Gaze at the Moon Read online

  Gaze at the Moon

  Joanna Cannan

  Contents

  Joanna Cannan

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  I Wrote a Pony Book

  Also available from Jane Badger Books

  Patience McElwee: Dark Horse

  Josephine Pullein-Thompson: Six Ponies

  Patricia Leitch: Dream of Fair Horses

  Diana Pullein-Thompson: I Wanted a Pony

  Caroline Akrill: Caroline Canters Home

  H M Peel: Darius the Three-Day Eventer

  Jane Badger: Heroines on Horseback

  Joanna Cannan

  Joanna Cannan (1896–1961) set the pony book firmly into what became its traditional groove: a story that focussed on the rider and their relationship with the pony, and not simply on the pony itself. In her A Pony for Jean (1936), Jean is the sun around which the story revolves. The rest of her family, parents, cousins and all, are more or less distant planets. There were no wild achievements winning medals or steeplechases: Cannan took the child-centred pony book and the gymkhana, told the story from the point of view of the heroine, and made it seem within reach of an ordinary child.

  Joanna Cannan and her sisters entertained themselves as children by reading, writing plays and playing imaginative games, visits from other children being discouraged. The girls’ social circles widened once they went to school, and Cannan spent a period in Paris, where she met Captain James Pullein-Thompson. They married in 1918. He struggled to find employment and Cannan decided to breed Sealyham dogs and write, and see which was the more successful. Writing triumphed, and in 1922 she published her first book, Misty Valley. In 1935 she started writing A Pony for Jean. She had three ideal models on whom to draw: her daughters, Josephine, Christine and Diana, later to become stalwart producers of pony fiction, had ponies and ran wild, generally unfettered by school.

  The pony book genre soon developed standard themes. The rich had the best ponies, but were the worst riders. Children never moved from the country to the town, but always the other way round. Winning a rosette in competition was the most important thing to a rider. Cannan was aware of these conventions as they developed, but she refused to follow them exactly. In her Gaze at the Moon (1957), Cannan played with the pony book conventions: this time her rural family are moving into town, and heroine Dinah is distraught. Nevertheless, she settles down and makes the best of her new surroundings. Her I Wrote a Pony Book (1950) is centred on the school life most pony books cannot forget fast enough. Heroine Alison only wants to win at a gymkhana so she knows what it feels like and can write about it.

  Joanna Cannan died on 22 April 1961, reciting Landor’s ‘I strove with none, for none was worth my strife”. She had set the scene across which countless pony book heroines were to gallop.

  Jane Badger, 2019

  1

  When the letter came to say that we had been allotted a council house, two of us were pleased and two were broken-hearted. The pleased ones were my step-mother and my step-sister, Judy. The broken-hearted ones were my father and me.

  We were broken-hearted because we loved living at Speedwell Cottage. It was very old. The rooms were low and dark. The front door opened straight into the sitting-room, from which an open staircase led up to a tiny landing and the doors of the two bedrooms. After that there was a ladder, up which you could climb to the loft where we stored the apples—the Ribstons, the Bramleys, the Cox’s Orange Pippins and the Beauty of Bath. The loft had a tiny window set in the thatch. It was one of my chores to look after the apples; neither my step­mother nor Judy liked ladders or cobwebs, and in the course of years the loft had become my domain. In an old wooden box I had found there I kept what Judy called my “clutter”—my rather few books, my paint-box, odd sheets of paper which might do to draw on, pictures of horses cut out of newspapers, and the two money-­boxes which I didn’t want Judy to see because she always teased me about being a miser.

  As I don’t want anyone to think that I am a miser, I will explain now that the money-boxes, one of which was made of wood by my Uncle Tom, who is a cabinet-maker, the other of a cardboard shoe-box by me, were marked respectively G.M. and A.S. G.M. stood for Grey Mare, and any money I made by doing things connected with animals or agriculture I put into that box.

