Not Enough Time

by Henrietta Knight

  Yet it was hard to be normal and unaffected by the events that led up to Terry’s death. My staff had always been a great back-up and when Terry died they continued to give me plenty of support. They gave me courage to go on. Then there were my horses and ponies. I could not desert them. They were a big comfort to me and I often felt that I could communicate with them better than I could with human beings. I have always been blessed with the ability to bond with animals – I inherited it from my mother. As a child, if there were problems at school and my exams were imminent, I would saddle up my pony and go off for a ride on the Berkshire Downs and get away from everybody.

  A number of people were surprised that I didn’t cry at Terry’s funeral, nor at his memorial service. When Terry was alive, he often dissolved into tears, but I reacted by doing the exact opposite. There were so many friends around me on both of these sad occasions that I felt it was my duty to be as normal as possible and thank them for their support. I was deeply touched by their respect and love for Terry, also by their kindness.

  As for myself, I just felt proud to have been with him for those twenty wonderful years and to have nursed him right up until his end. I owed it to Terry to conduct myself calmly and correctly, even though deep down, it was devilishly hard. I kept telling myself that I must set an example to his children and his relations. Instead of crying, I drove my sorrows down deeper and tried to put them to the back of my mind. I released them later while grieving on my own. Even now, no day ever goes by when I don’t think of Terry – morning, noon and night – and I often have tears in my eyes. Never was there a truer saying than, ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you; cry and you cry alone.’

  *

  I often reread the wonderful letters I received after Terry’s death. They are a great comfort, even though they do tend to upset me as well. They were obviously written with great sincerity, using such amazing words. They did, and still do, touch me enormously. I was sent hundreds of letters – even more than when Best Mate won his third Cheltenham Gold Cup – and the postman had to bring them to the door in special boxes – he couldn’t carry them any other way. I will keep those letters for ever and I marvel at how beautifully people can write. Some say that with the advent of computers and emails, letter-writing is a dying art but this was certainly not evident when Terry passed. Many of our friends deserve medals for their meaningful words, none more so than Jim Lewis, who memorably said: ‘Terry was a good friend with a tremendous sense of humour. People referred to him and Hen as the odd couple, but for me there was nothing odd about them. They were simply in love with each other and enjoyed the victories they shared.’ I even received personal handwritten letters from the Queen, the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall.

  Throughout January 2014, I was kept busy, because there were many plans to be made. I decided upon a small funeral in the neighbouring village of Ardington, followed, at a later date, by a memorial service at Terry’s favourite racecourse, Cheltenham. There were so many T. W. Biddlecombe memories wrapped up in that magical turf beneath Cleeve Hill. The funeral was advertised as private and was supposed to be for family members and close friends, but the numbers snowballed. More and more people came out of the woodwork, declaring themselves as special friends – and who was I to say no, when they asked to attend? Terry had thousands of admirers and everybody seemed to be special.

  The church was filled to capacity, with loudspeakers outside for those who could not fit in. The lady vicar, Elizabeth Birch, gave a brilliant talk. She had not known Terry but plenty of people had marked her card and she spent many hours at West Lockinge Farm discussing his past. Terry Court gave a moving address – he had, after all, rescued Terry after his return from Australia and had provided him with a job. He had reintroduced him to me at the Malvern Sales in 1993. Without Terry Court, Terry and I would never have got together. It must have been fate. ‘TC’, as my Terry called him, was the catalyst for our dream life and twenty years of happiness. Nigel Twiston-Davies, Andrew Elliott and Terry’s eldest daughter, Laura, did the three readings. They were all excellent. I sat next to Nigel in the church; he was a great comfort and I remember gripping his arm during the most difficult parts of the service.

