Not Enough Time

by Henrietta Knight

  After this expedition, we decided to invest in a scooter for Terry. He would whizz around the farm, or yard, on it and frighten everybody. Once he turned it over, when going up a bumpy lane where I had forbidden him to go. He was quiet after this episode: it had taken him half an hour to right the scooter again and drive it back to the farm. He got a schoolmistress lecture from me, when he confessed where he had been. We had all been searching for him and were extremely worried. As usual he had refused to carry a mobile phone. Yet, the mobility scooter gave Terry a much needed boost, because he could once more go places on his own and it restored some of his independence. He had always liked to drive around the locality by himself and do his own thing.

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  We did not take Terry’s scooter to Mull, when Tim Radford kindly invited us there in July 2012. It was probably just as well, because he might have driven it into the sea, or got it stuck in the sand. Nevertheless, I often used to put the scooter into the back of my Volvo when we went racing and Terry drove it around several racecourse enclosures.

  *

  We had another lovely holiday in Scotland that summer and, as usual, during the evening dinner parties Terry was the centre of attention. However, during the daytime he did not go on many boats because he was worried about getting in and out of them. He always dreaded slipping and falling over and I fully sympathised. If he had broken any more bones, it would have been disastrous. He enjoyed the mackerel fishing, however, and loved putting his line over the side of the boat into the sea, but when it was laden with fish he found it hard to pull it back onto the deck. His hands were, once again, playing up badly.

  It was a particularly long journey that year, driving up to Scotland, and I found it exceedingly tiring without a co-driver. Terry never once left the passenger seat, on the ten-hour trip, except when we got to Oban for the ferry. We had collected two of our fellow guests, Tom and Avia Costello, from Glasgow Airport and fortunately I had put a fold-up wheelchair in the boot of the car. This proved very handy and Tom duly wheeled Terry onto the passenger deck.

  Back at West Lockinge, during the rest of July and part of August 2012, Terry was well preoccupied by the Olympic Games. He barely missed watching any event and was exceptionally well clued up on all the different sports. During his riding days, he had often been on the television show, A Question of Sport.

  Life at home was quieter that autumn. Without our training responsibilities, Terry and I had more time to meet up with our friends – many of them were ex-owners. We often went out for lunches in the local pub and the conversations stimulated Terry’s brain. There were certainly plenty of jokes and reminiscences. They were happy days.

  When I went shopping in the local town of Wantage I would drive Terry to meet his mates in The Cellar, a small downstairs bar in the old Post Office Vaults beside the marketplace. By now he was enjoying a pint of Guinness or a glass of whisky on a daily basis. Again, the doctors told me that a small amount of alcohol would do him no harm. Terry adored his hours spent in The Cellar and sat on a stool at the bar, chatting to all the local characters. Pete New was barman for many years in The Cellar during Terry’s visits. ‘Terry always sat on the same stool in the bar,’ he says. ‘If a local person was on the stool when he came in, he would give it up for him. If a stranger was on it, he would be told in no uncertain terms that it was Terry’s seat but, due to his arthritis, Terry could never use the gents’ toilets, as they were outside the building and meant a long walk, so he always used the Ladies’ loos. This did lead to some embarrassing moments with the female customers, but Terry took everything in his stride and there was always plenty of laughter.

  ‘From a personal point of view, there are numerous accounts of Terry in The Cellar Bar that I could not pass on, and a number of them are unprintable, but they are still high in the memories of all those who had the privilege to meet him. He held court every time he entered the room, because people knew what he had achieved and what he meant to the sport of racing. He usually had two halves of Guinness in small glasses, because his hands would not allow him to hold a pint glass. Occasionally I put in a shot of Jameson’s Scotch as well, and he used to say, “If Hen comes in, Pete, drink one yourself before she sees it.” Terry was always asked his opinion on a horse’s chances in races, especially the big ones. On one occasion he was asked which horse would win the Grand National and he said Mon Mome. Goodness knows why, as apparently he never backed it himself. It won at 100/1 and several of us were much better off after his tip.’

