Fly-by-night Read online

  ‘No girth,’ said Ron, ‘and the leathers are no good. But it’ll come up all right, I’d say. Neatsfoot oil is what it wants. And the lining renewed, and new stuffing. It won’t cost you a fortune, though. What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, if it fits . . .’ Ruth, examining, began to see that there was hope. She wiped the seat clear of dust with her elbow, and thought she could see the glimmer of a real saddle’s rich shine. In her mind she saw it. She longed to start work on it. ‘It’s wonderful. If it fits — and it looks as if it should — I am sure it could be made all right.’ She was full of gratitude again. She hugged the saddle. She saw herself sitting in it, well down, confident, smiling (as in a diagram captioned ‘A good general-purpose seat’) waiting to go down to the first jump at Brierley Hill. This was her biggest problem solved. She rode home behind Ron, the saddle on one arm, dreaming.

  CHAPTER V

  THE GIRL AT ‘THE PLACE’

  MR. HOLLIS WENT down to see Mr. Lacey about the saddle, and came back looking absent-minded.

  ‘Nice place he’s got down there. I mean, it’s ramshackle, but — well . . .’ He hesitated, considered. ‘You could do things with a place like that.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Ruth agreed avidly. ‘All those old sheds you could turn into stables, — and all that orchard and field and —’

  ‘Oh, you —!’ Her father laughed. But Ruth knew that he was thinking that he would rather have a place like Mr. Lacey’s than ‘South View’ on the Sunnyside Estate. ‘There’s nothing to do in a new house,’ he said, as he settled down to watch the television. Ruth, watching Fly-by-Night searching for grass in the bare plot they called a field, longed for what she called a Lacey-house, with lots of Lacey-grass.

  ‘He’ll starve here,’ she said to Ron, watching Fly-by-Night. It was summer, and the grass was growing fast, but in the field Fly-by-Night ate it as fast as it grew, and trod it down flat: the field was too small. His summer coat was through, but he was ribby.

  ‘You ought to ask the estate man if you can use the field behind,’ Ron said. ‘They’re going to build on it some time, but not yet awhile. It’s doing nothing. Ask him.’

  Ruth’s eyes opened wide with amazement. She had never thought such a thing possible, and had worried miserably over her lack of grass. She had been taking Fly out in the evenings along the lanes, to eat the verges. She had sat in the cow-parsley, holding the end of the halter, watching him, and worrying. His ribs showing made him look very much a forty-pound pony. On the end of his halter he ate ravenously, pulling at the lush grass, his thick tail switching. Sometimes, when she sat in the grass, she thought she had never worried so much in her life as since she had bought Fly.

  ‘Do you ride him now?’ Ron asked.

  ‘Well . . . sort of.’

  Ruth looked at the ground, uncomfortably. She had admitted it to no one, but riding Fly-by-Night so far had been a miserable experience. She had cleaned up the saddle and bought a new girth and new leathers, and had accustomed Fly to the feel of it, and to being girthed up. She had got him to accept the bridle, at last, without resorting to jam, and had taught him to stand still while she mounted him. She had then expected to ride off, walking, trotting and cantering to order. But this was where Fly-by-Night’s ideas and her own parted company.

  ‘The trouble is, I can’t ride,’ she said to Ron.

  ‘Well, you’ll soon learn, won’t you?’ Ron said.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You mean he bucks you off or something?’

  ‘No . . . not really . . .’

  It was difficult to explain just what happened when she rode Fly. Every time it was different, so she never knew what to expect. She had got into the habit of leading him down the road and along Mud Lane until she was on her own, in a quiet place, with just the hedges and the trees for company. Then she would mount him.

  In her little green book it said, ‘He must be encouraged to walk freely forward . . .’ According to the book, Ruth would squeeze with her legs and give him plenty of rein, and under her breath, she would pray, ‘Please, God, make him do it.’ Sometimes Fly would go backwards. The more she squeezed with her legs, the more eagerly would he back, until brought up short by a hedge, or by nearly falling into a ditch. But if he was in what Ruth thought of as his ‘freely forward mood’ he would leap off as soon as she eased her reins, and continue at as fast a pace as possible. When he did this Ruth had to concentrate on not falling off. She held on to his mane with both hands, and when she thought she had got her balance she would bravely let go to take a pull at the reins. When she did this, Fly would poke his nose in the air and gallop faster than ever. Gaining courage, and getting more desperate, Ruth would pull again, and then again, with all her strength, and the wild progress would generally finish by Fly swerving suddenly to one side or the other, pitching Ruth off over his shoulder. He would then immediately settle down to grazing, and Ruth would lie in the grass, trying not to cry. Not through fear or pain, but with despair.

