Free Fortune and the Golden Trophy by Stacy Gregg Page B

over Issie’s shoulder, using her as a leaning post.
    “Look at him!” Issie giggled. “He’ll probably fall asleep like that and start snoring in a minute.”
    “Aw,” Stella said. “Look at you two! New best friends!”
    Issie shrugged. “You could say that. Fortune and I are making a fresh start.”

    The piebald and Issie had made friends, but that didn’t mean Fortune had miraculously transformed into the perfect horse. When the three girls began their lesson he was still nappy at first, refusing to move forward. But as Avery instructed Issie, asking her to work her legs more on the piebald, and create impulsion, he began moving forward much more freely.
    “More leg, Issie!” Avery insisted. “This horse needs firm aids. Give him a constant push,” Avery called out as they worked around the arena. “Blaze and Comet are both naturally very ‘forward’ horses; they’ve got so much pep you don’t need to use as much leg on them. But Fortune requires more effort from you. Adapt your riding style to suit your horse.”
    At that moment, it clicked. Issie realised that she hadn’t been changing her style at all. Blaze and Comet were both highly-strung tearaways, whereas Fortune was a slow and solid mover. He needed the encouragement of clear, firm aids and plenty of leg to get him moving briskly.
    Issie began to rethink her riding, trying to tailor her technique to suit her horse. Instead of giving girly little kicks with each stride, she clamped her leg on really firmly, asking the piebald to step through underneath her. It was like a light bulb had been switched on and Fortune responded instantly. His trot became loose and light and his neck arched so that he looked less like a donkey and more like a show horse. His powerful hindquarters finally engaged and his canter became uphill and elegant as he moved.
    “Much better, Isadora!” Avery called out to her. “Now you’re really working him. Good stuff!”
    “Good boy, Fortune!” Issie patted the black and white pony on his broad neck. They were making progress together at last.
    The lesson was so good that Issie wished she could have rewarded Fortune with a big bucket of pony nuts. But Avery was firm and insisted that Fortune received his diet handful of sugar beet and chaff.
    “Poor Fortune,” Issie said as she watched the piebald hungrily craning his neck over the fence towards Toby and Comet, who were still chomping their way through enormous suppers.
    “It’s for his own good,” Avery insisted. “You need tostart his trotting work too. A daily vigorous half-hour trot, remember, and no matter what, no walking. You have to get this horse moving to get rid of that belly.”
    “He was already going much better today though, wasn’t he? He looked really great in the ring,” Issie said.
    Avery agreed. “You had him going nicely in there, Issie.”
    Issie looked embarrassed. “You were right, Tom…about it being my fault before. I guess I lost perspective and…”
    But Avery wasn’t listening to her. He was staring over Issie’s shoulder with a quizzical expression. “Hello,” he said. “What’s he doing over here?”
    A man was standing in the exact spot where Avery had fixed the wire this morning. He was short, bald and rather pink-faced, dressed in a traditional golfer’s outfit—a pair of checked plus fours worn with pink socks up to the knee, a pink polo shirt and a matching tam-o’-shanter hat with a pink fluffy bobble on the top. He looked utterly ridiculous and his behaviour was even more curious than his outfit. He kept staring at the fenceline and then bending down with his face right up against the grass as if he were sniffing the ground like a tracker dog.
    “Oh, great,” Avery groaned. “Here we go again!”
    Issie was confused. “Do you know him?”
    “Unfortunately, yes,” Avery sighed. “That’s Gordon Cheeseman, manager of the Chevalier Point Golf Club.”
    As Avery said this the man looked up and saw him.