  Several other regulars from The Cellar have stories about Terry. One, known to his friends as Sweaty, worked in Henry Candy’s yard and used to cycle over to Lockinge to see the horses and talk to Terry. On one occasion while looking at some horses in the field, Terry said to him, ‘Come in and have a look at this one,’ but did not tell him that the fence was electrified. Sweaty said that it was a ‘shocking result’. Lee Reiber told Terry that his first bet was on a horse called Fisherman’s Song, which won at big odds. Terry said to him, ‘I know. I was riding it!’ A lady set up a Facebook page called ‘Faces of Wantage’ and asked Terry if he would mind having his picture taken sitting in The Cellar. He duly obliged and the picture had more likes than any other face that she included.

  Pete went on to say, ‘Personally I miss him as much today, in 2015, as I did when he passed away. We have customers who met Terry only once but still recall the experience when they revisit us.’

  *

  The year 2013 started well. The young horses that we were pre-training in the yard looked good and I was kept busy on a daily basis, watching them on the gallops and supervising the riders. I continued to do all the feeding at breakfast time. Terry still suffered a massive amount of pain in his wrists and knees, but was in good spirits. In early March, he was driven to London to have special injections in his knees by Jonathon Lavelle at the Fortius Clinic, just off Park Lane. His pain was definitely alleviated by this medication.

  On 10 March, I drove Terry to Oaksey House, the rehabilitation centre funded by The Injured Jockeys Fund, where he joined many of his old friends at a reunion for those who had been associated with Fulke Walwyn’s training years at Saxon House in Lambourn. Many photographs of Terry were taken that day and I will always treasure the ones of him surrounded by his jockey friends. It was the last time many of them ever saw him, although he did meet up with a few ex-jockeys on his one and only day at the Cheltenham Festival a few weeks later, when we were invited to lunch in the Cheltenham Racecourse marquee. On this occasion, we took Terry’s mobility scooter and he much enjoyed driving around on it with his hand on the bleeper.

  In May 2013 we flew from Heathrow to Shannon to stay in Co. Clare and yet again view horses with the Costellos. Tim Radford travelled to Ireland at the same time. Terry picked out a lovely three-year-old by Presenting, who was a half-brother to Racing Demon – a good horse I had trained for the Radfords. Tim did not buy the youngster on that occasion, but later in the year decided to add him to his string. He is now called The Last Cavalier, after Terry. We had an excellent trip and, as usual, saw some lovely young horses. The handsome Presenting gelding arrived at West Lockinge Farm in mid-December 2013. I drove Terry into the main yard in my car and then led the horse out of his stable for Terry’s approval. He gave him the thumbs up, saying that he particularly liked his head and eye, but that since he was big and immature, he would need time.

  My last trip to Connemara with Terry, in July 2013, was heartbreaking. I managed him on my own at the airports with his fold-up wheelchair, but it was not easy. There was a special vehicle to lift him into the aeroplane and the officials were extremely helpful. Many of the airport personnel knew him from previous journeys and loved his humour. It was not straightforward at Ballynahinch Hotel, either, due to the many steps there, but we coped and in certain places the management put down ramps for the wheelchair. Terry did not get out of his chair in the bar area nor did he do so in the dining room, but he had great chats with all his ma
tes. Our great friend and Connemara breeder Padraic Hynes also joined in for some drinks and local gossip. Both he and his wife, Mary, had proved great friends to us during our holidays in Ireland. Mary had for many years worked at the hospital in Clifden, and on one occasion, had helped me deal with Terry when he had suffered a colossal nosebleed during the Clifden Pony Show.

  On the Sunday of our four-day visit, we went to the Roundstone Connemara Pony Show and I parked the hired car close to the ring – the organisers saw Terry arrive and gave him a prime vantage point at the bottom of the showground. It was a great spot, away from the hurly-burly, with a lovely view of the mountains behind the ring. We watched all the classes and numerous pony friends flocked round the car – Terry kept the sliding door open and chatted to everybody. It was a sunny day and a very happy one.