  When, on the rare occasions Fly-by-Night chose to progress at a forward walk, he would proceed on a meandering course to which Ruth’s aids would make no difference at all. He would gaze all about him, as if in astonishment at the landscape, and frequently shy violently at nothing at all, so that Ruth often fell off. The only really satisfactory thing about Fly-by-Night, she often thought, was the fact that he did not run away when she fell off. He always started to graze, without even looking for a better bit of grass than that under his feet. Because he’s so hungry, Ruth thought.

  ‘It takes a lot of patience, training animals,’ Ron said. ‘Horses, dogs — people think it can be done overnight. And it can’t.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Training him would be a lot easier if you had another pony to go with him. One that knew. Then this old fellow would just follow along. There’s a girl at “The Place” got a pony. She’s about your age. Why don’t you go and see if she’d give you a hand?’

  ‘“The Place”?’

  ‘Big house opposite the village hall. Pymm, they’re called. Father’s in beer. Very rich.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ron’s monosyllabic description was slightly off-putting. She knew ‘The Place’, but did not know a pony lived there. It was an old house surrounded by belts of thick trees, with wrought-iron gates and a fake gas-lamp.

  ‘You ought to arrange your paper round, so that you can go there. Then you’d meet them. If you’re afraid just to walk in, like.’

  Ruth looked at Ron admiringly. ‘You do have good ideas! I could try that.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got it up here.’ Ron tapped his head.

  ‘And the field, too. That’s a wonderful idea.’

  Ron grinned. ‘The trouble with you is you don’t see the funny side. You make it all matter too much.’

  ‘That’s what Daddy says.’

  ‘Looking at you, worrying, no one would say owning that pony was a great joy to you.’

  But Ruth, worry or no, could not imagine not owning Fly. She tried, and she thought of all the things she need not worry about, but the picture was one of such bleakness, such a void, an abyss of nothingness, that she could not even consider it.

  ‘It’s hard now, and I know I get in despair, but when I think back I can see that I am making a little bit of progress. So as time goes on it will get better and better. Don’t you think so?’ Ruth wanted reassurance.

  ‘Should do,’ Ron said in his amiable way.

  ‘It’s so slow, because I’m not very good. I know what I should do, but it’s not always very easy to do it.’

  ‘You’re a stickler, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘The books make it sound so easy.’

  ‘Well, same as books telling you how to take down a motor bike. It’s easy, if you just read about it.’

  Ruth longed to know the girl Pymm, whose father was in beer. The thought of a friend, a knowing, horsy girl-friend, who would understand her trials and despairs and rare glows of achievement, whom she could ride w
ith and learn with, was a wonderful, warm anticipation. Ruth had made mere acquaintances in the village school, and none was so attractive as to keep her away from Fly-by-Night. Nobody at school rode. But next term, in September, she would be going to the Comprehensive at Hanningham, six miles away, and she thought, with luck, she might meet somebody horsy there.

  Fired with Ron’s inspirations, she swopped paper rounds by offering the boy who did ‘The Place’ a shilling a week, and called on the builder to ask if she could use his field. He said, ‘Yes, do, dearie. No responsibility taken if he breaks a leg, though, tell your daddy.’ He was on the telephone at the time, and spoke to her between conversations to head office, and what meant so much to Ruth meant obviously so little to him that Ruth came out of his office dazed by the ways of the world. That night she cleared a gap into the field and Fly-by-Night galloped through, tail swirling. The field was about an acre in size, with a good hedge all round it. The grass came up to the pony’s belly, brushing his thick thighs with its powdery flowers, and Fly grazed avidly. Ruth watched him, filled with the warm happiness that was her reward when things went right.

  ‘Oh, you will get fat and shine,’ she said to Fly. ‘And be good.’

  The bare garden with its ugly bumps and pot-holes and dock leaves and thistles disgusted her.

  ‘Fancy thinking it was good enough,’ she thought.

