“She’s completely recovered,” Jacky said, three days after Flicka’s attack of colic.
“Yes,” agreed Erica. “She’s fine now.”
They were leaning over the gate of the ponies’ field, wondering whether it would be too soon to start schooling Flicka.
“It couldn’t do her any harm to do a little work,” said Jacky, who was longing to ride her pony again. “Give her less energy for hopping over that gate.”
Flicka had jumped out once more during the day, but luckily Mrs Dawson had heard the clatter of hoofs and run down to the yard and caught Flicka before she had time to do any damage.
“Now she knows Firebird and Midas she’ll stop jumping out,” said Jacky hopefully. “She never jumped out at the riding school.”
“ ’Spect you’re right. Let’s catch her and try on the saddle and bridle and see if they fit.”
“Good idea.”
They took Flicka up to the yard and Jacky brushed her over while Erica looked out the tack.
“You know, I can hardly believe that you’re mine,” Jacky told Flicka as she brushed out her pony’s tangled mane. “That you’re really mine.”
Under the long sweeps of the brush Flicka’s black coat was soon glossy and her mane and tail fell soft and silken.
“It’s a nice saddle,” Erica said, bringing it out into the yard. “A proper pony show jumping saddle. Couldn’t suit you better. Minuet was Roderick’s and Grandfather gave the saddle to him when he started jumping her. She was about Flicka’s size so it should fit.”
Jacky held her breath while Erica slid the saddle down on to Flicka’s back. It fitted perfectly. Jacky fastened the string girths.
“Not pressing on her withers?” asked Erica, putting her hand under the pommel of the saddle. “Get up and I’ll make sure that it’s not down on her back.”
Erica held Flicka while Jacky pulled down the stirrup leathers and carefully mounted.
“Fine.” said Erica, squinting to look between the saddle and Flicka’s backbone. “Even with your ten tons on top I can still see daylight. Now the bridle. It’s a bit scrappy I’m afraid, but it’s a nice, big snaffle.”
Erica put the bridle on and adjusted the cheek pieces until the snaffle was lying snugly in the corners of Flicka’s mouth.
“There!” she exclaimed. “That looks a bit more like it.”
“I don’t know how to say thank you,” Jacky cried, feeling as if she was going to burst with happiness. “I mean it’s all so super. Whatever would I have done if I hadn’t met you?”
“Well, don’t start being all humble,” laughed Erica. “Come on, let’s take her down to the paddock and you can ride her round for a bit. Rod would be flaming if he knew.”
“Well, really we should be lunging her and all that but I don’t think one little ride could do her any harm.”
They took Flicka down to the paddock and Jacky rode her round at a walk.
“I must be dreaming,” Jacky thought. “I must be.” So much had happened so quickly. Less than a week ago she had been certain that Flicka would be sold at Buckley and that would be the end. “Perhaps things are never as bad as you think they’re going to be,” Jacky told herself. “Perhaps we make them bad ourselves by always imagining that the worst is bound to happen. But this time it hasn’t. The best has happened. The absolute best.”
After she’d gone round the paddock a few times Jacky thought she had better offer Erica a ride.
“Don’t be daft,” Erica said. “You can’t go giving people shots on her as if she was a bike. She’s your pony and you’ll need to do the riding. You can’t chop and change riders on a young horse that you’re schooling.”
They started lunging Flicka the next morning. Erica showed Jacky how to send Flicka round on the lunge in a wide circle while she moved slightly behind her in a smaller circle. By the end of her first lesson Flicka understood the sharp command, “Trot” and the slow, drawn-out command to “W-a-l-k.”
By the end of the Easter holidays she was trotting and cantering on the lunge without any resistance and Jacky was riding her in circles at the walk and sitting trot.
“You can’t do too much schooling at a slow steady trot,” Roderick had told her. “The lightest control by the reins and push her on into the bit with your seat. Teach her to balance herself.”
Before Jacky went back to school her father had a serious talk with her about her lessons and Jacky had promised to try to pay attention.
“But it’s so dull. Sometimes when its arithmetic my eyes won’t stay open. I’m trying to listen to what Miss Hope is saying but my eyes just shut and I think my ears shut too.”
Mr Munro looked sharply at his daughter in case she was trying to be funny, but Jacky was quite serious.
“And I just can’t do geography. No matter how hard I try I can’t remember all those names. It’s so boring.”
“Learning about other countries, boring?”
“Well, it won’t be when I’m jumping for Britain and I’m actually going to the places,” Jacky consented.
“Oh Jacky,” groaned Mr Munro in despair. “Now listen to me, and I mean this, if I have any complaints about you not working at school, that pony goes. Now do you understand? I mean it.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Jacky, knowing from the look on her father’s face that he really did mean what he was saying. “I’ll work.”
Jacky had a hard think about it “But I must school Flicka every day and I’ll need to do my homework or Miss Hope will send him one of her little notes.” Then, suddenly, Jacky knew what she would do. “I’ll school Flicka in the morning before I go to school. Do my homework whenever I get in from school and ride again if I have time.”
