Pony Passion (7 page)

Soon we were snuggled down in our sleeping bags. We switched on our torches and talked for a while about how cool it’d be if we were in a pop video with Hannah – with Zac Efron making a guest appearance! Then Frankie’s mum insisted it was torches-off time. It was hard to get comfy with my plaster cast, and I thought I was never going to get to sleep. As I lay there blinking into the dark, I suddenly realised I’d hardly thought about the gymkhana all day. Now it was over. And I started wondering who had winner’s rosettes on their bedroom wall tonight…

“Lyndsey, there you are!” said Mrs McAllister, striding towards me across the yard. “I’ve been looking all over for you. It’s your turn on the jumps course. Now! Hurry, hurry!”

Bramble was beside me, all tacked up and ready to go. The yard was crowded with riders and ponies, and ahead I could see lots of people milling around the edges of the field. I led Bramble across the yard. Then I put my foot in the stirrup and quickly swung myself up into the saddle.

It was only then that a cold feeling crept over me. The field, I could see, was dotted with fences made out of wooden poles, straw bales and old tyres. “Bramble!” I whispered. “This can’t be right. We’re not entered in the jumps, are we?”

All about me, unfamiliar faces were staring. “But I’ve never jumped proper fences,” I wanted to say. I hadn’t even walked round the course. What order were you supposed to take the jumps in? How on earth were we going to do it?

“Number five: Lyndsey Collins,” came the voice over the tannoy.

I had to say something. I had to tell them that I couldn’t do it. But Bramble seemed to have other ideas. She was trotting forward of her own accord.

What do I know about jumping? I thought desperately. Approach in a straight line. Lean forward from the hips – but not too soon. Keep your back straight…oh help!

We were coming up to the first jump. Somehow it had grown. Instead of a few bales of straw I saw a looming green bank, like something out of the Grand National. We didn’t have a hope.

But Bramble was heading straight for it. “Wait, Bramble! Whoa!” I kept saying, but somehow the reins had slipped from my hands and there was nothing I could do. I grabbed hold of her mane. Now she was taking off, and jumping higher and higher…

…and suddenly I was out of the saddle and falling. The world was spinning around me in a sickening blur. I didn’t know where the ground was, or how soon I would hit it.

And, in the distance, I heard Mrs McAllister screaming, “Lyndsey, Lyndsey! No!”

“Lyndz. Lyndz! It’s OK. Wake up!”

Suddenly, I felt someone shaking me. I groaned and opened my eyes to find Fliss leaning over me, peering at me in bleary concern. Rosie, Frankie and Kenny were sitting up in their sleeping bags, their hair muzzed up from sleep.

“Were you having a nightmare?” asked Rosie.

“Your breathing went really weird,” said Fliss. “Kind of whimpery. It was freaky.”

I rubbed my face. “I – I was falling…” I stammered.

“Falling?” echoed Kenny, rubbing her eyes.

“Were you dreaming about riding?” asked Rosie gently. “About the accident?”

I nodded, remembering. Then I shivered. “It was horrible.”

“Poor Lyndz,” said Fliss, putting her arm round me.

“This calls for emergency treats,” declared Frankie. She wriggled out of her sleeping bag. “Will hot chocolate do?”

“That’d be great,” I said.

“Er, Frankie…” said Kenny, putting on a weak and trembly voice. “I think I had a nightmare too.”

“And me,” giggled Rosie.

“OK, OK, I get it.” Frankie grinned. “Hot chocolate all round.” A few minutes later she came back carrying a tray crowded with mugs of steaming cocoa. She’d even found some leftover marshmallows to float in the top.

“Feeling any better?” she asked, handing me a mug.

My smile felt a bit wobbly, but I nodded. “Miles. Thanks.”

Rosie blew on her cocoa to cool it. “Are you missing riding a lot, Lyndz?” she said.

I couldn’t tell them about today’s gymkhana. After that argument we’d had at school, I couldn’t even tell them how I really felt. I wanted to say “desperately”. But instead I shrugged and said, “A bit, I guess. I’m not really thinking about it to be honest – except in my sleep. There’s enough going on with you guys!”

And there was enough going on over the next few weeks. Though it didn’t stop me missing riding, it certainly kept me busy! We had to design the pictures that we were going to turn into cardboard cut-outs – Dad said he’d help me with the actual cutting. Then the cut-outs were going to need painting. There were our costumes to sort out, too. And on top of all
that, we had to decide what we were going to talk about – “Write the script of the show!” as Frankie kept saying. That ended up involving loads of head-scratching and pencil-chewing.

“I can’t do a speech if I’m the back end of the horse,” said Kenny in class one day when we were having another project meeting. “Whoever heard of a horse with a talking bottom?”

Rosie giggled. “But Mrs Weaver won’t like that,” she said. “She’ll think you’ve done no work.”

“Suits me!” grinned Kenny.

“Not so fast, lazybones,” Frankie jumped in. “Whatever we’re going to say we should share.”

Kenny blew a raspberry. “Spoilsport. Anyway, we’ve got to make it short and snappy or there’ll be no time for our dance routine.”

“What dance routine?” I said. “You’re joking, right?”

“No way!” Kenny laughed. “You can’t have a panto horse without a little comedy dancing, can you?”

Frankie nudged me. “Kenny and I have been
practising. We’ll give you a free demo at break if you like.”

Though I didn’t say anything, I wasn’t at all sure about the idea of a dance routine. Mrs Weaver had talked about “imaginative presentation”, but I was pretty convinced that meant getting historical facts across without boring everyone to tears, not just prancing about.

