After the Pony Club

  After the Pony Club

  Naomi Jessica Rose

  Copyright © 2017 Naomi Jessica Rose

  All rights reserved

  Revised edition 2021

  For Tracey

  Saturday

  It’s strange what you end up thinking about. The train rattled out of Oxford and into the country, the wonderful wet grey-green of the country stretching out over mile after mile, and all Dick ended up thinking about was his clothes. He was wearing entirely the wrong clothes.

  ​Perhaps it was because it was all too much to comprehend, this incredible bounding release he felt, the way the land outside pulled at his heart. That was what made him look away from it all and at the sleeve of his neat blue suit jacket. Suits and ties: he hadn’t been wearing them really; these last months they’d been wearing him, holding him up in the world in which he’d found himself. And now for a few weeks at least he would be able to get back into the other sort of clothes. He looked out the window again, unable to resist. There were horses in a field, of course there were, three bay thoroughbreds. He watched them, turning right round in his seat, keeping his eyes on them until the last possible moment, until they were left behind as the train rushed relentlessly on and on, taking him home.

  ​It was two trains later with plenty of pacing up and down and climbing endless stairs in between before he arrived though. He felt like a withered leaf, one of those still left on the tree in December, when all the others are long gone, pathetic, the worst state to be in really to see his father, but nonetheless with the excitement of being home pounding away inside, hid deep. Dick’s father wore suit and tie too. He always did when he wasn’t in court or in evening dress: suit and tie and overcoat; expression of cold decision and righteousness. It was always the same.

  ​“How are you, how’s Mother?” Dick got in first, forcing the bones of his face to smile.

  ​“Very well, very well,” the old man said.

  He had always been old, a late starting father, and now his hair was almost all white. But he looked well, not particularly tall, a lean man, kept healthy by careful discipline and long country walks. He carried an unwavering air of strength and purpose and it was almost impossible to remain unintimidated. “How’s college? Working hard?”

  ​“Hard enough,” Dick said, looking up to catch a flinty stare aimed right at him. He could never say the right thing.

  ​“What does that mean?” The stare went on.

  ​“It means I’m working hard,” Dick said. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. He can’t do anything and I’m home. He put his bags in the boot of the car and climbed into the passenger seat.

  ​There was no more talking as they wended through the country roads to home, and Dick felt his heart rate slow. It was always like this. He’d forget in between, and then he’d remember again. When the car pulled up on the gravel drive, his father got out and walked away without a word, so there was no need for any further feeble attempt to think of things to say. There was no need to get the bags out of the car or go to the house at all. Dick set off in his suit and tie and his beautiful shiny shoes, down the path to the paddock to see Crispin with his heart singing.

  ​Just to see him, he told himself. He’d have to get his things into the house and spend some time with his mother. After that he would get changed and go for a ride. It was fine to ride Crispin once in a while, even though he was only a pony and 21 years old. Crispin was doing all right.

  ​Not everyone has a stable and a paddock just behind their house, Dick told himself, as he always told himself. You’re lucky. The stable was empty, not surprisingly. Crispin only came in at night, even in winter. The paddock was empty too. Dick stopped in his tracks. There were trees in the hedge at the back of the field, but you could see under them. There was no pony there, not anywhere in the paddock. There was no muddy track leading through the gate, not even a hoof print, and the grass was long. Dick realised that it had begun raining. Icy raindrops fell on his head and his shoulders; fell through him, right down his spine, right into his heart.

  ​He stood there for too long because he had no idea what to do. But you don’t know for sure, he told himself. He turned slowly back to the house, slowly at first anyway, walking, then speeding up gradually until he was running like he never did any more now he was grown up – running, panting for breath, unable to stop the thoughts careering around his head, tearing the back door open to find nobody there, of course.

  ​He leaned on the kitchen table and gulped breaths of air, torn between the need to present himself reasonably and the wild desire to scream out in fury, utterly ashamed either way. He wiped his wet face and crept into the proper part of the house. His father was in the drawing room.

