in the Chevalier Point team.
“Kismit is jumping brilliantly at the moment.” Dan grinned.
Ben nodded in agreement. “We’ve both been having extra lessons lately with Iggy Dalrymple. He’s really helped my technique.”
They stepped up to the door of the clubrooms now, and heard a woman’s voice inside. She sounded upset. “What went wrong?” she was saying. “These results are dreadful!”
“I don’t know, Mum. I had a bad start in the bending and then Jack was nappy in the flag race, I guess…” a girl’s voice responded.
“Well, now you’ll have to make up lost ground this afternoon,” the woman said briskly. “Come on, saddle up. We’ll pop Black Jack over some practice fences and I’ll look at your position before they get back underway.”
The woman and the girl headed for the door of the clubroom and Issie, Stella, Kate, Ben and Dan all scattered to the sides of the steps to let them through.
Morgan came out first. She looked much slighter than she did on her horse. She was sparrow-like, with skinny arms and legs and that long, dark hair and pale skin. She gave Issie a wan smile as she walked past.
Behind her, a woman stepped from the dark of the clubhouse to the bright light outside. She too had jet black hair and pale skin. She was tall and very glamorous in violet Hunter wellingtons, sky blue jodhpurs and a dark navy shirt, with a violet Hermes scarf tied around her hair and big, black sunglasses.
Like Avery, she carried a riding crop in her hand which she tapped lightly against her boot as she looked down now at the five riders on the clubroom steps below her.
Issie held her breath. She knew this woman. She recognised her at once because she had a picture of her on her bedroom wall. It was Araminta Chatswood-Smith.
Most thirteen-year-old girls have pictures of pop bands and Jake Gyllenhaal on their walls. But Isadora Brown was a horsy girl. In her bedroom, horses—bays, chestnuts, greys, Appaloosas, paints and palominos—covered every square inch of wallpaper.
Issie had cut pictures out of magazines of her favourite horses and riders. There was Pippa Funnell at Burghley on her big bay Supreme Rock. Next to that was a big poster of Zara Philips taking a water jump on Toytown. And on the back of her bedroom door there was Araminta Chatswood-Smith, jumping an enormous brick wall on her horse Wilful Lad in the showjumping at the World Equestrian Games.
Issie had spent a long time staring at that picture of Araminta and “Willy” on her door. Now, she was staring at the real rider herself.
Araminta cast a brief look down at Issie and her friends, gave them a stiff smile, and slid her dark glasses down from her scarf where they were perched so that they shielded her eyes.
“Minty!” Avery’s voice boomed across the paddock as he came striding towards them. Araminta’s smile grew wide as she saw him approaching.
“Tom! How glorious!” she said, trotting down the stairs with her arms outstretched. She gave him a firm embrace and pushed her sunglasses back up again, looking at Tom with warm, hazel brown eyes.
“It’s been years!” Araminta said. “Are you still competing?”
“No.” Avery shook his head. “After that bad fall at Badminton they told me I shouldn’t really ride again. So now I teach here and, of course, I’m still working for the ILPH.”
“That’s where I got Blaze from!” Issie blurted out.
Araminta and Tom turned around to see Isadora, Stella, Kate, Dan and Ben all standing there on the clubroom steps, clearly making no bones about snooping in on their conversation.
“Araminta, have you met my star riders?” Avery grinned at them. And he did introductions, naming each of them in turn and telling Araminta a little about the young riders and their ponies.
“…and finally, this is Isadora,” Tom said. “Issie’s a terrific rider. She’s been looking after Blaze, an Anglo-Arab mare that the horse protection league found. Totally nursed her back to health and then won the Chevalier Point ODE on her last season.”
“So you own the mare now?” Araminta asked Issie.
“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
