Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr. Last to get anyone in from outside.
Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a whitewashed rail. With these he erected a two foot jump in the middle of the field.
“Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it.”
Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said, “What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it.” He handed John a switch.
Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail.
Ben shouted “Legs!” and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass.
Nanny rose in alarm. “Oh what's happened, Mr. Hacket, is he hurt?”
“He's all right,” said Ben.
“I'm all right,” said John, “I think she put in a short step.”
“Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way.”
At the third attempt John got over and found himself, breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle.
“There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?”
Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, “Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat.”
Ben said, “We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon.”
“Good morning, Mr. Hacket.”
“Good morning, miss.”
“Goodbye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?”
“That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?”
“Oh yes, please, nanny, may I?”
“You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day.”
“Can't have enough of horses,” said John, “ever.” On the way back to the house, he said, “Can I have my milk in mummy's room?”
“That depends.”
Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that — `We'll see' or `That's asking' or `Those that ask no questions, hear no lies' — so unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments.
“What does it depend on?”
“Lots of things.”
“Tell me one of them.”
“On your not asking a lot of silly questions.”
“Silly old tart.”
“John. How dare you? What do you mean?”
Delighted by the effect of this sally John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her saying, “Silly old tart, silly old tart” all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness.
“Go straight up to the nursery,” she said. “I am going to speak to your mother about you.”
“Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it.”
“Go straight to the nursery.”
Brenda was doing her face.
“It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him.”
Brenda spat in the eye black. “But, nanny, what exactly did he say?”
“Oh I couldn't repeat it, my lady.”
“Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was.”
“It couldn't have been worse … he called me a silly old tart, my lady.”
Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. “He said that?”
“Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, singing it.”
“I see … well you were quite right to tell me.”
“Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning.”
“All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr. Last about it.”
She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal. “Darling,” she said. “You must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am.”
“I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart,” John argued, “and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people.”
“Well, he's got no business to.”
“I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too,”
“Now you know you don't like him more than your mother.”
“Yes I do. Far more.”
Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. “Now, listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the things she does for you every day.”
“She's paid to.”
“Be quiet. And secondly because you were using a word which people of your age and class do not use. Poor people use certain expressions which gentlemen do not. You are a gentleman. When you grow up all this house and lots of other things besides will belong to you. You must learn to speak like someone who is going to have these things and to be considerate to people less fortunate than you, particularly women. Do you understand?”
“Is Ben less fortunate than me?”
“That has nothing to do with it. Now you are to go upstairs and say you are sorry to nanny and promise never to use that word about anyone again.”
“All right.”
“And because you have been so naughty today you are not to ride tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow's Sunday.”
“Well next day, then.”
“But you said `tomorrow.' It isn't fair to change now.”
“John, don't argue. If you are not careful I shall send Thunderclap back to Uncle Reggie and say that I find you are not a good enough boy to keep him. You wouldn't like that would you?”
“What would Uncle Reggie do with her? She couldn't carry him. Besides he's usually abroad.”
“He'd give him to some other little boy. Anyway that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny.”
At the door John said, “It's all right about riding on Monday, isn't it? You did say `tomorrow.' “
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Hooray. Thunderclap went very well today. We jumped a big post and rails. She refused to first time but went like a bird after that.”
“Didn't you come off?”
“Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser.”
“How did the lecture go?” Brenda asked.
“Bad. Rotten bad.”
“The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben.”
“I'm not sure we shan't both be soon.”
They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging drafts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable, electric radiator, but with little success. Even today, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining hall.