“You are lucky living here,” Jacky said enviously, as she and Erica walked down to the looseboxes for Flicka.
“Yes, it’s great. Much better than where we lived before. We’d only two boxes there, in the back garden sort of thing, and a field we rented from a farmer. But here we’ve got more or less everything—the boxes and a feed house, a tack room and two big fields for grazing and one smaller flat field for a paddock.”
“Super!”
“But no use if you don’t have someone to share it with. Thought I’d go bats if I didn’t get to know someone soon.”
“You should thank Celia. She was the cause of Flicka’s runaway.”
“Celia!” exclaimed Erica in disgust. “We were going to put up a notice at the gate saying, ‘All Grunters will be prosecuted’.”
“I’ll do instead,” giggled Jacky. “Once Mrs Grunter finds that you’re riding with me she won’t allow Celia to come near here.”
“That’s the real reason we offered to keep Flicka,” teased Erica.
When they reached the boxes they could hear Flicka charging madly round inside and whinnying shrilly. Erica fetched a halter and they opened the top of the box door.
“Watch her now,” warned Erica, as the black pony surged towards the door, thrusting her head and neck over it and pushing against it with all her strength. “Get back with you. Go on back.”
Jacky opened the box door a fraction and squeezed in beside Flicka.
“Now, now, now,” she said calmly. “What a fuss about nothing. Stupid pony.”
Flicka rolled her eyes and stuck her head into the air when Jacky tried to put on the halter.
“Stand at her shoulder and put your hand over her muzzle,” instructed Erica. “You’ll never get it on standing in front of her.”
Jacky did as she was told and managed to slip the halter round Flicka’s head.
“We’ll put her in with our animals. She’s used to being in the same field as others isn’t she?”
“Oh yes,” Jacky gasped, as Flicka danced and plunged at the end of the halter rope. “That’s what’s wrong with her.”
In the middle of the field, Erica’s chestnut show pony Firebird and Midas, Roderick’s chestnut hunter, stood alert, their heads high as they listened to Flicka’s excited whinnyings.
“Here she comes,” Erica told them. “A new friend for you.”
She opened the gate and Flicka steamed through, dragging Jacky behind her.
“Get up with you,” Jacky said sternly. “Wait a minute, can’t you?”
She turned Flicka’s head towards her and pulled the halter off over her ears. With a plunge and kick of her heels Flicka was trotting over the field to the other horses, her head tucked in and her tail carried high as an Arab’s.
The two other horses stood like statues while Flicka trotted right up to them. They stood for a second, heads together, nostrils almost touching, breathing in the strangeness of each other.
“Wait for it,” warned Erica
There was a sudden high-pitched, pig squeal from Firebird as. she lashed out at Flicka with a foreleg, and instantly the group erupted into a flurry of hoofs, snaking necks and tossing manes. Flicka high-stepped away from them, snatched a mouthful of grass, then cautiously approached Firebird and Midas again, her neck stretched out warily. This time Firebird’s warning squeal was less violent.
“They’ll be all right,” said Erica. “D’you want to come and see the paddock? We haven’t many jumps yet. Only a few tin cans and things.”
When Erica and Jacky came back from the paddock all three animals had their heads down grazing.
“She’s a super pony,” Erica said, watching Flicka. “I showed Firebird once or twice last summer. She did quite well but then she tore a tendon and I’ve really been resting her since then. Are you going to show Flicka?”
“Oh, Flicka isn’t going to be a show pony,” said Jacky, shocked at the idea. “She’s going to be a show jumper.”
“Can she jump?”
“She jumped the gate out of the garage patch,” said Jacky, and told Erica about Flicka’s midnight escapade.
“Well, she won’t jump out of this field, that’s for sure,” Erica said. “Even Midas couldn’t get out of here.”
Looking at the field gate Jacky wasn’t so sure. It didn’t look any higher than the gate to the garage patch. But she didn’t say anything, thinking it would sound like boasting. Roderick took Jacky home in his sports car.
“I’ll cycle over first thing tomorrow,” Jacky promised Erica as she waved goodbye.
“We can start schooling Flicka,” Erica agreed. “See you then.”
Mrs Munro was too concerned about Jacky’s head to listen to her tale about the Dawsons.
