Not Enough Time

by Henrietta Knight

  Later in the spring of 1994, Terry came home one night from work and told me he had a surprise for me. He had decided to give up his job with Terry Court and turn his attention to helping me full-time. The daily travelling to the offices in Hereford had become unbearably monotonous. The Honda was painfully slow and the gearbox was old and well worn. Terry had wanted to be part of my set-up for several months and I was thrilled with the news. At last, he could settle down and relax with a new challenge.

  *

  When Terry started living full-time at West Lockinge Farm, my training timetable altered. He was hands-on twenty-four hours a day. We often stayed awake and talked long into the nights, discussing the horses as well as the many problems Terry had encountered in the earlier years of his life. I was gradually getting to know and understand him better and better. April 1994 marked the beginning of our successful partnership and we both took on a new lease of life. In previous years, I had constantly worried about my training methods and had often wondered whether I was on the right lines. Now there were the two of us and I could share everything with Terry. His wisdom with horses and racing knowledge were invaluable.

  We had an extraordinary understanding from the very beginning, even though we argued constantly over minor issues, because Terry loved to be different. We were both strong characters and had our own views. However, these disagreements were mostly harmless and of a friendly nature. People found them amusing and laughed at our differences of opinion. We never had any fierce rows, even though both of us were stubborn and decidedly set in our ways. Once or twice, Terry threatened to leave me over some stupid little issue, but I used to laugh at him and that annoyed him more than anything. He never had an answer when I asked him where he would go if he left the farm.

  On one occasion, he strongly disapproved of the sandwiches I made up for the staff when they went racing. Ever since my point-to-pointing days, I had always enjoyed making picnics, but Terry now told me that this was a waste of money. He was right. On another occasion, however, he frightened me. During my early training years, when I was on my own, I had kept up my strength and held my nerve by consuming a bottle of white wine every day. Of course, by the time Terry came to Lockinge, he had dried out and was teetotal. But I was still enjoying the wine. Now he put his foot down and said, ‘It’s either the bottle or me.’ I suppose it had been rather selfish of me to continually drink in his presence and so I took the decision to give up. In fact, I refrained from drinking anything alcoholic for many years. Terry’s tirades may have been harmless, but I respected his views. I hated upsetting him. I never wanted to sever our extraordinary bond.

  It had certainly been a celebration day for me when Terry had agreed to assist me in my training operation, but to begin with, it was not always easy to integrate him with the staff. I employed around sixteen people at that time and there was a good atmosphere, but Terry was outrageously outspoken on the yard. My employees gradually accepted him, but it took a while for them to understand his ‘special language’. His swear words and his own personal vocabulary needed to be heard to be believed, yet he never consciously meant to hurt people; the cursings and swearings were just part of him. I have always been broad-minded and consider myself unshockable, but there were days when even I was left speechless. If Terry liked a member of staff or a jockey, that person was invariably referred to as a ‘cunt’. For him, it was a form of endearment and he used this word with great frequency. Everybody got bollockings and I remember lecturing him – in schoolmistress fashion – to go easy on those around him.

  On one occasion, in the autumn of 1994, he totally overstepped the mark. The morning had gone well and the horses looked great when I set off for Didcot station en route to London to see my dentist, Alan Ross, in Sloane Street. I was to have a tooth taken out. I left Terry in charge of the yard and told him to supervise evening stables. I travelled back on the train at around 6 p.m., with a throbbing mouth and a handful of painkillers, only to be met at home by my beloved, who proudly told me that, in my absence, he had sacked everybody. He had decided that they were cutting corners and leaving work earlier than usual.

  ‘There’s been a mutiny in the yard,’ he said. ‘When I told some of the staff to sharpen up and stop taking shortcuts, they answered me back, so I told them to fuck off.’

