Not Enough Time

by Henrietta Knight

  As luck would have it I was often ultra-busy with the racehorses on the days Terry was invited to go shooting and, as a trainer, my prime duty was to watch the horses working at home, or travel to saddle them at the races. I had plenty of excuses, but I know Terry missed my company. On one of his rare entries in the game register book I gave him one Christmas, he wrote, ‘A great day with Sam Vestey. The birds flew like rockets. Shooting was very good – a bit too good for me at times. I missed HEN – nobody to play with.’ I don’t quite know what he expected to do with me on a serious shooting day, but on reading this entry I do feel somewhat guilty that I was not by his side more often.

  Sam Vestey vividly remembers the days Terry shot with him and has an amusing anecdote: ‘When my sister-in-law, Henrietta, began sharing her life with Terry in 1994, he became a regular each year on our Yorkshire grouse moor, or shooting here at Stowell Park with me and my boys. Terry was a fair shot and always the life and soul of the party. I think he enjoyed the lunches most and always shot decidedly better in the afternoon. As the years progressed he enjoyed a glass or two of claret and broke away from his teetotal existence.

  ‘One particular incident in Yorkshire I shall never forget. We always stayed in a neighbouring hotel/pub up there. Terry enjoyed it as much as any of us. On this occasion, after a long day on the moor, we had an equally tiring dinner. Everyone fell into bed. But at 2 a.m. the fire alarm in the Fawlty Towers lookalike started to go off, ringing with all its strength. It rang for what seemed like hours. Eventually, doors started to open out onto the communal landing; figures started to appear. The proprietor was not at hand to turn it off. Increasing noise welcomed Jimmy Lindley in his underpants; others were more decently clad. Then with a noise like a charging bull, Terry emerged from another room – in his birthday suit, brandishing his shooting socks and yelling, “I’ll fix the fucker! Leave it to me!” Which I must say he did, ramming his socks into the whole offending apparatus. He always was as good as his word, was our Terry.’

  *

  When I first linked up with Terry and he moved to West Lockinge Farm, he was invited to shoot by many of his old friends. They were thrilled to have him back in their midst. Later on, he had some mouth-watering new invitations from a number of my owners and from their friends. It was on a shoot with Ken McGeorge, from Vodafone, that he first met Tim Radford, who was later to become one of our best-ever friends. His lovely wife, Camilla, who tragically died from cancer in 2015, owned some good horses in our yard. Tim is a remarkable man. Both he and Terry seemed to enjoy each other’s company right from the beginning. They had many days shooting together either in Lincolnshire, where Tim lives, or on the grouse moors in Yorkshire. I habitually sent a loader with Terry when he travelled to these shoots. It always worried me that he didn’t have enough help, especially when his hands, wrists and shoulders gave him pain, and I hated him driving long distances on his own. I protected him as much as I could because he was ultra-precious to me.

  Dickie Tarran, who assisted us part-time on the farm, became a good friend and an excellent companion for Terry. He, too, enjoyed shooting and got on famously with ‘The Boss’ – which was extremely lucky, because Terry’s ways were somewhat unorthodox. Dickie used to tell me that some of his days away were utter revelations. At times, when Terry got tired and his aches became unbearable, he would take a break and hand over his gun to Dickie, much to the surprise of his hosts. It is not usual for a loader to take a part in the shooting and certainly never normal practice on a big organised shoot.

  Sending Terry off shooting, correctly dressed, was like sending a child to school in school uniform. On the night before a trip with Dickie, I used to spend considerable time putting out shooting clothes onto the bed in Terry’s dressing room. I liked him to look good. He was hopeless at choosing his shirts, ties and sweaters. His colour-coding was appalling. Dickie always dressed immaculately and looked extremely tidy in his plus-fours, shooting socks and well-polished shoes. My man had to keep up with him. I always insisted that Terry take his mobile phone with him. It was well known that he hated using it, but at least he had it with him. It was switched off during the drives but, in between times, I liked to keep in touch with the two sportsmen and check on their progress. I missed Terry and frequently wished that I had broken my rule and gone with him.

