However, with the radio full on, our nights became even more disturbed. I would lie awake for hours, imagining plagues of rats. Where was the Pied Piper? I did not relax until they had all been killed. It soon became obvious that the poison had worked because decaying rat bodies began to give off vile odours, which wafted through the vents by the chimney and across the fire grate. The stench spread everywhere. I have smelt dead mice before in a house but the stink of decaying rats was so pungent and disgusting that we could not get it out of our noses. In the end, I placed two scented candles in the drawing room, one on the mantelpiece and one beside the bed.
*
On 7 November 2013, A. P. McCoy rode his 4,000th winner. Terry was delighted. That evening we were invited by Chanelle McCoy to the celebrations at the Outside Chance Pub near Marlborough. Terry was determined to be there. Carol Titmuss and I looked after him and took him in the mobility car in his wheelchair. He met many friends and received a great welcome. Even though the evening exhausted him, he was immensely happy to have been a part of it. He kept smiling and there are some lovely pictures. It was the last time he ever went out for a celebration, but what a way to end his party days. A. P. was his hero and in Terry’s eyes could do no wrong. He worshipped him.
Later in November, Terry Court and Andrew Elliott from Brightwells came to see Terry and me, but the visit upset both of them. After Terry died in January 2014, Andrew wrote to me saying, ‘Seeing him so poorly back in November left a strong impression on me and I still cannot imagine how you managed to cope with looking after him when he was in such a helpless way for so long. I was terribly moved after that visit, and seeing the pickle that Terry was in and the love and strength you were demonstrating in caring for him, left me feeling very humble indeed.’
*
During December, Terry’s health deteriorated further. He became weaker and weaker, but he still enjoyed his food and his spirits remained high. He had plenty of visitors and watched racing every day. On one occasion Padraic and Mary Hynes flew over from Connemara to pay him a visit. Fortunately, his mind remained sharp and when watching racing on his television he was as quick as ever in picking up the jockeys’ faults.
As the month progressed, I moved him into a single hospital bed with moveable parts so that I could get him propped up into a better position to greet his friends and watch the wildlife through the large window that looked out onto the garden. In particular, my chickens would sit on the windowsill and peck at the glass on the windows for food and the red kites would swoop down onto the lawn, to feast on carcasses that I placed there. Terry loved watching these birds. They have a wingspan of over six feet and they fascinated him.
When the hospital bed arrived, I bought myself a new single bed, so I could continue to sleep beside Terry. I could still hold his hand in the night and talk to him but it was tough going. I was awake for much of the time, as he constantly needed help. In particular he needed to change his position on the mattress. It was not easy to move him, because he was very heavy and sometimes I was not strong enough to ease him over onto his side. Terry also developed horrible ulcers on one of his legs and on the heel of his right foot. These sores added to his misery and pain. I used to do everything I could to make him comfortable, but it was extremely hard. To crown it all, he could only be given certain painkillers, because the really strong ones interacted with his other medication.
Our nights were long and difficult. I dreaded them. They wore me out.
Christmas in 2013 was particularly tough. Terry and I always used to spend Christmas at West Lockinge – ever since the Best Mate days when we had good horses racing on Boxing Day, especially in the King George VI Chase at Kempton. We used to get invited to lunch with Ce and Sam, but always turned down the invitation. I enjoyed cooking the turkey at home with all its trimmings and Terry relished the ladles of bread sauce – one of his favourite foods – plus the Christmas pudding in flames with brandy and the brandy butter.
In 2013 we were never going to enjoy Christmas or spend it like we had in previous years, yet I remember Terry saying to me, ‘Whatever happens, I’m going to sit up at the table in the kitchen for my Christmas dinner like I’ve always done before. I want a proper knife and fork.’ Of course, he could not use a knife because of his crippled hands, but I cut everything up for him and he did well to eat most of the food that I gave him.
