“Number 125, Miss J. Munro on Flicka.”
The steward’s voice called Jacky from the outside collecting ring into the inside collecting ring where the next four ponies to jump waited their turn.
Jacky walked Flicka round. Her heart banged against her ribs, her stomach was a hard ball and her whole body felt cold and shivery. She had never been so nervous in all her life. Even this morning, when all the entrants for the Leading Junior Show Jumper Championship had jumped in the outdoor ring in the preliminary round, she hadn’t felt nervous.
Eighteen ponies had qualified to jump in the Championship. Flicka was one of them. Now, as they waited to ride out into the brilliantly lit arena, Jacky was numb with fear. She tried to smile at Roderick and Erica who were standing at the rails but her face was too stiff.
“Smile,” Jacky told herself. “Smile. Don’t let Celia Grunter see you looking afraid.”
For the pony to jump before Jacky was a piebald pony called Majorette. Yesterday she had belonged to Mr Brady, a horse dealer from Somerset. Today she belonged to Mr Grunter. Majorette had been qualified for Wembley by Andy, Mr Brady’s son. Yesterday Andy had been expecting to jump the pony at Wembley. Today he stood watching while Celia jumped her. Majorette had jumped well enough in the preliminary to qualify her to jump in the indoor arena, but watching Majorette fight against Celia’s rough riding as she trotted round the collecting ring, Andy Brady wondered how long the pony would remember his schooling, how soon she would rebel against her new rider.
So far there had been two clear rounds. To Jacky the jumps looked like huge barricades, at least ten feet high. Yet they weren’t really any higher than the jumps had been that morning.
“It’s being inside,” Jacky thought. “It’s so strange. It feels all wrong.” And she clapped Flicka’s neck to comfort herself with the familiar strength of her pony.
Celia and Majorette rode into the ring.
“Jolly good luck, darling,” trilled Mrs Grunter.
“It’s me next,” Jacky thought and couldn’t believe it. Everything seemed to be happening a long way off. She could only think about how cold she was and the way her knees wouldn’t fit against the saddle.
“Snap out of it,” Roderick growled as she rode past him. Again Jacky tried to smile but couldn’t.
“Jolly good show, dear. Wonderful clear round.”
Celia came charging out of the ring to her mother’s praise.
Jacky shortened her reins, touched her legs to Flicka’s sides and left the safety of the collecting ring to ride into the brightness of the arena.
And instantly as she rode into the light she forgot to feel afraid; forgot that she was only Jacky Munro riding a pony she had bought for three hundred pounds; forgot everything except the strength and willingness of her pony and the knowledge that they were here to jump as they had never jumped before.
Jacky cantered Flicka in a circle. The course they were to take over the jumps was crystal clear in her mind and she grinned broadly as Flicka plunged forward trying to buck.
The bell went, sharp and clear. Jacky finished the half circle and rode through the start. Flicka pranced on the spot, the tan spurting from under her hoofs.
“On you go,” murmured Jacky, easing her fingers on the reins, and Flicka flew forward over the first jump.
As Flicka soared upwards Jacky took more weight on her stirrups and felt her stirrup leathers uneven. The right one seemed longer than the left. She remembered thinking the same thing when she had been jumping in the morning and had meant to check them but in the excitement of the moment had forgotten.
Flicka cantered on and over the brush. Round the bottom of the ring, and the double was in front of them. With a long, reaching stride between the two jumps, Flicka was over, clear.
Out in the darkness beyond the brightness of the ring, Jacky could feel the crowd watching them, riding with her, catching their breath at every jump.
Over parallel poles, then over cross poles and then across the ring and over a ROAD CLOSED. Again Jacky felt her stirrups irritatingly uneven.
Round the top of the ring and down the side was the solid lane of the three jumps that formed the treble. Jacky rode confidently at it knowing that Flicka was loving the excitement, the thrill and the challenge as much as herself.
Flicka rose to the first part of the treble and, just when her riding needed all her concentration, Jacky felt again the annoying unevenness in her stirrups.
Flicka landed, took two strides, and rose in a flowing arc over the second part of the treble. But this time as Jacky leant forward with her pony her right stirrup leather snapped and her stirrup fell clattering into the jump. Instantly Jacky kicked her other foot free and rode without stirrups as Flicka cleared the third part of the treble.
For a second Jacky wondered whether she should stop and wait till they found her stirrup but she knew it would take too long. She would need to ride the rest of the course without stirrups, and Jacky turned Flicka to take the last two jumps—a hog’s back and the brick wall.
At the hog’s back Flicka took off sooner than Jacky expected and she was badly left behind. At once she let go of the reins, knowing that Flicka would need all the luck in the world to clear the spread and a jog in the mouth could easily make her drop her hind legs into the poles. Flicka seemed to hang poised over the jump and then, with a kick back, she was over. There was no crash of falling poles but Jacky knew it must have been a very near thing.