  When I asked Tim Radford for his memories of Terry on the Yorkshire grouse moors, he gave me two brilliant stories:

  ‘We were all having breakfast in the dining room of the Yorke Arms in Ramsgill, near Pately Bridge. The Yorke Arms is a glorious old village pub, in an idyllic position in the centre of the small picturesque village of Ramsgill. The problem with the pub is that it has become terribly smart and now boasts a Michelin star. That would be fine in itself, but the staff have become extremely stuck up and very snooty. Well – you can imagine – we were a party of nine men, all excited about the day ahead and going up onto the moor. We ordered our full English breakfast and when it eventually arrived, a couple of the guests asked if they could have some brown sauce. You would have thought that we had committed murder – the girl (who I remember as being very pretty but extremely snooty) turned round and refused our request, reminding us that we were staying at the Yorke Arms, which, in case we hadn’t noticed it, had a Michelin star. She turned her back on our table and walked back to the kitchen with her nose in the air – leaving us in stunned silence and disbelief – until Terry spoke up and said, “Well, I suppose a shag would be out of the question as well?” You could have heard a pin drop. The girl turned round and the table burst into laughter. The next person to arrive was the manager, who requested that we paid our bills and leave immediately! Terry’s timing was absolutely brilliant, but we never did get the brown sauce!

  ‘We eventually left the Yorke Arms – after much discussion with the management, as you can imagine – and we went up onto the moor. I had drawn peg number eight and was at the far end of the line, with only Terry to my right at peg number nine. I have often been at the end of the line on the first drive at Ramsgill and you can get some great shooting, as the grouse navigate the contours of the glorious hills. I told Terry to be on the lookout, as it was imperative to get the birds very quickly. As with most grouse drives, there was a thirty-minute or so wait before any birds appeared, and just when I was in conversation with my loader, I suddenly heard shooting to my right from Terry’s butt. I looked around to see Dickie – who had accompanied Terry on that trip to help with the driving and was loading for him that day – reloading his gun before shooting again at more grouse moving out in the flank further to his right. I thought to myself: Where the hell is Terry? I could not spot him anywhere until my own loader pointed at a figure, squatting down some 20 yards behind the butt. There he was, having a shit in the heather, with his breeches down by his ankles! I have never laughed so much in all my life and have dined out on that story for years! I will never forget that sight.’

  *

  Although he had divorced Bridget in 1976, Terry remained extremely fond of his ex-wife and her family. His former brother-in-law, Bill Tyrwitt Drake, runs the most wonderful shoot at Bereleigh near East Meon, Hampshire. Over the years he invited Terry to shoot many times and by all accounts there were some excellent days. The shooting cards are exceptional – beautifully designed and illustrated. I have kept them all. Bill told me that Terry actually shot at Bereleigh every year from 1966 to 1982, and then again from 1993 to 2008.

  ‘I presume he was self-taught but he had the ability to take a bird well out in front, which we all admired because most of us were much too slow. Just occasionally, this early shooting might have gone down as a touch greedy, because the bird could well have been heading for someone else. Luncheons were memorable because of his great enthusiasm and all those noises, which we well remember. He shot very straight and was a proper sportsman.’

  *

  Another of the shoots Terry loved was on the Bamford estate, at Wootton near Uttoxeter. It is here tha
t the famous JCBs are made and organic meat and vegetables are produced for Lady Bamford’s superlative farm shop at Daylesford, in Gloucestershire. Terry, plus his loader Dickie, were always flown by helicopter from Daylesford to Staffordshire. He adored his days with the Bamford family and told me that the pheasants were superb.

  Sir Anthony Bamford has told me that Terry always had them laughing with his naughty jokes. ‘He was so much fun. I always knew that we were going to have a good day’s shooting when Terry was around.’

  From the shooting cards I’ve kept, it appears that on 29 January 2005 the game total was 489 and on 11 November 2005 it was 445. No wonder Terry came back tired but beaming.