I became good at feeding him, although he said his brother, Tony, was far better, because I did not always concentrate hard enough and allowed spoonfuls to overflow from his mouth and spill onto his clothes. I remedied this by putting a bib on him at mealtimes, or a towel around his neck.
Terry was surprisingly perky on that Christmas Day. Mike Palmer, who lodges in one of our cottages and sometimes helps in the yard, was around to help me lift him in and out of his chair. I could not have managed without Mike’s assistance with the slings that the NHS had provided. These are complicated contraptions, but they took the weight off my back. During the months I cared for Terry, I suffered quite badly from strained muscles and pulled ligaments, due to the many times that I had to turn him over in bed or prop him up on his pillows after he had slipped down the bed. In reality these were not jobs for one person alone and I kept telling Terry that I was not strong enough, but he always insisted that I try my hardest. Indeed, there were times when he was extremely demanding and he used to get quite cross with me if I did not handle him correctly.
While Terry lay in bed and I was elsewhere in the house, garden or stables, I rigged up bells that rang in every room, with three or four different ringtones. He also had a simple mobile telephone, with just one green knob to press if he needed me. I sometimes left him for about ten or twenty minutes, with the telephone positioned on his chest. It gave him confidence and it often rang.
Towards the end of 2013 we managed to find a good local carer, Sue Webb, who came to the farm for a few hours each morning. She had a great sense of humour and was well tuned in to Terry’s jokes, which he was still telling until two or three days before he died. Laura, the district nurse, was also very helpful and used to take his blood, while an experienced occupational therapist showed me how to operate the slings.
Prior to employing Sue, I had found some extra outside help from local centres, but Terry would not tolerate most of the carers. There were only two he liked. The rest, he told me in no uncertain terms, to get rid of because they annoyed him and had no sense of humour. I think he was decidedly rude to them. He had expected me to do all the daily chores, but I could not cope on my own. What really annoyed Terry was that the agency workers were not even allowed to give him his pills, even if I had left them ready in specially labelled pots – nor could they cut his fingernails. Health and Safety gone mad.
Still, even without additional carers, I managed and after Christmas, Terry began talking about the next year’s plans and how we would get back to Connemara. We envisaged Carol Titmuss coming with us as our extra helper. Terry never thought he was going to die, and he never once spoke about death. He was certainly much weaker than he had ever been before, but he was convinced that he would get better and believed that once the ulcer had healed on his foot, he would be able to stand up and walk again. I had completely healed the ulcer on his leg with homeopathic horse remedies and the one on his heel, though responding more slowly, was progressing in the right direction. All he wanted to do was to be able to take some steps on his own. His optimism was incredible.
At the end of December, when people came to visit Terry, several of them had colds and sore throats. In retrospect, I think he, too, picked up an infection, due to his low resistance and poor immunity. His breathing got more laboured and he became wheezy in his chest. I got nebulizers from the surgery, which helped him, but he mostly stayed in bed. The room was warm and cosy. Mick Channon came to the house on most days. He was brilliant with Terry and kept his spirits high. They would sip little glasses of whisky and reminisce about the past. When discussing the fun they had in
their racing and football days, Terry said to Mick, ‘The trouble is, there are still plenty out there, but nowadays there is not enough time.’
This is how I got the title for my book.
After New Year’s Day, which was on a Wednesday, Terry seemed to go downhill and although we had plenty of chats, he was struggling even more with his breathing. He was fine when I puffed the nebulizer into his mouth and he was still able to eat his meals and watch the television, but he did not feel well, and on Friday I had to cancel a visit from A. P. McCoy. This was very unusual, as Terry loved A. P.’s visits, but he told me that he did not feel up to talking to people from outside and preferred to rest and sleep.
His regular doctor, Paul Bryan, was on holiday, which was unfortunate, but that Friday afternoon a locum doctor from Abingdon came to visit. She listened to his chest and prescribed some strong antibiotics, to be started at once. She did suggest that he might be better in a hospital, but Terry flatly refused to leave the farmhouse and I honestly believe that if he’d been driven anywhere in a bumpy ambulance the journey would have killed him. He was too weak to be moved.
