I was glad when at last we got them off; really I felt quite exhausted and I was very pleased that I had said that I would go in the car and had refused all invitations to bicycle beside the ponies as the Westlakes were going to take it in turn to do. Actually I wouldn’t have been seen dead on either of their bicycles, which were frightfully battered and rusty and had all sorts of squeaks and clanks, which were known as their canaries. The Westlake parents and I had a much more leisurely journey. We left Underwood Farm at about half-past ten and I was very thankful that I had put on my Harris tweed overcoat and two pairs of gloves, for it was an even colder day than it looked. As we drove along I tried to make intelligent grown-up conversation to Mr. Westlake, but he only replied in grunts; I decided that he was jolly rude and that now I knew where his children had got their bearishness from.

  The Hunter Trials were being held over some very bleak fields on the side of a hill. Quite a few people were already there when we arrived and we had passed many more on their way. None of them seemed much perturbed by the icy wind which was sweeping down the hillside and I came to the conclusion that horsy people were extremely tough. I was rather annoyed when Mrs. Westlake pointed out her children to me and asked if I would take a bundle of grooming tools and several head collars, which we had brought in the car, across to them. I could hardly refuse, but I didn’t want to leave the shelter of the car.

  The Westlake children seemed to have recovered their tempers; they thanked me for bringing the grooming tools and asked if I didn’t think the course looked enormous. Actually I hadn’t looked at it but I said yes. Then Adrian asked if we had remembered the lunch and the others all told him to stop talking about food for the very thought of lunch made them feel sick as they had the needle. I asked what the needle was and they all explained at once just what it felt like and I gathered it was the horrid feeling I always have before exams.

  A lot of people seemed to know the Westlakes; some of them waved or shouted good morning, but quite a number came up to talk and I was introduced to them in the most grown-up manner. Soon Simon and Gay decided that they had better mount and ride Dauntless and Wisdom round, as they were in the first class. The rest of us took Shadow to the car and put on his day rug, which was very smart, dark blue with red binding and W. in the corner.

  “He is posh,” I said.

  “Mummy gave us the rug as a Christmas present years ago,” said Lucy, “they’ve each got one; Dauntless and Wisdom bought theirs with their prize money.”

  “Have they won a lot, then?” I asked very surprised. I had never thought of the Westlakes winning somehow: certainly they had never mentioned it.

  “A fair amount,” said Adrian. “They’re both good jumpers, you know.”

  “They weren’t particularly good when the parents bought them,” said Lucy, “but Simon and Gay have schooled them a good deal.” At this moment a steward called the competitors for Class I into the collecting ring and started to explain the course to them. We hurried to the ropes, for Lucy and Adrian wanted to hear even though they knew that their course would probably be slightly different. I didn’t bother to listen; I looked round at the competitors and inwardly criticised their clothes, horses and style of riding. In the end I fastened my hopes to a very smartly dressed man; he wore cream breeches, black boots and coat, a bowler and a stock and he rode a superbly showy chestnut with a light mane and tail and three white socks. The chestnut’s plaits were a good deal neater than the Westlakes’ ponies’ and he looked lovely as he pranced about in the collecting ring. He ran backwards, pawed the ground and finally kicked out, narrowly missing the woman I had chosen for second place. She told the chestnut’s owner exactly what she thought of him, which was not at all complimentary.

  Her horse, a dark brown mare, obviously a thoroughbred, looked as though she was worth at least three hundred guineas; she had a lovely head, a good shoulder and excellent hocks. The woman was very smartly dressed, also in full hunting kit and she had a bunch of violets in her buttonhole. At last the collecting steward’s monotonous voice stopped.

  “Ten jumps,” said Lucy to Adrian.

  “Yes,” said Adrian, “if you count the in and out as two.”

  “I think that man’s going to win,” I said.

  “Who?” asked Adrian. I pointed out the smart man.

  “I shouldn’t think so;” said Adrian, “he always falls off out hunting.”

  “You are spiteful,” I said, “but he’s got a lovely horse.”

  “If you like washy chestnuts,” said Lucy.

  “I do,” I said.

  “They’re starting,” said Adrian. “Look, Mr. Orpington is first.”

