Declared Dead

by John Francome

  'Only this, sir. You'll see that although we did come together it wasn't all my fellow's fault. They were both very tired animals and…'

  'And because of your failure to steer a straight line, Brennan was unable to use his whip.' Sir Arthur's interjection was as savage as it was demoralising. I so much wanted to answer back, but decided to keep my mouth shut. My only hope was that his fellow stewards disliked him as much as I did, and had taken a different view of the film.

  The Brigadier-General told us to leave the room and wait outside while they reached their decision. Brennan was grinning away confidently and I waited for him to repeat the usual sentiment. I chose to ignore him and paced up and down the corridor, cursing myself for letting Cartwheel drift off a straight line and then for making such a fool of myself during the enquiry. How was I going to face Ralph and the owners and tell them that I'd blown it?

  The wait seemed interminable, but in fact it was no more than five minutes before we were recalled. As we entered, the stewards' secretary rushed out holding a pink ticket in his hand with the announcement to be given to the operator of the tannoy system. It would either say that the placings remained unaltered or give the details of the corrected result. His stony face gave nothing away. It was left to the chief steward to deliver the verdict.

  'Jockeys, we've looked at this film and heard what you both had to say.' He coughed and reached for a glass of water, at least I presumed it was water, in front of him. 'Get on with it,' I muttered impatiently under my breath.

  'We have decided that there was interference,' – I swore to myself as he paused – 'but that in no way did it affect the result. The placings remain unaltered.'

  I couldn't stop myself smiling and victory was made all the sweeter by the apoplectic look on Sir Arthur's face.

  Outside, Ralph Elgar was waiting for me with a smile as big as Bechers. He had heard the result over the tannoy and for all his sixty years was in a state of uncontrolled boyish joy. It is every National Hunt trainer's dream to win the Gold Cup and he was certainly no exception. Although not one of the biggest or most fashionable trainers, he had sent out a steady stream of winners for the last thirty years and had the support of a devoted band of enthusiastic owners. What's more, he had given me a retainer when everyone in the racing world, from fellow trainers to racing tipsters to punters, had told him he was crazy. Now at last I had repaid that trust, although my shameful conduct over the past few months had far from merited his continuing support.

  Seeing Ralph's excitement brought me back to reality. The original decision to pull the race had not been taken for fun. I had agreed to do it, just as I had those earlier races at Fontwell and Worcester, because at the time there had seemed no other option. At least, that's what I had told myself before each of those races, and how I consoled myself afterwards. The only trouble is that once you've sold your soul, you can't buy it back at any price. What I had achieved today was a part penance. The original instigator of my sin still remained and was likely to become even more demanding, if not threatening. I just had to hope that I could negotiate more time to think of a way out.

  One thing at least was clear. I had to give up my retainer with Ralph. He had done so much for me and I couldn't go on cheating him. Today may have ended well, but I knew I couldn't give any guarantees as to my future conduct. I decided to tell him immediately after the presentation of the winning trophy, and I was still working out what to say when I was collared by a man from the BBC and asked to give an interview. It was the last thing I wanted to do but Ralph patted me on the back and pushed me forward:

  'Go on with you. It's not every day you're a piece of history.'

  Ten minutes later, having enthused about the race in front of the cameras, I made my way across the paddock towards the changing room. The area was almost deserted as the runners for the next race had already gone down to the start and would shortly be off. I was looking forward to changing out of my silks and having a few minutes to myself before meeting Ralph and the owners in their box for a victory drink. For once, I was glad that I didn't have a ride in the last two races.

  I was so buried in my thoughts that I barely heard my name being called. I hesitated for a second and then turned round, just in time to catch the full force of a clenched fist in my mouth. I staggered back for a moment and then, as much from shock as from the blow itself, fell to the ground.

  'I hope you're bloody satisfied!' screamed my attacker as he rushed away in the direction of the tented village.

  Within seconds a crowd had formed and all I could see as I tried to focus was a muddle of faces peering inquisitively at me. No wonder babies scream so much. Soon a very kind St John's ambulance woman arrived and cradled my head while another went off for bandages and dressings. I told them that it was nothing and I was fine, but they were not going to miss this moment for anything. I looked up to see the anxious face of a uniformed policeman.

  'I saw it, officer!' shrieked an hysterical middle-aged woman clutching a couple of tote tickets, and pointing in the direction of the tented village. 'He was in his early thirties, I'd say. He ran off in that direction.'

  'Are you all right?' the policeman asked, ignoring her and kneeling beside me. 'Did you get a good sight of him?'

  I shook my head. This time lying came easy. Of course I knew him. I'd recognise my husband anywhere.

  Chapter 2

  Half an hour later I was on the road back home to Lambourn, leaving a bemused police officer and a posse of journalists behind me. The courts, or for that matter the front pages of the tabloids, were the last places I wanted to air my troubles. It wasn't the first time Edward had assaulted me, but it was certainly going to be the last. Now, looking back over the past few months, I still found it hard to believe that our marriage had deteriorated so dramatically. But there was no point pretending we could get back to normal after this.

