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Making Allowances
Chapter 9, Part 1
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The tide had to turn sometime,
although it did so in the most unusual way. We had suffered another year on the
knife-edge, nervous Saturday afternoons waiting for the early evening reprieve.
We expected no glory, and sure enough, none came. Dad had not even finished in the
frame during this time, although he’d had about ten rides. At times, he would
be positive about how certain horses had run, saying how they could have won, or
gone close. On other occasions, he would express frustration at their lack of
pedigree and hark back to how, in his younger days, things might have been very
different for him. The single thing this seemed to be saying was how he wished
he could have had just one ride, on one half-decent horse. That would, it
seemed, be “Something Wonderful”. Ironically, everything began to
change out of two moments of adversity. Firstly, Dad had an accident. Nothing
strange there, perhaps, but this was nothing to do with horses! This time, he
was clearing an icy pathway when he slipped and fell, breaking his wrist on the
arm he had thrust out to break his fall. As it was late January, the timing of
his injury and the length of recovery period meant that his point-to-point
season was over before it had started. We were secretly delighted at this
reprieve! He was philosophical about it,
saying that he was lucky to have got back to ride at any level, but vowing at
the same time that he would be back again for the next season. Barely a week later, came news that
his father’s brother had died. This Uncle had no children of his own, and his
wife had died many years before. The consequence was that a not unsubstantial
amount of money was left to his brother, and smaller amounts to be shared among
the nephews. Four of the brothers, my Dad included, decided to pool their share
and send my Uncle Ray’s filly into training, to run under rules. The plan was
to run it as a type of syndicate, but run the horse in the name of their father,
(my Grampy), who was well into his eighties by now, but still with all his
faculties, a great sense of fun and a real passion for horseracing. After much deliberation and many
phone calls, meetings and more phone calls, the “Boys” decided to put the
filly, who now had the racing name of Vendredi, into the stables of a trainer
named Dennis Eaves, at Wantage. Dennis Eaves was a Northerner, from
Burnley, Lancashire. His connection with our family was that he had also been an
apprentice at the Gaffer’s at Andoversford when Dad was there as a boy. On
hearing the name Dennis Eaves, one usually expected to hear, soon after, some
reference to him being ‘one of racing’s great characters’. I had always thought, at the time,
that ‘character’ was a bit of a cop-out word. It was the sort of word that
tried to disguise a multitude of sins, more often than not, it would be a word
to use as a pretence, to cover up a high-profile person’s ignorance,
arrogance, or pure bad behaviour. I had travelled to Wantage in the
capacity of Driver, being used to driving long distances. I was not looking
forward to the prospect of meeting ‘one of racing’s great characters’. I
expected a dour, phlegmatic, miserable old b*****d. For the first time, almost,
in my long involvement with the racing game, I was to be pleasantly surprised. I recognised him immediately as we
drove over the brow of the hill and into the driveway at the front of the big
farmhouse. Through the gate leading from the lane to the yard, I could see
Dennis Eaves, cutting a distinctive figure in his navy quilted bodywarmer, green
army jumper with elbow patches beneath, grubby sand-coloured cotton trousers and
sturdy jodhpur boots. His rosy face glowed in the cold morning sun, which caught
his coarse gingery hair, flecked with steely grey. His face was set in a semi-scowl as
he watched a horse being led around. I was just beginning to wish I hadn’t
come, as he turned to look at who was interrupting his concentration. But then,
his face lit up and broke into a craggy smile as he saw Dad. They met at the middle of the yard
and exchanged a warm handshake, a pat of the arm even! I was impressed. Here he
was, the trainer of last year’s Champion Hurdler, chatting and laughing with
my Dad like two schoolboys at a reunion. He then greeted my Uncle Ray with a
similar warmth and the trio walked back out towards the driveway in readiness to
meet Big H, who was bringing the filly in his horse box. Dennis walked over with
Dad and my Uncle to the car. “Who’s this then”, asked
Dennis, “your first jockey?” he laughed. It was obvious that I was
completely the wrong size and build. “That’s my boy,” Dad replied,
“loves racing, but prefers to be on
terra firma.” “Bright bloke,” grunted Dennis,
he shook my hand. “Pleased to meet you Mr Eaves,”
I faltered, formally. “It’s Dennis, lad, you’re all
right.” The trio stood for about ten minutes
in the driveway. There was a lot of animated discussion, lots of hand gestures,
several laughs. I didn’t know what they were talking about. Then, Big H
arrived with the horse box. Dennis called to one of his lads. “Stuart, get your arse out ‘ere
and see to this mare.” Dennis made his way back to the
stables, “I’ll make us all a brew.” As he passed me, he beckoned with a
withering finger, “Come wi’ me, lad, you can give us a hand.” I followed Dennis to what looked
like a loose box, at the end of a terrace of stables. When I walked through the
door, I was surprised to see a very modern, if untidy, kitchen-cum-mess room.
