Making Allowances

Chapter 10, Part 1

Vendredi only ran once that first season. From a selfish point of view, I was secretly pleased about this because I was studying for my finals and whilst I very much wanted to witness the evolution of my family’s own racehorse, I really needed as few distractions as possible. 

Nevertheless, I decided to take a long weekend in early April; the exams were still two months away at this point, which eased the guilty feelings a little. And anyhow, I thought, Dad’s ethos of “all work and no play” had always worked in the past.

Vendredi was due to run at Wolverhampton on the Monday, but I would have probably gone home that weekend in any case, because it promised to be an excellent sporting weekend. There were two FA Cup Semi Finals for starters, both to be televised, one of them live on a Sunday, for what probably was the first time. There was also an eighteenth birthday party on the Friday night for a friend of my sister Clare, where I would get the chance to play the “student big brother bit”.

Best of all though, was the Grand National on Saturday. It was a great family day. We would buy about six papers in the morning and spend a leisurely breakfast time looking at the colour supplements, picking out our horses, before someone popped up to the betting shop to lay the bets. Then it was in the local for a swift pint, then back for lunch and settle down to watch the coverage on TV.

This year, however, it was an occasion tinged with sadness. Granddad was always such a big part of the day, it felt strange not having him there, almost unsteadying, like driving with a puncture. Our luck in the race had not been good, no one in the house had picked the winner in five years.

“Lets see if we can win this one, for Granddad”, said Mum.

I took the bets up to the betting shop and sat in one of the town pubs with a couple of older men from the town. It was pleasant enough, but I felt a little out of place without Granddad. I drank up and moved on, literally and metaphorically. By the time of the next National, that pub had closed down, I never drank in there again; it did not seem appropriate without Granddad. I turned around in the doorway as I left, as if something was telling me it would be the last time. I looked into our old corner and could have sworn, just for a moment, that I saw an old man in a flat cap and greatcoat sitting with his paper, his pint of Guinness and his bag of toffees, winking at me.

Fittingly, that year we broke our five-year duck, and Mum picked out the winner, no mean feat at 25-1.

I should have known, by my lack of success with the females on the Friday night, that it was going to be one of those weekends. I managed to miss Match of the Day on the Saturday night because some old family friends came round unexpectedly and stayed till past midnight. Mum would always turn the TV off when we had visitors and it was a filthy night which prohibited any travel. Then on Sunday, Dad went off to one of the Uncle’s houses and was not back in time to take Jenny, the younger of my two sisters to a party in a nearby town. Yours truly, the only other driver available, had to do the honours; in this way, the second semi-final was also missed.

We left in plenty of time on the Monday to watch Vendredi’s debut. Dad had declined the offer of Paddock Badges on that day, for some reason. Perhaps, he thought, he would try and take over the occasion, so full of enthusiasm and ideas. But also, he wanted to ensure that his father took centre stage, on his first time out as an owner, after sixty years as a punter.

Dad had already decided that he would watch the race from the Tattersall’s (Tatts) Enclosure, and when I said that I wanted to go as well, he seemed pleased of the company.

On the way to the races, however, we were dealt another bad card. In atrociously wet conditions a lorry jack-knifed on the M5, and several other cars shunted each other. On a busy Monday morning, with two lanes blocked, there was an inevitable tailback and long delay.

“B*****s”, cursed Dad after a while, “I think we’ve had it.”

It did not look good, as the minutes ticked by.

“I just hope our Dad made it,” he pondered.

Our hopes were raised after we passed the scene of the accident, as we made good time to the outskirts of Wolverhampton. We began to look at our watches, it was going to be touch and go. But then came another blow. We managed to take a wrong turning which meant an unnecessary detour, with every light seeming to work against us.

Finally reaching the course, we realised that we had missed the race by about ten minutes. Crestfallen, we looked at each other and sighed heavily.

“What d’you think?” I asked.

“Turn her round?” suggested Dad.

“Yeah”.

Without stopping the engine, we turned the car around and drove home. Little was said for the first quarter of an hour, until I pointed out that we might hear the result if we were to tune into the radio.

After another ten minutes or so, the news headlines were read, followed by the latest sports news. Sure enough, it was announced that the first racing results of the afternoon were in.

“Starting at Wolverhampton, the 12.30..”

“Here we go,” I announced, raising my hand as if to ask for hush.

“Number 3, Willow Wand, seven to two….11, Say Please, ten to one….2, Calling Cathy, evens favourite, 12 ran.”

“Oh well,” I mumbled,” at least we won’t need to kick ourselves.”

On the way home, conversation grew easier, the further away from the Midlands we drove. We talked about the summer, and my plans after university, what I’d like to do and what other options there were.

