Armed with my defense, I steeled myself for reentry into the war zone. I opened the door to the ladies’ changing room quietly and heard different voices saying, “She’s always doing it” . . . “Thinks she can get away with anything.”
Elaine Bronson later told me that she thought the whole thing was hysterical and that she was winding up the Princess Royal for fun. To be fair to the others, I had come on the scene a bit fast and was riding more winners than a second-season amateur should do. I was the new threat.
The Princess Royal was standing with her back to me. As she spun around, my world stopped turning. I swallowed and stood there, not knowing what to say. I looked her in the eye, mainly because she was not dressed and I was embarrassed to look anywhere else.
“So,” she said, “are they having a stewards’ inquiry?”
“No,” I replied. “I did ask but, no, they’re not. They say that it happened too early on to make any difference.”
“Really?” The air had grown chilly. “Nothing happens too early on to make the difference of a short-head.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I really am,” I said. That’s where I should have stopped. I really could have walked on into the room and quietly gotten changed. But I am me and I don’t always know when it’s best to stop talking: “Most genuinely sorry . . . but I was not about to pull up in the straight and let you win.”
In the film version of this moment, I will be Spartacus and my fellow amateur riders will one by one start clapping. In the real version, they sucked in their breath. This was a dangerous move.
The Princess Royal fixed me with a steely glare.
“Well, maybe you should have done,” she said, and turned back to continue dressing. If I had had a weak bladder, I might have wet myself.
The Sun reporter wrote: “The princess had a face like thunder when returning to the weighing room. And she summoned an especially withering glance for an intrepid scribbler who attempted a brief interview.”
There was plenty of talk of me asking for a royal pardon, and the general theme of the articles was “Upstart amateur, daughter of the royal trainer, carves up the Queen’s daughter on the first bend and then beats her in a photo finish.”
On BBC television, Julian Wilson introduced the video footage from Beverley and asked Jimmy Lindley for his opinion.
“Clare Balding has committed the cardinal sin of race riding,” said the former professional jockey. “She has shown absolutely no regard for the horse behind her. You can’t do that, you simply can’t. I am surprised she was not disqualified.”
That was my first inside lesson in how the media works. A story will be told from the angle that best suits those telling it.
For the rest of that year, the Princess Royal and I rode in the odd race together and successfully avoided getting too close—either on the course or off it. Two years later, in 1991, we were back at Beverley riding in a one-mile race with only seven runners. The Princess Royal was on a horse called Croft Valley, trained by Richard Whitaker, who had also trained Tender Type. I was on my beloved Knock Knock.
The Duke saw my mother as soon as he arrived at the racecourse and walked toward her. Although tempted to run away, she stood her ground and let him say his piece.
“I’ve realized that I was a bit harsh,” he said. “I’ve watched your daughter a lot since that race—and I may have been wrong about her. She’s clearly competent. I’m sorry.”
Mum smiled. “That’s all right, but please don’t jab your finger at me again. It’s rude.”
“I won’t, if she stays out of the way this time.”
Croft Valley won by a neck from Knock Knock and, as we were pulling up, I spoke to the Princess Royal for the first time in two years.
“Well done, Ma’am,” I said. “Happy now?”
I know. I know. I should have just shut up after the “Well done,” but I couldn’t help it. The brat in me breaks out sometimes. I thought it was a funny line but, for a joke to work, you need a receptive audience.
~
Waterlow Park beating Princess Anne at Beverley had contributed to a fabulous 1989 season during which I rode six winners from nineteen starts at a strike rate of more than 30 percent. I was leading the amateur championship and the Lanson-sponsored competition to be leading Lady Rider. We came to the last race of the lot at Folkestone in October. I had flown back from Paris to ride, and my fitness as well as my weight had suffered from the baguette diet. Despite riding out in Chantilly, I felt woefully out of practice.
The only rider who could pass my points total was Elaine Bronson. She continued to tease me for being soft, rich and, now, continental.
“Jetting in from Paris, how flash is that? Still not working for a living then?”
The last time we had ridden together, Elaine had offered me CDs and Puffa jackets from the trunk of her car, at a “great discount.”
“Honest, Clare,” she promised me, “you won’t find a better deal.”
She made me laugh but, my God, she was ruthless. She had to win this race. Nothing less would do. If she won, it didn’t matter where I finished—she would win the title. If anyone finished in front of her, I would hold on to my points lead and be crowned champion.
Elaine worked for a trainer called David Wilson. He was a renowned form expert and always appeared at the races with a massive book in his hand, in which he noted down all the past runs of various horses, with comments and his ratings. He was a clever trainer, placing his horses well and often pulling off a betting coup. His talent was in targeting a horse at a specific race and making sure it had a handicap mark that gave it a chance of winning. Kovalevskia was the four-year-old filly he had selected for Elaine to ride in this final, championship-deciding race. She had run poorly in her previous three starts, all over farther than a mile and a half, so had dropped down the handicap. Now running at her preferred distance again, she had a definite chance but, according to the betting, my chance on Straight Gold was better.
