Book 8 – Jill’s Ponies: Black Boy and Rapide

Chapter One – Chatton Show, 1963

Lavender Ellison-Heath, the present owner of Jill Crewe’s pony Black Boy, rose early on the morning of Chatton Show. Today was to be the high point of her summer, perhaps the high point of her whole life. Or, it might be the day of doom and destruction, when she would have to bow to her mother’s wishes and agree that her beloved pony be traded in for a more upmarket show pony. 

Lavender had renamed Black Boy as Bingle Jells. Bingle for short. He was now a venerable gentleman of fifteen years. Certainly not a has-been, but somewhat beyond the heady days of his youth. Lavender loved him with all her heart. But her mother had social aspirations and was hoping to become part of the elite County set in Oxfordshire. She believed that winning rosettes at all the County shows would put them up there with the toffs.

Lavender’s mother, an irksome and unattractive woman, longed for gymkhana glory. She was determined that Lavender should be mixing with those in the winning circle and going to Richmond and Harringay. She longed for them to be established amongst the very elite of the showing world. If Bingle did not come up to scratch, they would get rid of him and acquire a top-notch pony. Lavender despaired of her mother’s ignoble ambitions and was desperate to keep Bingle. She didn’t care about winning blue ribbons. She loved her kind and faithful pony and was prepared to do anything to keep him.  

Yesterday there had been the most tremendous thunderstorm. Lavender had been in the stable grooming Bingle when the storm had hit. Lightning had flashed, and rolls of thunder like the drumbeats of the gods had shaken the ground. This morning she ran to the window and looked out. The world was newly-washed, a golden sun in a blue sky with only tiny wisps of cloud scudding away over the horizon. It promised to be a perfect summer day. 

Bingle had been washed and groomed on the previous day, then carefully swathed in a clean summer rug so that he didn’t soil himself in the night. His head was hanging over the half-stable door, his ears pricked, watching for his owner’s arrival when Lavender skipped into the stable yard. It was as if he knew that today was a special day. He had been going to Chatton Show nearly every year. Jill had ridden him there with great success when she had been a young teenager. 

Although Chatton showground was within easy hacking distance, Lavender’s mother had insisted that they travel there in their small, flash horsebox that had been purchased recently. Mrs Ellison-Heath had to show the world that they were in the upper echelons of competitors with a very 

smart truck, complete with picnic table and chairs and a hamper of expensive luxuries to be offered around to any poor unfortunate who could be persuaded to join them. Lavender would squirm with embarrassment when her mother approached the other posh people who politely rebuffed her advances. 

Mrs E-H had a dream of herself presiding over these impromptu equestrian social gatherings. She had heard how smart people picnicked out of their car boots at point-to-points, and she longed to become one of them. Unfortunately, she just didn’t seem to have the knack for establishing social bonds. For some reason that she could not fathom, the socialites of the horsey world avoided her. The only horsey person with whom she could claim kinship was her god-daughter, Susan King, who had been Susan Pyke before she had married Barty King, a local solicitor. 

Lavender had been suffering from her mother’s pretensions since the day she was born, but at the age of eleven, as she became more conscious of how other people viewed her mother, it was becoming harder and harder to bear. Mrs E-H was everything manicured and lacquered. She regularly had her hair rinsed and set, dyed a most unlikely shade of platinum blonde, with little twisted curls that framed her hard face. Her eyebrows were firmly etched in long, elongated curves and her thin mouth lipsticked in strong colours. The way she spoke made one shudder, like when fingers are scratched down a blackboard. Her voice was strained and strangled in what she imagined was a high-hat accent that ludicrously overreached itself and plunged the poor woman into farce. Her outward appearance was all effort and contrivance. 

Since Lavender had been bought a pony, her mother had been wearing tailored tweed slacks with a matching cap. These items of clothing were bad enough, but then she had acquired the ghastliest little cape, which gave her the look of Sherlock Holmes. To say the very least, it was simply not at all the thing. She was the epitome of a dreaded social climber who was trying to cut a dash with the gentry.

Lavender’s Under-12s riding class was scheduled as the third event in the children’s classes. She decided to plait Bingle’s carefully pulled mane before they left, and fetching her kit from the tack room, she began. She did like to be organised and had carefully laid out all her equipment several days ago. Although most children love to jump and gallop and enter races, Lavender’s favourite activity was preparing Bingle for riding classes. She enjoyed the polishing and plaiting and had even recently begun to use one of her old toothbrushes to clean his teeth so that his breath was sweet and minty-fresh for the judges. They were also entered in the Under-12s showjumping, but 

strangely this did not thrill Lavender half as much as the preparation for the showing events. Perhaps she was destined to be a groom for a showing stable. Can you imagine what Mrs E-H would think of that? A lowly groom!