  Elizabeth ran down the garden to meet her and Ruth swung her round by the hands. She liked Elizabeth. Now, when everything was right, with Elizabeth laughing and twirling round till they were both giddy, Ruth could see herself jumping round the Hunter Trials course at Brierley Hill, and Fly-by-Night galloping, ears pricked up, and herself riding beautifully, like Peter McNair. ‘Oh, Peter McNair,’ she thought with a sudden wrench, ‘you could show me how to make Fly walk and trot and canter in obedient circles!’ She put Elizabeth down, and thought, ‘I must find this Pymm girl. I haven’t the nerve to go to the McNairs for advice.’

  Delivering the papers, it was a week before she set eyes on a Pymm, linger as she might. It was Mrs. Pymm, and she did not look even faintly horsy, as Ruth had hoped, but more like an actress, with dyed blonde hair and tight pink trousers. Ruth was decidedly taken aback and stood on the doorstep clutching the Daily Mirror and the Financial Times until Mrs. Pymm put out a hand for them.

  ‘Oh, s — sorry.’

  Mrs. Pymm gave her a disapproving stare, took her papers and disappeared inside without a word. Four more days passed and Ruth saw no one but an aristocratic Boxer dog. She felt that Ron’s idea was not so brilliant after all, and lost interest. In a few more days she would start at the new school. It was September, warm and golden, and she was alone with her problems.

  But when she went up the drive of the Pymm residence the following Sunday morning, a girl was coming out of the front door with the Boxer dog. She was about thirteen, but very elegant, with long pale hair, a pale, sad face, honey-coloured jeans and a white blouse. Ruth was instantly conscious of her feet in their dog-proof gum boots and her muddy jeans and shirt, and shifted her paper-sack nervously on her shoulder. The girl made no attempt to communicate, coolly staring, so Ruth was forced to take the initiative, or for ever regret a lost opportunity. Hot with embarrassment, she fumbled over the papers and said, ‘Have you got — er, I mean, someone — someone told me you’ve got a pony?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the girl, not smiling.

  ‘Do you — you keep it here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I — I’ve got one, too.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘The thing is, mine’s not — not broken in, really. I — I —’ Ruth could feel herself getting hotter and hotter as the Pymm girl went on staring without her expression showing the remotest interest. Only for the sake of Fly-by-Night’s salvation could she have risked such an ordeal. She finished desperately, ‘I wondered if — if — oh, it’s just that I wondered if you had a pony, you might be able to help me.’

  Afterwards she realized that an appeal for help was the best way she could have thought of for melting the Pymm sophistication. Even this cool girl was not averse to accepting the role Ruth’s plea accorded to her. She noticeably unfroze, said, ‘Oh,’ again, but quite pleasantly this time, and added, ‘My pony’s round the back. Do you want to see it?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please!’

  Ruth dropped the paper-sack on the front doorstep, quivering with excitement. She had never seen round the back of ‘The Place’, for the house was hemmed about with ancient shrubberies and big trees in such a way as to give no vistas to the casual visitor. But, on following the girl round the far corner of the house, Ruth was pleasantly surprised to see a big garden reveal itself, all shaved lawn and immaculate rosebeds, and, beyond it, a paddock ringed round with old elms. There was a garage for two cars, a lot of gravelled space, and a rose-brick building that was presumably the old stables, for the Pymm girl led the way towards it.

  ‘It’s in here.’

  A loose-box door looked out over the yard. Ruth went to the open top-door and looked in. ‘It’ was a grey mare, old enough to be, in fact, pure white. She looked to Ruth to be an Arab, with her beautiful arched neck and wide-apart eyes. A fine silky mane fell down her shoulder, catching the light as she turned her head; Ruth saw the wide nostrils flicker, the eyes shining. The mare, standing just under fourteen hands, was as lovely an animal as Ruth ever expected to lay eyes on. She gazed at her in speechless admiration.

  The Pymm girl stood by the door, her face showing nothing. Ruth gathered herself together, trying not to appear imbecile. She felt herself bursting with hot enthusiasm, but the Pymm girl’s unexcitement curbed her.

  ‘Oh, she’s beautiful!’

  ‘Yes.’

  How could the girl, Ruth wondered, not rave with happiness at owning such a celestial creature? But the face showed no pride or joy, only a slightly sulky boredom. Ruth was baffled.

  ‘Is she an Arab?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Milky Way.’ The girl grimaced. ‘I call her Milly.’

  Ruth was shocked. Milly . . . not even Milky. ‘Have you had her long?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘Do you show her?’

