Katie King - The Evacuee Summer - Heart-warming historical fiction, perfect for summer reading

From somewhere low down, Mrs Hobbs muttered at last as she leant over, her corduroy trews now stretched dangerously over her ample posterior, ‘’E’s bin shod yesterday an’ ’e answers to Milburn up at t’ farm, but yers all call ’e what yer wants, ’e won’t mind, I dare say.’ The pony’s expression seemed to dispute not minding about the name, and then there was a decisive shake of a long, mole-coloured nose as if to drive the point home. ‘’Is feet’ll need doin’ every day, an’ mark yer do it or you’ll be in fer trouble. As long as yer remember to take ’e t’ smithy every two months at least, an’ more if ’e’s on roads a lot as ’e’ll need t’ shoes kept up and they get slippy otherwise. Yer could drive a bus beside ’e, ’e’s so quiet in traffic,’ finished Mrs Hobbs.

‘Sounds like t’ pony is goin’ t’ ’ave new shoes more often than us,’ said Mabel in the sort of rueful voice that made the adults think about the clothes rationing that was just about to start, and made the children understand anew that nobody was to expect much in the way of treats these days.

Aside from the clothing coupon issue, Roger appeared nothing short of pensive in any case; clearly he hadn’t realised that a pony might be spooked by large vehicles near it, and they could all see that he had no idea what to do in the event of the creature taking fright.

Luckily everyone was distracted from these gloomy thoughts by the sound of an approaching vehicle and then the toot of a horn from a van idling out in the road.

Mrs Hobbs thrust the reins at Mabel, and said goodbye to the pony with a firm slap to its rump that caused it to bunch its quarters and clamp its tail flat down, and then with no more ado than a gruff ‘cheero’, the farmer’s wife bustled out of the yard at Tall Trees to get her lift back to the farm without so much as a backwards glance.

The pony watched her leave, and then turned deep-brown shiny eyes with long eyelashes towards Mabel as if enquiring whether some sort of rather unamusing joke had just been made.

Once the vehicle had driven away there was a long silence, broken only by the clucking of the hens over at the other side of the garden, and then the pony pawed the ground once with a front hoof.

Jessie spied a tiny spark shoot out as the clink of a metal shoe struck a flint in the yard.

‘I don’t think any of our names so far suit him,’ said Angela. ‘What about Lightning?’

The pony was thickset with a large belly slung between short but strong legs, and a bushy tail that almost touched the ground, while a wiry mane and forelock gave a top-heavy impression. As ponies go, it neither looked very fast, or very lightning-like. And to judge by the roll of intelligent eyes the pony didn’t think much of Lightning as a name.

‘I know t’ farmer’s wife kept callin’ the pony ’e, but I think it’s a girl, Angela, and I’ve always believed Lightning seems better as a boy’s name,’ said Aiden tactfully.

Making sure he kept a good distance, Tommy leant down and looked under the hairy belly, before moving around to the rear to peer under a slightly raised tail and then he hooted, ‘That’s a lass all right!’ to which Mabel muttered, ‘I’m not even goin’ t’ ask ’ow yers know that, Tommy …’

So the pony was definitely female. Jessie, who hadn’t been quite sure he’d be able to tell the difference between a girl pony and a boy pony, fancied he saw a look of relief flit across the bright eyes now turned in his direction from beneath the golden forelock.

‘Well, that cuts out Brown Jack, and Winston then too,’ Connie pointed out quickly so that she could keep her advantage in the Great Naming Debate. ‘My two of Winnie or Sugar both work well for a girl horse though, don’t you think?’

‘You should describe her as a mare,’ said Jessie, ‘and technically she’s a pony as she is not tall enough to be a horse, given that she’d be measured in hands of four inches, although of course there is a saying that all ponies are horses but not all horses are ponies … ’ He shut up when he saw the bored expressions on his friends’ faces, with Tommy waving a hand in front of his mouth as if stifling a yawn. All faces other than Aiden’s, that was, as he looked quite interested in these technicalities that somehow Jessie seemed to know, despite only occasionally have patted the milkman’s horse and just the once having stroked the shoulder of a huge, gentle-giant Shire horse with hooves the size of plates and extravagant white feathers fluffing down to the ground, that had been pulling a huge dray to bring a delivery of kegs of beer to the Jolly, the public house nearest to Jubilee Street, where they had grown up in south-east London.

‘Well, let’s give her a chance to get used to her stable, and then we can think about it over lunch,’ said Roger in a voice that he tried to make as rallying as he could, but which everyone could recognise was distinctly dubious. ‘You boys, are you strong enough to push the trap over to that bit of the yard out of the way? I’m sure you are! We must remember to take the pony out of the trap when we have got her and it into a position where it won’t be in the way of the car, in case I need to drive off quickly in an emergency, as we don’t want to be pushing the trap around the yard every day and I especially don’t if it’s in the middle of the night.’

His words were lost as Tommy had set about organising himself, Aiden, Jessie and Connie (Connie being right now, an honorary boy) into lugging several bales of hay (or was it straw?) from the trap to add to the others already in the spare stall, and then manhandling the now much lighter trap to where Roger wanted it to be.

Mabel passed her husband the pony’s reins, and in Roger’s hands the determined creature promptly hauled him over to the small patch of grass at the edge of the back yard, where she determinedly stuck her nose down and grabbed several quick munches.

‘Milburn!’ Mabel said sternly, and both Roger and the pony jumped, Milburn raising her head with such a start that it caused her harness to jangle, and then she opened her mouth dramatically to show all of them her yellow teeth and a crud of partially chewed grass, before she dragged Roger in the direction of her open stable door. She seemed to know just where to go.

‘I, er, er – I’ll just put her inside, shall I? Inside her, er, er, stall. In here, that’s the ticket.’ His voice got quieter as Milburn towed him through the door. ‘Now, how again does this thing come off?’ Roger added as he gazed helplessly at the pony’s tack.

‘It’s called a bridle and what you are holding are the reins, Mrs Hobbs said,’ Jessie clarified. ‘Can I take it off her? You just undo that strap under that big bone at the top underneath her chin and pull the whole thing forward over the ears, holding it at the top of her head. You have to do it smoothly and gently so as not to damage her eyes and teeth. And Mrs Hobbs said, I think, that the pony is used to people standing on her left when they do this and so that might be why she is lifting her lip at you.’

With relief Roger almost threw the long leather reins to Jessie and made a hasty exit from the stall, but not before a soft velvety forehead the colour of butterscotch gave Roger a firm push as he brushed past.

The rector gave what could only be described as a squeak, a little later followed by, ‘I’m, er, sure I’ll get the hang of it by the end of today. I shouldn’t think it’s too difficult. Looking after one small pony, that is. Putting on and taking off her bridle, cleaning her teeth and so forth. Feet! Silly me. I mean cleaning her feet… hooves, I mean. No, no, not too tricky at all, I expect.’ He paused. ‘Does she need her teeth cleaning too, do you think? Goodness, her teeth are big, aren’t they, and so I very much hope not.’