Not Enough Time

by Henrietta Knight

  On that particular morning, we were supposed to take four horses to work on Mick Channon’s gallops. The hired horsebox was due at 7:45 a.m. and Dominic Elsworth had arrived to ride one of the horses. I remember coming down to the kitchen and saying to Dom, ‘You will have to be in charge of these gallopers. Terry is not at all well and I’ll have to call the doctor.’ My first instinct was to ring my loyal and dependable vet, Roger Betteridge, who is just as knowledgeable and helpful with human ailments as he is with horses. I told him exactly what had happened and he suggested that Terry might have had a stroke.

  My heart sank and my mind momentarily blanked out, as it had so often done in the past when I had received a shock, such as on the day Best Mate died. However, I pulled myself together, despite all sorts of things flashing through my brain, and dialled the NHS emergency number. It was answered quickly, even though it was a Saturday morning. In a short while, a team of paramedics arrived with an ambulance. The men were highly efficient. By the time they got to the farm, Terry was able to sit up and I had given him a gentle sponge to clean and freshen him up. I had also put a T-shirt on him and he was looking a lot better when the helpers went up to the bedroom.

  However, his mind was still confused. He answered a few simple questions and uncharacteristically did not object to the various tests that were done – blood pressure, pulse rates, etc. Yet my worst fears were confirmed when the paramedics told me that they, too, suspected he had suffered a small stroke. He was stretchered down the stairs and into the ambulance, which I then followed to the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford.

  Whatever people say about delays in A & E, the nurses and doctors were brilliant that day – even though it was a weekend. By midday, following further tests, Terry was admitted to the stroke ward. It was a tense morning and I felt very much alone. I never left his side, except when he was wheeled off on a trolley to have some essential scans. He was very quiet, but he knew I was with him. He did not remember anything that had happened at home and was soon lying in a hospital bed, with tubes inserted, and sticky pads attached to his body, wiring him up to the monitor machines that bleeped constantly. Not being accustomed to hospital wards, I found the whole experience unbelievably scary.

  Fortunately, Terry was put into a side room on his own. I remember ringing his brother, Tony, and telling him what had happened. As always, Tony was brilliant and supported me to the hilt. He drove from Gloucester to the hospital and was an absolute star. My sister, Ce, was also extremely helpful. She explained the medical procedures to me – she had, of course, been a top-class nurse and hospital sister in London in the seventies and had suffered a bad stroke herself in 1995. She instantly recognised all the signs and complications associated with a diminished blood supply to the brain. A few days later, I was told that Terry’s stroke had been caused by an embolism – a small blood clot somewhere in his body. Mercifully, his brain scan was clear. As he had lived on warfarin for a number of years, the clot was somewhat surprising, but blockages can never be ruled out with patients suffering from heart defects.

  Every time I visited Terry in hospital, he began to look a little better and was soon able to walk – albeit in a wobbly fashion and holding onto my arm – to the bathroom for a shower. I am hopeless with showers and never use them. We have none at West Lockinge Farm. I remember getting myself utterly soaked while trying to help Terry wash himself. I sat him on a stool under the shower-head but kept turning all the knobs in the wrong direction. It was a nightmare.

  Terry’s children from Gloucester – James, Robert and Lucy – also visited him. Sometimes they came with Tony. He had a lot of support and gradually brightened up, even though he had no real interest in what was going on outside the Radcliffe and did not remember the name of the hospital. He never once asked me about the horses at home, which was most unusual, but I spent plenty of time talking to him. I would hold his hand and tell him what was happening. There were get-well cards to pin up on his walls and plenty of enquiries as to his well-being. His stroke had been mentioned in the Racing Post. He barely watched the television in his room, as his eyesight was blurred and his speech still shaky. He also found it difficult to swallow, but luckily suffered no paralysis. I made him numerous vegetable soups and he would drink them. He always enjoyed my soups. Above all, he kept smiling.

  While Terry was in hospital, I made sure that my wonderful golden retriever, Tiger, was well looked after at home. Annabel Scrimgeour, who expertly schooled many of the horses on the flat each week and always looked after the farmhouse if Terry and I were away, offered to look after Tiger during my visits to the hospital. She loved him as much as I did. He was my shadow and the best dog I ever owned. He was almost human and seemed to sense that I was worried. I found him very quiet in the evenings, but I thought this was due to me having left him all day. I did not suspect that he, too, was ill. He still ate up his food and came out with me to feed the horses in the early mornings but then, all of a sudden, on one of the days after he and I had been up on the gallops, he jumped out of my car and collapsed on the concrete beside the back door. I could not get him up, even though he wanted to stand. Two of my staff helped me carry him into the house and I drove him to the vet in Abingdon. Whatever next? Terry was in hospital and Tiger had been admitted to the veterinary surgery. Imagine my horror when I was rung later in the day and told that he had died. I cried and cried; I adored him so much. He had suffered an internal haemorrhage to his lungs, caused by cancer. He was only seven years old and I still miss him dreadfully. I have never wanted another dog since that day, especially as I am told that nowadays many pedigree dogs are susceptible to cancer due to a decrease in the size of the gene pool.

