly thing to have done but Jacky didn’t think so. The money was no use to her and it would be a nice surprise for the old man. Listening to his playing was the only good thing about shopping in Tarent.
When Jacky reached the riding school, Mavis Good and Pat Nelson were sweeping out the boxes.
“Thought you’d be coming,” Pat said. “Have you brought plenty of Kleenex with you?”
“Miss Henderson said you might be going to buy Flicka?” asked Mavis.
“Well I’m not,” said Jacky. “So don’t talk about it,” and she wheeled her bike down to the hay shed, thinking bitterly that she shouldn’t have come. She would have been better staying at home than being here listening to people asking her why she wasn’t buying Flicka. “I expect they’ve all got hundreds of pounds in their bank accounts or doting fathers who are just longing to buy ponies for them.”
Jacky went out to the field to give some of the apples to Flicka. All the ponies were grazing, scattered in groups about the field.
“Flicka,” Jacky called. “Flicka.”
The pony threw up her head at the sound of Jacky’s voice, stood for a second with pricked ears and then came trotting to Jacky, whickering a welcome. She nuzzled at Jacky, smelling the apples that the girl was holding behind her back.
“Here you are,” said Jacky, holding out an apple and feeling Flicka’s breath on her hand as the pony fumbled with thick, velvet lips to take the apple.
Jacky stayed talking to the pony for a long time and then thought she would fetch a halter and take Flicka in.
“Hi, Jacky,” Miss Henderson called from the tack room. “How about giving us a hand with some tack.”
Jacky hesitated. “I was going to bring in Flicka,” she said.
“If we all help,” said Miss Henderson, “it won’t take so long.”
“Oh, okay,” agreed Jacky, coming into the tack room where the table was loaded with bits of bridles, dry, cracked reins and four old saddles that Miss Henderson never used.
“It’s all going to Buckley,” said Miss Henderson. “If we give it a rub up it’ll fetch a bit more.”
Mavis, Pat and a red-haired boy called Mike Thornthwaite were already hard at work. Jacky selected a pair of reins, hung them from a hook and began to wash them.
“So you’re not buying Flicka,” Mike said.
“No, I’m not,” snapped Jacky. “And shut up about it.”
“Is that final?” asked Miss Henderson.
“Final,” said Jacky between clenched teeth. “I’ve no money and that’s that.”
“But I thought you were making the money,” asked Mike laughing. “Going round knocking on people’s doors asking if you could take their dogs for a walk and then making them pay before you’d give them their dog back.”
“Shut up,” warned Jacky.
“Miss Doughty told Mum all about… ”
Jacky’s tack-cleaning cloth hit Mike full in the face. He stepped back, caught his foot on one of the buckets and a flood of dirty water swelled over the tack room floor.
“Oh really, Jacky!” exclaimed Miss Henderson. “As if we haven’t enough to do.”
“What is going on here?” a deep, shouting voice demanded suddenly.
They all looked up to the tack room door and there, to Jacky’s disgust, stood Mrs Grunter. She was wearing a black and white check trouser suit which made her look more enormous than usual. Her black suede boots were in danger of being swamped by the spilt tack-cleaning water.
“Don’t tell me, Jacqueline, that you’re having another of your temper tantrums?”
Jacky scowled up speechlessly at Mrs Grunter. She had been meaning to apologize about the fuss at the rally but the sight of Mrs Grunter’s scarlet, bossy face was quite enough to make her change her mind.
“Get that mess cleaned up, Jacky,” Miss Henderson said, then, turning to Mrs Grunter, she asked what she could do to help her.
“I came over to enquire about the ponies. Of course I’ve heard the sad tidings that you’re having to sell up but don’t worry my dear, I’m sure you’ll find something else far more suitable than slaving away here. We should be quite devastated if Celia ever gave up her riding but I’m sure no parents would like to see their daughter struggling on the way you’ve had to here.”
“What did you want to know about the ponies?” Miss Henderson interrupted sharply.
“What are you doing with them?” asked Mrs Grunter.
“Fat, nosey pig,” thought Jacky, splashing Mrs Grunter’s tweed-covered, tree-trunk legs as she mopped up the spilt water.
“They are all going to Buckley Sale tomorrow,” replied Miss Henderson.
“That’s what I’d heard, and we were just wondering if you might consider selling one of them privately. Naturally I’m not interested in any of your old crocks but I had heard that you had rather a nice, young, black pony. Could I see it just now? You know what a grand little rider Celia is.”
Jacky froze in horror. Whatever happened, Mrs Grunter must not buy Flicka for Celia to ruin.
“I am not selling any of the ponies before the sale,” stated Miss Henderson.