  Of course, I was extremely angry and I did not speak to Terry for the rest of that night. Over the years, I had built up a really good core of loyal workers and we got on extremely well. My staff were my friends and respected me – even though they might not always have agreed with me. On the morning after Terry’s tirade everything was total pandemonium. I remember saying to him, ‘You just cannot talk to people like that. Treat the staff like you’d like to be treated yourself. Have consideration for them. After all, they are only working for us because they enjoy it and love the horses. If you upset them, of course they will leave us.’

  Fortunately, once I had repaired the rift, most of the lads and lasses returned to work and they gradually came to realise that Terry’s bark was far worse than his bite. There continued to be plenty of banter but they started to accept him and he had many heart-to-heart talks with them, especially at the end of a morning. I was touched by the number of ex-employees who came to his funeral and memorial service. They had learned to treat him as an equal and confided in him. In return he constantly gave them advice. They said exactly what they liked to his face and put up with the string of four-letter words he invariably unleashed in response. Those still on the yard today continue to miss him. He was a proper friend to them.

  Several of these longstanding members of staff now tell me that you had to know Terry to understand him. Apparently he often frightened the young lads, who could not believe he had been a three-time champion jockey. He would say what he wanted to them, but seldom remembered their names. He was a very good judge of character, however, and although his language was strong, he never offended those around him once they accepted his ways. He was always fair and happy to talk to them about their problems.

  At one point, we had a lovely girl working for us called Katie Clark. She was skinny and Terry christened her ‘Twiggy’. While with us, Katie was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma – a form of cancer – and she had to undergo serious hospital treatments. Her bravery was astonishing. She says she will always remember Terry saying to her, ‘Keep smiling, Twig,’ because this is something he always did. Katie says that his smile could light up any room. It is great that she is well again now. In 2008 we nominated her for The Godolphin Stud and Stable Staff Awards and she won the category for ‘Special Merit/Hero’.

  Interviewing new staff, however, was frequently a nightmare for me. Terry always wanted to be present but there were times when I cringed at the questions he asked.

  One of my former employees, Victoria Patten, told me, ‘I will never forget the first time that I met Terry. I had come to West Lockinge for an interview. I was sitting in your conservatory with you, when he strode in, wearing very short shorts, wellies and his green Husky waistcoat. He proceeded to stick both his hands down your shirt while asking me why I wanted the job. I think he was trying to see whether I was shockable – fortunately I managed to give him suitable answers and it was the start of some extremely happy years. The saddest thing is that I don’t think that they make people like Terry any more. I wish they did! He was truly one in a million and I will never forget him.’

  How fortunate that Terry did not conduct the whole interview that day! I used to dread it when he wanted to be in charge. He had the same questions for all potential new staff: how old are you? Do you drink? Are you on drugs, and do you like sex? I used to tell him that he must not be so personal but he always laughed and said, ‘I’ll say what I want.’ He certainly did. And he usually got away with it, although he probably infringed many rules.

  The layout in the farmhouse changed when Terry moved in. I knew he was untidy, so I started off by giving him his own bedroom/dressing room and bathroom. I
thought he’d like his own space. He didn’t have many clothes but we gradually added to his wardrobe.

  He loathed shopping and it was extremely difficult to get him to try on clothes or shoes in a shop. There were many times when I got out the tape measure and then sent his measurements off with mail-orders. It was a challenge, yet apparently when he was riding and in the public eye, he took great pride in his appearance. He loved dressing up in those days. He told me that jockeys should always look smart and wear ties. Indeed, in the 1970s, Terry had even done some modelling, in particular for DAKS, and he had much enjoyed his time on the catwalk among what he called ‘the flashy birds’. Apparently he once forgot the format, went the wrong way and collided with all the female models head on. I can well picture the occasion. He must have been in his element.

  At Lockinge, my own bedroom had to undergo massive changes when Terry arrived. He only slept in his dressing room for a few nights before he became lonely and moved in with me – a bit like a puppy you leave to sleep in the kitchen, but when it starts barking, you take pity on it and bring it upstairs to shut it up. My comfortable old bed was no longer comfortable with the two of us in it and the springs soon gave out, so it was replaced by a new king-sized bed, which served us well for twenty years.

