Not Enough Time

by Henrietta Knight

  After his dressing down, Terry was annoyed and refused to go out riding ever again with any of my owners. The only times he rode horses after the aforementioned fiasco were with me. We habitually went for rides on Christmas Day, choosing two sensible conveyances and quietly pottering around the farm and the villages. We missed all the church services and visited another of my brilliant owners, Charles Cadogan, to wish him a happy Christmas.

  Those mornings were magic; they were romantic and fun. It was an honour to ride out with Terry. Never in my wildest childhood dreams would I have imagined myself riding side by side with my hero.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wedding Bells

  When Terry and I had lived together for over a year at West Lockinge Farm and he had become accepted by my owners, my staff and neighbourhood friends, we decided that an engagement would not be out of the question. We were already sharing our lives. Terry was proving to be an enormous help to me with the training and we continued to adore each other. We hated being apart – fortunately we seldom were – but even a day seemed a long time. I cannot remember which of us decided that we should get married, but I do remember that there was no special romantic proposal from Terry, who had twice ‘been there and done that’. We just agreed that we wanted to be together for the rest of our lives. How lucky that I had met and fallen in love with somebody who had the same interests as myself.

  Mum fully supported our decision and was responsible for putting our names in the engagements sections of The Times and the Daily Telegraph on 25 March 1995. She always wanted things to be done properly, even though it was probably not the marriage she had originally envisaged for her eldest daughter. Also, I’m not sure how pleased my father would have been if he had seen me on the brink of marriage to an impecunious former National Hunt jockey who had lost most of his hard-earned savings through two unsuccessful earlier marriages and divorces.

  I well remember Dad telling me that I was crazy when I started training racehorses. He said it was throwing good money after bad, although he did become hugely supportive and proud when I began turning out winners. He used to follow my career closely. There is no doubt that he mellowed with age, and at least my sister had married Sam Vestey, of whom he greatly approved. Perhaps he would have accepted Terry after all, although his unbelievable tidiness would not have complemented Terry’s extremely untidy existence. If Dad had ever seen the inside of Terry’s truck he would have exploded with shock and horror. When we were children, everything was kept immaculately tidy in and around Lockinge Manor. We weren’t allowed to leave any of our possessions scattered about the house, and if Dad picked them up, he would place them on the staircase so that we would take them up to our bedrooms on our way up.

  Once our engagement was announced in March 1995, we were inundated with wonderful letters and cards. Terry and I were extremely touched; even now, I still have those lovely ‘well done’ messages filed in a drawer in my office. After Terry’s death, I read them again. Although they made me cry, I will treasure them for the rest of my life. We tentatively pencilled in July as the best month for our wedding because there would not be too many horses in work and the weather is usually good at that time of year. Mum announced that she wanted to give us a reception in her house afterwards. It took a while to draw up a list of possible guests, but in the end, over 200 invitations were sent out for Sunday, 30 July.

  Then disaster struck: I could not find Terry’s divorce certificate. We would have to cancel our booking at the local register office and the well-laid plans for us to tie the knot would have to be put on hold. In retrospect, I suppose I should have paid more attention and read the small print more carefully. I learned later never to take anything for granted with Terry. It turned out he did not even have an up-to-date passport, driving licence or shotgun certificate. How could I ever have expected him to possess a valid divorce certificate? I couldn’t even find his birth certificate. Paperwork was alien to him and he totally disregarded it. As far as he was concerned, it had no importance in his everyday life.

  Initially, it was a shock when I realised that Terry and I could not be legally joined. For the first time in my life, I longed to be married, and for Terry to be my husband. I loved him with all my heart and we both wanted to rubber-stamp our union, but now it was impossible.