  *

  On the day after Terry’s funeral – Saturday 18 January 2014, I suffered another shattering blow. I had been at a low ebb since the departure of my guests on Friday, but I had wanted to be alone in order to collect my thoughts. It was about 6 p.m. that Saturday and I had taken a stroll around the yard to look at the horses. It was a dark, damp evening, but there were lights shining from the outside walls of the stables and around the duck pond. It was customary every night for a member of staff to drive the farmyard geese into a special shed to protect them from prowling foxes. On that occasion, I could see that they were still swimming on the water and nobody had shut them in, so I plucked a branch off a tree to chase them into their overnight quarters.

  It was then that I slipped and fell on the wet paving stones marking the perimeter of the pond. My right leg went into the water and the foot became wedged under an overhanging stone slab. I managed to extricate it, but could not stand up. I remember noticing that my shoe was facing backwards – I presumed I had dislocated my ankle. I crawled along the wet grass beneath the buildings and shouted for help. Fortunately, there were voices to be heard in the yard and some of the staff were still on duty.

  Dawn Graham, my secretary and a trained first-aider, was tending to her own horse. She found Terry’s wheelchair in the garage and pushed me back to the house. For the first time I was in the chair and not Terry. My trousers were soaking wet and I asked Dawn whether she thought I had broken anything – strangely, I was not in any pain. We pulled up the trouser leg and several bones were visibly protruding. It was then that I realised the severity of the injury.

  Not long afterwards, I was lying in the back of an ambulance, en route to the John Radcliffe Hospital – a place I dreaded going, since I had experienced numerous bad days there with Terry and it was there, too, where my mother had died. I had not been on a stretcher since my days in the Pony Club when I concussed myself in the showjumping class at a local gymkhana. It was a strange feeling but I was still able to think straight and my mobile telephone was in my pocket. I made several calls. I was given no painkillers in the ambulance – it was not necessary. I was experiencing very little pain, I just remember a dull ache and that my lower leg was numb.

  My saintly neighbour, Janie Roberts, accompanied me in the ambulance. Little did she know that it would be midnight before her husband, Hugh, would be able to fetch her home from the hospital because she would not leave me until I went down to the operating theatre for surgery. I was told that it was an urgent operation and that there was severe danger of infection from the dirty water in the duck pond. Before being wheeled into a special room for my surgery the doctor told me that I might lose my foot. I remember saying to him, ‘That’s just what I want to hear.’ When I came round in the recovery room at 3 a.m., the first thing I did was look down at my leg. To my relief, despite all the dressings, I could still see my toes sticking out at the bottom.

  I spent almost a week in hospital. It was a strange experience. There were numerous pins and screws supporting my fractured bones and the open wound had been stitched by an expert plastic surgeon. I had never before been given so many antibiotics and I was attached to an overhead drip for days. The narrow hospital bed was extremely uncomfortable.

  How dreadful it must have been for Terry, confined to a similar bed, not only for the last months of his life, but on the many occasions during his jockey days when he had been hospital-bound, recuperating from injuries. There was nothing I could do except lie still and come to terms with my accident. It had been tragic to lose my beloved husband and now I was in a helpless position myself. I could do very little on my own. I could not walk and I could not drive. I was forbidden to put weight on my foot for six weeks.

  My friends were incredible and enormousl
y supportive. I had plenty of visitors while I was in the hospital, including my sister and my relations, plus jockeys, trainers and staff. I felt humbled by the attention I received but I also felt extremely sad. I cried a lot at nights and was still suffering from shock. My grief was enormous and there was nobody to hold my hand. On many occasions I seriously questioned my future. Whatever would happen next? How would I be able to remould my life and keep positive? I pined for Terry and for his wonderful smile.

  *

  When I returned from hospital in early February, I gradually came to terms with my predicament and my damaged leg. On the days leading up to the memorial for Terry at Cheltenham Racecourse on 17 February 2014, I was fortunately kept extremely busy, not only with plans for that special day, but also with the writing of many letters. The stair lift, which had been removed after Terry’s death, was reinstalled and I was able to use it to get myself upstairs each night. In the daytime I sat in the kitchen, but it was strange looking at Terry’s empty chair at the end of the table. I had so many memories in the house and they hit me hard. Everything I did, everywhere I went, and everything I saw reminded me of Terry – indeed, I am still easily upset by certain surroundings and there are days when I feel especially sad.