As the weekend progressed, he began to improve and became more cheerful. He seemed contented and relaxed, and slept peacefully in between our conversations and watching his favourite television programmes. On the Saturday night, I was greatly heartened by his progress. He drank some nourishing soup and I retired early myself, to get some sleep beside him. During the night he woke on several occasions and I got out of my bed to make him more comfortable. We talked a lot that night and we made our plans for Sunday. He told me that he definitely wanted to get up and go into the kitchen for the day and we agreed to move him in his sling when Sue, the carer, arrived for duty.
On Sunday morning, 5 January 2014, I got up as usual to feed the horses. Terry was sleeping, so I crept out without disturbing him. I spent about thirty minutes in the yard and then returned to our night quarters to check him over. My usual routine was to raise the back of Terry’s bed and sit him up, before sponging his face and cleaning his teeth. I would then give him a light breakfast. He loved Weetabix soaked in milk and a cool cup of tea, with plenty of sugar. Sue was due to come in and help me at 9 a.m. Together we would make him comfortable and dress him. I would tend to the bandage on his ulcerated heel.
Yet when I went back into the house I noticed that his breathing had again become noisy. He looked particularly pale and was very quiet. I decided to take his temperature and blood pressure – I had my own machine at home – but all the readings were normal. Thinking he might be a little dehydrated, I gave him a drink of water with electrolytes. He sipped the water and swallowed normally.
I was quietly talking to him and holding his hand when he made a little gurgle, put his head back onto his pillows and closed his eyes. I gave him a little shake and talked to him but there was no response. He was dead. It was as if he had waited for me to come back from the horses to be at his side. I have seen many animals die and I knew that Terry had taken his last breath. It was a weird situation. I felt totally alone. He lay there motionless, but he looked peaceful.
A strange numbness came over me – I continued to sit beside him in a trance. I did not want to leave him. I knew that this was the last time that I would ever see him, but I had to pull myself together and take some action. I remember walking out into the yard and telling two of my Sunday helpers, ‘Terry has just died.’ They couldn’t believe it. There was a long silence, broken only by Nobby, the Chinese gander, loudly honking around the pond. I returned to the house and rang Tony. He was out. I left a message, then telephoned Mick Channon’s office, and my sister. Afterwards, shaking with emotion, I pressed the numbers 999 on the kitchen telephone. I tried to explain what had happened. Later in the morning policemen, ambulance men and a doctor came to the farm. I did not cry, because I was in a state of shock. Sue came to the front door at nine a.m.. I remember saying to her, ‘We’ve lost him.’ She was distraught.
I was utterly shattered that Sunday morning, but my neighbours and close friends were superb. They comforted me and we talked. I needed to be strong, for Terry’s sake. He never liked me to give in to my emotions, even though he would cry regularly himself when moved by a situation. Tony and Mick sat with me for most of the day and dear Elspeth O’Donnell, the local physiotherapist who had so often tended to Terry, made endless cups of tea. She tried to get me to eat something, but I had no appetite. The telephone never stopped ringing and there were plenty of jobs to be done. I had conversations with the press and, even though my head was spinning, I kept myself calm. Ce and Sam visited the farm in the afternoon. They were wonderfully sympathetic and helpful.
That night, I was left totally alone in the house. It was my choice. I did not want anybody to share my grief. It was the first time that I could think about things by myself. In twenty years, I had hardly ever been separated from Terry after dark, except when he had been in hospital or away on a shooting expedition. Now he was no longer around to talk to. I remember slowly climbing the stairs with a heavy heart, tears rolling down my cheeks.
I lay down in our old double bed. I had not slept in it for five months. It was a strange feeling and the bedroom felt empty. There was nobody beside me; no warmth. Terry had been my life. I would now have to live alone and face the future without him.