  It was with some trepidation that I told Mum, but she reacted superbly and insisted that she wanted to hold the party, come what may. Terry said, in his usual matter-of-fact way, ‘Don’t worry, darling. Fuck it: we’ll celebrate first and get married later.’ As it happened, nobody even mentioned the register office on that memorable day. Everybody assumed that I was now Terry’s third wife. I had already decided to continue training racehorses under my maiden name, so I didn’t even need to be called Mrs Biddlecombe. Terry and I were already inseparable and we continued to lead our lives as if we were married. In later years, I did track down the missing document but we did not visit the register office until 2011.

  There was a lot of excitement before Mum’s party in 1995. I had spent many weeks thinking about it and I wanted to look my best on the big day. I ate very little during May and June, which meant that my weight was good and, of course, neither of us was drinking any alcohol. My special aunt – Catherine Clanwilliam, Mum’s sister – announced that she would like to give me my wedding outfit and I spent a considerable amount of time choosing it. I ended up with a cream silk dress and jacket – virginal white wouldn’t have been appropriate and I preferred cream anyway. Terry wore a smart pin-striped dark-grey suit, and a blue silk tie emblazoned with small ducks. He looked wonderful. He kissed and cuddled me throughout the day and, as usual, I found him utterly irresistible. Never in my wildest dreams had I envisaged attending my own wedding reception. It was a wonderful day – possibly the happiest of my whole life.

  My mother organised the celebrations superbly, leaving no stone unturned. She had always been brilliant at arranging parties. Not only was there delicious food, but plenty of champagne on hand to loosen peoples’ tongues. Our guests seemed extremely happy. Sam Vestey, made a short welcoming speech and referred to Terry as his new brother-in-law. My sister was, as usual, hugely supportive and in top form. Looking back, I can hardly believe that she had a life-threatening stroke barely four months later. As we cut the enormous wedding cake, I thought how great it was to see Terry enjoying himself amid so many of his old friends, a number of whom had not set eyes on him for many years. I could see that, once again, he was experiencing a feeling of pride and happiness. His confidence had returned.

  *

  The autumn following our celebration party was exciting and we had a lot to look forward to, but on 30 November 1995, while I was at Leicester Racecourse, everything changed. It was a cold, dreary day. I had saddled four runners but none of them had covered themselves in glory; all had completed their races but there were no winners. Then the telephone rang. It was my secretary, Christine. My sister, Ce, had collapsed at her home and been taken to hospital, unconscious.

  My heart almost stopped. Ce and I have always been extremely close, right from our childhood days, and she had been an immense support to Terry and me at our reception that summer. I longed to be with her, but I was stuck many miles away from Lockinge on a grey day in the shires. It was a tense journey home and there was no further news when I rang the office again. Mum had driven to the hospital in Cheltenham, but, like Terry, she never used a mobile telephone and I couldn’t talk to her.

  When I eventually reached the farmhouse, I remember wandering around in a daze. Terry was both supportive and sympathetic. He tried to keep me calm, but everybody was anxious. We waited and waited for news. Eventually, I spoke to Mum. Ce had suffered an aneurysm, a haemorrhage in her brain, and would have to be transported in another ambulance to Frenchay Hospital near Bristol for an emergency operation that night by a top neurological surgeon. She was only given a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the anaesthetic.

  There was nothing that Terry or I
could do. My brother-in-law, Sam, and Mum travelled to the hospital and said they would ring us when there was news. Terry and I went upstairs to bed, but neither of us could sleep. Indeed, I cried my eyes out. I felt tense and strained. We just lay side by side and held hands. Terry constantly tried to reassure me. The telephone was beside the bed – we waited and waited. Finally, at 3 a.m., it rang and I picked up the receiver, shaking with fear and anticipation – the news was slightly better. Ce had survived the surgery, but was still in a coma. Over the next few months, she just lay there in Frenchay Hospital, with tubes and machines attached to her. At first she was in the intensive care unit but later was moved into a side ward.

  We visited her daily. She looked beautiful but hardly stirred. We will never know whether she subconsciously recognised us when we visited her, because there was never a flicker on her face. It was extremely depressing – heart-breaking, in fact. We were told that it was unlikely she would ever be able to talk or walk again.