  We both enjoyed the show and we drove back to the hotel via Dog’s Bay, Ballyconneely and the Bog Road, which was always Terry’s favourite drive. He never ceased to be fascinated by this road; there are no houses for miles and miles, but it has the most indescribably beautiful scenery – rocks, lakes and bogland covered in wild flowers and purple heather. The backdrop is made up of the ‘Twelve Bens’ – the most famous mountains in Connemara. The light is never the same across the bog and it can change every hour. On that particular evening it was particularly stunning and we had a magical drive. It was the last time I ever drove Terry along that road and now that he is gone, I cannot bring myself to go down it on my own.

  Henry O’Toole clearly remembers Terry’s last Sunday in Connemara. ‘The Roundstone Pony Show on a beautiful July day was the last occasion on which we spent time with Terry,’ he says. ‘He was frail, but in high spirits, clearly enjoying the attention shown by all his Connemara friends who came to pay their respects. Hen had parked the car in a place where they had a bird’s-eye view of everything, and he was as sharp and humorous as ever. He watched every class and picked his winners, but still found time for a laugh. Even now it’s hard to imagine that Terry is gone. We will never forget him.’

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  On the Monday after the Roundstone Show, Terry had a bad turn. He woke up fine and we had lunch in our favourite restaurant, Mitchells, in Clifden. Terry always got on particularly well with the owner, J. J., and over the years we had some memorable days in there. As usual, Terry ordered a plate of oysters but, for the first time in his life, it seems that he ate one that was ‘off’.

  Shortly after our visit, while I was driving him along the picturesque Sky Road on the west of the town with its breathtaking views of the Atlantic Ocean, he suddenly felt extremely ill and was violently sick. I managed to get him back to the hotel, but once in bed, he did not want to leave our bedroom for the rest of the day or the evening. He looked very pale and obviously felt horribly ill. He shivered and shook; I stayed with him all the time and ordered my own dinner to be brought to the room.

  The next day we were due to fly home. Fortunately Terry improved as the night wore on, although he spent more time in the bathroom than in the bed. I drove him back to Shannon Airport on the Tuesday morning. He was weak, but no longer feeling sick. As always, everybody was extremely helpful in getting him onto the plane and we returned to Heathrow without mishap. It was his last journey on an aeroplane. For the rest of the week at Lockinge, he gradually improved, but mostly stayed in the house and slept. Gradually his appetite returned, together with his strength and determination to keep going. He told me that he never wanted to see another oyster again. I can remember my father telling me that when he, too, ate a bad oyster, he had felt ill for at least a week. Similar to Terry, he too never touched an oyster again.

  *

  The weekend after our trip to Ireland, I was due to judge at the Northern Connemara Pony Show at Osbaldeston, in Lancashire, which meant a night away. I did not know what to do. I didn’t want to let down the organisers of the show, yet I could not leave Terry at home with nobody to look after him. He insisted on accompanying me. Looking back on that journey, I am amazed that he managed it so well and with such cheerfulness, because he was obviously still feeling rough. He spent most of the show day sitting in the car by the ringside, sipping a small glass of whisky. I had taken some miniatures with me and plenty of water. We returned from the show on Sunday night and on the Monday morning I took him straight to the Manor Hospital in Oxford to see his superb consultant, Roger Chapman, who had been monitoring Terry’s health for some years. Terry really liked Roger and always enjoyed their discussions about golf. Roger understood Terry’s humour and Terry trusted him.

  After various tests, Roger told me that he wanted to keep Terry in hospital because his digestive system was in such a poor way. His gut lining was ulcerated and he was badly dehydrated. I hated leaving him there, but it was the obvious solution and after two or three days, he perked up considerably. Tony, his brother, was fantastic and a regular visitor, but like me, he was worried about the deterioration in Terry’s health since those sparkling summer months. Mick Channon also visited Terry in the hospital and he always raised Terry’s spirits.