  “He’s the Hunt Secretary,” said Lucy to me.

  “I don’t think much of his horse,” I said, “a carty-looking brute.”

  “He’s not,” said Lucy, looking furious. “He’s a jolly good hunter and I hate people who call horses brutes.”

  “I wouldn’t want to hunt him,” I said, ignoring the last part of her remark, “he looks too jolly slow.”

  “Speed isn’t everything out hunting,” said Adrian. “Mrs. Fitzgerald-Brown’s horse is frightfully fast and full sister to dozens of racehorses, but what’s the use when she won’t jump two feet six without a lead?”

  “Did you see him jump the drop fence?” asked Lucy, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the course for a moment. “He did an enormous jump.”

  “Good old Merlin,” shouted Adrian, as the ugly little bay horse galloped past us and cleared the last jump—a nicely layered hedge.

  “It’s one of the Stevens now,” said Lucy, as a redheaded girl, who looked about twenty-four, rode up to the start. “It looks like Antonia, but she’s got another new horse. Let me look at the programme and see, Adrian.” Adrian handed the programme over and, after a few moments Lucy told us that it was Antonia and that her horse’s name was Ragged Robin.

  “They’re always buying new horses,” Adrian told me. “Their grandmother pays terrific prices for them and, if they don’t win, they’re sent to the cattle market and she buys another.”

  “This one seems slightly better than usual,” said Lucy. “He’s got over the first jump, but not the second I think. No, not the second. Now it’s Olivia Stevens and I see that she’s still got Marshmallow.”

  “Well, he won a third at the Brightwell show last summer,” said Adrian. “I expect that put new hope into them.”

  “Oh, you are spiteful,” I said for the second time. “Anyway she’s going quite well; she’s got over the first three.”

  “And the fourth,” said Adrian, “but I bet she doesn’t get over the drop fence.” Adrian was right; Olivia refused three times at the drop fence.

  “Who’s this?” I asked, as I saw the woman with the violets canter at the first jump.

  “That’s Mrs. FitzGerald-Brown,” said Lucy,” she’s terribly bad tempered; she swears at her horses and no groom ever stays with her for more than a fortnight, because she’s so rude to them.”

  “Well, I suppose she’s entitled to be if she pays them,” I said.

  “Paying someone doesn’t give you the right to be rude to them,” said Lucy, “in fact you ought to be extra polite, because you know that you have an unfair advantage over them. You can sack them.”

  “What an odd idea,” I said, “but I can’t see the point of being rich if one can’t say what one likes to one’s employees and sack them if they are rude or inefficient.”

  “You’ve got a power complex,” said Lucy, “you want to get people in your grasp and bully them. I suppose that’s what you do at your beastly posh school. Anyway I know what I’d do if I were rich, I’d buy poor old ponies and horses, that people like you had sold because they were old and slow, and I would keep them in a lovely park.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said, “anyway, sacking people who are disrespectful isn’t the same as bullying them, but you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Well, you’d better not say anything like that to Simon,” said Adrian, “he’d be furious.”

  “I’m not afraid of Simon,” I said.

  “Oh, hurray,” said Adrian suddenly. “Mrs. FitzGerald-Brown’s fallen off.”

  “Shut up,” said Lucy, “can’t you see that the Colonel’s standing over there, you idiot. Why do you want to be so tactless?”

  “Well, how was I to know that he was standing there,” asked Adrian indignantly.

  “Gosh,” said Lucy, “she’s giving up. She isn’t hurt a bit, but she’s not going on. I do call that feeble.”

  “Simon’s next,” said Adrian.

  “Gosh, I’ve got the needle,” said Lucy.

  “I bet the others have too,” said Adrian. “Look, he’s started. Come on, Dauntless.”

  Dauntless cleared all the jumps in fine style until she came to the drop fence; there she slowed up and refused.

  Lucy and Adrian groaned. Simon showed Dauntless the jump and rode at it again. This time she flew over. I hadn’t seen Simon jump before, but he looked pretty good. He jumped with the forward seat, which my book on riding agreed with, and the only fault I could find with him was that his arms and legs waved about as he approached each jump. Dauntless finished the course without any more faults and we decided that she had been faster than Mr. Orpington’s Merlin.