  A.S. meant art school, as my ambition in life is to be a painter and I wanted to go to an art school when the time came for me to leave Danesfield Secondary Modern, whereas my parents wanted me to be a secretary and Judy wanted me to be a hairdresser, as she is. When we left Speedwell Cottage, G.M. was much fuller than A.S. My father often gave me sixpence for weeding the garden or picking caterpillars off the cabbages; I had made ten shillings by looking after a lady’s hens while she was in Italy, and numerous other shillings by taking dogs for walks for people who were ill or lazy. All that A.S. had was the money I had made by painting Christmas cards and selling them to my step-mother, who had only wanted three, and Judy, who wanted a great many but not subjects that I like to draw, not ponies or donkeys or any animal except cats, and then they couldn’t be cats like Kipling’s, that walked by themselves in wild wet woods waving their tails; they had to be kittens—fluffy ones doing something comical, like peeping out of boots or unravelling knitting. Really what Judy liked best was crinoline ladies, but I couldn’t bring myself to do more than three of them and six comical kittens. The only other person who bought my Christmas cards was William Woodley, a boy who lived near us in Pear Tree Cottage and worked on the farm. He bought three carthorse ones and later on I was annoyed to hear from my step­mother, who was friendly with his mother, that he had pinned them up in his bedroom instead of sending them away. I was annoyed because I thought this meant that he considered them too bad or too silly to send; much later on I discovered that it was because he liked them too much to part with them.

  Unfortunately, when we moved house and I had to bring my things down from the loft, Judy saw my money-boxes and immediately jumped to the conclusion that G.M. stood for Getting Married. Everyone thought it was very funny that I should be saving up for that, especially as I am not at all pretty and have no boy-friends, but luckily in the excitement of moving this embarrassing joke was soon forgotten. One of the new things my step-mother had bought for our new house was a small bookcase for my bedroom, and I hid the money-boxes behind some large old-fashioned horsy books, which had belonged to my mother.

  My mother had been a farmer’s daughter and when Judy complained that I behaved like a country bumpkin, Min—as I call my step­mother—used to defend me, saying that it was natural for me to like country things, which I think was very broad-minded of her considering how she hated the country. Step-mothers in books are always cruel or misunderstand their step-children, but Min was always nice to me and I loved her dearly. Judy was nice to me too, though we quarrelled sometimes, especially over Quest, our Border collie. Judy was quite kind to him and gave him far too much to eat, but both she and Min thought that he ought to live outside; they said he brought dirt into the house and laddered their nylons. When we moved into the town Judy suggested that we should have him put to sleep and buy a poodle. My father was furious.

  My father was Judy’s step-father. Her own father, Min’s first husband, had been the manager of a grocer’s shop in the city. The shop stood in a very steep street and one day Judy’s father was standing at the door looking to see if the bacon van was coming. Higher up the street was a lorry delivering coal; it had inefficient brakes and suddenly it started to move. It went faster and faster and, with no one to steer it, in a ma
tter of seconds it had mounted the pavement and was bearing down on a pram, which had been left outside the grocer’s shop by a woman who was waiting for the bacon. Without a thought for his own safety, Judy’s father sprang forward, snatched the baby from the pram—fortunately it was too young to be strapped in—and slung it into the shop as the lorry passed over him. As a result of his heroic act, the baby, though bruised, survived, but Judy’s father died the same night in hospital. The extraordinary thing is that this brave man was terrified of dogs and, like Judy, wouldn’t walk through fields with cows in them; and Min told me the story of his noble act because I laughed at Judy for screaming and running away when we were mushrooming in Farmer Waldron’s fields and his black carthorse, Captain, came lolloping up to us. Though I had not thought of it before, I agreed with Min that you should never laugh at people for being frightened of things that do not frighten you: probably you would be absolutely terrified of things that would not frighten them. I am not frightened of horses, cows or dogs, but I could never leap into the path of a runaway lorry to save anybody. But I am sure that Judy would.

  Farmer Waldron was a very agreeable old­-fashioned kind of farmer. Besides allowing us to mushroom in his fields, he said we could go wooding in Splashers Wood. Min and Judy did not like wooding; it spoilt their hands and laddered their nylons, they said; but I loved it, especially in Splashers Wood, where there are all sorts of fascinating creatures—foxes and owls and badgers. The trees are mostly oaks and there is a lot of undergrowth, but through the middle of the wood there is a track, used by the farm machines and Captain in his cart to reach the rough fields up on the hillside where Farmer Waldron grazes his sheep. It was on this track that I met with an adventure which, though not very exciting in itself, had far-reaching effects.