“But surely … ”
“That is quite definite. Now if you’ll excuse me Mrs Grunter, as you can see we’ve a lot to do and not much time left to do it in,” and Miss Henderson turned her back on the open-mouthed Mrs Grunter.
“A most unpleasant female,” Miss Henderson said when Mrs Grunter had gone. “I pity poor Celia.”
“But you wouldn’t sell Flicka to them?” demanded Jacky anxiously.
“What use would Flicka be to the Grunters?” Miss Henderson replied. “Now let’s get on with this tack and no more nonsense.”
Jacky took her sandwiches down to the ponies’ field and shared them with Flicka. When they were finished, the black pony wandered away to graze and Jacky lay back in the grass staring up at the blue distance, trying not to think about tomorrow. But there was nothing else, only that tomorrow everything would be over. Framed between seeded grasses, Jacky could see Flicka grazing. Seen from that angle she like a miniature horse carved out of polished jet. “I could pick her up with one hand,” Jacky thought. “Pick her up and take her home in my pocket.”
“So this is where you are,” exclaimed Miss Henderson looking down at Jacky. “I’ve one last ride to take this afternoon. Nobody’s riding Kirsty. Do you want to take her?”
Jacky hesitated.
“Come on,” said Miss Henderson. “Better than lying here brooding.”
Unwillingly, Jacky got to her feet and caught the ponies with Miss Henderson. Back in the yard she helped to brush them down and put their tack on. “For the last time,” she thought. “For the last time.”
The four customers who were going out on the ride arrived and Miss Henderson led out their ponies and helped them to mount. There were two teenage girls, a silent man with a beard who had ridden with Miss Henderson since the riding school opened, and Fiona Marshall who was in the class above Jacky at school.
Jacky mounted Kirsty and sat waiting while Miss Henderson tightened Bunter’s girth and swung herself into the saddle.
“Right,” she called, and led the ride out of the yard and down the road.
Jacky closed her legs against Kirsty’s sides and trotted on to ride beside Miss Henderson.
“We’ll go round the roads and back over the moor,” Miss Henderson said.
Jacky felt her mouth spread into a grin. It was her favourite ride. She clapped Kirsty’s hard neck and glanced back at the other ponies. They were all looking better now that the spring grass was through. Even Maverick was walking out with a long striding step, his eyes bright and his neck arched.
Miss Henderson urged Bunter into a trot and the metalled road rang to the clip of ponies’ hoofs.
“I’ve ridden along here so many times,” Jacky thought, remembering frosty mornings when the ponies had slipped and skidded on the icy surface, hot days of flies and sweaty ponies, the day of the gale when a branch from an ash tree had crashed down on to the road in front of the ride causing instant chaos, the day Spectre had shied putting a car into the ditch. All the rides blended together in Jacky’s memory. “And now this is the last time. No more.”
At the gate on to the moor Miss Henderson dismounted and held it open until all the ride was through. She hesitated before remounting, looking at the riders.
“I think you can all look after yourselves,” she said to them. “Once we get up on to the moor we’ll have a gallop round. Only one thing, try to keep behind me or you won’t know the way.”
They climbed the rough track up the hill and came to the crest where the moorland lay stretched out before them. “Right,” called back Miss Henderson as she urged Bunter into a canter. The wind tore at Jacky’s breath as they plunged forward. Sure-footed as goats, the ponies galloped over the rough ground. Normally before she jumped a wall Miss Henderson would stop and let the ride jump one at a time but today she didn’t even glance behind. Digging her knees into her saddle Jacky felt Kirsty soar and land and gallop on. The wall with the drop on the far side that had always seemed so enormous before was hardly there as they leapt over it. Downhill they galloped, over the ditch, swung round again and out over a broad flat sweep of land. And in those moments nothing existed for Jacky but the willing pony beneath her, the surge and power of the gallop and the freedom of the open land and sky. They had escaped from time. No yesterday. No tomorrow. Only now. The drumming freedom of the now.
At last Miss Henderson slowed Bunter down. The stood in a group catching their breath while their riders looked at each other, grinning, silent with joy.
Slowly, Miss Henderson led the way back to the riding school.
“That was super,” prattled Fiona. “That’s the most super gallop I’ve ever had. Wasn’t it super, Jacky?”
“Yes, super,” agreed Jacky. But it was too late. As she rode back to the riding school, Jacky could see the ponies’ field, empty now except for one black pony standing at the gate. Time was back. Tomorrow was Buckley Sale. Tomorrow Flicka would be sold. After tomorrow she would never see Flicka again. And there was nothing Jacky could do to stop it happening.