Making Allowances

Chapter 16 Part 2

After a quiet and pleasant Christmas, came several very testing, often frustrating months, for a number of reasons. From a racing point of view, our plans suffered a setback when several days of heavy frost caused the New Year meeting at Cheltenham to be abandoned. I’d had to disclose my plans to Dennis in time to declare Loch Naver Lad in the four-miler, and Dennis was less than receptive to the idea at first, but eventually he accepted the Dupre philosophy that, on some occasions, there were other, often more important things than winning.

We decided that we would not wait too long before giving Lad another run, and entered him in a two and a half miler at Haydock Park. I was minutes from setting off on the Saturday morning when Ellie burst into the lounge and told me that her waters had broken and the baby was starting to come.

“But it’s not supposed to come for another two weeks!”

“Well, I can’t tell it to come back in a fortnight!” she snapped, “it comes when it’s ready to come, and it’s on its way now!”

“S**t!” was all I could say.

Somehow, I managed to pack her a bag, phone Dennis, call the hospital, call Dad, swap over cars, deliver the Badges, inform Ellie’s parents, and drive to the hospital on a busy Saturday morning, within an hour.

Ellie’s labour was, as expected with a first child, a slow, emotional roller-coaster of an experience. I did manage to watch Lad’s run on a portable TV in the labour ward, but it did not seem important in the context of my surroundings. It was almost as if Lad still belonged to the Dupres.

Ellie asked if I could prop her up to see the race. It must have looked very comical, particularly as it seemed that midwife and nurses didn’t really appreciate what I was trying to tell them:

“That’s my horse,” I proudly announced to the midwife, as she checked the equipment.

“That’s nice love..” she replied without looking up, “..how much have you got on him?”

Lad gave a good account of himself again, jumping well and staying in touch with the main contenders, but not showing the same turn of foot as the winner, when asked the big question from two out. He finished second, and I felt happy in the knowledge that Dad would be there in the Unsaddling Enclosure, and picking up one of the prizes.

It was another seven hours before Ellie, by now completely exhausted, finally brought a baby boy into the world. In spite of all the joy we had experienced in the last few months, nothing could compare to this. Holding this precious little person in my arms and peering down at his tiny features, it was impossible for me to stop the sting of tears filling my eyes. This was the real future. This was the reality that transcended the boundaries of hope and dreams. I thought, for just a moment, about all of the days to come; he would look to me for advice, for guidance, to protect him, to love him and to care for him. I thought of my own father, how he once must have held me in the same way. Did he have the same thoughts? Did he still feel the same way, all these years later?

I had not, on that blissful evening, considered that my new son and I would perhaps, at some future date, find some grounds for disapproval, argument, or discord. It would however, not be long before I would, again, be experiencing such feelings with Dad.

The point-to-point season was due to start in early February, and I was soon to discover that Dad had lined up several rides. Before long, we were back to the Saturday afternoons of old; nervous mornings, tense afternoons, relieved evenings. But he was still riding the same old horses, and failing to finish more often than not. I felt somewhat divided. I had hoped that a taste of the racing game as an owner would have coaxed him away from the participation, but instead, it seemed to fuel his desire to carry on riding, and whilst I had experienced “Something Wonderful”, it was clear that Dad was still searching for his.

The flash point came in early March, it was the day before my brother Tim’s birthday. As a present, I had paid for two Day Memberships at The Belfry golf course in Birmingham, on the Brabazon course. With Tim not yet able to drive, the idea was for him to take Dad, and for Dad to drive them both there. I thought that, apart from getting Tim something special to remember (after all, the prize money now allowed me to do this type of thing), it might help give Dad something new to focus upon. Perhaps it might help to steer Dad away from racing, and the seemingly unavoidable harm it would eventually do him.

