“What on earth are you doing here?” Miss Henderson gasped in astonishment.
“Please listen,” Jacky said and explained what had happened.
“Of all the luck! Well I must say I’m glad you got here in time. I wasn’t exactly enjoying seeing my favourite pony being sold to Mrs Grunter.”
Quickly and without any fuss, Miss Henderson spoke to the auctioneer.
“Sorry ladies and gentlemen, the owner is withdrawing her pony. Not satisfied with the price,” and Flicka was led out of the ring.
“Here,” said the man who had been leading Flicka round, “what d’you want done with her now?”
“Jacky will take her,” Miss Henderson said, and the man handed Jacky the halter.
“Oh, Flicka,” Jacky whispered, clapping the pony’s neck and scratching her behind the ears. “Oh, Flicka, you’re really, truly mine.”
“You had no right to withdraw that animal. I was still bidding for her.” Like an outsize hippopotamus, Mrs Grunter bore down on them.
“I had every right,” said Miss Henderson coldly.
“I’m quite prepared to pay up to seven hundred for her,” insisted Mrs Grunter.
“I’m sorry but the pony is already sold.”
“She’s mine,” squeaked Jacky.
“This is utterly outrageous. You’ll hear more of this, just you wait and see,” and Mrs Grunter, with Celia trotting behind her, marched away.
“Silly old trout,” laughed Miss Henderson. “She can’t do a thing. I never put ponies up for sale without a reserve on them.”
Miss Henderson took Jacky’s premium letter and read it.
“You can send me the money when you get it. Address it to the riding school and the Post Office will forward it to my mother. I’m not very sure yet where I’m going to be. Three hundred pounds okay?”
“But I was going to pay the five hundred from my prize money and find the other twenty from somewhere. I’m sure Dad would lend it to me now.”
“But we’d arranged three hundred before that. Be good to her, won’t you? If you school her properly she’ll take you right to the top. When I bought her she was going to be the pony that was to make my stables famous.” Miss Henderson laughed, then suddenly turned and walked quickly away.
“Thank you, thank you, and I hope you get on all right.” Jacky shouted after her, but already she was lost in the crowd. Jacky was left holding Flicka.
Feeling as if she would burst with pride, Jacky led Flicka across the market. She was sure that everyone was staring jealously at her pony and wishing she belonged to them. In her excitement, Flicka bounded from one side of Jacky to the other. She would bound forward to the full length of her halter rope or pull back refusing to move. Twice she barged into farmers, nearly knocking them over.
“She’s only young,” Jacky apologized, hanging desperately on to Flicka’s halter. “She’s not used to all this noise.”
She was even worse when they left the market. Every few minutes she neighed with a sound like thunder, throwing up her head and standing rooted to the spot to listen for any answering whinny. Traffic swerved to avoid her, blowing their horns which only made Flicka more confused than ever. She pranced at Jacky’s side like a war horse with her tail held high, paying no attention whatever to Jacky. For all her life her whole world had been Miss Henderson’s field and now, in one shattering morning, everything had changed.
At last they reached the quieter roads outside Buckley and then the country lanes that led, in a rather roundabout way, to Jacky’s home, and Flicka settled a little, began to lose her eye-rolling madness and look about her more calmly.
Jacky’s arms ached with hanging on to the halter rope. “You are a silly pony,” she told Flicka lovingly. “Behave yourself and we’ll get home much quicker. You’ll have your own field now. At the side of our house. Daddy was going to put up a garage on it but he never did, so it can be a pony field now. Come on, there’s nothing to be afraid of here.” For no reason at all Flicka was standing rock solid in the middle of the lane. Jacky tugged at her halter. “There isn’t a thing. You’re quite safe.”
Suddenly Flicka swung round to face the opposite direction, dragging Jacky with her, and there, far down the lane, came the swaying bulk of a horsebox.
Desperately, Jacky pushed at the frozen pony. “Get into the side. Get over, Flicka,” she pleaded.
With frightening speed the horsebox bore down on them. “Stop!” Jacky’s scream was torn from her mouth as Flicka reared up, almost knocking her off her feet. Any second Jacky felt that the quivering pony would have pulled the rope out of her hands and be galloping away in a blind panic.
“Steady, steady the pony,” she cried, trying to keep her voice calm.
Suddenly the horsebox was on top of them. Jacky heard herself scream, caught a vivid glimpse of the silver crescents of Flicka’s shoes as she reared again, striking at the air as the varnish and chrome of the horsebox crashed past. Then, losing her balance, Flicka fell, bringing Jacky down with her.
For a moment Jacky and her pony struggled on the grass at the roadside. Then Flicka surged upright and stood shuddering, bespattered with mud.
“The beast, the utter beast,” Jacky was shouting as she too scrambled to her feet. “She could have killed us both. I hate that Mrs Grunter!”
For as the horsebox had roared past, Jacky had caught a glimpse of Mrs Grunter’s fat face staring blandly out of the cab window.