The giant red brick wall loomed in front of them. It was too late for Jacky to try and gather up her reins. There was nothing she could do but ride Flicka on at it. Flicka jumped in a wide, smooth arc so that Jacky, riding without reins or stirrups, never moved in the saddle.
They were clear! Triumphantly, Flicka cantered through the finish. Applause burst around them as Jacky rode back to take her leather and stirrup from one of the stewards.
“Don’t like the look of that one bit, me dear,” the man said handing them to Jacky. “Why, you’d think someone had cut the leather on purpose.”
And Jacky saw that what he said was true. Close to the buckle the leather had been cut nearly all the way across.
“Really, Jacqueline, one would have expected you to check your tack before you came here!” shouted Mrs Grunter as Jacky rode out.
Jacky looked up and saw Mrs Grunter holding Majorette and also saw Celia scuttling across the collecting ring and knew that she hadn’t been mistaken. The person she had seen last night bursting out of the Dawsons’ tack room to the shelter of the trees had definitely been Celia.
Roderick and Erica came rushing up and showered Flicka and Jacky with congratulations. Roderick threaded one of his leathers through Jacky’s stirrup and put it on to her saddle
“I can’t imagine how that happened,” he said.
But Jacky didn’t explain. She didn’t want a lot of fuss until she had finished jumping. There were five clear rounds—two girls, one boy, Jacky and Celia. They were to jump off over the same course with several of the jumps raised.
As she walked Flicka round the collecting ring, Jacky caught Celia’s eye and stared hard at her. Celia turned scarlet and looked away at once.
“Nasty little beast,” Jacky thought. “Little sneak.”
Celia rode into the ring but this time it was obvious that something was wrong. She seemed flustered and upset. After two jumps she took the wrong course and was eliminated.
“You stupid, stupid child! Do you think your father paid all that money for you to throw away your chances by taking the wrong course?”
Mrs Grunter’s furious tones echoed in Jacky’s ears as she rode into the ring a second time.
Again, Flicka jumped a clear round.
The boy, Garth Ramsay, was clear as well. They would need to jump off against the clock. The boy jumped first. He did a clever round in a medium time. To win, Jacky would need to go clear and fast.
The whistle blew and Flicka galloped at the first jump, as keen and as willing to go round the course again as she had been the first time.
“Faster, faster,” Jacky whispered, urging her on.
Like a whirlwind they stormed round the course. Recklessly, Jacky cut corners, let Flicka fly down the treble, come tearing up over the hog’s back and shoot over the giant wall to land and beat up to the finish as if Flicka were a thoroughbred racehorse.
Applause burst and swelled over them. They were clear and with a faster time than Garth Ramsay. Flicka was the Leading Junior Show Jumper of the Year.
Jacky hardly knew what to do. She felt as if she would burst with happiness. She couldn’t make enough fuss of Flicka, couldn’t thank her enough and then Roderick, Erica, her parents, and Jack Tosh were crowding round, congratulating, praising, overflowing with excitement.
“It was all Flicka,” Jacky said again and again, and she rubbed her eyes on her jacket sleeve so that they wouldn’t know she was nearly crying.
The prize-winners were called back into the ring and Jacky seemed to say thank you over and over again for there was nothing else to say.
As Jacky rode out of the ring Celia rode up beside her. “Please, please don’t tell anyone about last night,” she begged. “If my mother found out there would be a terrible row. They’re mad with me because I didn’t win. Please don’t tell them.”
For a minute Jacky said nothing and then she realized just how awful it would be to lead Celia’s life. She didn’t have any real friends, nearly all the time she was with her mother. She couldn’t enjoy riding for worrying about winning. Nobody liked her. Really it must be pretty beastly being Celia Grunter, Jacky thought.
“Okay,” she said, “I won’t tell.” And she rode on to where her family and friends were waiting, the lovely, coloured championship rosette fluttering from Flicka’s bridle.
“Leading Junior Show Jumper of the Year—Jacky Munro on Flicka.”
It was Saturday night. The night of the Grand Parade and, for a second, Jacky and Flicka stood proudly in the beam of the spotlight.
As the light shone on them, Jacky remembered the days when she had ridden Maverick and the dreadful day when Flicka had fallen at the Pony Club cross country. It all seemed a long, long while ago. Now the future stretched golden before her. All things were possible. Even the dream of jumping abroad with the red, white and blue of the Union Jack carried on her saddle cloth, even this was possible now.
“And I owe it all to you, Flicka,” Jacky whispered, leaning forward and patting Flicka’s sleek neck. “Oh thank you, Flicka, thank you.”