I remarked that it would be nice to have a job which involved sport in some way, and lamented the fact that I would probably never be good enough to be involved in any sport at a high level.

“Let’s indulge ourselves for a minute”, Dad said as we slowed to exit the Motorway about eight miles from home. “Assuming that you were good enough to do all of them, which of the following would you most like to do; play in a Test Match at Lords, play for England at Wembley, or ride in the Grand National?”

I thought about it, “Good question”, I answered almost critically.

“Hmmm”, I let my imagination run wild for a minute. This was a tough one to call. Of the three sports, I was probably the better footballer, although I enjoyed cricket more ; yet,  the prospect that thrilled me the most, was the thought of riding in the National. But this was not the answer I gave. I was always going to be the wrong size. I’d always been too big to be a jockey, too heavy, it never looked like happening, to suggest it was completely beyond the remotest possibility, so I decided against it.

“Play for England at Wembley” I answered. “Imagine the crowds, the atmosphere, the honour.” Dad smiled. “Or even play pro football, I’m not fussy!”

“What about you?” I asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“Ride in the National,” he enthused gleefully.

“What would you give, to do it?” I asked

“Everything!” he declared. “I was put on this Earth to do it.  God only saved me that day so that my wish could come true.” He smiled in a way that I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

“Do you still think you could do it?” I asked

“Course I do.” Dad insisted, “It’s the reason I survived, it’s what I was meant to do.” He laughed afterwards, but he spoke those words with such conviction, that I am sure he meant them.

Later that night, the youngest of my Uncles, Paul, came to the house with Grampy. They happily relayed the news that Vendredi had finished a very creditable sixth, in heavy going, and that Dennis had been very pleased.

Grampy looked resplendent in his sheepskin coat and trilby hat. He was like a child who had been to the seaside for the first time. There was no way we were going to be able to shut him up. Funnily enough though, his conversations were centred more around the spectacle itself than the race. My Uncle was telling us how the jockey, Dennis’s young  jockey Ryan Kellett, thought Vendredi would win a race very shortly. Grampy, however, was more interested in talking about what famous people he had seen, how he had picked two winners, and how he had seen a brand new Rolls Royce in the car park and how dear the whisky was. I didn’t know whether to be amused by it, or disappointed.

By the time Vendredi ran again, I had letters after my name, having obtained my honours degree. I had also landed a job with a marketing company in Bristol, which was a long-overdue slice of good luck, because I could live at home whilst I established myself. Of course, there were other benefits, chiefly a lack of background reading, civilised hours, paid days off and wages!

I decided that it would be nice, now that I was financially independent, to get used to the idea of being the treater, rather than the treated. With this in mind, and Dad having yet again declined the offer of Paddock Badges, I bought two Day Members’ Badges for the meeting, which was held at Windsor, on a bleak stormy Saturday in late October.

It had rained for most of the week, and the ground, invariably was heavy. Spectating in such weather could also be hard work; clothes became heavy and wet, binoculars misted up, feet grew unbearably cold and refreshments were expensive and their benefits only short-lived. I kept reminding myself that the drive home would be dark, wet and tortuous. Despite this, I did my best to entertain Dad. I plied him with whisky, introduced him to the Placepot and bought him the latest Timeform Guide, which contained a brief piece about Vendredi, which pleased him greatly.

We saw our entourage briefly before the race. Grampy was in good spirits, having had a couple of early winners, but my Uncles were less optimistic about our prospects. Dad agreed with them; she wouldn’t like the ground. We tentatively placed each way bets, out of a sense of loyalty as much as anything else, but did not expect any dividends.

The race itself was hard to follow, and after the first circuit I retired to the bar where there was a TV screen, luckily this race was the last race in the afternoon coverage. Vendredi had stayed out towards the back of the group on the first circuit and seemed, despite the heavy going, to be travelling well enough, but she disappeared from the group two flights out. Then, as the leaders turned the corner for home, I saw the forlorn duo of Vendredi and Ryan Kellett trotting across the rear of the picture, distinguishable only by the bright orange colours.

We made our way out towards the stables to receive the pair. We were first to arrive, apart from Dennis and one of his lads. Dennis shouted to Kellett as the lad ran up to lead the horse in.

“Is she OK Ryan?”

“I’m not sure,” the young jockey replied, “She wasn’t travelling too freely and I didn’t want to chance it.”

He turned to us, sensing our disappointment, “She will win soon, you know, I’m bloody sure of it.”

“She’s spread a plate,” announced Stuart.

Dennis tutted, “Aww bloody ‘ell.”

Chapter 10, Part 2

Synopsis

If you would like to contact Richie, please email him at: richie@baylands.fsnet.co.uk

© Copyright Richie Phillips. No unauthorised reproduction allowed.

Hosted by www.HorseData.co.uk. The web's equine information service.