  It is a very peaceful room and looks out onto the garden. It is spacious and airy with the window always kept open, even in the winter. Nevertheless, some strange things did happen during the years that Terry shared it with me. Firstly, there were often disturbances on the other side of the house, in the farmyard, involving the ducks and the bantams. We were constantly invaded by foxes, which would kill at random and pluck sitting poultry off their nests. It used to upset Terry hugely, because our feathered friends were part of the furniture on our Old MacDonald’s farm. We both loved them.

  On most nights Terry would get up to have a pee. He only had one kidney and lived on diuretics. His own bathroom overlooked the brightly lit duck pond and on several occasions in the middle of the night he noticed foxes prowling around the pond perimeter. The geese and ducks swam around in the middle but there was always a lot of noise and commotion. He decided that the only way to solve the problem was to shoot the foxes, so he kept his twelve-bore shotgun beside the bed, ready to dispose of the invaders. I got used to Terry having his gun in the bedroom but it was rather unnerving to begin with. I well remember that on one summer’s night, a fox was spied and a naked Terry – he never wore any clothes at night except in the coldest months of the winter – crept downstairs. He shot the intruder stone dead, but as I looked out of the bathroom window, I wondered what on earth the police would say if they had seen a naked man prowling around the farm at 3 a.m. with a shotgun.

  *

  Terry removed several foxes over the years at West Lockinge Farm, yet the Old Berkshire Hunt still visited us each spring. We supported the hunt but although the hounds penetrated the woods adjoining the farm and did find further foxes there, they seldom killed any. On one occasion, Terry had great delight in showing one of his prize quarries to John Francome and a Channel 4 film crew. They had come to film our superstar horse, Best Mate. Terry laid out his fox on the steps beside the feed room, for all to see. He was very pleased with himself – but it was not a pretty sight. The horses shied at it and the dogs kept sniffing it.

  A few years later, when I had the honour to train for the Queen, both Terry and I spent a most enjoyable morning at Windsor Castle. We were invited to have morning coffee with Her Majesty after seeing the horses in the mews. Terry Pendry, who was in charge of the Queen’s horses at Windsor, took us to the castle. My Terry remarked to the Queen that a couple of her dogs looked like foxes – and to my horror, proceeded to tell her about his nude night-time antics with his gun. I was most embarrassed, but she is a lovely person and has a great sense of humour. She seemed amused, even though somewhat surprised.

  Our nights were usually uneventful. Terry was a good sleeper. Once he had finished watching yet another western on the television – I frequently told him that he was wasting his time, because the goodies always win and the baddies lose – only his snoring could be heard. However, on one hot summer’s evening as I lay dozing, I heard a strange scratching noise. What on earth could it be? A rat in the attic, or birds, or mice? It was too loud for mice and what would birds be doing in total darkness? I’ve always had a horror of rats and immediately woke Terry. We both lay there listening. It was a peculiar scuffling noise and I shuddered, lest it was a rat. After what seemed like an age, Terry calmly said, ‘It’s a hedgehog. It’s just run across the floor.’

  I thought he’d lost his marbles and told him not to be so stupid, but he insisted that in the light of the window he’d seen a hedgehog, so I turned on the bedside lamp and behold: behind the armchair, there were further rustlings. I gingerly pulled the chair forward and was confronted by a confused Mrs Tiggywinkle. I’m not the bravest in this sort of situation and I got no help from the other side of the bed. All Terry said was, ‘Pick it up and take it into the garden.’

  It’s all very well, in the middle of the night, to pick up a prickly animal in one’s bedroom and I was shaking. I put on a pair of gloves from the chest of drawers, and grabbed a towel from the bathroom. I covered the surprised animal with this and whisked it off down the stairs and onto the lawn. Terry told me that I was being ridiculously over-reactive, but I kept thinking about fleas – hedgehogs are supposed to be alive with them. I prayed they had not hopped into our bed. I scratched for days afterwards, mainly through shock and the fear that fleas had got under the duvet. How on earth the hedgehog managed to get upstairs remains a mystery. The only way it could have made it to our bedroom would have been by climbing the staircase. It must have entered the house via the open French windows. It gave me a real fright, although Terry remained calm and unconcerned.