  ​“Where’s Crispin?” he asked, managing reasonable. His mother was there too, he realised, floating in the background, looking as elegant and beautiful as ever, and as unavailable.

  ​“Sold for dogs’ meat,” his father said, with no particular emotion except perhaps a little scorn. “You didn’t expect us to keep him did you, with you gone all the term? Besides, we’re getting rid of this place in the new year.”

  ​Dick didn’t really hear the last part though. He was gone – out through the kitchen door, running again, up the track past the paddock and on to the bridleway until he had to stop to throw up his guts into a ditch and then stand leaning against a tree heaving in breaths and shuddering.

  “It’s darned inconvenient of Henry to decide to drop on us like this,” Major Holbrooke said to his wife as they sat down together to dinner.

  ​Mrs Holbrook sighed. “Oh don’t be silly,” she said. “You know you love having him. You’re always complaining about the attitudes of the hunting types around here. You and Henry can talk dressage all through Christmas dinner.”

  ​“It’s the wrong time of year for dressage,” the major grumbled.

  ​“Well anyway, it’s hardly his fault his parents have gone off to Spain. It’s our duty to have him and I’m looking forward to it.”

  ​The major looked down discontentedly at his soup. He didn’t really understand Carol’s point, after all there was nothing stopping Henry going to Spain too, was there? The doorbell rang. “Are we expecting anyone?” he asked.

  ​“Not that I know of.” Mrs Holbrooke stood up.

  ​“I’d better go,” the major said. “You’ll only end up talking sympathetically for hours to Mrs Manners about her appalling relatives or whoever it is.” He scraped back his chair and his wife sat down again with a sigh.

  ​“Well, don’t be rude!” she said.

  ​The major was tired. He had been trying to fit in too many things recently, and all of for the benefit of other people. His own horses, their training, their progress, seemed to have been pushed into the background somehow. He was fed up about Henry, whatever Carol said; he had wanted a selfishly quiet Christmas at home, just the two of them since the boys were busy. He opened the front door to find a dishevelled waif of a person standing on his doorstep wearing a suit and no coat in the dark. It was Dick Hayward of all people, an old pony club member he couldn’t remember having seen for maybe two years.

  ​“Are you all right?”

  He had planned to be rude, but his plan was instantly forgotten. The boy on the doorstep looked as if he could hardly stand up.

  ​“I wondered if you could help me,” Dick said. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

  ​“You’re not bothering me. Come in.” The major opened the door wide and the boy stepped gingerly into the hall.

  ​“I only wondered if you knew anyone who was looking for a groom. You see, I need a job.”

  ​Major Holbrooke stared at the boy, amazed. He was sure he had
heard that Dick Hayward was up at Oxford reading law, not working in people’s stables! And in the light he could see the bones standing out of the boy’s face, all those sharp little bones. He remembered Dick had always been small and thin, but now there seemed to be nothing of him at all, so little to hold him up that it was only natural he should collapse right there on the hall carpet. The surprising thing was that the major was not quick enough to catch him.

  ​“Oh my goodness!” Mrs Holbrooke had appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall. “That’s Dick Hayward isn’t it? Is he all right?”

  ​The boy was breathing. The major called to him and shook him, but he didn’t wake up.

  ​“We’d better get one of the men to carry him upstairs,” Mrs Holbrooke said.

  ​“No need for that,” the major said. “I’m not so very old you know.” The boy weighed no more than a scarecrow anyway.

  ​“The boys’ room.” Mrs Holbrook steered her husband. “The beds are already made in there.”

  ​Dick’s face was almost as white as the pillow and his closed eyelids had a bluish tinge. The major was alarmed. Now the shock had worn off he felt more tired than ever, and he was going to have to ‘phone Dick’s parents, and Dr Radcliffe too, he supposed. He groaned.

  ​“Do you know where the pony club address book is?” he asked his wife irritably.

