The Pullein-Thompson sisters: It Began with Picotee (eBook on pre-order out 19 June 2025)

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We were all sitting at breakfast one morning at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, when Mummy showed us a letter from a woman we knew slightly, called Mrs. Chantry, asking whether we would like to borrow a pony called Tony, which she had bought for her daughter, Jennifer, who couldn’t manage him and had decided to give up riding.

We were all frightfully pleased, because in those days our parents were not very well off and up till then we had had only one pony between all three of us—a roan mare of 12 hands 2 called Picotee, for which Olivia, who was fifteen, and I, who was fourteen, were too big, though actually we were very light and still rode her. Bridget, our younger sister, was lucky because she was only twelve and fitted her exactly.

We live in an old farmhouse called Stony Bottom Farm. It used to have hundreds of rolling acres, but now all that remains is the farmhouse and garden, some rather tumbledown buildings and seven acres of grassland.

When Olivia had gobbled the rest of her breakfast, she dashed off, muttering that she expected she would have hiccups, and rang up Mrs. Chantry. She arranged to fetch Tony directly after lunch, and also to borrow his saddle and bridle. Of course we all wanted to fetch him, but after a little arguing we decided that it would be best if only two of us went; one in the bus—Daddy had taken the car to London—and the other on Picotee. We all agreed that whoever had the ride over would have much the best time, so we drew lots and Bridget got the longest and dashed off to clean Picotee’s tack, because she said if it was dirty Mrs. Chantry might change her mind and not lend us Tony.

I drew the next longest lot, and Olivia gave a groan and said why was she always unlucky? and that it showed fate was against her.

I found the time-table and decided which bus I would catch. Then Olivia and I went out and got a box ready for Tony and groomed Picotee.

At last it was time to go, and I nearly missed the bus because at the last moment I lost my gloves, but luckily Mummy found them on the nursery mantelpiece, and by running all the way to the stop I was just in time.

On the way over I thought how lovely it would be if Tony was a good jumper, and we were able to keep him through the summer and ride him in the shows. I thought about hunting too, and how marvellous it would be with two ponies to ride.

Mrs. Chantry had told us in her letter that Tony was black and six years old and, as the bus rumbled along the winding road to Chiddington, I saw myself jumping huge fences in the hunting-field on a dashing black pony which, though a little difficult to manage, was rather good-looking and frightfully fast.

When I got off the bus I was feeling slightly sick, but by the time I had found the Chantrys’ house, which is Victorian and rather ugly, I was feeling all right.

Mrs. Chantry was standing in the front drive holding Tony; he was saddled and bridled and he certainly wasn’t like the pony I had imagined. He was about 13 hands and he had rather a long back and a sulky expression. I must say I felt disappointed.

I said I hoped I hadn’t kept Mrs. Chantry waiting, and she said that she had only just got Tony ready and that she hoped I would like him, because although he had a few naughty little tricks he was really a darling and she hated parting with him.

“The trouble is,” she said, “that Jennifer is just a little nervous and doesn’t like it when Tony starts his tricks, but I am sure you will manage him beautifully—you’re such marvellous riders.”

This was very irritating of her considering that she has never seen us riding, and anyway we are very bad and always falling off.

I thought of contradicting her, but I didn’t because I decided that she might not lend us Tony if I told her that we fell off a lot. I said that it would be lovely having two ponies, and then we talked about Jennifer’s nervousness and school, until Bridget arrived.

Mrs. Chantry admired Picotee for a bit, and then she stroked Tony’s nose and said, “Good-bye, my sweet, be a good little boy,” and I mounted and, after saying Thank you very much and good-bye, we rode away down the drive.

The ride home was not so pleasant as I had expected. Picotee took an instant dislike to Tony, and bit him whenever he went near her, which was very tiresome, because Bridget wanted to know what Mrs. Chantry had said, and I couldn’t tell her because it meant shouting, and I was afraid that one of Mrs. Chantry’s friends might hear.

Tony was maddening; he walked frightfully slowly, and would keep on turning and trying to take me back to Chiddington. After a bit I borrowed Bridget’s riding-stick—I had forgotten to bring mine—and whacked him; then he stopped turning round and dawdled along, looking sulky and dejected.

“He doesn’t seem a very nice hack,” shouted Bridget, “at least not compared with Picotee, but perhaps he has only been spoilt by Jennifer, and will improve when he finds he can’t always have his own way.”

“He may be the sort of pony which finds road work dull, and cheers up when he gets on grass and sees a jump,” I shouted back hopefully.

I didn’t feel very hopeful; after Picotee’s gay walk Tony’s felt dull and lazy, and I couldn’t imagine him putting his heart into anything.