*
At daybreak, the cockerel began to crow in the garden. I let out the chickens and they sat on the windowsill beside the drawing room. They peered inwards as if looking for Terry but he was no longer there. The red kite swooped down onto the lawn, but there was no point throwing out any food for him. Terry would not be able to watch him.
On that Monday morning, I gave all the horses their breakfast feeds as normal. I needed to keep busy and animals give great comfort. I was pleased to see my four-legged friends in the stables. I gave my own horse, Red Blazer, a special hug. He was twenty-three years old and had given both Terry and me days to remember on the racecourse. He had even won a race on the day Mum died.
I returned to the house and made myself a cup of tea in the kitchen, then I collected the daily newspapers from the front door and opened them up. I saw Terry’s face everywhere. There were some amazing tributes and he was on the front page of the Racing Post: big, bold and smiling, having just won the 1967 Cheltenham Gold Cup – ‘Terry Biddlecombe – The Last Cavalier’. Inside the paper one of the headlines said, ‘He played the game as all games should be played – hard and fair, but above all because he enjoyed it’.
Yes, he enjoyed many of the years in his life and I enjoyed my years with him. I had lost the greatest friend that I ever had. My life would never be the same again. I adored him.
*
It was a shame that Dr Paul Bryan was not around during Terry’s final days, but I have spoken to him many times since. He always enjoyed Terry’s humour and we often visited him at the Wantage Health Centre. On those days there was always plenty of banter. ‘Terry had a unique personality,’ Paul said later. ‘Despite his pain, he was always full of devilment. During his last years, he suffered a terrible illness but remained proud and always wanted to be physically strong again – like he had been during his racing days. Amazingly, even with his heart condition, gout, kidney failure, arthritis and later on, ulcerations of his oesophagus, he never complained. He was always cheerful, as well as being open, frank and honest, despite being irreverent. He had obviously had a lot of problems with alcohol in the past, but it was certainly not alcohol that killed him. His liver was in surprisingly good shape. Tragically, however, when he contracted pneumonia at the end of 2013, his body just could not cope any more.’
Tony Biddlecombe still misses Terry as much as I do. ‘He was always a wonderful brother,’ he says. ‘We never had a row and had some great times together. Even when his health was failing, he would talk to me most evenings. He called me, “Boy” and he would finish every conversation by saying, “Night” and abruptly put down the phone. I miss him enormously. Earlier in
our lives we were inseparable and shared some great days. He was my best friend. I wish I had been with him when he died.’
Ernest Hemingway once wrote, ‘The world breaks everyone and afterwards many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break, it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Time for Reflection
When Terry died that cold grey morning in 2014, my world seemed to have come to an end. I had lived for him for twenty years and he had lived for me. In the past we had often discussed what would happen if one of us departed before the other. Terry would say, ‘If anything happens to you, I will kill myself. I cannot live without you.’ I don’t know what he thought I would do if he died first, but fortunately I am surrounded by a great many friends and I never contemplated doing anything stupid.
At first, after Terry’s death, I tried to blank out the outside world. I wandered around in a daze, trying to come to terms with what had happened. I often said to myself, ‘What have I got left to live for?’ and at times I believed that there was very little, as I never had any children and both my parents had died. But then I would think about my sister, Ce, and her constant, loving attention. She had been through so much herself and had survived that horrific stroke in 1995. She is incredibly brave and I needed to be as well.
Mum would have told me to pull myself together. She was a strong lady and I always respected her. Indeed, her words kept flashing up in my mind. She was a philosophical person and had survived numerous tragedies herself, particularly when she had nursed her eldest brother, John, during his illness before he died at her childhood home, Lockinge House, during the war. Then there was Mary, my niece, and my nephews, Arthur and William, all of whom had been supportive during Terry’s declining years. I would have to rebuild my life for their sakes. They were the only close blood relations I had left.
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