  “I can only apologise,” Sir Richard, Dick’s father, spoke loudly and clearly. “Unfortunately, my son has not yet grown out of fits of temperament. It’s incredibly tiresome.”

  ​“He seems very ill. Are you sure…?”

  ​“Oh no, he isn’t ill; he’s just throwing a tantrum. You see we got rid of his old pony while he was up at college this term. He came down this morning and took exception, flew off the handle and ran out of the house without a word. As I say, I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but no harm done. I’ll…”

  ​“Got rid of?”

  ​“Well the old thing was past it, you know how it is, and we’d no-one to look after it. We’re moving back to Town in the new year, now Dick’s at college. My wife has always hated this place.”

  ​“Good Lord,” the major said, finding it hard to catch his breath.

  ​“I’ll come and get him.”

  ​“No.” The major couldn’t keep the urgency out of his voice; he tried to temper it. “It’s pretty late. He may as well stay here tonight, and Dr Radcliffe will be able to come straight away since he’s only down the road.”

  ​“Good heavens, there’s no need to waste Dr Radcliffe’s time!”

  ​Major Holbrooke found he was feeling sick. “I intend to call him and I am sure he will not consider it a waste of time,” he said icily.

  ​“Well I won’t argue with you,” Sir Richard conceded. “Thank you for your trouble.”

  “Are you all right?” Mrs Holbrooke asked. Her husband was leaning on the wall next to the telephone, staring moodily into space.

  ​“Oh God, Carol,” he said. “Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have children.”

  Dick woke with a start. He was in bed, at home? He wasn’t at college. The walls were too far away for that. So had he been dreaming? He couldn’t remember the dream entirely, but he remembered the feeling of it, the panic. He looked around the room properly and realised it wasn’t his room at all, and there was Major Holbrooke sitting on another bed, looking at him, and how could that be? Had he really gone to the major’s house? That had seemed like just a part of his dream. He sat up slowly. He knew where he was all of a sudden: in the major’s boys’ bedroom, but he had no idea at all to explain how he might have got there.

  ​“I must go home,” he said, barely recognising the scratching sound of his own voice.

  ​The major smiled and shook his head. “You’re staying here tonight,” he said. “I’ve spoken to your father on the ‘phone and arranged it, don’t worry. It’s no trouble, I assure you.”

  ​“My father?” For some reason the walls suddenly changed colour, and they continued to change. The ceiling seemed to come down with all the other things that came down at that moment: the things that couldn’t be, but were. Dick felt a wretched urge to be rid of all of it boiling inside him so fiercely he had to run. At least he knew where the bathroom was.

  The major stood outside the partly open door of his sons’ bathroom and listened to the boy being sick. God help me, I’m too old for this, he said to himself. But he looked in anyway, to see Dick pull himself up from the floor and stand shaking, holding on to the basin.

  ​“Are you all right?” the major asked.

  ​“I don’t know what I am,” the boy said, laughing weakly. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I really should go home.” His voice went serious again, pale and unbearably sad. He came back into the room.

  ​“Nonsense,” the major said lightly. “My wife is making you something to eat, and in about half an hour Dr Radcliffe will be here to see you, so you have just about enough time to get cleaned up and put on David’s pyjamas.”

  ​“Oh God,” the boy said again, with the look of a rabbit caught in a snare.

  “I have to go out for a bit,” Dr Radcliffe said to his wife, who wasn’t listening anyway. She might have been asleep. He poked her.

  ​“Going out?” she said frowning. “What is it? Emergency?”

  ​“I’ll tell you later.” There were too many people about who might be listening. Dr Radcliffe sometimes wondered what it was like to live alone. He tried to remember the time when he had just been married and had no children at all, but couldn’t. James and Margaret were playing chess, and arguing. Andrew was sitting under the table crying, even though he was supposed to be in bed. Evelyn was talking incredibly loudly on the ‘phone now he had conceded it to her. He kissed his wife gently and slipped out without anyone particularly noticing.