  He was particularly fond of Alice Bamford, who was an excellent shot herself. He loved her company. She was always great with Terry and looked after him for me. After he died, she wrote these lovely words: ‘I will always cherish my times with you and Terry. You were a truly incredible loving and funny couple. Sitting in your kitchen by the Aga, after being out on the morning gallops, was so much fun. I will always remember Terry’s teasing. His excitement and skill out shooting were special. I absolutely adored him, with his warmth and naughty humour. Always a huge hug, a dirty deep laugh and that wonderful glint in his eye, which I can see right now.’

  *

  Tim Curtis was one of our best owners during the training years, and he used to invite Terry to shoot with him at Buttermere, near Hungerford. His overriding memory of shooting with Terry was that he was an astonishing shot. ‘On the whole, he was shooting with people younger than himself, or with men who were generally known to be experts, but Terry usually outshone them during the course of the day. Underneath the jokes and the eff-ing and blinding, he took the shoots extremely seriously.’

  In 23 December 2004, an article in the Racing Post featured Terry Biddlecombe on shooting. Terry was quoted as saying, ‘When Tim Curtis’s horse, El Vaquero, won a novice chase at Taunton, the owner was out shooting, but he got very nervous when his horses ran and he missed every single bird. It would have been a lot better if I had been out shooting and Tim had gone to the races.’

  Terry was also invited as a guest to Simon Clarke’s shoot at Dunstall in Staffordshire. Simon is the son of Sir Stanley Clarke, who did so much for racing and owned many racecourses, including Uttoxeter. Simon recalls those days: ‘The key ingredient at a Dunstall Shoot is the people and the crack. Terry had that in spades and he kept us entertained with stories and jokes. One particular day comes to mind: when he was shooting here with Ginger McCain and Tom George. We discussed the excuses which trainers give to owners, like the race was “just too far” for him or the ground was unsuitable. The stories of racing and its people and the banter between Terry and Ginger were fabulous. We travel around our shoot in an old army ambulance, everybody crammed into the back. That day the old ambulance was rocking because we laughed so much and the only reason we came out was for air. It was one of the best days ever, with like-minded people enjoying good company and a good laugh.

  ‘Now Terry could shoot. He would try to shoot the pheasants early. If he left them late, he would swing his gun so fast that we were not sure that he could stop, and I noticed that his loader would stand behind to catch him if he overswung! Terry will be fondly remembered by the Dunstall Shoot especially when stories are told of shooting days gone by.’

  *

  Although Terry always preferred to take part in organised shoots, he did from time to time practise his skills by shooting at clays and was extremely proud of his nephew Christopher – Tony’s son – who is an ace clay-pigeon shot. Chris was World Junior Champion in 2001, as well as English Champion and the AAA English Open Sporting Champion in 2002. He has represented Great Britain in Europe and New Zealand.

  With the clay-pigeon trap at home there were several memorable occasions, in particular when Terry gave lessons to jockeys before a charity clay pigeon competition at Goodwood Racecourse in 1996. Adrian Maguire, Johnny Kavanagh and Jim Culloty were among his pupils. There is a high bank up the farm lane and Terry fired the clays. Adrian had never shot anything before, but proved to be a complete natural. On that day at Goodwood, Terry shot in Josh Gifford’s team, together with Nicky Henderson and Guy Harwood. Guy had always been a great friend. Both he and Terry had been together on several pheasant shoots in the past and when Guy was training racehorses, Terry had ridden winners for him. On that occasion at Goodwood, I accompanied Terry to the shoot. It was tremendous fun, but the jockeys beat the veterans. It was a pity that Christopher was too young, in those days, to join Terry’s team.

  Apart from shooting, Terry often drove with me to the horse shows when I was judging. I attended many each year, right from the day that I met Terry in 1993. The outings were usually during the summer months, and Terry would sit beside the rings, making comments to people around him who had no idea that he was my other half. ‘If I was judging, I certainly wouldn’t have put that horse first. Who is this judge?’ He loved the shows, especially the big county ones, and we had some excellent days out.