“You fell off on the road?”
“Well, not really the road, more the grass at the side,” Jacky explained, screwing up her face as she bathed her cut head with T.C.P. “But it’s the best thing that could have happened. If I hadn’t fallen off I wouldn’t have met Erica. You should see their paddock and she’s going to lend me a saddle and bridle and help me to school Flicka.”
“Do make sure you get your head really clean,” Mrs Munro answered. “I wonder if you should go down to the doctor and ask him to have a look at it.”
“Oh Mummy! It’s only a scratch.”
When Mr Munro came home from work he was very pleased to hear that Flicka had found a new home.
“The garage patch was never intended for a horse,” he stated. “And certainly not for a raving lunatic like that animal.”
“You’re just proving,” said Jacky, “that you don’t know a potential show jumper when you see one.”
“You could be right there,” agreed her father, laughing. “But at least we should all get a good night’s sleep tonight.”
The shrill insistent ringing of the telephone through the sleeping, silent house woke Jacky with a start. She sat upright in bed, thought, “Flicka,” and was jumping out of bed as she heard her father’s footsteps going downstairs to answer the phone. Jacky opened her bedroom door and listened.
“Tarent 356,” said her father crossly. “But is it serious? It’s three o’clock in the morning you know. Then hold on until I wake her.”
But Jacky was already halfway downstairs. “Is it Flicka?” she demanded urgently.
“Erica Dawson,” said her father, handing Jacky the “Your pony’s jumped out again or something. Dratted animal.”
“Hello, hello,” said Jacky.
“Jacky? It’s Erica. Flicka jumped out.”
“Gosh,” said Jacky. “Has she got away? Bet she’s gone back to the riding school.”
“She got into the feed house,” Erica said urgently. “Stuffed herself with oats and when Rod heard her and went down to find out what was happening she was drinking at the trough. She’s got colic, Jacky.”
Jacky felt a cold shiver run through her. “But I don’t know what to do,” she said helplessly.
“We phoned for the vet,” said Erica. “She’s quite bad. Do you want to come over? Rod will come for you … ”
“Of course I want to come,” cried Jacky.
“Be ready in about ten minutes then,” said Erica. “I’ll go back and stay with Flicka.”
“Can I do anything to help?” Mr Munro asked, after Jacky had explained what had happened.
“You can’t,” said Jacky. “They’ve phoned the vet.”
“See you put on plenty of warm clothes,” said her mother anxiously. “I don’t like it a bit, you wandering about at night like this.”
“She might be dying,” murmured Jacky miserably as she went to get dressed.
Jacky heard the whine of Roderick’s sports car and ran out to meet him.
“I’ll come over in the morning before I go to work, see how you’re getting on,” her father called after Jacky.
“Thanks,” Jacky called back as she scrambled in beside Roderick. “Is Flicka all right?” she demanded tensely.
“Well, we thought we’d better let you know,” said Roderick, swinging the car round and scorching back down the road. “She’d gorged herself on the oats and I don’t know how much water she drank before I caught her. She wasn’t looking too good when I left her.”
Jacky dug her finger nails hard into the palms of her hands.
“Is colic serious, I mean could she … could she … ”
“Once the vet sees her she’ll be okay,” said Roderick. “We usually keep a bottle of colic drench handy but of course when we need it we couldn’t find it. Got lost in the move.”
“Will the vet be there by now?”
“He was out at a farm but his wife said she’d phone him straight away.”
Roderick drove recklessly along the deserted roads, tore down the drive of Middlemarch and straight down to the looseboxes. A light was on in one of the boxes and Jacky could make out the silhouette of someone standing in the box.
“I think he’s there,” she exclaimed in relief as they dashed over to the box. But it was only Erica.
“How’s she doing?” asked Roderick
“She’s been a bit quieter since you went,” Erica said.
Flicka was standing in a corner of the box, her head drooping and her eyes half-closed. Her black coat was curded with sweat and her whole body had the tight, tucked-up appearance of an animal in pain. She paid no attention whatever to Jacky and Roderick, not even looking up when they came into the box.
Jacky went over and spoke to her but the pony only swung her head away from her as if she couldn’t bear to have anyone near her.
“Best leave her alone,” advised Roderick.