  After about eight days, Terry was allowed to leave the John Radcliffe Hospital. I was still in a daze myself. I had lost Tiger and Terry had suffered a stroke. I was lent a wheelchair to take home and the hospital staff gave me several walking frames, all of which proved extremely useful. The nurses were most helpful and had enjoyed Terry’s humour, which luckily began to return after a week’s confinement. I remember driving him back to West Lockinge Farm on my own, but I had been assisted in Oxford by the hospital paramedics, who had lifted him into the passenger seat of my Volvo fourtrack. There were plenty of supporters to greet him at home. Bob pushed the wheelchair up to the front door and in later months made a special ramp over the step. The next day, we received a wonderful basket of fruit that had been sent by two of my favourite owners, Andy and Wendy Sole. Fortunately, despite swallowing difficulties, I managed to feed him on plenty of soft foods. At last I could see light at the end of the tunnel and Terry seemed to be on the mend.

  *

  Gradually, Terry got back into his normal regime at home, but he never drove another car nor did he ever smoke another cigarette. He did try, on one occasion, to drive my Subaru in a field but it frightened him and he did not feel he had any control. He said to me then and there, ‘I don’t ever want to drive again. You can chauffeur me anywhere that I want to go.’ He remained true to his word.

  The stroke had left its mark and it took away a lot of Terry’s independence. I continued to watch over him carefully and took him back to the hospital for tests on several occasions, but his recovery was remarkable and he soon began, once again, to curse and swear at people in the yard and give his special vocabulary a good airing. Yet he did listen to what I told him and would often ask for help with his walking. He had obviously given himself a big fright.

  From that day onwards, I began teaching myself to be his carer, due to his needing so much more everyday help. It was not easy to train the horses and to mind Terry, but I had a great back-up team and numerous offers of assistance. We had a good autumn and winter, with Calgary Bay winning two good races: one at Cheltenham and one at Doncaster. Somersby also won the Victor Chandler Chase at Ascot in January 2012 and Terry was well enough to attend that day. I was delighted to get him to the racecourse and he thoroughly enjoyed the occasion. He was given a great rec
eption but, as usual, was in floods of tears after the victory.

  At the end of February 2012, Terry and I were invited to a select dinner party in London at Le Gavroche, run by Michel Roux, Jr. Our host was Wilson Dennison from Northern Ireland, from whom we had purchased many good racehorses in the past. Wilson was due to be presented with an OBE the next day at Buckingham Palace, for his services to industry in Northern Ireland through his company, Dennison Commercials, which primarily deals in Volvo trucks.

  We travelled to London in a hired car, because Terry was apprehensive about spending the night away from home. He was placed that evening next to Wilson’s daughter, Katrina. They had always got on well together and she fully understood Terry’s humour. It was a memorable occasion. Katrina wrote a letter after Terry died, and reminded me of the celebration:

  ‘I had a great chat with Terry when we had dinner in London. I remember telling him that Dad had brought me back his autobiography from Cheltenham when I was about twelve. I also remember saying to Terry it was time for him to write another one. He just laughed! And then I asked him, if he did do a second book, what would be the highlight of it. In reply he just pointed to you across the table. My heart melted, because, when I looked up, you and Dad were laughing and by the look on his face I knew it was a lovely moment for him. It will always stick in my mind, especially as Terry then went from being that romantic man to roaring at a waitress about not having any wine! He made me laugh a lot.’

  At this time, I was allowing Terry to enjoy a few glasses of wine and the doctors told me that it would do his health no harm.

  Terry’s mobility got a little better during the winter months and my sister helped me to get a stairlift fitted into the farmhouse. This proved a great asset and made everything so much easier for him. After his stroke, I had bought a new double bed and put it in our drawing room, in case he preferred to sleep downstairs on his return from hospital. However, at the time, he was disgusted by the idea and still insisted on sleeping in our own bedroom. He did sometimes agree to have a rest on the new bed in the afternoons, provided that I would do the same. I hardly ever lie down during the day and I was not overjoyed by his idea of an afternoon cuddle while watching racing on the big flat-screen television. I would have preferred to have been busy outside, but I went along with his wishes. He was precious to me and so I did everything I could to make him happy.

  *

  After the Cheltenham Festival in March 2012, I realised that it was time to have a proper rethink about the future. Would I ever be able to get our training operation back to its top level on my own? Even though the horses were of great importance and we had some wonderful owners, it was Terry who meant everything to me. After much deliberation and discussions with my sister and Sam, I decided to hand in my licence at the end of the season and concentrate on looking after him full time. He was on chirpy form, but needed all the attention I could give him. I knew that his arthritis and internal problems were giving him a lot of aggravation. He was living on special pills and probably, on borrowed time. He regularly attended the local surgery and visited consultants at the Oxford hospitals. I realised that every time I went out into the yard, or onto the gallops or travelled to the races Terry would be on his own in the house and this was not fair. He hated being alone and I loved being with him more than anything else in the world.