  The celebration of Terry’s life at Cheltenham was utterly unbelievable. It was incredibly moving and beautifully organised by Edward Gillespie, the former managing director of the racecourse. Everything was arranged to perfection – Edward never does anything by halves. His many years at the helm during the Cheltenham festivals were nothing short of brilliant. No wonder that in December 2014, he was awarded an OBE in the Queen’s New Year Honours list. The memorial service was held in the Panoramic Restaurant, but we did not advertise the occasion; people learned about it through word of mouth. If it had been announced in the newspapers or on the Internet, then I do not think the venue would have coped with the extra numbers. It is not a huge area and has a limited capacity. My wonderful brother-in-law, Sam Vestey, hosted the occasion. He was unable to be there in person due to business commitments abroad, but I made sure everybody knew it was his party. He is such a generous man and had always been especially good to Terry. Edward and I spent many hours planning the day and it went like clockwork.

  Channel 4 supplied a carefully composed DVD of Terry’s past achievements, with a voiceover by my great friend, Jim McGrath. At the end, he said, ‘It was Katharine Hepburn who once famously said, “Obey all the rules and you will miss all the fun.” Rest assured, the jockey whom one could easily have mistaken for a matinée idol missed out on nothing in life. In Terry’s pomp, when pushing the boundaries on and off the track, we loved him for it. Many saw Hen and Terry as the odd couple, but corny as it seems, they were devoted to one another. Their emotional and dramatic coming together after Best Mate’s first Gold Cup win in 2002 was redolent of the final scenes of The Railway Children.’

  The DVD was shown on several occasions throughout the day on the many TV screens in the restaurant.

  There were three speakers and they were all brilliant. Alastair Down was the obvious choice for the main talk. Terry was particularly fond of Alastair and on several occasions the three of us had eaten out in our local pub. Terry was one of Alastair’s childhood heroes and I distinctly remember Terry saying to me, ‘He’s the man I would like to speak at my funeral.’

  Alastair did not let me down. His address was superb and produced many damp eyes in the audience. He remembered Terry’s riding achievements in the sixties. ‘Pain was Terry’s constant companion, and every day involved a fifteen-round bruising battle with the scales. But no struggle ever lessened him – he bulldozed through life, fearing no one, always standing up for the underdog, issuing a constant stream of never to be forgotten obscenities and, with that mischievous smile, ever on the look-out for a treble at Ludlow, when as we all know only two of the winning rides that afternoon were booked through Weatherbys.

  ‘He was very simply a hero of my childhood – and please do not ever fall for that cynical old lie that you should never meet your childhood heroes, as there is always that one in a million who has the thumping, shining, life-affirming humanity, humour and sheer heart that makes you understand that among the everyday ebb and flow of life sometimes stride those rare folk that light up a generation. If you want a measure of Terry, the man, then look around this room at the wonderfully diverse cross-section of society here to pay tribute – people who will always miss Terry but would never miss being here for him.

  ‘There are folk from every corner of the land, the young and the old, the great, the good and the happily plain humble, the well-heeled and mildly skint – everyone drawn to the magnet that was Terry, one of jump-racing’s beating hearts. Almost every soul in this room, which looks out across a view as sacred to us as any consecrated ground, is here because a flawed, fabulous, foul-mouthed, fantastic man showed us some small kindness or consideration that we have never forgotten. Above all he bestowed upon us the priceless gift of laughter.’ (The Best of Alastair Down: Cheltenham et Al).

  Having chosen Alastair for the main address, I believed it would also be appropriate to invite a couple of Terry’s jockey contemporaries to give talks. Sadly, some of his greatest friends, such as Dave Dick and Josh Gifford, had already passed away but I knew how much he had thought of David Mould and Bill Smith, so tentatively I asked them if they would contribute. They were stars and told some excellent stories of the old days.