This was rather grander than Lit Club; this didn’t just have a fridge and a
kettle, it had an AGA cooker, microwave, toaster, a washing machine and a
radiator! Dennis lit up a cigarette, as I
boiled the kettle Didn’t fancy bein’ a jockey
then?” “Too big, and more’s the point,
too scared!” Dennis laughed, “too bloody bright
more like. Wise, very wise, lad. Get a bloody job with some some civilised hours
and a decent wage. This bloody game just breaks bones and ‘earts.” “But you’ve not done so
badly,” I remarked. A pause, I thought for a moment that
I might have upset or upstaged my host. “Aye, I were one of the lucky
buggers. At least I won a few good races and trained a few winners. More than
lots get to do. You know that, o’course, lad. Your old man must be a bloody
expert on unlucky.” We made the tea. I changed the
subject. I asked Dennis about Crepuscule, the Champion Hurdler, and when he was
likely to race next. Dennis replied that they had not intended to race the horse
too heavily, and that the preparation was with the sole intent of defending his
title. Dennis, I got the impression, would not suffer fools gladly. He made me
work for my little insight, asking me who I thought might be the big dangers in
this year’s campaign. Thank goodness I was ready, and was even able to impress
further on Dennis with a little nostalgia. “Poll’s Progress is running well
this season, and Overgrounder won on the flat against some good flat horses.
Reminded me a bit of Magical Mood.” “Mmmm”, Dennis pondered, who had
trained Magical Mood, “you know why?” I did not. “Same Dam,” he revealed. I felt disappointed that I didn’t
know; a true turf follower would have, I was sure. But Dennis was generous. “Bit of a punter, this lad,”
Dennis said to Dad as he brought out the tea, cocking his head in my general
direction. “Magical Mood, he’s telling me about. Did you read him the
Sporting Life at bedtime?” I was beginning to like Dennis
Eaves. Dad, Dennis and Uncle Ray rallied
around to make sure that Vendredi was settled in. The Head Lad, Stuart Mimms,
asked Dad and my Uncle if they would like to take a drive up to the all-weather
gallop. Like two excited little tots at a party, they were off like a shot. I
smiled as the jeep set off. Clearly they had forgotten about me! I was about to set off back to the
car for a read of the paper, when Dennis appeared from the kitchen door of the
farmhouse. He had seen what happened, and was laughing. I smiled and shrugged my
shoulders. I was about to set off again, when Dennis called out to me. “Hang on lad, come inside a
minute, I’ve got something to show you.” I followed Dennis into the large
kitchen. He had cleared a space on the giant table, making a sprawling heap of a
few newspapers, several crumb strewn plates, a sock, a bridle, half a dozen
pens, a cheque book and about a pounds worth of small change. A large, tatty hard-backed book lay
on the table. A couple of dog-eared black and white photos poked out of its
leaves. Dennis thumbed the pages furtively, located the appropriate page and
turned the book towards me. The photograph showed two young men
standing on either side of a large dark horse with a white blaze. I recognised
the two young men instantly. “Who are those two scallywags
then?” asked Dennis. “Well, that’s my Dad, and I
think that other chap looks a lot like you!” “That’s right”, confirmed
Dennis, “but what about that horse then?” I shook my head, “no idea”. “That,” said Dennis, “is
Sidewinder”. “Sidewinder”, I suddenly
clicked, “won a Gold Cup, didn’t he?” “That’s right lad.” Dennis drew up a seat and motioned
me to do the same. “Let me tell you about this
picture, and Sidewinder.”
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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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