“See you on the other side,” Elaine said as we loaded into the stalls.
Sharron Murgatroyd was riding in the race as well.
“Play nicely, girls,” she shouted. “And may the best woman win.”
Elaine made all the running. She was five lengths clear and stretching away as we turned into the straight at Folkestone, and as I knew Straight Gold wasn’t traveling well enough to catch her, I shouted, “Someone go after her. Please!”
Straight Gold started to run on, but it was all too late. Kovalevskia won by fifteen lengths. It was a rout.
I cantered up beside Elaine and patted her on the back.
“Well done,” I said. “Amazing result.”
“She’s a flying machine, this filly,” she said. “I knew I’d beat you, but I never expected it to be so easy.”
She winked at me and grinned. “Work—it does pay off, you know.”
Part of me was pleased for her. I liked her and, when I saw David Wilson hugging her and lifting her off the ground in the winner’s enclosure, I figured that they must have had a major bet as well. Kovalevskia had been backed in from 14–1 to 9–1. There was a lot more riding on the result for them than there had been for me.
It still hurt, though. I may have been the leading amateur, but I went there thinking I could be the champion lady rider as well, and instead I had to stand there watching someone else winning their weight in champagne, someone else being declared the best in the country. The top sportsmen and -women will tell you that it is moments like this they hold on to. They want to remember the pain of losing to spur them on in the dark, cold hours of lonely training. They are masochists, the lot of them. I really don’t want to remember it at all.
I knew I would cope, but I couldn’t bear the disappointment of others. I didn’t want to look at my father as I walked into second place. He had always maintained second was for losers.
Now, he surprised me.
“Never mind,” he said. “You did everything you could and you’ve had a wonderful year. We gave it our best shot, and we’ll make sure we win both titles next year.”
With that, he kissed me on the cheek and patted my shoulder.
“Don’t forget to weigh in,” he said, as I tried to pretend that I wasn’t crying.
As we were driving home, Dad reminded me that I had at least won something. He gave me a box and a card. In the box was a butterfly brooch and on the card it said:
To the Champion Amateur
(and so nearly the lady’s too)
With lots of love from
A very proud Dad
18.
Song of Sixpence
Many of the lads in my father’s yard had worked there their whole lives. Jim Corfield had arrived in his early thirties and was still there, giving the horses their hay every morning, shortly before he died, at the age of eighty-five. My father gave the address at his funeral and said that he was one of the finest horsemen he had ever come across.
There is a black-and-white picture of Jim cantering up the gallop on a sleek black thoroughbred. His trousers are tucked into his socks, his jodhpur boots pushed firmly into the irons, and he’s wearing no hat.
The quotation above the photo is from Sir Winston Churchill: “There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.”
Jim had been one of Dad’s senior work riders from when he took over the license in 1964 and was now looking after a six-year-old pot-bellied bay gelding called Song of Sixpence, who had had a decent career but had rather lost his way.
It was evening stables, and Dad was doing the rounds, feeling each horse’s legs for any warmth, which could signify an injury. Our assistant trainer, Patrick, was carrying the bucket of carrots, while I stayed a few paces behind, pausing to make a fuss of the horses I knew. I caught the end of a conversation my father was having in the next stall.
“I’m thinking we should try something completely different with him,” said my father.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know—maybe an amateur race. Clare could ride him, see if it makes a difference.”
“Oh no, Guv’nor, don’t do that. Please give him another chance first!”
I stayed stock still, scared of revealing myself and making the situation worse.
My father was determined. “Come on, Jim, it’s not that bad. There’s a race at Newbury in a week or so that is perfect. Let’s enter him for that and see how we get on.”
Jim had a sad-looking face at the best of times, but I could see through the bars that it was particularly mournful that evening. I slipped by the front of the stable as he tied up Song of Sixpence, and hoped that he hadn’t seen me.
I avoided Jim, and he ignored me on the few occasions that I rode Song of Sixpence at home. He was a sweet, placid horse, but desperately uncomfortable. He had a shuddering slow canter that felt like you were on a vibrating tractor but, when he went faster, his stride was much more fluid. Lots of racehorses are poor in their slower paces but, when allowed to stretch their limbs and go on a stride quicker, they move well.
Song of Sixpence could carry weight, which was just as well, because he was going to be at the top of the handicap for any race we had together. He was easily the highest rated and therefore, technically, the best horse I rode.
In the race at Newbury, Maxine Cowdrey was riding a fabulous horse trained by Mary Reveley called Mellottie. They were 9–4 favorite, Amanda Harwood’s mount Alreef was second favorite at 15–2 and Song of Sixpence was 14–1.
The race was recorded by BBC television to be shown during that afternoon’s coverage. I decided to keep an eye on Maxine and Amanda, to track them and stay as close as I could. Dad had given me simple instructions:
“Just look after him. You know what you’re doing and, if you think he can win, go for it. Try to at least look as if you’re riding a finish.”