“You’ll never get up in time for that,” her mother laughed when Jacky explained what she was going to do. “I can never get you up out of your bed in time for school.”
“This,” said Jacky, “is quite, quite different. And once I get into the habit, getting up at six won’t be any different to getting up at eight.”
Jacky kept her word. Every weekday morning she cycled over to Middlemarch, caught Flicka and schooled her in the paddock. At first it was a strange feeling, making herself do something that she didn’t want to do. To begin with she longed to turn over and go to sleep again when the alarm rang waking her in the early morning. “It’s for Flicka,” Jacky would tell herself. “How do you think you’re ever going to be picked to jump for Britain if you can’t even get yourself out of your bed.”
But gradually Jacky began to enjoy riding in the still emptiness, the tracks of Flicka’s hoofs in the dew making it easy to school in figure eights and circles. And Jacky knew that Flicka was improving. She walked out now with a regular, even stride, changed pace without losing her balance, extended her trot when Jacky asked her to and cantered without any stiffness on either rein.
“Very good,” Roderick congratulated her one Saturday morning after he’d been watching her schooling in the paddock. “She has come on. You must have been working hard.”
“ ’Spose so,” Jacky agreed, grinning with pleasure. “But it’s really Flicka.”
“Does it all by herself?” Roderick laughed. “Sure some whizz horse you’ve got there.”
“I know,” said Jacky happily.
Two weeks before they broke up for the summer holidays there was a Pony Club rally close to Middlemarch.
“It’s mounted,” Jacky told Erica, “but not really doing anything. A Mr Forbes talking about turnout and tack.”
“Just what you want for Flicka,” Erica said. “Let you ride her with a lot of other ponies but nothing that will get her too excited. I’ll take Firebird. Her leg is quite better now.”
The next Friday evening they rode to the rally together. Jacky had spent ages cleaning her tack and grooming Flicka. Now that Flicka had her summer coat she gleamed like black silk when Jacky groomed her. After a few months grazing at Middlemarch her neck and shoulders had filled out and her quarters were round and hard. Jacky remembered how thin she had been during the winter at Miss Henderson’s. “I’ll never let you get like that,” she murmured, rubbing her hand down Flicka’s neck. “Never.”
“Two weeks and we’ll be free,” Jacky said happily. “And the exams are over and I think I might have done a bit better than last time. Might.”
They trotted their ponies down the lime-shaded lane to the field where a group of Pony Clubbers had already assembled.
“No Grunters either,” said Erica. “They’ve gone to Greece for a fortnight.”
At first Flicka was excited by the other ponies, whinnying furiously if Erica took Firebird away from her and glowering threateningly if any strange pony came too close to her, but she soon settled down.
“Last time I saw you at a rally you were riding an old skinful of bones from Miss Henderson’s,” William Davis said. “Is this one your own?”
“Yes,” said Jacky, nodding.
“Quite nice,” said William. “I like black ponies best.”
“Is that the one that jumped out?” asked Ann Morton. “She looks as if she’d be pretty fast.”
“She is,” said Jacky.
A Land Rover came down the lane and into the field. Mrs Marshall, Miss Hewitt and a man whom Jacky supposed must be Mr Forbes got out and came over to the children.
“Do you think he’ll inspect our tack?” whispered Ann.
Mr Forbes inspected everything, condition and grooming of the ponies, the state of their tack and the turnout of the children themselves.
“Perhaps you can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse,” Mr Forbes said when he had finished his inspection, “but I’m going to show you how to turn a scarecrow into something a little bit smarter.”
As he spoke, Marion Marshall rode into the field. Willow, her bay pony, was plastered with mud, her tack was filthy and she was wearing tie-dyed jeans, a fringed purple sweater and wellington boots, while her unplaited hair was blowing round her head.
After telling them the dangers of riding when you were dressed like Marion, Mr Forbes sent her away to smarten up while he demonstrated grooming and tack cleaning. When Marion came back she was very smartly turned out.
“They don’t look the same,” Erica said, as everyone cheered Marion riding round on her well-groomed pony. “You wouldn’t even know they were the same pony and rider!”
Tessa Grey gave a vote of thanks and Mrs Marshall said she would be sending out the summer programme during the next week.
Jacky, who had been holding Flicka, mounted and was glancing back to see if Erica was ready when Mrs Marshall called her over.
“Is that Miss Henderson’s Flicka?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“She is looking well. You’ve done a grand job with her.”
Maddeningly, Jacky knew she was blushing furiously at Mrs Marshall’s unexpected praise.
“Trot her round, Jacky, and let’s see how she goes.”
Jacky trotted and cantered Flicka round several times and then brought her back to Mrs Marshall.
“She’s a nice mover too. Nice action. Have you done all the schooling yourself?”
“Erica Dawson’s helped, and her brother.”
“She’s a credit to you,” smiled Mrs Marshall.
Jacky rode home from the rally in a daze of happiness.
“You should see yourself,” said Erica, laughing at her. “Grinning like the Cheshire cat.”
“Over the moon,” said Jacky. “And soon it will be the holidays and I can start jumping her.”