  To take home the wood I collected, my father had made me a sort of cart by using some old pram wheels and a packing-case which I had painted blue. This was full of wood and, though I was nearly thirteen at the time, I was pretending to be Captain in his cart and plodding along the track with my hair pulled over my eyes like his forelock and my socks rolled over my shoes as fetlocks, when I heard a faint scream of “Mummy! Mummy!” and round a bend trotted a brown pony, which I recognised as a pony Farmer Waldron had recently bought for his daughter, Jill. In the saddle, clutching the pommel, sat, or rather, swayed, Jill Waldron, a pale thin child of six, who went to a private school in the town. I recognised the pony because it had been turned out with Captain and I recognised Jill because on my way to school I often saw her waiting for the bus at the corner of the lane, which leads to the farm.

  When Jill saw me she screamed louder than ever. “Help! Help!” she cried.

  “Okay. Hold on,” I shouted and quickly turned my wood-cart across the track. Then I began to run towards her, but on second thoughts I remembered that you should never rush towards animals, so I slowed down into what Min calls “Dinah’s Dawdle” and put on a calm voice in which I called, “Whoa, little fellow, whoa.” Greatly to my surprise, the pony slowed down into a walk, and when I reached it I had only to put my hand on the rein and it stood still.

  Jill stopped crying. She said, “Naughty Topsy,” in a scolding voice and whacked the pony on the shoulder with a smart little riding whip she held in her hand. The pony jumped forward, but fortunately I was still holding her, so I said to Jill, “You silly idiot. Even a flick from a whip means ‘Go faster’ to a pony. I bet you hit her and she thought you wanted her to trot and that was why she took off with you.”

  Jill said, “Mummy let go of her.”

  At that moment Mrs. Waldron came stumbling along the track. She was fairly young and always very well dressed, and more interested in amateur theatricals than in farming. She was running with her head down, but when she looked up and saw us, she stopped and put her hand on her heart and panted. Then she walked up to us and said, “Oh, thank you, thank you. You’re Dinah Forrester, aren’t you? What a brave girl you must be. I’m so grateful.”

  I said, “Gosh, I wasn’t brave. The pony was only trotting. When I said whoa she stopped. Honestly.”

  “You’re very clever then,” said Mrs. Waldron. “I shrieked whoa, but she took absolutely no notice. Perhaps you’re used to horses. I’m not, but Mr. Waldron insists that Jill shall ride and until she can manage on her own I’m supposed to lead her.”

  Jill said, “You let go of me. I shall tell Daddy.”

  “I shall tell Daddy myself,” said Mrs. Waldron. “When Topsy jumped forward she knocked me off balance and I fell on my knees, so he’ll have to buy me a new pair of nylons. And I think we shall have to change Topsy for a quieter pony.”

  While Mrs. Waldron talked, Topsy had been looking in my pockets. She had a very soft little nose and long eyelashes and a white star on her forehead. I thought it was a shame that she should be blamed for what I felt sure was Jill’s stupidity. I said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Waldron, but just now, when I was holding her, Topsy jumped forward. It was because Jill hit her with that whip, so I expect the same thing happened when you were leading her.”

  One good thing about Jill is that she is truthful. She nodded. “I wanted her to go faster. I thought you’d run and keep up with her.”

  “Run!” said Mrs. Waldron. “It’s all I can do to walk with you.”

  Then I said, “Would you like me to take Jill out sometimes? I love walking and if Jill wants to trot I can run short distances.”

  Mrs. Waldron said, “Oh, I should like it. It would be bliss, Dinah. I suppose I’d better ask Mr. Waldron first, because you’re not very old, are you?”

  “I shall speak to Daddy too. I’d like her to lead me. I’m sure she can run faster than you,” said Jill heartlessly.

  “I shan’t lead you if you bring that whip,” I said sternly.

  “Silly old whip!” said Jill. “Here, catch, Mummy …”

  Early next morning Jill and her mother walked across the fields to say that Farmer Waldron liked our idea and wanted me to take Jill out as often as possible. He offered to pay me, but Min and I both refused absolutely: I was horse-mad, Min said, and it would be a pleasure and look how good Mr. Waldron had been to us in the matter of wooding and mushrooming. One good turn, said Min, deserves another.