  Edward had never had a job since I'd known him, but always seemed to have plenty of ready cash, which he claimed was an inheritance from his grandfather. Then gradually the money seemed to be lasting for shorter and shorter periods as his gambling increased and he'd begun to drink heavily.

  He refused to tell me how much he owed but the quantity of whisky he was putting away each night made me think that the situation was becoming serious. Luckily for us, I was now beginning to get some decent rides and had taken over paying all of the bills.

  Then one night, he came home drunk and calling me all the names under the sun. We hadn't had an argument, so there was no reason for his bad temper and, at first, I thought it was just one of his stupid pranks and that a few of his mates would follow him in and begin laughing. But then suddenly he lashed out with his fist and caught me on the cheek, knocking me to the floor. I was terrified and tried to scramble to my feet but as I did so he walked over to me and kicked me twice in the stomach. As I dropped back to the floor, completely winded and gasping for air, he swore at me a few more times and went upstairs.

  I'd had plenty of falls whilst I was riding and I thought I was pretty tough, but being beaten up by my own husband shocked me more than I thought possible.

  As I got my breath back and pulled myself onto a chair, my legs turned to jelly and I began to tremble. I sat wondering what to do. My first instinct was to go upstairs, collect our little boy, Freddie, and leave. Go anywhere; I didn't know where, but just go. The only problem was where could I go with a child at eleven o'clock at night without everybody knowing what had happened?

  My mother lived over sixty miles away, at Wincanton, and anyway she had enough worries of her own without me adding to them. Since I'd left home to become an apprentice jockey, after a brief period as a cub reporter, nothing had gone right for her. First of all, my father had run off with another woman and left her to manage the farm on her own, but that had probably been a blessing. He had treated her like a skivvy for years. Then her eldest sister had been paralysed in a car accident that had killed her husband. Mum insisted on nursing her at home
herself even though it hadn't been easy for her, and although I had sent money home for her every week, I knew that she struggled to make ends meet. I was an only child and felt guilty that I hadn't given up my apprenticeship and gone home to help her, but I was just beginning to get a few rides. I'd also just started going out with Edward. He was tall and well built, with jet black hair brushed straight back and the darkest eyes I had ever seen. He was also very amusing and, so he was always boasting, very rich. His father was Sir Gerald Pryde, one of the most able High Court judges presently sitting on the Bench, and the man tipped to become the next Lord Chief Justice.

  Edward and I had met at the annual Jockeys' Dance at Newbury. I'd gone with James Thackeray, an old friend and a journalist for the Sportsman newspaper. He had introduced me to Edward just after the meal had ended and we'd spent the rest of the evening together dancing and talking. We didn't make love that first night but it hadn't been through any lack of trying on Edward's part, or wanting on mine. It was just a matter of nice girls riot doing that sort of thing.

  All of this happened on a Saturday evening and my 'niceness' lasted until about three o'clock the following afternoon, when, after having had a good lunch in a local pub, we spent the rest of the day in bed in Edward's cottage. From that moment on, we had been inseparable and were married six months later on Derby Day.

  Unfortunately, Edward's parents disliked me intensely. It had been perfectly all right for him to go out and sleep with an apprentice jockey – even his mother accepted that her darling son would need to sow some wild oats – but to marry one and then father a child was beyond the pale. Still, at least we'd had a boy.

  In the end, after that first assault, I decided to stay. I went upstairs and got into bed with Freddie but slept fitfully.

  The following morning I crept out of bed and went to ride out for Ralph. My jaw was still sore, but it was a Tuesday and a work morning for the horses and I knew I would be needed.

  When I returned Edward was already up. As I walked through the kitchen door, he rushed towards me holding something behind his back and I stood frozen in terror. As he brought his arm forward, I had never been so pleased to see a bunch of daffodils in my life. Edward put his arms around me, begging my forgiveness. But I would not be able to forget what he had done and knew things could never be the same between us again.

  I told him it was time he found a job and pulled himself together, and for a little while he really did try. He didn't find a job as such, but at least he made an effort to help in the cottage, and cut out the drinking completely. Even Mrs Parsons, who came up from the village to look after Freddie for me while I was riding, commented on how much happier everything seemed.

  Then one afternoon I came home from visiting my mother with Freddie and found Edward slouched in the chair with an empty bottle of whisky by his side. He immediately began shouting at me and Freddie clutched my skirt and began to cry. I told him not to worry and tried to send him upstairs, but he refused to go.

  'You're going to help me out with my little problem,' Edward slurred, pointing his finger at me.

  'It's not me you need, it's a doctor,' I replied, but he carried on. He saw my recent riding success as a way of getting 'out of bother' as he so delicately put it. 1 reminded him that jockeys gave notoriously bad tips and I was no exception but he just laughed and told me to wait and see.

  I didn't have to wait long.

  Three days later, just as I was getting dressed to go and ride out for Ralph, Edward called me over to his side of the bed. I was surprised to hear his voice as he usually slept to mid morning.

  'I don't want you to win today,' he commanded.

  'What are you on about?' I answered, trying to keep my voice down so as not to wake Freddie.

  'I don't want you to win,' he repeated, grabbing my wrist.