  During the months of anxiety with Ce, Terry was the most wonderful support. Together we drove down the M4 to see her every single day and talk to her, even though she couldn’t respond. Terry would take her hand and stroke her arms. I don’t know how I could have coped without him. At home, I still had my stables full of racehorses and most of them were ready to run. We continued to feed them early in the mornings, but I hardly ever went racing in December.

  We relied on a great team at home and, in particular, Jane Brackenbury, my assistant, who took over a lot of the responsibility. She did most of the travelling to the racecourses. Fortunately, I was still able to study the racing calendar and form books, as well as talk to owners on the telephone, while Terry drove me down the motorway. I did all the entries from the car and we had six winners and eight placed horses in the weeks running up to Christmas. The only day I do remember going racing was 13 December. We had a double on that day at Exeter. Both horses were ridden by Ger Ryan and one of them, Bishops Island, was owned by Sam Vestey. I remember saying to the press that the win was for my sister and for her speedy recovery. It was an emotional day and I found it hard to fight back the tears.

  After a difficult Christmas in 1995 and further visits to Frenchay Hospital, Ce miraculously started to show a little improvement. She began moving her arms, and on several occasions, tried to pull the tubes out of her nose. In January, she was moved to Gloucester Royal Hospital, which was closer to her home. I took a number of photographs of her during her months in both hospitals. She has always been a fighter and she defied all the doctors to make an amazing recovery, even though she was, and still is, slightly handicapped on her left side. Her mind and speech gradually returned, and nowadays, I find that Ce’s memory of our childhood days is far better than mine.

  She has achieved a great deal since her stroke. For many years she successfully ran the stud at Stowell Park, where she and Sam bred many good thoroughbred flat racehorses. Sam was a tower of strength throughout her illness, as indeed, was Alison Roberts, the housekeeper/nanny, who was with Ce when the stroke occurred. It was Alison who immediately called an ambulance, and without her swift actions, it is unlikely that my darling sister would be with us today. Alison saved her life.

  Mum, too, was superb during the crisis with Ce and kept icy-cool. We often took her with us in the car when we paid our visits to Frenchay. She was deeply shocked, but she never panicked. It was even more difficult for her, since she had lived on her own after Dad’s death in 1993 and had nobody to talk to during the long evenings. Ce and I could never have wished for a better mother, but her life did change dramatically after Ce’s illness and she began to show a lot more anxiety. Both Terry and I watched her carefully and involved her as much as possible in our own daily lives, which she really seemed to appreciate.

  *

  Once we had openly set up home together, it became obvious that Terry’s three youngest children – James, Robert and Lucy – would greatly benefit from their father having a solid base in the countryside. They loved coming to Lockinge to visit us at weekends and in the school holidays. Terry often drove to Gloucester to collect them from their grandparents’ house. There was always plenty to occupy them on the farm and Terry kept them busy. Shooting played a big part for the boys and Terry managed to buy a clay pigeon trap so that James and Robert could practise with the guns he bought them. There was plenty of rabbit shooting too – especially after dark by the light of the car’s headlights. Our rabbit population was never significantly reduced, but there were some fun days. The dogs adored these outings and used to get thoroughly overexcited in the back of the car.

  During the days at Lockinge, James practised his driving skills on our two tractors and helped me on the farm. He and Terry spent hours together doing the topping and the harrowing of the fields, and this laid the foundation for the contracting work James later undertook on farms around Gloucester. James has many happy memories of those days with his father, but one in particular stands out. ‘It was the Lambourn Charity Open Day in the 1990s,’ he recalls. ‘Dad was taking part in the camel racing and he took myself, Robert and Lucy with him. Hen had to stay at home as she had owners in the yard. The number cloths were constantly changed on the camels but after the first heat, Dad worked out which was the best camel, and said to us, “That’s my camel – make sure you watch it. Don’t let it out of your sight; I want it for the finals.” He got his way and duly won the biggest camel race of the day, but it was the first time that any of us had seen him so competitive. There was determination in his eyes and it made me realise what he must have been like in his racing days.’