  Fortunately the summer holidays were just beginning, so I was able to take Jill out nearly every day, and half-way through the holidays came the far-reaching effect of my adventure. Mr. Waldron put some heifers in the field where Topsy and Captain usually lived and it was discovered that the heifers had ringworm, so the horses were moved down to a water meadow in the valley, which made rather a long uphill walk for Jill after riding, so I asked him if he would mind my riding Topsy down after dropping Jill at the farmhouse. Of course not, he said, and why didn’t I turn Jill off and have a canter myself sometimes, so the far-reaching effect was that I learned to ride—by guess and by God, my father said, but actually I had some help because Min gave me a book on riding in August for my thirteenth birthday.

  In the Christmas holidays poor Jill had measles. I went up to the farm to give her tack a clean and Farmer Waldron said that Topsy was getting far too fat and why didn’t I exercise her? I said I’d love to, and I did, and I even went to a meet of hounds on Boxing Day at the Pig and Whistle, but I didn’t follow far because, though I was small and light for my age, I was really too big for Topsy.

  Leaving Topsy was yet another reason why I hated leaving Speedwell Cottage. Though I was nearly fourteen I cried when I said good-bye to her, and Jill cried too and cut off a lock of Topsy’s hair to give me as a keepsake. When I got home Judy, who was packing up china, saw that I had been crying and said she supposed that I had been taking a long farewell of William. I was furious. William was useful and obliging. He had helped me make rabbit hutches and bantam houses and a run for my tortoises when, through eating pansies, they had made themselves unpopular with my father and Min, but, since he had bought my Christmas cards and then—as I thought—decided they were too awful to send to anybod
y, I hated him. As proof I showed Judy the lock of hair, and she admitted it was too long to be William’s but insisted it came from a Teddy boy. I was even more furious, and we began to quarrel but Min came in and said that anybody could see that the lock of hair came from a pony’s mane and told Judy that it was common to tease people about boy-friends and me that it was babyish and a sure sign of an inferiority complex to get angry when you are teased.

  2

  Our new house was Number 43 Marlborough Avenue. It was all-electric except for a patent fire in the living-room, which burned coke, so I couldn’t go wooding even if there had been anywhere to wood. There were no apples to look after and nothing to do in the garden but heavy digging, which my father would not let me do. There was not much to draw either. I drew and painted Marlborough Avenue from the west and Marlborough Avenue from the east, and Min in the kitchen, which was so modern and hygienic that the picture looked like an advertisement of lino or sinks. I took Quest for walks, but the nearby park said Dogs only admitted on the lead and keep off the grass, and the recreation ground was crowded with children who screamed with fright when Quest ran smiling up to them to lick their knees. In the end we found a walk along the canal towpath which, dismal though it looked, provided amusement for both Quest and me. He fetched sticks out of the water and between throwing the sticks I drew the barges. Unfortunately they were not towed by horses, but propelled by soulless and unpaintable machinery.

  As soon as our new house was tidy Judy invited her new boy-friend, Clive, to tea. She stayed too long in the kitchen making more and more fairy cakes and scones and Clive was punctual, so while Judy changed and Min washed up the mess, I was sent into the living-room to talk to Clive. He was tall and pale and wore a blue suit and said, “Down, dog,” when Quest tried to make friends with him. I offered him one of Min’s cigarettes, but he said he didn’t smoke, and then I offered him one of my sweets, but he said he never touched them. I offered him a seat, but he said he’d rather stand, so he stood humming and looking out of the window at the garden where my father in his worst clothes was digging in the rain. I began to panic because Judy had told me to talk to him and I knew she could hear if we were talking or not from her bedroom upstairs. Clive worked in an architect’s office, so I asked him if he was interested in architecture and he said, “Indubitably,” which flummoxed me as I didn’t know then what “indubitably” means. However, after that he brightened up a bit and said rather patronisingly that Judy had told him I was a bit of an artist and might he see some of my drawings? I said no, but Clive said false modesty was childish and intelligent criticism was welcomed even by real artists, so I got out my portfolio, which is really two pieces of cardboard from a dress-box on which I had pasted Christmas wrapping paper and sewed strings. It fell to pieces as I opened it, which was rather humiliating, and as I picked up the pictures from the floor they looked worse than ever, even the big charcoal drawing of Captain, which I liked better than anything else I had done.