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Making Allowances
Chapter 2, Part 2
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At seventeen, National Service beckoned. For Dad, now a fit and
hardy man, the billet must almost have seemed like Butlin’s after the rigours
of the two previous years. For once, he got lucky, posted to the Kings’ Troop,
Royal Horse Artillery, which meant that not only was he able to spend most of
his Army life out of uniform, but he had a chance to do what he did best, ride
and care for horses. As such, with the exception of standing-by during the Suez Crisis,
the young private enjoyed Army life. He especially enjoyed the big occasions,
The Royal Tournament, Trooping the Colour; pulling the gun carriages to the
“Musical Ride” in the smart black, red and gold battledress, the
Cossack-type uniform of the troop. He loved to see the crowds, he loved to feel
part of it. Yes, compared to most blokes of his age, the old boy enjoyed his
Army days. But he was no soldier, and was glad when his time was served and he
was able to get back on with his life and resume the chasing of his dreams. Things, however, had changed. The gaffer’s operation had scaled
down and the yard was beginning to wind up. The gaffer recommended him to a flat
trainer, who was prepared to take him on, but Dad was only really interested in
being a National Hunt jockey, and was sensible enough to work out that he would
have problems making the weight. Offers of work seemed to be few and far
between, it was just a case of waiting for something to come up. Sadly, he resigned himself to the long wait and returned to his
home town. He took a job as a labourer/driver for a local sawmill and threw
himself into his sport. By winter, he played football for the town side and
enjoyed a fruitful few years in which the humble amateurs reached the last
qualifying round of the FA Cup and he himself represented the County. Also, although he said hunting did not sit easily with him, he
began to hunt pointers and ride in point-to-points for a few local farmers.
There was little success; but, for some reason, that didn’t matter, he loved
it. In summer, he would play cricket; a battling grafter of a batsman
in those days, none of Bradman’s grace here, but an annoying prospect with his
dogged defence and his array of glances and deflections. Two more years passed in this way, then four, then five. Dad by now
was working in a more lucrative job, still labouring, but now for various Civil
Engineers who had been appointed to commission and build two power stations on
the Western Estuaries. Dad still saw the gaffer very occasionally, and through his
point-to-pointing, retained a number of local contacts in the racing game.
Still, he had to be content with the odd few rides for local farming friends and
acquaintances. He still harboured dreams of making the grade as a jockey and was
still extremely fit. Other things were happening at home, of course, all this
time, which probably did not help him to focus his energies in this direction.
He was playing football to a high standard, and enjoying the fact that the same
lads he was at school with were rampaging their way from title to title; they
were riding on the crest of a wave. He was still enjoying his cricket too. Most
importantly, though, he had met Mum and they were now engaged. The racing game is very cruel. Not only does it not respect
reputation but it has an unbelievably poor sense of timing. On two occasions,
Dad fell victim to this. The first time, a year or so after leaving the Army, a friend of
the gaffer’s had written to Dad about the possibility of going to see him with
regard to a vacancy for a first jockey at his thriving young yard. The gaffer
thought very highly of Dad, but like many of these things, we hear the things
that really matter to us too late to do us any good. Dad’s father had picked
the letter up from the doormat that morning, on his way into town and popped it
into his great coat. There it stayed for three months, until Dad’s mother, on
preparing to send the coat to the dry-cleaners, discovered the unopened, now
obsolete invitation. She did not speak to her husband for over a week. Dad was furious, and probably remained pretty fed up about it for
another thirty years. The second time, after an exhilarating ride to finish third in the
Open race at a local Point to Point, a well-known local trainer offered Dad a
position with his stable which could offer rides under rules, but he could not
afford to pay a great deal. He never got to discuss the matter with Mum; when he got home that
night Mum told him that fate had dealt him yet another tricky card. She was expecting me.
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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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