  ‘Sometimes. She always wins. She cost seven hundred pounds, so she should.’

  Ruth was silenced. She thought of scruffy little Fly-by-Night, her forty-pound pony, and her problems. A hard knot of obstinacy stiffened her; she had not come to be awed.

  ‘If — if you go for a ride, sometimes, perhaps — perhaps we could go together?’

  ‘I usually ride in the field. But I could come with you, I suppose.’

  ‘I ride down Mud Lane and in the fields down there. I live on the new estate. I shall go down there this afternoon if — if you want to come?’

  ‘I’m going out all day. But I could come this evening, I suppose.’ The girl’s eyes were a pale yellow-green, wary, slightly suspicious. Ruth did not think she ever smiled. Ruth said, ‘Would about six be all right? If you want to come?’

  ‘All right, I’ll call for you. Where do you live?’

  ‘South View. It’s on the left. Seven houses along.’

  Ruth finished her paper round and ran home with great leaps, being Fly-by-Night doing the Hunter Trials. Ron and Ted were sitting in the drive, poring over bits of motor bike.

  ‘I’ve done it! I’ve met her! She’s coming riding with me!’

  ‘Help! Two of them!’ Ted moaned.

  ‘What’s she like?’ Ron asked.

  ‘Well . . .’ Ruth hesitated. ‘I don’t really know, yet. She’s queer.’

  ‘You should have a lot in common, then,’ Ted said.

  ‘She’s a lot queerer than me. I didn’t find out what her name is. Do you know it?’

  ‘Pearl,’ Ron said.

  ‘Pearl Pymm? It doesn’t go.’

  ‘No. It was a joke in the village — Mrs. Pymm being mother-of-Pearl, I mean.’

  ‘Her pony is g
orgeous. She said it cost seven hundred pounds.’

  ‘Only six hundred and sixty more than yours,’ said Ted.

  ‘Peanuts,’ said Ron.

  Ruth got Fly-by-Night ready in plenty of time. She tied him to the fence and groomed him with her dandy-brush (that and a hoof-pick were the only grooming tools she possessed). His winter coat was just beginning to come through, giving him a richer look. The bay shone with the health of a ripe horse-chestnut, and the white hair was silvery as Milky Way’s own. Ruth stood back and looked at him, the pride of possession upon her. He jerked on his halter and looked back, all impatience and scorn, his little ears pricked up, one round hoof pawing at the turf. His hoofs were getting long and broken, Ruth noticed, with a pang of anxiety. She had put off getting him shod, because of the money, and because he did very little work on hard surfaces, and also because he was bad at picking his feet up and she was afraid a blacksmith would be impatient with the pair of them for their incompetence. But she thought she would not be able to put off getting him some attention much longer. ‘I will ask Pearl,’ she decided, and the thought gave her a pleasant shock at knowing, at last, someone to ask.

  ‘The Pearly Queen’s arrived.’ Ted came round the corner of the garage, grinning widely.

  ‘Oh, help!’ Ruth felt panicky, reaching for the bridle that hung on the fence.

  ‘She said she’d wait outside.’

  ‘Go and tell her I won’t be a minute.’ Fly-by-Night, sensing Ruth’s urgency, swung about and trod on Ruth’s foot. She swore at him, tears of agony blurring her vision. ‘Oh, you beast, you beast! Why aren’t you — you — elegant like Milky Way?’

  She scrabbled for the girths, and Fly turned his head and gave her a sharp nip on the bottom. ‘I hate you!’ Ruth cried out. ‘Oh, you are beastly!’ But he followed her meekly enough round the side of the house and into the front garden.

  At the sight of Pearl on Milky Way, both Ruth and Fly-by-Night stopped short. If Fly was surprised by the sight of the white mare, Ruth was no less astonished at the vision that was its rider. Pearl only lacked a Union Jack on her breast to be fit for competing in the Olympics: she wore an immaculate black jacket, snow-white breeches fitting like tights, and black boots. Her hair flowed out from under her hat in a pale cascade. She sat indolently, holding the mare’s head in so that Milky Way flexed her neck uncomfortably, flicking white drops of foam on to her chest. Ruth felt her mouth drop open, and made an effort to recover herself. But before she could say anything, Fly-by-Night let out a shrill whinny and plunged forward with such force that she was nearly lifted off her feet.