Her mother came out to chivvy her back into the house to eat breakfast. 

“Now, do not rub out your plaits while I am away,” Lavender instructed Bingle, who looked at her with wise and understanding eyes. He knew what this was all about. With his keen pony intuition, he knew that today was the day of Chatton Show.  

Lavender clattered behind her mother back to the modernised manor house. It was an unfortunate combination of the old and the new. Mrs E-H was very keen to be stylish, and she craved the modern conveniences that just did not suit the old style. Sadly, her vision of Gracious Living had gone awry.  The small original rooms that had had a charm of their own had been knocked through. Now the living room was like a long rectangle, the shape of a shoe-box, vaguely reminiscent of a toy house designed by an unimaginative child. There were a variety of ‘modern’ conveniences such as electrically-heated fake logs that replaced the lovely old Inglenook fireplace, a cocktail bar in the very worst of American styles and a huge, ugly television set that dominated the far end of the room. A tightly-upholstered sofa of shiny material sat in front of the television, so uncomfortable that one slid around without ever finding a relaxing position. The lovely old ceiling with bare wood beams had been plastered over to continue with Mrs E-H’s vision of what a ‘modern’ house should look like. 

One could almost hear the old house groaning at its uglification. There was a dispirited sense of newly-created dreariness as it sat, surrounded by a garden that was all pretentious concoction. A carefully gravelled drive swept around the manicured lawn that looked so perfect one dare not walk across it. There were impossibly neat flowerbeds with seried rows of flowers that all stood to attention side-by-side. Garden decorations included birdbaths, a sundial and a sheltered nook that looked like a set on the stage of the local amateur dramatic society. 

Everywhere one looked, the surroundings seemed strained and tortured. There was no easy sense of shabby comfort. Lavender longed for their old cottage, which had been so friendly and fun, where they had lived before her father’s meteoric rise through the ranks of a big insurance company in Oxford. It would be logical that increased wealth should make life happier and easier, but in the case of Mrs E-H, it seemed to become more tortured as if she had to conform to some bizarre version of their new position in society.

However, today was the local horse event of the year, and Lavender had no time to muse on this sad state of affairs. She smiled in a kindly fashion at 

their maid, Claire, who was dressed in a ridiculous black and white uniform, hovering beside the bowl of corn flakes sitting ready with a milk jug and matching sugar bowl.

“You will never guess what is occurring today,” announced Mrs E-H, while Lavender obediently spooned crunchy cereal into her mouth.

“It is Jill Crewe! She is giving a dressage exhibition on that new horse. Apparently, she bought it from some sort of circus. Talk about showing off!”

“But that is so exciting! I’m sure everyone would love to see his performance,” said Lavender, who was as kind-hearted as her mother was judgemental. She was a devoted Jill fan.

“Dear Susan is commentating. She was telling me about it last night. She thinks it’s rather bad form,” said Mrs E-H.

Mrs E-H had been to school with Susan’s mother, Mrs Pyke, and they shared a passion for spiky, hot-house flowers that they displayed all around their respective homes. Susan had not advised on the purchase of Bingle. She had been away on holiday with relatives in Torquay at the time. Had she been consulted, she would have firmly rejected the idea. It was only by sheer good luck that Mr E-H’s friend from the golf course had told him about a pony for sale, and he had quite uncharacteristically acted on a whim and purchased him immediately.

Lavender kept her eyes on her cereal bowl. She was well aware that there was some ill-feeling between Jill and Susan. It went all the way back to when they had been at school together. She was fond of her Aunt Susan, but equally, she had a great admiration for Jill, who had given her riding lessons. She had read every one of Jill’s pony books, from the originals which had starred Black Boy and Rapide to the more recent ones that detailed Jill’s adult adventures.

“Is Aunt Susan not riding then? Is she going to give up riding altogether now that she is married?”

“She isn’t sure. Her father, dear Georgie, still has the stables. He is happy to mount her so that she can continue with her riding career. But she says that it is something she feels she might have grown out of.”

Lavender gave this idea some serious thought. She couldn’t imagine ever ‘growing out’ of her obsession with all things horsey. There were millions of grown-ups in the world who still rode, competing in competitions, hacking, foxhunting and breeding horses. Perhaps, once the novelty of being married had worn off, Aunt Susan would realise that life without horses was rather dull.