  'Thanks for your support, but if you don't mind, I do!' I tried without success to pull my arm free from his grip.

  'Listen to me, you silly bitch.' Edward now sat up in bed, pulled me down towards him and started slapping me about the face.

  'I want you to lose. Get it? Is that clear?'

  His breath was foul with a mixture of alcohol and nicotine from the night before and his voice had taken on a menacing tone.

  'This horse of Ralph's you're riding this afternoon at Worcester is going to be well backed but if you so much as look like winning I'll give you a hiding you'll never forget.'

  He stopped hitting me and pushed me away. His eyes were wild with anger. Terrified of waking Freddie and afraid of being beaten further, I tried to reason with him.

  'Don't be so stupid. If the stewards catch me and I lose my licence what the hell do you think we're going to live on?'

  'Don't worry about the stewards. They're taken care of. It's about time you did your bit to help me out of my present difficulties.'

  He grabbed me again and hauled me onto the bed. He no longer made any attempt to restrain his temper.

  'You're going to do as I say. If Fainthearted wins today I'll not only give you a good hiding but I'll leave you and take the kid with me, and then apply for custody in the courts. After that, you'll have to leave the cottage. I don't somehow think that the word of a woman jockey, who spends every day at the races and leaves the upbringing of her child to a middle-aged cleaning woman from the village, would prevail over that of the son of a High Court judge when it comes to a decision about custody.'

  Before I could reply, Freddie came in crying. As I picked him up and looked at him, I realised that for the moment I had no option.

  * * *

  I will never forget that afternoon at Worcester and the very first occasion in my life when I actually stopped a horse winning. Even then, it so nearly didn't go according to plan. Coming to the last and ignoring all my efforts to discourage him, Fainthearted was only a length behind the leader. To make matters worse, I was sitting with a double handful and I could have won almost without moving a muscle. Desperate measures were called for. I pushed him into the hurdle and really asked for a big one and then at the last moment deliberately changed my mind. He was completely confused and fell through the hurdle, breaking the top two bars and losing his balance with his back legs as he landed. I did nothing to help him and let the leader go as far away as I could before giving the impression to everyone in the stands that I was making a heroic effort to get back up to win. In fact we failed by a length.

  Far from suspecting that I had been up to no good, Ralph was full of praise for the way I had managed to stay on board and comforted himself with the reflection that Fainthearted was nailed on next time out. The punters were less sympathetic. They had backed the horse down to 5-2 favourite and I had to listen to the usual cracks about how female jockeys ought to stick to the kitchen sink and bringing up children. If they had only known the real reason they had lost their money, they would have lynched me, woman or not.

  It was now three months since that race and in the meantime my relationship with Edward had deteriorated even further. For the first time in years he had become interested in how I spent my day, cross-examining me in detail about whom I had seen and what I had done. Sometimes I felt he already knew the answers and was just trying to catch me out. One thing was clear. This sudden curiosity was not born of any desire to make our marriage work, as he took endless pleasure in ridiculing my friends and belittling my performances in the saddle. I had become a caged bird – to be played with and taunted with no chance of escape.

  * * *

  As I drove down the tricky Hungerford Hill into Lambourn my elation at winning the Gold Cup had given way to a profound sense of foreboding. However I viewed the future for Freddie and myself, it was shrouded in gloom. Edward was not going to forgive this afternoon's betrayal. Since that Worcester race he had made no secret of the fact that I now had to do what he ordered and each night before I had a fancied mount I went to sleep dreaming that I would wake up to be given the instruction not to try. In fact it had only happened on one
other occasion, and I had duly caused the nominated horse to fall in a novice chase at Fontwell.

  Little had I suspected that he had been saving up for the Gold Cup, the one race that every jockey dreams of winning. I could hardly believe my ears when he had casually mentioned the subject the night before as I turned off the light beside the bed. I had begged him not to make me do it, offering to cheat as often as he wanted in the future, but he just shook his head and laughed.

  'I'm sorry, old girl, it's no good. You see, this is the big one, when I solve all my financial problems at a stroke. A touch of genius, I'd call it.'

  'But why the Gold Cup?' I asked despairingly. 'I can't see how it makes any difference to you when I throw a race.'

  'You wouldn't, would you? Think of all those greedy sods who'll be backing Cartwheel, believing he's going to win, and only you, me and one or two friends of mine knowing that it's the one certainty in the race that won't finish.'

  'Who are these so-called friends? They're bookmakers, aren't they? I get it. They can afford to offer generous odds on Cartwheel if they know he's bound to lose. It's a licence to print money. I won't do it.'

  If I didn't lose, he said, the game was up. He would expose me and take Freddie away. When I countered by saying that he would also be exposed, he roared with laughter.

  'You're bloody naive, aren't you? There's nothing to link me to your dishonesty, but plenty to nail you. I took the precaution of paying a thousand pounds cash into your post office account after both Fontwell and Worcester. When, acting out of public duty, I tell my friends at the Jockey Club about the money, and they then take another look at the patrol films of those races, you can wave goodbye to your licence and that darling son of yours. Freddie!' he called out.

  'Shh! What the hell do you want to wake him up for?' I asked angrily.