Jacky sat up seeing stars. At first she couldn’t think why she should be sitting at the roadside. Then she remembered.
”Flicka,” she gulped and scrambled to her feet. The countryside swam around her as if she had just been on the big dipper at the fair, but she gritted her teeth and started to run down the road. As she ran, pictures danced before her eyes; Flicka falling and breaking a leg; Flicka in an accident with a car; Flicka lost for ever.
There was no trace of her pony. Two lorries passed and Jacky stopped them to ask if they had seen a black pony running loose, but the drivers only shook their heads and looked at her in surprise. “As if I was asking if they’d seen a dragon,” Jacky thought as she ran on.
At the crossroads she turned right and came to Oak Boking, a tiny village with only one shop that sold everything. In its window, Jacky saw her reflection and realized why the lorry drivers had stared at her. Although she couldn’t feel it, she had cut her forehead and the blood had dried in a sticky mess, matting her hair.
The old lady who owned the shop knew nothing of Flicka.
“She didn’t come this way, dear. I’d have heard if a pony had come galloping through Oak Boking.”
Jacky retraced her steps to the crossroads. If Flicka had gone through Oak Boking there had been a chance that she might have found her way back to the riding school, but she must have taken the road to the left, which in another two miles joined the motorway. Jacky tried not to think about the motorway which stretched like a snaking desert through the green fields, and which was filled day and night with the roar of unending traffic, the motorway which meant death to any animal who blundered on to it, certain death to a runaway pony.
An open sports car came screaming up behind Jacky and stopped at her side. It was being driven by a young blond boy and, sitting next to him, was a girl who looked about the same age as Jacky. Her long hair was cut in a fringe and hung straight down to her shoulders but she had the same laughing brown eyes as the boy.
“Have you lost a pony?” yelled the boy, leaning over the door of the car.
“Oh yes! A black pony?”
“That’s her.”
“Have you found her?”
“She came galloping up to our field when I was schooling Firebird. We’ve got her in one of our boxes now,” said the girl.
As soon as the girl mentioned Firebird, Jacky knew who they were. They were the Dawsons, Roderick and Erica. They had only moved in to Middlemarch, a large country house, a few weeks ago. Erica had joined the Pony Club but everyone said she was terribly stuck up, would only speak to Celia and wouldn’t bring her pony to rallies because she had ridden at Windsor and Wembley and thought Pony Club things were beneath her. But she didn’t look in the least like that just now.
“Is she all right? She hasn’t fallen or anything?” cried Jacky, not caring if Erica was Celia’s friend and a super horsewoman.
“Bit scared but that’s all.”
“Jump in,” said Roderick. “Bit of a squash but you’ll fit in the back.”
Jacky clambered into the space at the back of the sports car.
“Tell us what happened,” Erica said. “How did she get away from you?”
Jacky told them her story as they scorched along. “Of course, I shouldn’t really have ridden her outside when I didn’t have a bridle,” Jacky finished, feeling that both the Dawsons must think her an utter idiot.
“How beastly of Celia,” exclaimed Erica. “I can’t stand her. She’s always bragging about her ponies and how much her father paid for them. But fancy her doing a thing like that.”
“Nasty little girl,” said Roderick, laughing. “Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves? I’m Roderick Dawson and this is Erica, my sister. We’ve only been living here a few weeks.”
“I’m Jacky Munro.”
“You’re the girl who made Celia get off your pony,” giggled Erica. “You were quite right too. Celia and I had a smashing fight over it and I’ve hardly seen her since. Really I was glad of an excuse to be rid of her but it’s been a bit boring riding by myself all the time.”
They turned up the beech-shaded drive to Middlemarch. It was an old house built of golden-coloured stone and had a thick thatched roof.
“I hope she’ll still be here,” Erica said as they all got out of the car. “She was terribly excited.”
Roderick led the way round to the back of the house where there were four looseboxes built down one side of a little yard. Three were empty but from the fourth came the sound of crashing hoofs.
Jacky had just time to catch a glimpse of Flicka’s head before she seemed to rear up in her box.
“Look out!” Roderick yelled. “She’s coming over!” and the next instant Flicka surged over the half-door of the box.
Jacky knew that if someone didn’t stop Flicka at once she would be away again. Recklessly, she dashed forward and linked her arms round Flicka’s neck. The pony half reared, dragging Jacky off her feet, but she clung on, twisting her fingers in Flicka’s mane.
“Hang on!” Roderick shouted, and he was beside her pulling a halter over Flicka’s head. “The little varmint. Someone will need to teach you some manners.”
“Did you see her jump?” cried Erica. “Whee!”
“What a shock I got,” said a woman who had just come up. “Really those little ponies are more trouble than any hunter.”
“This is my mother,” said Erica. “Mummy, this is Jacky Munro.”
“How do you do, dear,” said Mrs Dawson, smiling at Jacky. “I think the best thing we could do is to go inside for some lemonade to calm our nerves. Roddy, can you cope with that fireball?”
Roderick said he would put Flicka back in the box and this time he would shut the top door as well.
“Really I should go home,” Jacky said, remembering her reflection in the shop window and feeling suddenly shy.
“Oh, do come in for a bit,” said Erica. “Flicka will be quite okay.”
“Poor Erica is aching to get to know some Pony Club people,” said Mrs Dawson. “But so far the only child she’s met has been Celia Grunter. And honestly!”
Over lemonade and chocolate cake Jacky soon stopped feeling shy and began to tell Erica about their branch of the Pony Club—which ponies were best at bending, which were best at jumping, and all about their instructor Mrs Marshall. Then Mrs Dawson asked her about Flicka and Jacky found herself pouring out the whole story.
“But my dear child, no wonder you came off. I’ve been tactfully ignoring that rather nasty gash on your forehead for I know how Erica hates me to fuss. Do you think the pony is safe to ride?”
“Oh yes,” Jacky assured her.
“If you ask me, she’s just lonely,” suggested Roderick. Jacky nodded. “That’s the trouble. She has always been used to the riding school ponies and suddenly she’s all alone,” and Jacky took a gulp of lemonade to cheer herself up. Really she didn’t know what she was going to do. If Flicka jumped out of the garage patch again tonight her father would be furious.
Over the rim of her lemonade glass Jacky saw Mrs Dawson raise her eyebrows questioningly at Erica, then saw Erica smile and nod her head.
“How would it be if Flicka stayed here?” Mrs Dawson asked, turning to Jacky. “She’d have company here and we’ve plenty of grazing. Perhaps Erica or Rod could give you a hand with her. It’s always easier to start off a youngster if you have someone to help.”
Jacky’s mouth opened and shut but no sound came out.
“There’s Minuet’s saddle and I’m sure we could scrape a bridle together somehow,” Rod said.
“Oh, thank you,” gasped Jacky. “That would be super. Absolutely super. I’d love to keep Flicka here. If you’re really sure it would be all right.”
“’Course it would,” said Erica. “Come on and let’s put her out into the field and see how she gets on with Firebird.”