“It should be a good day today,” said Lavender, trying to change the subject. “I’ve got my riding class, and then we’re entered in the jumping. Bingle should go well. I was rather hoping we might win our first blue ribbon.”

“I won’t be pleased if you don’t,” snapped Mrs E-H. “Hopefully, the judges know their business.”

“I have a good feeling about today,” said Lavender, determined to remain positive, crossing her fingers and hoping that she wasn’t going to jinx her chances.

She hated the idea of selling Bingle. It was not just that she couldn’t bear to part with him, but if he were sold, as he got older, he was in danger of falling down into a situation such as a disreputable riding school. Lavender just couldn’t bear the thought of it. She would have to jump on him and ride off into the wilderness to keep him safe. Much as she disliked their soulless house, she didn’t much fancy sleeping in the roots of an old tree in a forest and trying to live off berries and nuts as Dinah Dean had all those years ago.

As Claire cleared away the breakfast things, Lavender hurried upstairs to get changed into her best riding outfit. She had a neat blue coat with a matching blue-velvet riding cap, beige jodhpurs, brown ankle boots, a pale-blue shirt and a navy-blue tie. The night before, she had painstakingly packed all the equipment into the horsebox, and now it was merely a matter of leading Bingle up the ramp, tying him securely and setting off for the showground.

They arrived at eight o’clock, early enough to secure a premium parking spot, under a large, shady tree, not too far from the ringside. The local riders who hacked to the showground were trickling in through the gateway, calling out cheerful greetings to each other. Harassed mothers, driving small cars piled high with buckets of horse feed, boxes of grooming kit and extra riding clothes, were tootling in and driving around looking for good places to park. Everyone seemed to know each other, and Lavender felt very conscious that no one talked to them. Her mother just did not seem to have the knack for making friends, and she must have inherited this unfortunate character trait. She was always so shy, and other children interpreted this as stand-offishness.

Bingle walked down the ramp and looked around. For just a minute, it seemed that he might be searching for something. Perhaps it was his former owner, Jill. Perhaps he sensed that she might already be here. Lavender tied him up beside the horsebox, pulled off his rug and began to brush him. There was at least an hour before her class would be called.

“I’ll go and get your number,” said Mrs E-H. She trit-trotted across the grass, stepping carefully to avoid droppings. 

Lavender pulled out her saddle and her show bridle and tacked up. She polished her boots with a soft rag before she carefully mounted. She would ride Bingle around for a while to warm him up and become accustomed to his surroundings. She loved this moment, the beginning of the show, when everyone’s hopes and dreams were shimmering through the air. There was the smell of freshly crushed grass, the crackling of the loudspeaker sending energy around the air, the coloured bunting flapping in the fresh summer breeze paying homage to the great art of horse riding. Fat shiny cattle were parading around the centre ring. 

They were about to ride over to the exercise ring for children when Mrs E-H hurried back from the Secretary’s tent, flapping the number peevishly.

“Lavender, darling! You must tie this on!”

“It’s alright, Mummy. There’s plenty of time,” she said as quietly as possible. She looked around surreptitiously, hoping that other people wouldn’t notice them.

Her mother tied her number around her arm. 

“I’m just going to go and ride around in the exercise area. Get Bingle warmed up for his class,” said Lavender.

Bingle stepped out, arching his neck, resplendent in his gleaming tack with a neatly plaited mane and tail and a glossy polished black coat. 

“Oh! It’s Black Boy!” called out a girl, who was perhaps fifteen-years-old on a scrawny skewbald gelding with a hogged mane.

“That’s right,” said her companion, a thin girl with blond plaits. “He used to belong to Jill Crewe.”

Lavender smiled at them shyly. If she had had more confidence, she would have ridden over and chatted, but she was tongue-tied and embarrassed. She trotted onto the exercise arena and joined a large circle of riders who were going around. She was feeling very nervous, much more than normal. What had seemed to be a jolly jaunt to her local show had now turned into a monstrous test of nightmare proportions. If she didn’t come first, her mother would sell Bingle. She shuddered at the thought. Her mouth was dry. Looking around at the other riders, she tried to work out which would be in her class. She hardly knew any of the local children who all seemed to be the best of buddies, shouting back and forth at each other, their mothers huddled together in groups around the edge of the arena.

She began to chant to herself good advice, things that she must remember when she got into the ring. ‘Don’t get caught up in a bunch. Don’t let other children on their ponies barge into me. Don’t get too close to a pony that might kick in front of me. Keep my hands still and steady, heels down.’

