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Making Allowances
Chapter 1, Part 1
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I have joked about it many times since. The itinerary at tea-time on spring Saturdays was always the same; 4.30pm, racing results, 4.45pm, football results, 5pm, find out which hospital Dad had been taken to.
I
suppose that, the longer you are subjected to something, the more you learn to
come to terms with it. Horse-racing
is a dangerous game, after all. Horses don’t have brakes, active suspension,
ABS or airbags. Worse still, they have minds of their own.
It is often said that the jockeys, the guys who make a living from this
game, all walk a line somewhere between the blurred boundaries of bravery and
madness. If this is true, then how should we look upon the sanity of those who
engage in this bittersweet pursuit, purely for the hell of it? People
like Dad, for instance. An enigmatic sort of bloke; no qualifications, yet a
sharp, knowledgeable mind, capable of constructing complex arguments. A king of
the Quiz Night and Crossword. An accomplished footballer, cricketer and golfer,
with wonderful oratory and social skills. What on Earth was driving him to do
this every Spring? I
found myself asking this question many times over the next twenty years or so,
in the aftermath of that fateful afternoon in April, where this story begins. It
had been quite a warm, but overcast day. I had been to watch the local town
football team. I had taken my small radio with me, as it was the day of the FA
Cup Semi Finals. The match I was watching was drifting towards an uneventful
close and so I walked home, considering the imminent arrival of the cricket
season. It
would soon be time for Dad and I to retrieve the practice net and matting wicket
from the outhouse. I was beginning to grow, to “fill out” and had the
potential to be a reasonable pace bowler. Dad was an opening batsman and never
backwards in coming forwards about his achievements and great “knocks”. It
spurred me to try to bowl even faster, of course. I had worried him with a few
deliveries at the end of last season. Maybe this year, I would really make him
jump around a bit. The
familiar smell of sausages frying met me as I opened the back door and went into
the kitchen. Mum was busy making up sausage sandwiches. “Have this one” she
said, passing me a plate, “Go in to the front room and take down the football
results.” I
struggled to find a pen and fold down the newspaper as the Semi Final and First
Division results cascaded into place on screen. Frantically, I tried to blot out
the honeyed tones of the announcer as I played “catch-up”. By the time the
Second Division results appeared, I could return to the comfort of his dictation
and keep my eyes fixed on the newspaper. Not
long into the Scottish League results, Granddad came into the room and I was
vaguely aware of the sound of our telephone ringing. I carried on filling in the
results, but I began to grow a little concerned that, if indeed, that was
the phone, then there was a good chance that it would be something to do with
Dad. The
TV began a report on one of the Semi-Finals. I passed the paper over to Granddad
so that he could check his pools coupon. “Bloody ‘opeless”, he huffed,
“…two draws,” he tore the coupon up, neatly into half then squares, as if
it made any difference and scattered the pieces into the made, but unlit fire. “Was
that the phone?” I asked. “The
Telephone? Yes, I think it was.” The
butterflies began to quiver. “You
going to eat that sandwich?” asked Granddad. “No
yet” I replied, a little irritated. The
butterflies took flight. About
two minutes later, Mum came into the front room looking pale and wan.
Immediately, I knew what had happened, but had no idea of what was to come.
My sister followed Mum, she was crying. I braced myself.
“He’s had a bad fall”, Mum declared falteringly. Silence. “Where
is he?” asked Granddad. “
Intensive Care, Gwent Royal Hospital”, Mum whispered, struggling to maintain
her composure. My heart sank once again. We
had frequently, over the previous couple of years, had to arrange the collection
of Dad from various Casualty
departments, and his cars from racecourses. Had this been another dislocation or
concussion, I think it would have begun to test my patience by now, because I
could see what it did to Mum and the two girls particularly. But this was
different, this was serious. Mum
arranged for my Uncle Paul to take her to Chepstow immediately. “Let me come
with you.” I pleaded. “No love,” she said firmly. There was to be no
argument. I remember, at the time, being struck by Mum’s firmness, but on
reflection, this was Mum finding some inner strength, that would help her
through this crisis. “How
bad is it?” I asked. “I
don’t know”, she shook her head, “I really don’t know.” The
next three hours rank among the longest of my life. If there was anything good
about this situation, it was that the girls were not really old enough to
understand what was happening. Or maybe Mum hadn’t told them. They carried on
playing quietly, drawing pictures and building houses with playing cards.
Strangely, there was no hint of any argument or squabbling, not this evening.
Even if they didn’t know the severity of what had happened, they seemed to
sense that this would not be a good time to start a fight. Granddad,
as usual, did his best to help. He set about vacuuming, washing up, tidying the
rooms. Again, this surge of energy was probably his way of dealing with it. We
had not long lost my Grandmother at this time and he would always be busy with
something, he had devoted his life to Gran and this, I guess, was the way that
he filled the hole. I
had to talk to an adult, though. I helped him with the dishes. “I
knew this’d ‘appen on day”, he grumbled, “Daft bugger.” I
looked at him. After a minute or so, he continued. “It’s
your mother I feel sorry for; we’ve only just lost your Gran and now this;
it’ll break her heart.” I would often reflect upon those words. Granddad
went on. “Stupid
bugger.” He mumbled. This
wasn’t helping. I remarked that it sounded as if Dad only had himself to
blame, which I thought pretty harsh, when we didn’t even know how severely he
had been hurt, indeed, whether he would survive. “He’s a good jockey, but he rides so much bloody rubbish!” replied Granddad. How very true, how very prophetic those words were to prove.
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If you would like to contact Richie, please email him at: richie@baylands.fsnet.co.uk
© Copyright Richie Phillips. No unauthorised reproduction allowed. |
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