Aintree Adventure
By C. H. BLACKER ONE of the most enjoyable parts of a ride at Aintree is talking about it afterwards.- In fact, I am inclined to think that the pleasure of riding over those fences is almost entirely retrospective; as an amusement it tends to fall into the category of those which are nice only when they stop. But at least there is usually a tale to tell, and the curious experiences which befell me at the Liverpool Meeting of March, 1947, are perhaps even worth putting on paper.
On that chilly and fog-bound afternoon sixteen jockeys, of which I was one, rode forth to contest the Stanley Chase, over one circuit of the " National " Course. It was my first appear- ance at this celebrated " venue," and I remember thinking how unkind it was that on such an occasion the fog should make the already formidable fences look double their real size. But, once we started, the ordeal did not seem so bad as I feared.; the first two obstacles were surmounted successfully, and we turned away down the long line of fences leading to Bechers Brook, swallowed up, as far as the stands were concerned, by the fog.
But now the race really became quite exciting. As the cavalcade encountered each fence, it was as if a covey of partridges was passing over a line of accurate guns; a pro- portion would plunge violently to the earth whilst the survivors streamed anxiously on. The company was dwindling consider- ably, and, filled with an altogether premature optimism, I advanced confidently upon the fence before Bechers. Perhaps I had communicated my misplaced optimism to my mount, for at this point he under-estimated the height of the fence by a considerable margin and paid the inevitable penalty.
We hit the ground hard; it had seemed a long drop. My horse got up and galloped senselessly off into the fog. I rose somewhat crestfallen and rather sore. Loose horses were circling round in the gloom; I could dimly see a solitary rider (later found to be Anthony Mildmay) vainly trying to make his horse jump the big open ditch further on. Otherwise the race seemed to have passed out of view. Discontentedly I began to search for my whip.
I took some minutes to find it, and had just begun my trudge back when my attention was attracted by a hail. There was my horse, held captive by a spectator' whom I recognised as one of the lesser-known professional jockeys, and whom for the purposes of this narrative we will call H.C. Before I could thank him for saving me a long walk, he burst out, "Well, come on. Don't you want to win?" I gaped at him. He continued, " Everyone else is down. Jump on and finish the course and the race is yours ! "
1 suppose 'I should have rushed enthusiastically to my horse, and bounded into'the saddle all agog. My true reactions were, I regret to say, far otherwise. No prospect has ever seemed more repugnant; I recoiled. I was cold and rather stiff. Almost five minutes had elapsed since I had fallen. It was absurd to think that not one of the sixteen runners had finished. How could anyone tell in this fog, anyway.? And yet—" Is my horse all right ? " I asked weakly. " Absolutely," came the implacable reply. I fell silent, pondering on the dilemma with which I now saw I was confronted. On the one side was the prospect of a solo turn in cold blood over eleven Aintree fences, an ordeal which might well be quite point- less in the end, and which was made all the starker by the knowledge that my first fenco would be Bechers Brook itself. On the other—well, suppose no one else had finished ! What a fool one would feel, and look ! I gazed frantically round. Anthony Mildmay, still striving, was the only competitor visible. Silently, and quite unfairly, I cursed H.C.
A crowd of spectators had meanwhile gathered round, and were showing signs of joining in the debate. In general, they supported H.C.; their manner was strongly reminiscent of a boxing crowd which from the safe recesses of the hall urges the smaller man to " go in and fight." I could delay my decision no longer. I capitulated. Assuming an entirely bogus nonchalance, I mounted, turned my horse round, and urged it rather forlornly in the general direction of Bechers Brook.
It says a great deal for the courage of my horse that ho jumped this forbidding obstacle without demur. As we rose in the air, however, I became uncomfortably aware that below me, on the landing side, was a crowd of spectators gazing with morbid satisfaction at the corpse of a horse stretched out upon the ground. I swooped upon them with a loud yell; they shrieked hideously in reply but scattered with such resolution that all survived my descent. Pursued by faint cries of indignation and dismay, I sped onwards, my courage rising. Over the Canal turn we sailed, and on over Valentines and the big open ditch—over, in fact, Anthony Mildmay's horse, which had by this time descended into it. On we went; spectators, who by this time were walking about examining the fences, gaped to see this wild and muddy apparition careering round the course in what, as far as they knew, was the interval between races.
We turned into the straight, jumped the last two fences and passed the winning post. The stands were almost deserted, but here and there knots of spectators turned to look, and some raised a rather stupefied cheer. N.C., beside himself with excitement, met me and led me in triumph to the winners' enclosure, into which we penetrated without opposition, its normal guardians having gone to watch the preliminaries to the next race. Soon, however, they realised that something unusual was occurring, and sped back to their posts, scan- dalised, and bearing with them disillusion. Apparently the enclosure had been occupied some ten minutes previously by the real winner; Tim Molony, then at the start of his career, had done much the same as I had, but rather earlier. He had fallen at 'the penultimate fence, had scrambled on again and finished alone. Nobody could deny. however, that I was second, and I moved down to the humbler berth.
H.C. then vanished in search of the Press, to make sure, he said, that his part in the affair received due recognition. Meanwhile I looked in vain for my " connections "—my wife, my trainer, the " lads." all usually immediately available to take my horse and submit their criticisms of my performance. Where were they ? I was indignant. Eventually news of them arrived; after gazing for several anxious minutes into the fog they had decided that I was not.going to reappear; and, bearing brandy, rugs, hot-water bottles and humane-killers, they had quitted the stands and had sallied vaguely but valiantly forth into the gloom. At last they returned. Amid a flood of explanations one fact however, stood out pleasantly clear; I had won a stake of £200. We accordingly repaired to the bar to drink wine.
Next day I was back at duty at the military establishment in Southern England in which I had found a humble niche. Here were the high armoured and technical experts, upon whose breakfast tables the Sporting Life found no place. Here surely a merciful oblivion would reign. I was wrong. As I entered the ante-room of the mess I became aware that I was the object of very general interest. Then to my horror I discovered what H.C. had done; the sporting column of almost every paper recounted with relish and with some detail my antics of the day before, as seen through H.C.'s eyes.
Attracted by the buzz of conversation, the high officers rose and bent their sober gaze upon the headlines. The Daily Mail, I remember, had " Jockey Ten Minutes Late, Thought He'd Won." As the " great ones " read, their expressions became puzzled and non-committal. Was this affair creditable or dis• creditable? Could it be classified as a good show or a bad show? It was a difficult question; there must be no hasty or considered judgement. Said one, " This account reads—' I per• suaded the rider to re-mount.' " Their expressions darkened; had there perhaps been a want of courage ? The verdict hung in the balance; all was in suspense. At last, however. the clouds rolled back; 'the sun shone: I was acquitted. " Good show," they said.." Good show," and, shaking their heads, they went back to their offices, to their blue-prints and their die' grams. All so much easier to understand.
Previous page