He said that because I had been hauled up in front of the stewards for “not trying” in a race earlier that month. In my head I had been riding a forceful finish but whenever I watched the video it looked as if I wasn’t moving at all.
“Watch any winner I’ve ever ridden,” I told the stewards. “I always look like that. I’m doing the best I can. Honestly.”
Jim led me out on to the course and muttered something to the effect that he still didn’t agree with running his star horse in an amateur race but, if I was going to have to ride him, to do it properly.
Song of Sixpence shuddered his way down to the start and I almost thought of pulling him out because he felt lame. It was lucky I had ridden him at home and knew he was always like this. I thought about Jim and how much I needed to prove to him that I could ride a good horse, and I thought of Mr. Mellon, who owned Song of Sixpence. I was wearing the famous black colors with the gold cross, the same ones carried by Mill Reef, and here I was at Newbury, our local course, in a race that was going to be on BBC TV. I couldn’t withdraw.
As the field jumped off, I was still in two minds about Song of Sixpence. I decided that, if he didn’t feel right at racing pace, I would pull him up straight away. He settled into his stride and felt fine. I was right behind Alreef and alongside Mellottie. Perfect. The straight at Newbury is long, so there is plenty of time to make a move and, as the field had fanned across the course, there was room. I watched Maxine kick Mellottie into the lead and go for home. I watched Alreef follow them, and I sat behind them, waiting for one or both of them to fade. Mellottie ran out of gas first, and I went past, talking to Song of Sixpence as I went: “That’s a good lad. You can do it. Come on now, one more to catch. Let’s go.”
He picked up and drew level with Alreef. I tried to push him in rhythm with his stride, feeling his lungs expand and contract as he made his effort. We nudged ahead and, as we passed the line, I raised my hand in an air-punch.
I pulled him up, turned him around and cantered back to the stands. Jim was running toward me, beaming with pride.
“Good lad,” he said, patting Song of Sixpence on the neck. “I knew this was a good idea. Always said so.”
He was looking up at me and grinning. Dad puffed out his chest as we came into the winner’s enclosure.
“See, Jim, I told you she’d look after him. Cheeky bloody thing!” He was looking at me. “Nearly gave me a heart attack, you did. Barely moving and winning by a head—you want to watch yourself. Now, don’t forget to weigh in.”
After the trophy presentation, I was asked to go up to the television studio to be interviewed by Julian Wilson. I was still red in the face from the effort and gave a breathless, gushing interview.
Song of Sixpence was unplaced in his next couple of runs for professional jockeys, then won for Steve Cauthen, but only by a short-head, in a race he should have dominated. He then finished down the field at York, with Seamus O’Gorman on board.
“How is he, Jim?” Dad asked as he went around evening stables.
“I don’t think he’s quite himself,” Jim replied. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Of course you can.”
“Well, the thing is,” Jim said, pausing and then almost whispering, “I think Clare should ride him again.”
“I’m sorry, Jim, I didn’t quite hear you.” Dad was teasing him.
“I think Clare should ride him again,” Jim said, a little louder this time.
“Really? Well, I’m sure she’ll be pleased that you approve. I shall see what there is that might be suitable.”
When Dad told me, he couldn’t stop laughing. There was a race at Ayr, the same one that I had won on Mailman a couple of years earlier, which was just the ticket. So Jim and Song of Sixpence made the long journey in the horse trailer to just south of Glasgow, and Mum and I met them there. Song of Sixpence justified favoritism and won
cosily. He was rated 84 at the time of that race. Steve Cauthen took over again and won on him for the following two Saturdays, including the Chesterfield Cup at Glorious Goodwood. Then he won a Listed Race at Windsor and his rating shot up to 108, way beyond the class of amateur races.
Jim was right: he was far too talented for me—but I caught him at just the right time and benefited with two wins out of two.
~
I was nineteen and in my second “gap year,” having failed dismally to get an offer from any university I liked. Bristol and Exeter had both turned me down, despite my improved “A”-level grades. In the interview I admitted that I had selected universities according to their proximity to racecourses. I now wonder if that was the most intelligent answer. They did not seem impressed.
I wanted to give Cambridge another shot. I had no particular reason to think that I might get in, except for the knowledge that I should never have applied for law and that I was much better suited to reading English. Age was on my side, as I had been young for my year at school and, as long as I promised to do something useful, Mum said it was worth giving it a go.
My father made his one and only contribution to my academic progress by organizing for me to have interview training at Radley College, where my brother was a pupil under the headmastership of one of Dad’s old rugby mates, Dennis Silk.
“Everyone says that boys come across more confidently when they’re interviewed,” Dad explained. “I mean, of course they are—they’re better at most things—but I think it might do you good to get a little help so that you can sell yourself.
“Now, what is it you’re going to read again? Biology?”
“No, Dad.” It always annoyed me that he had no clue which subjects I was any good at. “English.”
My Animals and Other Family Page 25