  “Jolly good,” we all shouted at Simon as he rode back to us.

  “I ought to have ridden her faster at the drop fence,” he said.

  “Look;” said Adrian,” Gay’s started.” I looked in time to see her clear the second jump, one of the monotonous stone walls. Wisdom, being grey, was easy to see and we watched her as she galloped down into the valley, taking a flight of posts and rails in her stride. Then she disappeared for a few minutes and Simon told us that the in and out and stile were both quite easy, but that the seventh jump—a hedge was uphill and fairly formidable. Soon Gay came in sight again. Wisdom was going well; she made a beautiful jump over some rails, which Simon said had a pretty big ditch on the take-off side. She took the wall slowly and then increased her speed for the drop fence; she cleared it easily and the last jump was nothing to her. “Hurray,” said Simon, “I believe it was a clear round.” Once Gay was past the winning post she jumped off Wisdom and we all rushed up to pat her and give her handfuls of oats.

  “She did go well,” said Lucy. “I know I’m going to let her down in the children’s.”

  “Of course you won’t,” said Gay, “she’s going marvellously. You simply sit there and she does everything.”

  “Did you have any faults in the valley?” asked Simon.

  “I don’t think so,” said Gay. “I’m not dead certain, but, as far as I know, I didn’t.”

  “I know I shall fall off,” said Lucy gloomily.

  “Do attend,” said Adrian, “Cyril Flecker’s being run away with; he’s gone on the wrong side of three flags already.”

  I looked back at the course: a lanky-looking boy on a big piebald horse, which star-gazed, was galloping flat out at the wall. The piebald took off too early, hit the wall with his forelegs and fell forward on to his nose. Cyril shot over his head, but held on to the reins. Both of them got up quite quickly and Cyril remounted, but as soon as the piebald walked forward it was apparent that he was lame. Cyril dismounted and several judges and stewards hurried up.

  “What bad luck,” said Gay.

  “There’s Thornton, the vet, going in,” said Simon.

  “Hallo, they’ve started Major Carwent,” said Adrian, “and he’s over the first jump.”

  “I pity his poor horse,” said Lucy, “it’s a wonder he jumps at all, considering the way the Major hangs on to his mouth.”

  “He must be a jolly courageous horse,” said Gay; “a fainthearted one would soon give up when he found that he had to carry fourteen stone by his mouth.”

  “He’s off,” said Simon.

  “There, what did I tell you, Christabel?” asked Adrian.

  “I still like his horse,” I said.

  “He’s going on,” said Lucy, “but I should think that he’s wasted too much time to be in the running.”

  My attention began to wander when Major Carwent had finished the course after another two refusals, this time at the drop fence. I was cold and hungry, but when I asked Lucy if one could buy chocolate on the course, she only replied that I was becoming as bad as Adrian and always thinking about food. I decided to see if there was a refreshment tent and, after walking round for some time I found a small pokey one by the entrance and I ate several rather stale rock buns. When I found my way back to the Westlakes they said that I had missed seeing Charles Dixon do a marvellous round, Cynthia Flecker fall off twice and Carola Flecker refuse three times at the last jump. A woman called Mrs. Bransome was at that moment going round, but since she refused each jump twice everyone was getting rather tired of her. However the time limit expired before she reached the rails and ditch so she was waved off the course. A very fat woman, called Mrs. Frankthorpe, riding a very fat horse, was the next competitor. They both looked so round that I couldn’t help laughing at them. As usual all the Westlakes set upon me: they said that I was beastly, that people couldn’t help being fat and how would I like it if I was fat and people laughed at me. I was feeling a bit fed up with these constant lectures so I told them to shut up, not to be so jolly priggish and that, as it was a free country, I was entitled to laugh if I wanted to.

  “Of course you can,” said Simon, “one can do lots of things if one wants to, which are quite within the law, but one doesn’t expect other people to like one if one does do them.”