  Despite the fact that we hadn’t advertised the day, the room was packed. There was an amazing turnout of jockeys, trainers and racing enthusiasts. I will always be grateful to the racecourse for allowing the memorial to be held there. It was a moving occasion.

  My own staff and friends from around West Lockinge Farm were transported in two minibuses. For my part, I was still confined to my wheelchair. But fortunately, I was well looked after at Cheltenham by Rachel Geary, who is a good friend and was my driver during my days as a trainer. Rachel chauffeured me to Cheltenham and I was cared for in the confines of the restaurant by Muriel Cadwallader, who had so often been in charge of the Royal Box in the days when Sam Vestey had been chairman and Terry and I had been invited for lunches. Also in a wheelchair was Mercy Rimell. Terry, having spent many years at Kinnersley with her and Fred, would have laughed to see us side by side on wheels. His relationship with Mercy had always been somewhat volatile. At times he thought the world of her, but on other occasions they fiercely disagreed about the riding of the horses Fred trained. Terry was always annoyed that Mercy accused him of spending too much time with Gay Trip on the outside of the track in the 1972 Grand National. The horse was second to Well To Do, but Mercy told Terry that he had gone further than any other horse in the race and should have won.

  Gary Newbon wrote to me after the Cheltenham send-off and said, ‘At the celebration of Terry’s life, I felt privileged to have been there, and he would have both laughed and cried at the many tributes.’ Hector Brown said, ‘To his many friends, T. W. B. was a one-off, a real player who felt life had to be enjoyed and packed with as much fun as possible. Whilst sometimes close to the mark, you knew, when you heard that unique cackle of a laugh, that he had sprung yet another surprise on the unsuspecting innocent. At all times he exuded those characteristics that defined his riding career – strength and determination and the will to win, coupled with a never-say-die attitude. Yet everything was wrapped up with a huge sense of fun and a kindly outlook towards the frail and suffering.’

  It was a great effort for David Mould to come over from Spain to talk at Terry’s Cheltenham memorial, and before he returned home, he brought me a framed quotation that movingly summed up Terry. ‘The only life worth living is the adventurous life. Of such a life the dominant characteristic is that it is unafraid. It is unafraid of what other people think. It does not adapt either its pace or its objectives to the pace and objectives of its neighbours. It thinks its own thoughts it reads its own books. It develops its own hobbies, and it is governe
d by its own conscience. The herd may graze where it pleases or stampede where it pleases. But he who lives the adventurous life will remain unafraid when he finds himself alone.’ (Raymond B. Fosdick).

  *

  Farewell Terry.

  You were the love of my life. I miss you every day and, on many occasions, it is hard to keep going without you. All that I do is in your memory, but I can feel you telling me how to arrange my new life. Anything that I achieve in future years will be due to you. You were everything that I lived for. You were unbelievably special and there will never be anybody remotely like you again.

  I have enjoyed writing our story, but it has not been easy. How I wish you could have been around to read it. I think you would have been proud to have been reminded of all that you achieved – and to know that you had such a colossal number of friends and admirers.

  When I told Bill Smith that I still find that every day brings me sad moments, he said he could well believe the void left by you will never be refilled – such was your enormous, charismatic personality, but Bill reckoned that you would only have said, ‘Fuck it. We can’t live in the past. Let’s have another drink.’

  Such true words.

  It is far better to remember the good times in life and rejoice, rather than dwelling on sad memories. I will never forget the wonderful years you and I shared. We had countless happy days together and there was an uncanny chemistry between us. I always believed in you and in return, you believed in me and bestowed your love. Separation is hard and always will be, but I am surrounded by our wonderful friends and beautiful memories. We all miss you and we all loved you, but nobody loved you as much as I did. You will never leave me. Everything I do reminds me of our years together and I see your smiling face every night, beside my bed, before I go to sleep.