At break Frankie led the way to the Sleepover Club’s venue for top secret meetings: the corner of the playground nearest the bins where no one else goes (and if you’re wondering why, you should come and catch the whiff sometime). “I know it’s stinky,” said Frankie when Fliss complained, “but we don’t want anyone nicking our toptastic ideas, do we?”

Then Kenny bent over and grabbed Frankie round the waist. “Ready?” she said. “One, two, three…”

There were kicks, stamps and shimmies. Frankie tossed her imaginary mane and Kenny wiggled her bum. But soon Kenny was out
of step with Frankie, doing her kicks in the wrong places, and falling over her own feet. It was just about the most hilarious thing I’d ever seen.

“Stop!” I gasped, as Rosie and I held on to each other, laughing fit to burst. “You’ll make me, hic, wet myself!”

Suddenly we heard Fliss gasp. She was our official look-out, keeping watch round the corner of the gym block in case anyone tried to spy on us. Instantly we all stopped laughing. Frankie said, “What? What is it?”

Fliss didn’t turn her head, but her arm reached back and beckoned us. “You have got to see this…” she said.

We squashed up next to her, poking our heads round the wall.

The most amazing sight swung into view.

It was Emma Hughes and Danny McCloud.

Holding hands.

“Oh – my – gosh,” whispered Frankie. “Gross or what?”

Ducking back behind the wall, we stared at one another in astonishment.

“Bleurgh!”

Then Kenny slapped a hand to her forehead. “What have I done?” she wailed. “This is all my fault! It’s hideous! It’s unnatural!”

When the bell rang and we piled back into the classroom, we noticed that the Queen and the Goblin were talking to one another again. More than that – it looked as if they were better friends than ever.

“Emma probably thinks Emily helped get her and her darling Danny together,” whispered Frankie.

“It turns my stomach just thinking about it,” said Fliss.

“But you know the good thing?” said Kenny. “I reckon Emma will spend so much time mooning over Fog-brain she won’t give a thought to their lousy project. And the Oscar for best presentation will go to…us!”

Our class was going to give the presentations on the last day before half-term. The rest of the Sleepover Club were counting the days till then. But I was counting the days till something else. The week before half-term, my plaster cast was due to come off, and on the Saturday I was going to have my first riding lesson since the accident.

I can’t even begin to tell you how excited I was. Riding was the thing I loved doing most in the world and I hadn’t been able to do it for six whole weeks – each of which had felt like a year.

When the day my cast was due to come off finally arrived, I was so jittery I couldn’t sit still. My eldest brother Stuart drove me to the hospital, and I could tell I was getting up his nose with my fidgeting, but I just couldn’t help it.

“Will it hurt?” I asked, winding my window a centimetre up and then a centimetre down – up and down, up and down.

“Hideously,” said Stuart. “They do it with a great big saw, and if it gets stuck they
have to chop your whole arm off.”

“No!” I looked at him, aghast.

“Of course not, dumbo!” he grinned at me in the driver’s mirror. “You are so easy to tease!”

I stuck out my tongue. “And you are so mean!”

After that I didn’t want him to see I was scared when they brought out the electric whizzy thing and started cutting through the plaster. In a way it was better, pretending to be brave. With Mum I’d probably have been bawling my eyes out. But I couldn’t have been hiding my nerves that well, because the nurse smiled at me and said, “Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.”

When the cast finally snapped off it was such an ace feeling. My skin underneath had been getting majorly itchy – and not being able to scratch had been sooo frustrating. “Hello arm,” I said. It looked pale and bruised and strange.

“That’s it, I knew it,” laughed Stuart. “Talking to your own arm! You’re actually bonkers, aren’t you?”

By Saturday morning I’d just about got used to having two normal arms again – in
the nick of time for my riding lesson.

“Take care at the stables, though, won’t you, love?” said Mum at breakfast time, as she tried to spoon baby food into Spike’s ear (he’d turned his head and she hadn’t noticed yet). “Your arm’ll be a bit weak for a while.”

I nodded and carried on squashing my Weetabix into a soggy mound. My tummy was full of excited butterflies, and all I could think about was what it would be like to hold Bramble’s reins again. I hoped she would be pleased to see me – because I was going to be on cloud nine seeing her!

“Happy day, Lyndsey!” called Mrs McAllister across the yard as I jumped out of Dad’s car and slammed the door.

I ran straight to Bramble’s stall. She nodded her head when she saw me, and didn’t seem to mind when I pressed my face against her neck and drank in her warm, clean smell.

“I have missed you,” I whispered as I stroked her nose. “More than anything, ever.”

Later, when Bramble was tacked up and ready, Mrs McAllister helped me fasten the chin strap of my riding helmet. Then she helped me up into the saddle, so I wouldn’t put too much strain on my left arm.

“Now take it gently, Lyndsey,” she said. “Give yourself time to get used to Bramble again.”

I hardly heard her. Bramble was standing quite still, being really sweet and patient, waiting for me to tell her to walk on. But I felt totally weird – as if I was in a bubble, cut off from the scene around me. The colour of Mrs McAllister’s coat, the stable doors, even the reins in my hand, looked too bright and my stomach was churning. Suddenly I knew I was either going to be sick or faint – or maybe both.

“I – I have to get down,” I said.

“Steady, there. You’re all right.” Mrs McAllister patted my leg.

“No, I have to get down,” I insisted. “Now.”

Mrs McAllister helped me as I slithered out of the saddle. She made me sit on some straw
bales with my head between my knees.

“Did you skip breakfast, Lyndsey?” she asked.

I thought about my squashed Weetabix. Not much of it had made it into my mouth. “Kind of,” I said to the floor.