  Two months later, we had a visit from a second hedgehog. This time, it was scuffling in the newspapers beside my bed. It got the same treatment as hedgehog number one. Since then no hedgehogs have been sighted in the garden or around the farm. It’s sad, as they are lovely animals and getting close to extinction in some parts of the country.

  *

  If ever the tack room alarm went off in the middle of the night – which it did about three times during my years with Terry – who was it who had to go downstairs, put on Wellingtons, a dressing gown and brandish a torch? Me, of course. Terry never moved, but just ordered me to go outside to investigate. I didn’t even have his shotgun to take with me. His laziness on these occasions really annoyed me, but his excuse was that he didn’t understand the alarm system. Too bad if there had been a burglar lurking. I told Terry that his behaviour was typical of men. He should be protecting me, not ordering me outside into a potential danger zone.

  I was forever telling him that men cannot survive without women – in fact, Terry couldn’t even change a light bulb or replace the fuse in a plug. He always left these tasks to me, and if the television blacked out, he was totally lost. Sometimes, I’d be at the races and he’d ring me to say that he couldn’t change channels. Which knob should he press? How could I possibly help him from fifty or a hundred miles away?

  *

  While Terry was settling himself in at his new home and adapting to a different lifestyle, it pleased me enormously that he had such an excellent rapport with my mother. She had been living alone at Lockinge Manor since my father’s death in the autumn of 1993. It must have been a huge surprise for her when Terry and I joined up, but she never showed it and from day one she accepted him. She seemed proud to have him in the village. In return, Terry loved her; he called her a ‘proper lady’. He did countless jobs for Mum, especially with her Connemara ponies – he always seemed to be mending fences and sheds, or dragging hay bales around to her fields in the winter months.

  On many occasions, we had supper at the manor in Mum’s lovely kitchen. She was a brilliant cook and taught me all that I now know (I love cooking; it is one of my favourite hobb
ies). A well-prepared dinner was most welcome, especially after a long and tiring day at the races.

  Terry and Mum also shared many jokes and enjoyed a banter, usually about the ponies and the fences they had broken. Mum had a great sense of humour. Once she complained that she could not drive her car into a certain field to feed her ponies, because a strange man always parked in the gateway. Terry immediately said that the man was probably having a wank. Mum was highly amused by this and that particular parking place, just off the side road to Wantage, has been called ‘Wanker’s Gateway’ ever since.

  In December 1996, we celebrated my fiftieth birthday with a most enjoyable lunch at The Savoy Hotel in London. It was hosted by my sister and brother-in-law. Mum came with us. Several close friends were invited, including Hector and Pam Brown, with whom we later shared a holiday in Ireland, and who kept several good racehorses in the yard. Hector remembers Terry’s kindly reactions when one of the guests – my nephew William – felt decidedly off-colour. ‘Quick as a flash,’ he recalls, ‘Terry whisked the young man off to his room. He returned ten minutes later to tell us that, unfortunately, the sufferer had not quite made it, so he had stuffed his head into a potted plant en route and now everything in the garden was rosy.’

  Terry would get away with anything.

  *

  He adored animals and the countryside. He had, of course, a great gift with horses. He was firm, but surprisingly gentle. My dogs loved him too. To begin with I had Labradors, but later on I switched over to golden retrievers because Terry preferred this breed. He had owned a wonderful dog in the 1980s called Digby, who went with him to Australia, but he was forced to leave Digby there when he returned to the UK, on account of his age. He always wanted another retriever with the same bloodlines and the two dogs that later entered our lives at Lockinge – Elsa and Tiger – were Digby’s relations. They proved wonderful companions to both of us and were highly intelligent.