  I refused to take any notice of him; I watched Mrs. Frankthorpe trotting up the hill; her horse was puffing and sweating, but he jumped every fence perfectly, taking most of them from a trot. Pat McBain, who followed Mrs. Frankthorpe, had, the Westlakes told me, won a lot in the show ring. She certainly had a show seat; sitting in the back of her saddle with her legs stuck forward and her reins so long that her hands were in her tummy, she didn’t look as though she had much control over her horse—a very good-looking bay of about fifteen two.

  I was rather interested to see how she fared for the author of my book on riding had dealt with such seats in the most scathing words. I soon decided that he was right, for Pat, having got her horse over the first two jumps, using a stick instead of her legs, which were too far forward to be of any use to her, was disqualified at the third fence for running out three times. After Pat McBain there were only two competitors left for the open class; Robin Cleaver, whom the Westlakes told me was a very nice boy of sixteen and John Whitaker. Robin, who rode a fourteen hand pony, which was too small for him, didn’t do a very good round; he had one or two refusals and knocked down a lot of rails, but he was considerably better than John, who forced his dock-tailed cob round at such a pace that she crashed nearly every jump with her forelegs. It was a matter of amazement to us all that she didn’t come down. Afterwards we saw, to our delight, that one of the judges was giving John Whitaker a lecture, but this was not enough for Lucy, who said that the R.S.P.C.A. ought to take him up.

  We waited in suspense while the judges added up, or whatever judges do. We felt sure that Gay must be among the first four, but when time counts one cannot be sure, unless one takes the trouble to time every competitor. At last the collecting steward called out the numbers of the winners. Charles Dixon was first, Gay second, Mr. Orpington third, and Simon reserve.

  “Hurray, hurray,” said Lucy, “you’ve both got something. I must get the ponies some more oats,” and she rushed off to the car. Gay and Simon rode in with the other winners to get their rosettes and I must say I did envy them as they cantered out amid the applause of the spectators.

  “Now for the children’s,” said Gay as she tied the blue rosette on Wisdom’s bridle and gave her several more handfuls of oats.

  “Gosh, I feel awful,” said Adrian riding up on Shadow, who looked frightfully small. “I’m sure that I’m going to have three refusals.”

  “Nonsense,” said Simon, “not if he jumps like he did the other day.”

  “I know I’m going to ruin Wisdom for the pair class this afternoon,” said Lucy to Gay.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” replied Gay, “of course you won’t. You haven’t got the drop fence which is the only difficult jump, and those hurdles won’t bother Wisdom.”

  “Class II,” shouted the collecting steward, “come along now. Do you all know what you’ve got to do?”

  “Yes,” said the competitors, all looking very dreary; I suppose they had the needle. There was only one less competitor in the children’s class than there had been in the adult one and only one pony smaller than Shadow. She was called Peppermint, Simon told me, and belonged to Robin Cleaver’s younger sister, Elizabeth. Heather Cotton was the first competitor; she, apparently, took riding very seriously. She had five ponies and always went to shows with a groom and horsebox and won dozens of prizes. That day she was riding a good-looking bay, which jumped well until he turned uphill and came back towards the collecting ring; then he started to pull and, taking the hurdles much too fast, he knocked them down with his forelegs. Shirley and Ann Beckbridge, who followed Heather, both had three refusals at the first jump. Major Carwent’s daughter, another Anne, managed to force her fat roan pony over the first jump after a good deal of kicking and beating, but he refused the second fence three times. Brian Frankthorpe rode his mother’s stout cob, which was miles too big for him. The cob jumped everything, including the drop fence, where Brian fell off. Jane Stevens, who, unlike her redheaded elder sisters, was pale with mouse-coloured hair and spectacles, jumped a far better round than either of them had in the grown-up class. But she was slow—maddeningly slow—pulling up every time she lost a stirrup and once even stopping between two jumps to polish her spectacles. Adrian was a welcome sight after these dallying people. He rode very determinedly and we only saw him have one fault—a refusal at the post and rails—but he told us afterwards that he had knocked down both the second bar of the in and out and the stile. Lucy was the next competitor and Gay was on tenterhooks as she rode at the first fence. But Wisdom was in fine fettle; she cleared jump after jump taking them fast, but timing each one perfectly. As she passed the finishing post the applause was terrific.