“I can’t believe it,” gasped Jacky. “It’s so sudden.”
“If you’d just eaten two or three pounds of sour apples and then had a drink of ice-cold water to wash them down, I don’t suppose you’d be feeling too good. And ponies can’t be sick. That’s what makes colic so serious,” said Roderick.
Suddenly Flicka came to life. She staggered round the box, then began to swing her head, biting and kicking at her belly. The whites of her eyes glistened as she rolled her eyes in pain.
“Don’t let her get down,” warned Erica, shouting at Flicka as the pony showed signs of sinking down on to the straw. “She mustn’t lie down.”
Helplessly, Jacky stood and watched until the spasm passed and Flicka was back, standing with hanging head in the corner of the box.
“Can’t we do anything,” pleaded Jacky. She couldn’t bear to stand and watch Flicka suffering like this.
“Not till the vet comes,” said Roderick.
Jacky turned to stare out into the yard, hoping the others wouldn’t be able to see the tears in her eyes. She waited, straining to hear the sound of the vet’s car, but there was only the unbroken silence of the country night.
Roderick brought a rug, threw it over Flicka and packed straw underneath it to try and keep her warm.
They all stood, watching the pony, waiting.
“Come. Come. Come,” muttered Jacky. “Oh, please come,” and then, as if her words had conjured it out of the darkness, she was sure she heard the sound of an engine. “Listen!” she cried. “I can hear a car.”
“I can’t,” said Erica.
“Yes, it is,” said Roderick, listening intently.
In seconds the vet was hurrying across the yard towards them.
“Sorry I’ve been so long. Difficult calving. But surely that’s Miss Henderson’s black pony.” He was the same brisk sparrow that had stitched up Dimsie’s leg on the disastrous night a month ago.
“She’s mine now,” explained Jacky, and quickly told the vet what had happened.
Without any fuss the vet brought a bottle of colic drench from his car. He mixed it in a long-necked container while Roderick put a halter on Flicka.
Roderick held up Flicka’s head while the vet put the bottle in the side of her mouth and poured the drench down her throat little by little. Between them they managed to make the pony swallow most of the mixture.
“There,” said the vet at last, “that should do the trick. That’s got enough of it inside her to sort things out.”
Roderick took Flicka’s halter off and the pony went back to stand in the corner of the box. They all watched her anxiously for another half-hour but there didn’t seem to be any change.
“How about a cup of tea?” asked the vet.
“But shouldn’t we stay with her?” cried Jacky.
“You can pop down every now and again to see how she is,” the vet assured her as they all went into the house. “You look a bit colicky yourself standing out here shivering.”
Jacky went back to the box every ten minutes, and by the time the vet had finished his tea and came back to inspect his patient, Flicka was looking brighter.
“She’ll live,” he said. “Keep an eye on her for the rest of the night and I’ll look in in the morning just to make sure, And I would advise you to check your fencing. Can’t have ponies getting out like that you know.”
“She jumped,” said Roderick. “Cleared the gate my hunter wouldn’t dream of facing up to.”
“Did she now,” said the vet, giving Flicka a hard look. “Miss Henderson knew what she was talking about even if she couldn’t make money. Always said this one would make the top in the show jumping game.”
“Shall we take turns to stay with her?” Erica asked when the vet had gone.
“Oh no,” insisted Jacky. “I’ll stay with her.”
“Are you sure? She’s looking a lot better,” Roderick said.
“I must stay,” Jacky insisted. “I don’t mind being alone.”
“We’ll see you in the morning then,” agreed Roderick. In the morning, when Mr Munro found his way down to the looseboxes at the back of Middlemarch, he discovered his daughter asleep in the straw and the pony who was supposed to have been dying a few hours earlier, standing at a hay net munching contentedly.
“So this is where you are?” he said, waking Jacky.
“Daddy!” she cried, jumping up. “Oh, look at Flicka. She’s better.” And Jacky flung her aims round her pony’s neck.
Mr Munro listened while Jacky told him what had happened.
“And how much longer is this sort of thing going to go on for?” he asked when Jacky had finished.
“It won’t happen again. Once she settles down it won’t happen again.”
“But when,” asked Mr Munro darkly, “is the settling down going to begin?”