There was so much to remember. The saddle was feeling slippery, and suddenly, she was very insecure, as if she were perched on top of it rather than sitting into it.

“It’s funny, Miss Pomfret, the judge today. You know she always chooses chestnut ponies. They say she adores chestnuts and won’t look at a black,” said one of the girls trotting past on a beautifully turned-out chestnut pony with four white socks and a perfect diamond-shaped star in the exact centre of its broad forehead.

We haven’t a hope, thought Lavender, her heart flopping down through her boots. Bingle will be sold. Mummy will insist that I have some horribly bad-tempered, flashy, chestnut mare, just so Miss Pomfret will choose us next time. To her intense humiliation, she felt tears welling in her eyes. She hated this showing business. Parading around trying to be the best. It was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard of!

Eventually, they called her class into the collecting ring. The brass band had struck up a cheerful tune, and the ponies seemed to be marching in time to the music. Completely at odds with the jolly tune, Lavender felt utterly woebegone. She knew that they would not even get called in. There would be no opportunity to give a show, and her mother would be so disappointed and angry that Bingle would be sent to a horse sale in Rychester within a month.

She looked at the judge, the horrid Miss Pomfret, who was wearing a tweed jacket, cavalry twill breeches, and a jaunty pork-pie hat stuck with feathers and badges. She looked very mannish, and there was a distinct suggestion of a moustache on her upper lip. She did not look like an inspired person who might award Bingle the first rosette to save him from an ignominious dismissal.

Lavender’s downcast and desperate mood must have been communicated to Bingle, and he walked with his head hanging low as if he sensed some deep disgrace. He plodded disconsolately. Lavender lifted her hands too high in a desperate effort to raise his head, but as her hands rose, her toes pointed down to the ground. 

At the steward’s command to trot, Lavender was so flustered and distressed that she was rising on the wrong diagonal, which is a technical fault of the highest magnitude. Then, came the order to canter and she gave Bingle an incorrect aid, and he struck off on the wrong leading leg. After this appalling display, they were sent to the bottom of the back line.

Lavender rode out of the ring, and her mother rushed up to her.

“Lavender! What on earth went wrong?” she shrieked at her.

Lavender cringed. She hated the way her mother always spoke in such a shrill voice, drawing attention to themselves. Lavender felt her face burning. She was puce with embarrassment, wanting to curl up and die.

“It was all my fault,” she said. “It wasn’t Bingle. It was my fault. I have to go back to the horsebox.”

She trotted away before there was any opportunity for her mother to continue the harangue.

She dismounted and untacked Bingle and threw his rug over him, making sure he had his haynet and a bucket of clean water. Then she spied her mother and Susan King making their way over.

“Oh, poor Lavender!” exclaimed Susan. “How utterly mortifying to be banished to the bottom of the back row. You know, I think it is down to that pony. No mount of Jill Crewe’s is ever going to be any good. I’m going to find you a proper pony, something with some blood, something that will put you in the winner’s circle.”

At this point, Lavender couldn’t find the courage to speak up. Tears were spilling down her face. Finally, she managed to mutter.

“I love him. I love him. I don’t care about winning rosettes. I don’t see the point.”

“Now, don’t get hysterical, child,” admonished her mother. “Of course, you’re upset. Competing at shows and winning is extremely important. You know that!”

“Don’t you see, if I can’t get called in on Bingle, then a more expensive pony is going to make me look like an utter fool. Like someone who thinks that spending a lot of money on a show pony makes me a better rider than other people.”

After this impassioned plea, she ran off. She just couldn’t bear it. She hated her mother and Aunt Susan for their wrong-headed attitudes. They didn’t seem to have any sort of love for animals themselves. They just saw them as objects that should carry one to glory. She would have loved to talk to Jill. She would understand, not only about loving your pony but about real horsemanship, not this ridiculous charade trying to get rosettes.

In her desperation, Lavender just wanted to be alone. She found herself amongst the crowd that was watching the adult classes. Jill would be here somewhere, but she didn’t have the courage to find her and talk to her. She knew that she would sound like a pathetic idiot.

There was a hack class in the main ring, and she fixed her eyes on the circling horses but didn’t really take it in. She knew, at the very least, she should be 

taking note of the way in which the winning horses went, picking up some pointers for successful ringcraft, but she didn’t have any hope left in her.

She had to think of a plan. A way to persuade her mother that Bingle was her beloved friend, not just an accessory to be used to show off. In desperation she considered talking to her father. It was the only thing she could think of.