  Whenever there was snow at Lockinge, Terry towed the children behind the car on toboggans – in particular on an old model known as, ‘The Flexible Flyer’, which they could steer with their feet. It was great sport – accompanied by plenty of swear words when he stopped the car too quickly. They also used to sledge down the slopes by the farm on old tin trays. Terry really enjoyed the fun, and James vividly remembers those days of being pulled across the fields and up the lanes before rolling down the snowy slopes.

  Not only did James enjoy driving the tractors, he helped with repairs to the farm buildings and was brilliant with fencing jobs. Terry made him work hard, but he seemed to enjoy it. From the age of sixteen, James’s other interest was motorbikes, but these terrified Terry. He was devastated when James had a bad accident in 2012 and broke his thigh. In earlier years, James also played rugby but once he had damaged a leg on the pitch, this put paid to a potentially good career.

  Robert was less interested in machines but was hyperactive and a bit of a daredevil. He loved shooting and fishing. As a child he used to fish for trout on many local rivers and lakes. He was also keen to ride horses, having ridden a pony when he was very young, but he had never done any jumping. I used to give him lessons on a retired event horse, the wonderful Sir Wattie. Robert seemed to have natural balance and saw good strides. Later, in the 1990s, when Charles Cadogan was looking for a home for Rectory Garden, one of his old steeplechasers, I asked him if we could have the horse as a schoolmaster for Robert. He had been trained by Tim Forster and had won some good staying chases under rules. Rectory was a great character and Robert won nine point-to-points on him.

  After his point-to-point days, Robert went on a course at the British Racing School in Newmarket, then spent six months working for trainer Nicky Henderson. After that, I gave him a job in my yard for six months before he moved over to his godfather, Nigel Twiston-Davies. Robert won thirty-seven races under National Hunt Rules, firstly as an amateur, and then as a conditional (professional) jockey. He had several wins for our stable too, in particular on Fragrant Rose, a charming mare owned and bred by David Jenks.

  Much to Terry’s disappointment, however, Robert hung up his boots at an early age and began another career: he embarked on a master saddler’s course. He now owns his own business, The Biddlecombe Saddle Company. Robert would have struggled to make it as a fully fledged professional jo
ckey because he had several bad falls and injuries to his wrists. He also lacked his father’s drive and dedication. There have been many changes in the racing world since Terry’s riding days and Robert saw that he would not be able to make a proper career as a jockey. Nevertheless, he was always a very fit boy and loved running. After giving up race-riding he trained hard for triathlons and, as an amateur, ended up seventh in the Triathlon European Championships in Ireland and fourteenth in the Triathlon World Championships in Budapest. Robert is also an excellent artist and I have two lovely pictures by him in the house. One depicts my favourite gander, thirty-three-year-old Grandad, and the other is a sketch of a duck in the yard.

  Terry and his sons did plenty of driving around the fields on the farm, mostly in Terry’s old Honda – the very same car in which he had driven me to his parents’ house in 1993. This splendid vehicle endured plenty of hardship but always sailed through its MOTs. It was in this car too that Terry accompanied Robert to his first driving test in Newbury. He did have a few lessons from a professional driving instructor, but Terry reckoned that he could do the job just as well. He was never one for spending money unnecessarily. On the morning of the driving test, Terry asked me for a bottle of Tippex. Then he painted the letters ‘L’ and ‘R’ on either side of the steering wheel. Robert would now be sure to know which way to go when the examiner asked him to turn left or right. Not surprisingly, he failed his test and it was pronounced void due to unfair outside assistance. Robert has many memories of his father, but above all, he says he misses Terry’s sense of humour and infectious laugh. ‘He used to come up with joke after joke,’ he says. ‘Life with him was so much fun.’