  ​He just walked to the Holbrooke’s, twenty minutes. It had stopped raining and the cold felt good. The house was always too stuffy in winter. While he walked he thought about Dick Hayward. He had forgotten about Dick, that was the truth, after all of those troubles all those years ago. He’d supposed Dick had grown up, like all the other children, and the troubles had faded away.

  ​He was received by Mrs Holbrooke and a tray of supper which he relieved her of and then proceeded up the stairs with to find his patient. The Holbrookes were remarkably kind people, but they were also maddeningly self-contained, all of them, even the boys. They wouldn’t say boo to you, but would retire and wait and you would never really know what they were thinking. Dr Radcliffe felt a sudden rush of gratitude for the Margarets and Evelyns of his own family, and he smiled to himself.

  ​He needed that smile as it turned out.

  ​“Supper,” he said to the boy in the bed. The last time he had seen Dick the boy had surely been small, but he’d had some colour and plenty of energy, one of a large crowd of loud children on ponies, happy.

  ​“I’m not hungry,” Dick said.

  He was so thin Dr Radcliffe could see all the muscles in his face move when he spoke, and his skin was translucent, hard to look at.

  ​“That doesn’t really matter,” the doctor said. “You seem to have fallen on the Holbrooke’s hospitality, and their kindness, and Mrs Holbrooke has made you supper, so you’d better eat it, don’t you think?” It was hard to be so harsh, but Dick clearly hadn’t eaten properly for weeks, maybe months. And it worked. Dr Radcliffe watched him eat all of the soup and bread, slowly and mechanically, not tasting it, not caring that it took him so long it went cold and entirely unpalatable.

  ​“How is college?” he asked.

  ​“All right,” Dick said, not looking at him.

  ​“So what have you been doing to yourself?”

  ​“Nothing.”

  ​“Eating?”

  ​“Not really.”

  ​“Sleeping?”

  ​Dick shook his head slightly, looking down and away. He was wearing pyjamas much too big for him. Everything had to be
much too big for him surely?

  ​“Have you seen yourself lately? It’s pretty shocking.”

  ​Dick didn’t say anything.

  ​“You’ll have to eat, you know, if you want to…”

  ​“Stay alive?” the boy finished the sentence for him. “I’m not sure I do want that, Dr Radcliffe.”

  ​“If you want to work in someone’s stable, I was going to say.” The doctor was surprised that this made Dick laugh.

  ​“I think I’m going mad,” the boy said.

  ​“You’re not,” Dr Radcliffe replied firmly. “You’ve had something to eat; that’s a start. Now you need to go to sleep. It’ll help.”

  “I still don’t understand what happened,” Susan said.

  ​“Neither do I really.” Noel sighed.

  ​Susan laughed. “I think you’re just being idiots. Why shouldn’t Henry come here? Doesn’t that mean he wants to make it up?”

  ​Noel flung Henry’s letter down on her bed. That letter had come a week ago and really by now she ought to have forgotten all about it. “It probably means he wants to go hunting with his Uncle George and I’m inconveniently in the way. I just wish he would have the decency to leave me alone.”

  ​“No you don’t,” Susan said knowingly.

  ​But she doesn’t know anything, Noel said to herself. She was being unreasonable, but she couldn’t help it. Susan never understood. Last summer everything had seemed right, but it wasn’t. She’d hardly known Henry then, and the times she’d seen him since, she’d realised there was so much more to him, and that she didn’t necessarily like him at all. It was just difficult not to be confused because he was so horribly handsome and he could be so kind.

  ​“I’m too young for this kind of thing,” she said.

  ​Susan laughed again, of course. “Well I don’t see how that can be. You’re almost as old as me, and I’m not too young.” She yawned. “I really must go home,” she said.

  ​“I’m going for a ride tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come?” Noel asked. It was nicer to ride with someone else, after all. Susan had only been back a few days and would no doubt be going off somewhere else soon; it was best to make the most of her.