  When he was released from The Manor Hospital in August 2013, Terry could not walk or even stand up. He never walked again. I do not know what happened to him during his time there, but something must have triggered a mechanism in his brain that affected his mobility. I often wonder whether maybe he had suffered another little stroke, although I was assured that there were no telltale signs from the tests. How can somebody go into hospital walking and come out six days later, inexplicably unable to move?

  *

  From mid-August 2013, my life changed completely. Everyday it was hands-on, looking after Terry. While he had been in hospital, I had further improved the living quarters in the drawing room and he was now quite resigned to sleeping downstairs. Of course, he insisted that I slept beside him in the same bed and would not be parted from me for any length of time. I have always had a horror of sleeping on any ground floor, with windows and doors opening out onto a garden. It would be so easy for an intruder to break in, but I gradually grew more accustomed to it, as it was essential for me to be with Terry throughout the nights. There was little that he could do for himself and he even found it difficult to turn over in bed. He needed constant attention and I was the only person he trusted. I had, in the past, looked after numerous sick horses and ponies, but never before had I cared for such an ill human being. All was to change. I learned something new every day, although many of the tasks I performed were based on common sense.

  On most days, I was able to get Terry up and dressed and into his wheelchair. In the mornings, I had several extra helpers, including Vanessa Bowsher, my housekeeper, who has worked for me for twenty-six years and comes in every weekday. She was a wonderful support and knew Terry well. Between us, we lifted him into his chair and wheeled him into the kitchen, where he sat at the table in his usual position beneath the windows overlooking the yard. He would watch all his favourite television programmes, especially Flog It!, Bargain Hunt, Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is and Cash In The Attic. He also loved sports programmes on golf, cricket, snooker, tennis, athletics, racing and Formula One. He enjoyed boxing too, and apparently, in his younger days, he had spent some time with Henry Cooper and his contemporaries.

  Dominic Elsworth was a huge help to me when Terry was ill. Apart from riding out on a regular basis, he drove me to several car-mobility centres to look at various wheelchair-accessible vehicles. We eventually hired a small car, and this meant that, once again, I could take Terry out for drives and into Wantage to visit all his friends from The Cellar Bar. I used to park the car on the double-yellow lines close to the entrance to the bar and the regulars would come up the steps with their drinks. They would sit and talk to him in the car. Terry thoroughly enjoyed those visits. On a couple of occasions I took him to Oaksey House in Lambourn to see if anything could be done to improve his movement, but he found the sessions there extremely hard and they worried him because he could not do the exercises set f
or him by his therapists. After a while, I decided that he was better off staying at home, as it was less stressful.

  One night, at the beginning of November, when Terry and I were lying together in the bed in the drawing room, I heard a strange scratching noise on the outer walls. My mind flashed back to the days when hedgehogs had got into our bedroom, but this noise was more persistent. I asked Terry to listen, but he had already heard the same sounds and although I hoped it was only the pitter-patter of mice feet, Terry said to me that he thought it was a rat. It certainly could not have been birds, because they roost at nights and everywhere outside our room was dark.

  Gradually the noise became louder and I put my hand out to grip Terry while the scufflings continued. There are several creatures that I really detest, and rats are top of my list. There were no rats in the farmyard – we had not seen one for over four years. How could we be so unlucky as to have one in the house? Maybe it was due to the chicken corn that I regularly put down on the lawn for my hens. A few days later, I discovered that the rats had indeed worked their way through a small hole in the plasterwork on the outside wall, underneath the window. It seemed that they had established a rat-run along the back of the skirting boards but there was absolutely no evidence of them having made an entrance into the house itself.

  A number of experts looked at the damage and I begged them for help. Apparently, it would be necessary to poison these rodents before any of the holes could be sealed off. It would have been pointless to concrete over the openings beneath the window because if the live rats were left inside they would then most probably gnaw inwards and end up in our bedroom.

  Rat poison was administered, but for the next couple of weeks we continued to endure noises throughout the night. I discovered that if I placed a radio beside the garden door and tuned it in to a talking programme, this would temporarily halt activities. In the past years I had often used a loud radio to stop foxes pestering my chickens in the garden.