Jacky began Flicka’s jumping career by trotting her over a pole lying on the ground. She trotted Flicka round in a big circle at a sitting trot then turned her up the centre of the circle, over the pole, circled round on the other rein and back up the circle over the pole again.
The first time Flicka goggled at the pole but trotted over it without any fuss. The second time she jumped three feet into the air and Jacky sailed over her head and sat on the ground seeing stars while Flicka galloped round the field. Jacky staggered to her feet, caught Flicka’s dangling reins and remounted.
“Idiot,” she told the excited pony. “It’s only a pole on the ground, not Becher’s Brook. Now calm down.”
She let Flicka canter round, then brought her back to a trot. When she felt that Flicka had settled, she rode her towards the pole again. Instantly, Flicka plunged forward at a gallop, soared into the air over the pole and charged up the field. This time Jacky managed to stay on but not to stay in control. Flicka raced twice round the field before Jacky could stop her.
Jacky spent about half an hour trying to get Flicka to trot calmly over the pole but each time she took a mad leap into the air, unseating Jacky and then storming round the field. In the end Jacky was forced to go back to schooling her in circles.
“What’s up?” Erica asked when Jacky into the yard. “You look a bit battered.”
“We’ve been having a rodeo,” Jacky said. “She’s forgotten everything I’ve taught her.” And Jacky explained what had happened.
“You can’t expect her to know that she’s meant to step over the pole,” Erica laughed. “After all, she’s used to jumping five-bar gates and boundary walls.”
“But the books all say that you start with a pole on the ground,” moaned Jacky.
“I could bring Firebird down,” Erica offered. “She’s very good at cavalletti. It would give Flicka a lead.”
“We could try tonight,” Jacky agreed. “I’ve to go into Tarent with Mummy this afternoon.”
Jacky wasn’t too sure about how keen she was to have Erica watching her fall off Flicka, but when they took the two ponies down to the paddock in the evening Flicka seemed to have forgotten her morning madness. Walking and trotting behind Firebird she went over the poles without any fuss. By the end of the evening she was trotting calmly over four poles without a lead from Firebird.
“She’s a dark horse,” said Jacky as they turned their ponies out for the night.
“She was just letting you know that you can’t have things all your own way,” Erica told her.
By the end of her first week’s jumping, Flicka was going over the cavalletti that Jacky and Erica had constructed, without any nonsense. Then Jacky built four low broad jumps and schooled Flicka over these. The pony loved jumping them.
“This is more like it,” she seemed to be saying as she jumped gaily round the little course. “I don’t know what you were messing about with those poles for.”
Jacky increased the spread of the jumps and schooled Flicka over them every day.
“If Miss Hope made you work like this at school you’d all come out on strike,” her mother told her.
“But it’s not work,” exclaimed Jacky. “I’d rather be riding Flicka than anything else in the world. And we go for rides. We don’t school all the time.”
Gradually the summer holidays slipped past and the Pony Club gymkhana grew closer.
Jacky built higher courses for Flicka to jump but went on schooling her over low spread jumps.
“Height doesn’t seem to mean anything to her,” Erica said. She had been schooling Firebird and had waited to watch Jacky take Flicka round a course of jumps they had built in the afternoon. “I’ve seen ponies that were good at jumping but never one that jumped like Flicka. It’s no effort to her.”
“I’ve told you dozens of times,” said Jacky. “She’s a show jumper.”
It was easy to boast sitting astride Flicka in the Dawsons’ paddock. Then Jacky felt sure and confident. There was nothing that Flicka couldn’t jump. But lying in bed thinking about the gymkhana Jacky was terrified that she might do something to spoil her pony’s chances. “I might take the wrong course,” Jacky thought, “or fall off, or sicken her by jumping too much.” Then she would tell herself not to be so silly, that it was only a potty little gymkhana, that it didn’t really make any difference what happened; there would be other gymkhanas, other shows. But Jacky knew this wasn’t true. It did matter. The Pony Club gymkhana was the beginning of Jacky’s show jumping career. Flicka MUST do well.
“Go with you to buy summer frocks?” Jacky echoed incredulously, staring up at her mother. “But I don’t need summer frocks. What I do need is a new pair of jodhpurs. I’m going to split that pair soon.”
“Now Jacky, don’t be tiresome. Of course you can’t go on holiday without some respectable clothes. And last year’s dresses will be far too small for you.”
“On holiday?” cried Jacky.
“Now don’t pretend that you don’t know we go away next week.”
“But I didn’t,” cried Jacky. “I didn’t!”
“It was arranged at New Year. We’re going with Uncle Bob and Aunt Moira, touring Scotland for a week.”
“No, oh no,” gasped Jacky. “I can’t stop jumping Flicka. Mummy, I can’t.”
“You most certainly can,” said her mother. “And I do not for one minute believe that you didn’t know we were going. Not even you, Jacky, could have forgotten you were going on holiday. You must have heard us talking about it.”
“I didn’t,” said Jacky dismally. “Honestly I didn’t.”
When Jacky told Erica, Erica said Jacky could come and stay with them.
“I wouldn’t be allowed to. They think a holiday is good for you, though how sitting squashed in the back seat of a car being smoked over by Uncle Bob could be good for anyone, I don’t know.”
“It won’t do Flicka any harm to have a rest,” consoled Erica.
“But I’ll only have five days until the gymkhana when we get back. Only five days!”
It rained most of the time they were in Scotland and Jacky sat in the back seat of the car between her mother and her Aunt Moira, thinking about Flicka and staring out at mist-covered mountains and mist-covered sea.
The minute they reached home Jacky dashed out of the car, changed her clothes and cycled full speed to Middlemarch. There was no sign of Erica so Jacky took a halter and went straight to Flicka.
“I’m back Flicka, I’m back,” she shouted to the pony and, at the sound of Jack’s voice, Flicka came trotting to the gate. “I’ve brought you some apples,” Jacky told her as she rubbed her hand down her pony’s neck and straightened Flicka’s forelock.
As Jacky led Flicka out of the field she couldn’t imagine why people went away for holidays when there was so much more to do at home.
The next five days flew past. Jacky’s absence hadn’t made any difference to Flicka’s jumping. By the day before the Pony Club gymkhana Jacky built a course of eight jumps in the paddock and took Flicka over them. The pony jumped them all in her usual lively, willing style.
“She’s a proper little speed merchant, isn’t she?” said Roderick.
“I suppose she is fast,” agreed Jacky. “Erica was saying that too. I suppose I don’t notice it because I’m so used to her.”
“She goes round the jumps like a tornado,” laughed Roderick. “But it certainly doesn’t stop her clearing them.”
That evening Jacky and Erica cleaned their tack with more care than usual.
“Just in case Mr Forbes is judging the show ponies,” Erica said, polishing her stirrup irons.
“I’ll bet you Celia is there tomorrow. Probably be jumping in the same class as me,” and Jacky swallowed hard, imagining how dreadful it would be if Flicka didn’t jump or if she fell off in front of the Grunters.