  It was a hard decision to quit training and it upset Terry as much as it upset me, but looking back, I know it was the right move because I was able to give him almost two more years of life that he might not otherwise have had. The reaction to my retirement from the training ranks was colossal. The newspapers were full of it and the racing journalists wrote some lovely pieces. Horse & Hound magazine even did a special feature and sent a cameraman down to West Lockinge. I realised that I would miss the press as much as they would miss me. In the past there had been many memorable days entertaining them at our yard, and a number of them had become special friends. At home both Terry and I shed many tears. We had come to the end of the rainbow, but there would be no pot of gold, no more dreams, no more fairy stories. Our racing adventures had been magical. We had shared everything and we had jointly trained many winners. Our lives would never be the same again. The curtain was ready to come down for the last time.

  Having decided on my future, one of the toughest tasks was breaking the news to my loyal staff, some of whom had been with me for many years. I knew they would be upset, because they loved their horses and lived for their days out at the races. I informed them at the same time as I told my owners and the press, because I wanted everybody to know within the space of twenty-four hours. Two of my favourite employees, Jo Castle and Carol Titmuss, came into the kitchen afterwards in an emotional state. They were visibly shaken by the announcement and extremely surprised. Terry gave both of them strong drinks. Both girls were top-class team players and Terry adored them. Indeed, when he was so ill in 2013, and I had to go out, they took turns to sit with him. They would do anything for Terry and not only did he totally trust them, but he also discussed his problems with them. They were always understanding and considerate.

  At the time of my retirement, as well as Jo and Carol, there were several other loyal members of staff on the payroll. In particular Bob Bullock who had been at West Lockinge for fourteen years and Dave Reddy who had worked for me since 1996. They were shocked when I told them that there would be no more horses trained from our yard. They had both been invaluable to me during my training years and Bob had led Terry up at the Cheltenham Festival in 1974 when he rode Bumble Boy, trained by Bill Marshall, on his last ever hurdle race ride. Both men got on famously with Terry and they shared many jokes. If I wrote up on the staff notice board that I was giving a £10 reward for lost scissors, head collars or leading reins and Bob found them, he would refuse to take my money but, apparently, Terry would say, ‘Take her tenners. You can give them to me, she’ll never know.’ Dave had always accompanied Best Mate to the races on his big days and would habitually walk beside the horse in the paddock. He loved discussing the pros and cons of good looking girls with Terry.

  When I relinquished my licence, it was important that my employees were not left in the lurch. I tried to work out ways of giving the older ones different jobs in the yard and I assured them that I would continue to employ them at the same rate. Jo stayed on for a while, but her hips gave her a lot of pain and they badly needed operations, so she found it difficult to ride out. In the autumn she had a simple fall and fractured her ankle. When she recovered she decided to begin a new career. She started working in an accountancy office, dealing with computers and now she is the manager.

  Carol, too, had a good think about her future and while on her annual holiday, decided to give herself a change as well. She no longer works full-time with the horses. Fortunately, she still helps me part-time in the office and in the stables, when we are particularly busy. Her input is invaluable. There were plenty of existing jobs left for Bob and his tractor – harrowing, rolling or topping the fields, as well as levelling the gallops. He is still with me and continues to tread in and fork over all the divots in the schooling field. Dave remained part of the furniture too and drove to West Lockinge every week day morning. There were still a number of horses for him to ride and he seemed happy to carry on as part of the new team.

  At the end of the 2011–2012 National Hunt season, we still had plenty of horses in the yard and many of them stayed on for the summer to enjoy their holidays in the paddocks. Gradually, however, I changed over my business from training racehorses solely for the tracks to pre-training them and teaching young horses to jump. This has been a success and the gallops, as well as the schooling fences, are still meticulously managed and maintained. As well as using them myself, I hire them out to fellow trainers and event riders, which is extremely popular. Many children, interested in pony racing, also use the gallops and get special instruction from the likes of John Reid, the retired flat race jockey, who knows so much about the gam
e. As a hobby I have continued with my Connemara pony stud, which I share with my sister. For a number of years I stood a successful stallion, Lecarrow King, which Terry and I found in Connemara and imported to England in 2005. In 2009, when ridden by Sam Roberts, he was Connemara Pony of the Year at the Horse of the Year show.

  In the autumn of 2012, most of Camilla Radford’s National Hunt horses were transferred to Mick Channon and although she has sadly died, many of them are still being trained by him at West Ilsley. They spend their summer holidays at West Lockinge Farm and my staff begin riding them in July. They usually go into full training in September.

  *

  Although my twenty-three years of training with a licence may have come to an end in the spring of 2012, my involvement with racing did not and certainly never will. During the remainder of that year, Terry and I did not disappear to another land and put racing out of our minds; instead we spent even more time together discussing the sport. We both needed to be kept busy – me because I loved so many different aspects of the horse world and the countryside; and Terry, in order that he could wake up in the mornings with something to look forward to and take his mind off all his nagging pains.

  *

  In the June of 2012 I judged a Mountain and Moorland Pony Championship at the South of England Show at Ardingly in Sussex. I took Terry with me and we hired a mobility scooter for him. It was the first time he had driven one and he loved it. I will always remember him visiting a stall in the trade stand area, where two pretty girls had set up a table for wine tasting. He was in his element and soon had everybody laughing.