Blaze and the Dark Rider. Stacy Gregg
“Umm, no,” Issie said, “I’m just her guardian. Blaze still belongs to the ILPH.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re quite the horsewoman. I respect your dedication,” Araminta said. She checked her watch. “I’m sorry, Tom, we’ll catch up another time. I have to go and help Morgan get some last-minute practice in for this afternoon.”
“If she’s anything like you were in your day, Minty, she won’t need any practice,” Tom said.
Araminta sighed and shook her head. “Tom, I was only good because I used to practise so hard. Morgan needs to realise that she could be great too if she worked at winning. I need to push her all the time. She’s got to be committed to be a star. That’s what I keep telling her—” She stopped suddenly and gave Avery a smile again. “Anyway I need to go and help her warm up now. It was lovely to see you, Tom. And to meet you.” She smiled at Issie and her gang. “See you soon.”
Araminta strode off to the practice jumps on the far side of the paddock where Morgan was warming up her black gelding.
“Come on,” Dan said, charging up the clubroom stairs now that Araminta was gone, “are we getting ice creams or not?”
The Chevalier Point clubroom looked like an old shearing shed, which was exactly what it had once been. It was raised up on poles allowing storage space under the floor at one end for hay bales during the winter months. Underneath the other end was a locked-up space for equipment like bending poles, hard feed for the horses, saddle horses and racks for tack which the riders stored here when they were grazing their ponies at the club grounds.
Upstairs, the clubroom itself was warm and dry, with a musty smell of hay and the sweet warm hint of pony sweat.
At the far end of this big barn-like space was the area that everyone called the “Riders Lounge”. The lounge was made up of five old worn-out armchairs, all of them with the stuffing coming out of the arms and fabric worn threadbare so that the springs showed. A large, very worn Persian rug covered the floor and there was a long, low coffee table with old copies of PONY Magazine stacked on it.
At the front end, near the clubroom door, was the kitchenette, with a freezer and an honesty box for ice creams and a cold drinks machine. Coffee mugs hung on a wooden tree next to the sink and there was a big handwritten notice that said, PLEASE DO YOUR OWN DISHES—THE PONIES CAN’T CLEAN UP BY THEMSELVES!
Opposite the kitchenette on the main wall was the noticeboard and it was here that Avery had posted up the results.
“Yikes!” Stella squealed. She had been examining the pieces of paper on the corkboard and adding up who had the most points. “Look at this! I’m winning!
I’ve got the highest score so far!” It was true. Stella was the only one who had won her heats in both the bending and the flag races that morning.
Issie searched frantically for her name on the corkboard. Her eyes scanned the column. There she was—Isadora Brown. She had three points so far for winning her heat of the flag race. Stella had six points and so did Dan and Ben. Issie knew she would have to ride really well this afternoon if she wanted to win enough points to make the team. She suddenly felt her tummy churn with nerves, almost putting her off her ice cream. “Come on,” she said to Stella, “let’s go get saddled up.”
That afternoon seemed to fly by as the days always do at pony club. By the time they reached the last event of the day, Issie and Kate had both ridden well in the rider on the flat and over hurdles and both girls had added to their points tally. Each of them had six points now just like Stella. There was only the showjumping against the clock to come.
“There are ten fences in the course. You’ll be jumping this same height at the Interclub on Shield Day when the fences will all be between eighty centimetres and one metre,” Avery explained. “It’s the same system today as the Interclub. You will receive four faults for every rail you knock down. The rider who completes a clear round with the best time on the clock will win.”
As Stella and Kate rode off to warm up over the practice jumps, Issie sat by the ring to watch the first rider and see how they handled the course.
As she was watching the horse take the first fence she looked across and saw Morgan. The girl was sitting all by herself on her black gelding, looking extremely bored.
It must be awful, Issie thought, being the new girl and not knowing anyone—even if you are the daughter of a famous rider like Araminta Chatswood-Smith.
“What do you think, Blaze? Shall we make friends?” Issie murmured to her horse.
She picked up the reins and trotted Blaze over to the shade of the large plane tree where Morgan and her pony were standing alone.
“Hi,” Issie smiled brightly at Morgan, “I’m Issie, well, Isadora really, but everyone calls me Issie.” Issie patted her liver chestnut mare, who gave her head a shake and jangled her bit as if to suggest that the introductions weren’t quite finished yet.
“And this is Blaze!” Issie laughed. “I think she wants to meet your horse. What’s his name?” she asked, gesturing towards the black gelding.
“Black Jack,” Morgan replied in a quiet voice, “but I just call him Jack. We were—”
“There you are, Morgan!” The sharp voice of Natasha Tucker trilled out, interrupting them. Natasha pulled her horse up between Black Jack and Blaze and cast a snooty look at Isadora. “It’s so nice to have you here, Morgan,” Natasha purred. “So nice to have a proper rider at this club with me finally. And with a proper horse too,” Natasha added, looking at Black Jack. “I can tell that he’s a purebred. Goldrush is too, you know. Bloodlines are so important, don’t you think? It’s a shame they let all sorts of mongrel ponies join the club these days. I think you’ll find that some people at this pony club have horses that are simply out-classed by horses like ours. They can’t afford well-bred mounts like we can,” she said. She gave Morgan a sly smirk. “You’re new here, but you’ll learn. I’m sure I can fill you in on who’s worth bothering with.”
“What-ever, Natasha,” Morgan replied dryly. “I think I can figure out good breeding all by myself. And I know exactly who is worth bothering with—and who is not!”
And with that she leaned over in front of Natasha and smiled broadly at Issie. “Your horse is beautiful. I love chestnuts with blonde manes.” She looked admiringly at Blaze’s flaxen mane, which was pale honey blonde, long and silky. “Is she an Arab?”
“I think so.” Issie smiled back. “Avery says Anglo-Arab, but I got her from the ILPH so I don’t really know for sure.”
As the two girls nattered happily away, Natasha’s face darkened. She gave a haughty sniff, pretended she had somewhere better to be and rode off in a sulk.
“I’m so glad she’s gone!” Morgan pulled a face as she watched Natasha ride off.
“I thought you were friends?” Issie was confused.
“No way!” Morgan was shocked. “She is horrible to me at school. Natasha and her friends are all in the popular’ group and they won’t even speak to me. Now suddenly she turns up at pony club and discovers who my mum is and wants to be my best friend!”
Issie nodded. “That sounds like Natasha all right.”
Morgan sighed. “It happened at my last pony club too. All these girls who just wanted to hang out with me because of my mum…”
“It must be amazing.” Issie grinned. “I mean, having a mother who is a really great rider. My Mum can’t stand horses.”
“Yeah, it’s OK,” Morgan said without much enthusiasm. She looked at Issie. “It’s just that everyone expects me to be this fantastic rider just because Mum is. And everyone is always asking me about her.”