At last we got home, and Olivia dashed out and told us that there was going to be a meet at The Three Oaks on Saturday at eleven. I quickly bagged to ride Picotee, but Olivia said that I had ridden her at the last meet last
season, and Bridget said, “Why not draw lots?” Olivia said that she didn’t want to draw lots, and she went into the granary and mixed a feed for each pony and came back complaining that Nutkin, our cat, had left a dead mole on the oat sack.

While the ponies were eating, we discussed Tony, and compared him with Picotee. We all agreed that, although he seemed slightly lazy it would be lovely to have two ponies to ride. Then the gong rang, and we went in to tea.
After tea we decided to toss up to settle which of us would hunt, and which ponies we would ride. Fate was not against Olivia this time; after ages of tossing it was settled that she would ride Picotee and I Tony, and that poor Bridget would stay at home and make the bran mashes.

Next morning we got up frightfully early and made some jumps to practise the ponies over.

We are all very bad at carpentering, but I am by far the worst; anything I make falls to bits in about two minutes.
In spite of getting up early it took us the whole morning to make the jumps, and I hit my thumb with the hammer three times, and Bridget cut her hand with the saw. At last we finished them, and they all looked fairly like jumps you might meet in the hunting-field. The first jump we called the bush fence, although, actually, it was only made out of hedge trimmings. The second jump was made by me out of three extra thick bean poles, and kept on falling down. Then there was a sort of gate, and lastly, a pair of hurdles, which we had had for ages, and which were rather fragile.

After lunch we caught the ponies and saddled and bridled them. Tony kicked Bridget, who had bagged ride him first, when she groomed him, and tried to cow-kick her when she mounted.

Olivia and Bridget rode round the field for a bit, and then Bridget put Tony at the bush fence, and, although it was only one foot six, he refused, which I do think is rather feeble for a moorland pony, even if he has never jumped before.

Olivia said she would give Tony a lead, and Picotee jumped everything beautifully, but he went on refusing the bush fence.

I removed some of the hedge trimmings, so that it was much lower, but even then he would not go over.
After a bit I got tired of watching and said that it was my turn to ride Tony. Bridget said it wasn’t, and we argued for some time, and then Olivia said that surely Bridget wanted to ride Picotee. Bridget said of course she did, but she hated giving in to Tony, and she got off and mounted Picotee.

Meanwhile I tried to get on to Tony, but he cow-kicked and twirled round and round, and so I took him into a corner of the field and gave him a mounting lesson. When I had finished, Olivia said that it was her turn to ride Tony, and I said that it wasn’t, and that I was going to try jumping him. I rode him at the bush, but although I kicked him as hard as I could he just slowed up and stopped. I had two more tries, and then, as Olivia was grumbling, I got off and Bridget gave me Picotee. I didn’t jump because I didn’t want to make Picotee stale before Saturday, but I walked, trotted and cantered, and after Tony she felt like a dressage horse.

While I turned Picotee out into the orchard, Olivia had five refusals at the bush fence, and then Bridget removed even more of the hedge trimmings and tried to tempt him over with a carrot. At last he managed to step over it, and because it was tea-time we gave him lots of carrots, and turned him out with Picotee.

As I went indoors I could not help wondering what would happen when I met a jump out hunting. I could see myself vainly attempting to get Tony over, and miserably watching the rest of the field disappearing in the distance.

We gave Tony a jumping lesson every day, and by Friday he could jump two feet, and I felt a little more hopeful.
I spent the whole of Friday afternoon cleaning Tony’s tack. Generally I enjoy doing tack before hunting, but his was beastly—the leather was frightfully stiff, and the buckles and bit were rusty. When I had finished it didn’t look nearly as nice as Picotee’s, which had only taken Olivia an hour.

After dinner Olivia and I brushed and pressed our riding-clothes. While I tried to get my jodhs clean I did wish that they were a pair of perfectly cut cream breeches, and that I was going hunting on a perfectly turned-out thoroughbred, which would go all day and jump anything. Then I thought how awful it would be if I was frightfully smart, and rode a superior thoroughbred, and refused everything. On Tony and in untidy clothes, at least I wouldn’t look as though I thought I could ride well.

We were still pressing our clothes when Mummy came in and said that it was ten o’clock, and what on earth did we think we were doing?

I said that we hoped that by some miracle we had made our clothes cleaner than they were, and Olivia said that we were doing a great deal; in fact, we had already made the dining-room look like a cleaner’s shop.

We were both most annoyed about the time, because we had meant to go to bed early so as to be in good tempers for hunting.

We quickly put our cleaning implements away and went to bed.

Humans: Oliva, Bridget, and Griselda Douglas, Pamela Wright, Ann Wright, Jane Turner, Claire Granville

Horses: Picotee, Tony, Gypsy, Pengo, Angus (Imp), Flash, Star, Bronx, Twilight