to boff Frankie over the head with it.
“And anyway,” Fliss said, prodding at her salad with her fork, “we don’t think all those things we said about the stables, honest.”
“Only some of them,” said Kenny, with a wicked grin. “The minute you start stinking of horse poo, Collins, I’m outta here!”
You’re going to think I’m mad, considering what had happened that day, but when I got home from school all I wanted to do was go to the stables. In three weeks’ time there was going to be a gymkhana there – a riding competition with lots of different races and games that you can enter with your pony. I’d played a few gymkhana games before, but I’d never entered a proper competition, so I wanted to do my best.
On my bike I can whizz to the stables in about two minutes, which is dead handy. Today, the moment I got there, I went to see Bramble. She’s a lovely bay – brown with a black mane and tail. Of all the ponies at Mrs McAllister’s stables, she’s my favourite (only don’t tell Alfie and Marvel and the others!).
And when you’ve had a wobbly day at school, there’s nothing like having a pair of kind brown eyes to talk to and a lovely warm furry neck to hug.
“Hey, Bramble,” I said, stroking her soft nose to say hello. She nuzzled my hand gently. It seemed like she was pleased to see me.
“Hello, Lyndsey!” called Mrs McAllister, who was walking across the yard. She’s my riding teacher, as well as being the owner of the stables.
“Hi, Mrs McAllister,” I called back. “Can I do some practice today, for the gymkhana?”
Mrs McA looked at her watch and pursed her lips. “Well… give me about half an hour. Then I’ll come and watch you do some jumping on. Bramble’s had a fair amount of exercise today, so why don’t you just give her a gentle warm-up while you’re waiting?”
“Great!” I said. “Thanks, Mrs McAllister.”
“Glad to see you’re so keen, Lyndsey,” she said, heading for her office.
“Well, less than three weeks to go now!” I said.
“Two, you mean!” she called, tapping the poster taped to the office window as she passed. “See you later!” And the office door swung shut behind her.
Two weeks? I frowned, puzzled. But surely the gymkhana was on the 28th? “Wait a sec, Bramble,” I whispered, and ran across the yard to have a look at the poster.
My watch just tells the time. It doesn’t have a little date window on it, like Fliss’s does, so I’m never the person to ask if you want to know the date (unless it’s my birthday!). But for once I could remember Mrs Weaver writing it up on the board this morning: Monday 16th.
Well, I bet you’ve done the maths already, haven’t you? Yep, that’s right. Dozy here had been reckoning on nearly three weeks to turn herself into Cuddington’s answer to Zara Phillips when there were less than two. The gymkhana was a week on Saturday!
That was enough of a shock in itself. But the next moment I felt as if Bramble had leapt across the yard and given me the most almighty kick.
“Oh no!” I groaned out loud. “Frankie’s sleepover!” She’d said a week on Saturday, hadn’t she? And I had promised promised promised (cross-my-heart-and-hope-never-to-set-foot-in-a-stirrup-again) not to miss it. What on earth was I going to do?
Through the window I could see Mrs McAllister, the phone pressed to one ear, looking at me weirdly. I was probably grimacing really gruesomely, worse than the M&Ms with tummy ache. Quickly, I turned round and marched back to Bramble’s stable, to tack her up.
Half an hour later, when Mrs McAllister came out to the field and shouted, “How about some jumping on, then, Lyndsey?” I wasn’t feeling any better. If anything, I think I was feeling worse. My heart was going ker-boom ker-boom in my chest, like it was trying to get out, and I kept thinking how desperately I wanted to enter the gymkhana. I had to find a way. But how could I, after what I’d said to the others? Especially after the barny we’d had about me preferring ponies to my friends!
It was hard to concentrate, but I needed to – jumping on is really tricky. You see, there are some races where, to be quick enough to stand a chance of winning, you have to get off your pony and get back on again while it’s still moving. I’m OK at the flying dismounts (sounds like a circus trick, huh?). It’s the vaulting – that is, the getting back on again – that I have problems with, big time.
“Now try to relax, Lyndsey,” said Mrs McAllister. “And remember: watch Bramble’s stride. You should jump when the front foot that’s nearest to you hits the ground.”
I nodded. I knew this. It was just easier said than done. And I had quite a few bruises from when I’d messed it up last time.
Trying not to be nervous, I urged Bramble into a canter. I ran alongside, gripping her saddle in one hand and the reins in the other, and watching her feet. I was going to have to jump, swinging my legs out over her back end to land in the saddle.
“Come on Bramble,” I whispered breathlessly. “We can do this!”
And then I jumped.
“That was a beauty!” I heard Mrs McAllister call.
I was in the saddle – no bruises. I’d done it!
“Way to go, girl!” I laughed, patting Bramble’s neck.
Well, that put me on such a high I thought I’d show off and go straight into a flying dismount. I swung my body forward and my legs back. But one of my feet got caught in its stirrup. My other leg was already swinging over, and I could feel my weight dragging me out of the saddle. The foot that was stuck was twisting now at a really awkward angle, so I couldn’t get it out.
It must’ve all happened in a nanosecond, but to me it felt like some horrid slow-motion dream. Panicking that my foot wasn’t going to come free, I let go of the reins and was immediately flung out sideways. The ground swung up towards me with a sickening lurch, and then: thwack. Everything stopped dead.
It took me a moment or two to work out what had happened. I just lay there like a sack of potatoes, with my face in the muddy grass.
“Lyndsey! Lyndsey! Are you all right?” I heard Mrs McAllister’s voice right in my ear. She was out of breath; she must’ve shot across the field like an Olympic sprinter.
I groaned and tried to sit up. But when I pushed on my left hand the most horrible pain shot up my arm. “Owww!” I yelped.
“Don’t move yet,” said Mrs McAllister. “Where does it hurt?”
“My arm,” I gasped. “Left… arm.”
Straight away Mrs McAllister sprang into super-efficient emergency gear. First she checked me all over to make sure my arm was the only bit that hurt. Then, ever so gently, she helped me sit up. I was crying by this time, blubbing worse than my little brother Ben (who is the biggest cry-baby in the world, in case you didn’t know). I never knew part of me could hurt that much. I swear, if your arm felt like mine did right then, you’d have been bawling too!
“All right, Lyndsey. We’re going to get you to the hospital,” said Mrs McAllister.
“Where’s Bramble?” I said, turning my head. My eyes were so full of tears, everything was a splodgy blur.
“She’s fine,” said Mrs McAllister. “She’s away by the fence, nosing about in the grass. Think you can stand?”