  Terry also enjoyed Hickstead, home of the late Douglas Bunn, one of his greatest friends. When I first judged there, Douglas was still going strong and both he and Terry had plenty of reminiscences. It was always a privilege to have lunch in Douglas’s box. Sadly, after he died, the shows there did not have the same draw for Terry, although Roger Stack – another of his great friends – was still in charge of the hunter rings.

  Hickstead was the last British show Terry attended. It was The Royal International Horse Show in 2013. By then his health had deteriorated drastically and he was in a wheelchair, but he spent the afternoon in a box overlooking the main ring. On that day I judged the final of the retrained racehorses and Terry watched the whole class. He really enjoyed himself and was still able to criticise my judging.

  *

  On the many days I judged hunter classes, Terry met up with a number of his old friends: in particular, Robert Oliver, whose stables in Gloucestershire border Tony Biddlecombe’s farm. Robert is a renowned showman and a well-known judge of a horse. He had some good times with Terry during his racing days. Apparently, in the 1970s, Terry went to Harewood End in Herefordshire to try a horse for a client who was a racehorse owner. ‘He was immaculately turned out in jodhpurs, highly polished boots and a flat tweed cap,’ Robert recalls. ‘He watched the horse jump two steeplechase fences, then, having ridden it himself over the same two obstacles, he turned it round and jumped the fences backwards. The tweed cap remained in place the whole time.’

  I was also invited to judge on several occasions at the Dublin Horse Show. It is such a magnificent show and a great spectacle with a special atmosphere. We used to spend several days in Ireland and Terry loved the craic. On one occasion a fire alarm went off in the middle of the night in our hotel and all the guests had to evacuate their rooms. Terry and I went down the stairs in white dressing gowns to assemble in an area on the opposite side of the street. ‘It’s amazing,’ said Terry, ‘how awful some people look when they have to get dressed unexpectedly and their make-up has peeled off. They’re almost unrecognisable. I certainly wouldn’t want to wake up the next morning with any of them in the bed beside me.’

  *

  Although our days out each summer were mostly taken up with horse shows or holidays, there were other occasions when we were invited as special guests to dinners and lunches. We were frequently asked to talk at charity functions whether locally or further afield. Terry was never enthusiastic about giving these talks and it wasn’t easy to drag him out. His ears were always flat back, like a bolshie horse. He hated public speaking and was surprisingly nervous. However, I devised a formula that worked well: I would write down some notes on a postcard, to which I briefly referred – and then ask Terry a series of questions. Once we got started and he got into the swing of it, he loved giving his opinions, coupled with reminiscences of the past. The audiences seemed to enjoy listening to us and were always most attentive. They part
icularly enjoyed it when we took each other on and had disagreements.

  On one occasion in 2005, after the successes of Best Mate, we were guests of honour at the Lady Taverner’s President’s Dinner in the Long Room at Lord’s Cricket Ground. Terry always adored cricket and had played a lot in his younger days. Whenever there was a Test match on television he would be glued to the screen. He was exceptionally knowledgeable.

  One of Terry’s greatest friends was David Brown, a regular player for England in the 1960s, who famously bowled brilliantly in the third Test in Sydney in the 1965–6 Ashes series. When Terry died, ‘Browny’ wrote to me and said, ‘I loved racing and Terry loved his cricket and between both sports, we had a hell of a lot of fun together. I remember during the days of the National Hunt Jockey’s cricket games that the Duke (David Nicholson) would manage to upset most of the opposition and it took all Terry’s charm and drinking capacity to make sure that we kept the fixture for the next year. Terry and Josh came to play for an invitation XI at the County Ground during my benefit season, and knowing that T. W. B. found it virtually impossible to hit the ball on the offside of the field, I put all the fielders on the leg side. All I heard when he looked round the field was, “You bastard, Browny!” It was typical of him to support such benefit games and charity matches and his attendance always enhanced the occasion.’