Tim called me on the Friday night, and said that he looking forward to the Sunday, but was a little concerned that Dad had a ride at a local point-to-point on the Saturday. Tim, it seemed, had been born to worry, perhaps we had conditioned him in his adolescent years, with our tales of Dad’s adventures and accidents, and I felt sorry for him, as the youngest member of the family. I agreed to accompany him to the meeting, as it would certainly be preferable to enduring a long afternoon’s wait at home.

I tried to reassure Tim, as we made our way there.

“You can have accidents crossing the road,” I pointed out, “even here in the car”.

“Yeah, but Dad seems to make a hobby out of it,” Tim replied, and we both laughed.

“The thing is, I suppose”, he went on, “he’s happy, and I guess that he’s still living a full life for someone at his age”.

“Maybe it’s just his way of dealing with getting old.” I mused, “although there are less extreme ways to do it.”

“I can’t see him taking up watercolour painting,” Tim joked nervously, “ I suppose, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone, it’s OK.”

At least on this occasion, we would not have to wait long to see him in action. The Adjacent Hunts’ Race was the second on the card. We made our way to the Jockeys’ Tent as the runners embarked from the Paddock for the opening race. It wasn’t long before Dad appeared with a small group of people in shooting jackets and tweeds. I recognised them from the hunting fraternity; landowners, horse owners, hunters, talking in slow, deep, loud tone, rambling and warbling, enjoying the sounds of their own voices.

Dad, ever the gentleman, addressed them with an almost over-bearing politeness, even his own speech appeared to be affected by their presence. Noticing that Tim and I were in the vicinity, he beckoned us over to him.

“These are my two boys” he introduced us. Tim shook hands with several of them, but I remained at a few paces away and just nodded my head with a polite “good afternoon” .

“So,” began one, “you are the new owner of Loch Naver Lad.”

“That’s right,” I replied.

“He’s a bit past his best now,” said another, “a bit like your father.”

Loud laughter now, with even Dad joining in. I might have been disappointed that these gentlemen couldn’t find anything more entertaining or enlightening to say, but I knew better. I knew the true gentlemen, I knew the point-to-point stalwarts; these men were neither.

“I never realised you had a ‘best’!” another chided, turning to Dad. Loud laughter followed again.

“You ought to have them both stuffed”, said another, followed by further general booms of laughter. “Or shot, perhaps.”

I couldn’t stand it any longer, I couldn’t help myself.

“Thanks for the advice, gentlemen. It’s such a pleasure to be introduced to such a celebrated group of jockeys,” I began.

“Such experts. You must have won hundreds of races between you.”

Silence now; but I wasn’t finished yet.

“No, I didn’t think so. Born into a few bob off others’ backs, jumped a few small hedges out hunting, and now you think you know it all. This man..” I pointed to Dad,..”this man, is twice the man any of you will ever be. He rode all your rubbish. He sold us all up the river to ride your spooky nags and your schizoid geldings, he put his life on the line for the likes of you, and this is how you repay him, treating him as an object of fun. You make me sick.”

“Did you all have a good laugh when he broke his back at Chepstow and couldn’t walk for months? You must have wet yourselves.”

Embarrassed silence. 

“It’s you lot who should get “stuffed”. Go back to your picnics and sit on top of your new four wheel drives,” I suggested, as they mooched away, “only mind that you don’t fall off, the ground can be pretty hard this time of year.”

Tim looked at the floor as the quartet mumbled away uttering curses under their breath. Dad stood squarely in my face.

“What was all that about?”, he asked angrily.

“That,” I said proudly, “was the truth. If you are too polite to say it, I’m not. You don’t have to put up with any of those people”

“When I want your help, I’ll ask for it!” he snapped.

“Whatever,” I mumbled dismissively and turned away.

“Hey!” he called and strode up to me.

“You want to watch that temper. You ought to concentrate on your job,” he murmured, shoving a handkerchief into my palm.

“What’s this,” I asked, “your false teeth?” remembering an incident from years ago.

“No,” he replied, remembering the same incident, “your inheritance!”

With a chuckle, he was gone.

To be continued...................

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.