My Animals and Other Family Page 3

  When a human breaks a leg, they can recover on crutches, taking the weight off the bad leg and allowing the bone to heal. A horse can’t do that and, for most, the suffering is too great to make an operation viable. In 1972, it was rare, if not unheard of, for a horse with a fractured cannon bone to survive.

  My father and John both understood the gravity of the situation. Mill Reef had to be saved, whatever the cost. This wasn’t just a commercial decision. Their world had revolved around that horse since the day he had arrived in the yard. If my father knew anything about love, he knew he loved this horse.

  Time must have dragged for the next hour. Grandma had been watching work and drove back in her car to the yard as fast as she could. She organized for the horse trailer to get to the top of the Downs and sent for the vet. Riders often fell off on the gallops but, thankfully, accidents are not an everyday occurrence. Perhaps once or twice in a season there would be a serious injury, but the chances of this happening to the best horse in the yard were 100:1. It was utterly shocking that it should happen to not only our best horse but the best horse in the country.

  All that time, John kept talking to Mill Reef—not as a Derby winner, a champion, a superstar, but as Jimmy: his friend, the horse that he adored.

  More remarkable than the way in which this beautifully balanced racehorse had, on the course, sailed past those stronger, bigger and more muscular than him was the way in which he allowed himself to be saved. He trusted John and he trusted my father, so he hobbled up the ramp into the horse trailer and was gently taken on the short journey back to the yard.

  John talked to him all the while and stayed by his head as the vet examined him. “He knows what he’s doing, boy,” he murmured into Mill Reef’s ear. “He’ll sort you out.”

  The vet did sort him out, but the horse would have known nothing about the plate and the three screws that were inserted into his front leg until he came around from the anesthetic. The whole operation was done on-site, in a large square room that had once been a chapel. Paul Mellon had instructed my father to do whatever it took, at whatever cost, to save the horse. When my father had called him in America, Mr. Mellon’s first question was, “Poor John—is he all right?” He knew how much his horse meant to the man who every day groomed him, fed him, mucked him out and rode him.

  The recovery room was covered in the thickest, freshest straw, banked up at the sides. Mill Reef was never alone. Either John, my father or Bill Palmer would sleep in there with him while he lay with his left foreleg in plaster.

  Eventually, Mill Reef could stand and, as his recovery progressed, so the attention increased. He had hundreds and hundreds of cards on lines of string in the recovery room, and the BBC had a live TV link-up with my father during Sports Personality of the Year in December 1972 to see how the patient was progressing.

  The plaster was eventually removed, and Mill Reef could walk. He hobbled at first, unsure of how to put one leg in front of the other, but as he realized that it no longer hurt to place his weight evenly on all four legs, so he gained in confidence. Shortly after that, I was lifted onto his back and the photograph was taken. A last snapshot of Jimmy at home.

  With every day that Mill Reef gained in strength, so John Hallum knew that his time with him was running out. Mill Reef’s life had been saved, but his racing career was over, and that meant his stay at Kingsclere was coming to an end.

  John went in the horse trailer with him to the National Stud and wept as he kissed Mill Reef good-bye.

  “It’s all change for you now, my boy. What a life you’ll have,” he explained to his friend. “Mares will come and visit you, so you be polite and always say thank you.

  “This is your lovely new home in Newmarket, with all you can eat and huge fields to gallop in. You’ll want for nothing, I promise you, nothing. I’ll come and visit you to see how you’re getting on, you see if I don’t. Be a good boy now, Jimmy. Be a good boy.”

  John was true to his word, and every time Mill Reef heard his footsteps approaching and his gentle voice he would whicker in recognition and fondness.

  A film, Something to Brighten the Morning, was produced, with Albert Finney doing the voiceover, to tell the story of Mill Reef. He was the champion cut down in his prime, the perfect little package who had taken on and beaten bigger beasts. He had faced his toughest battle of all away from the racecourse, and he had won that too.

  After Mill Reef had retired to stud, Mr. Mellon wrote to my father.

  “Dear Ian, I’d like to do something special for you as a friend,” he proposed in his elegant handwriting, “and I would prefer to do it now rather than waiting until the day my will is read. Mill Reef brought me so much pleasure and you were masterful with him. I’d like to set up a trust fund for you and your children. You can do anything you like with it and, if you’re careful, it will last long beyond your lifetime.

  “I do hope this will be useful to you, and in any case it comes to you with my warmest affection and regards, and my continued thanks for all you have done to make racing in England a tremendous pleasure. Yours ever, Paul.”

  My father read the letter again and again. He could hardly believe it. He carried so much guilt for the way in which Mill Reef had broken his leg. He questioned himself endlessly—what if I hadn’t used that gallop? What if I’d sent him up second rather than first, would it still have happened? Not that he would have wished such a painful and life-threatening injury on any horse, but the question remained, why did it have to be him? Why the best horse he would ever train? Why?

  Yet here was Mr. Mellon—he was always “Mr. Mellon”—thanking him and offering him a life-changing reward. My father knew that he would never have a chance like this again. Owners were not all as philosophical and as altruistic as Paul Mellon. He wrote straight back, “Thank you. That is an extraordinary offer and I would like to use your generosity to fund my children’s education. Emma and I have no savings to speak of and can’t afford to send them to the best school, but we will make sure they make the most of this opportunity. Thank you so much.”

  Eighteen years later, when I was at Cambridge University, I sent Mr. Mellon a letter to express my gratitude for the education he had funded.

  He sent me a postcard back with a picture of Clare College on it. He had studied there and used their black and gold college colors as the inspiration for his racing colors. It read:

  A picture of Clare for Clare,

  You need not thank me. I have watched from afar and you have more than fulfilled your side of the bargain. Be lucky, be happy and stay true to yourself.

  With much love,

  PM

  As for Mill Reef, he passed on his brilliance to his progeny and, in doing so, became a champion sire: his son, Shirley Heights, would win the Derby in 1978. He eventually died in 1986, of heart failure, the year before another son, Reference Point, would also win the Derby.

  There is a statue of Mill Reef at the National Stud, where he spent the majority of his life. Under it is an inscription from a speech that Paul Mellon gave about him. The last line reads: “Though small, I gave my all. I gave my heart.”

  There is also an exact replica of that statue in the new yard that my father built the following year. He called it the Mill Reef yard. New visitors to Park House are shown that statue and told the story of the greatest horse he ever trained—the horse who encapsulated the mighty swing for Dad from a charmed life to the brutal reality of a world where everything would not always go his way.

  Sometimes, early in the morning or when evening stables have finished, you will find my father standing alone looking at that statue.

  3.

  Valkyrie

  Our house was high up on a hill, about four furlongs from the stables as the crow flies. Sorry, I do that too—measure things in furlongs. In London’s Oxford Street, when asked for directions, I told a tourist that Selfridges was two furlongs f
arther on. It made sense to me.

  A furlong is 220 yards, four furlongs equals half a mile and eight furlongs a mile. So the stables were about half a mile away, down in a hollow, protected by the Cannon Heath Down on one side, Cottington Hill behind and by our hill on the north side. Our house was called The Lynches. I have no idea what that means and, as far as I’m aware, it was never owned by anyone called Lynch.

  It was not an attractive house. It had been built in the 1930s according to the fashion and had been bought for £25,000 by my parents from Granny Hastings, my mother’s paternal grandmother.

  The windows had latticed lead crossing them, which prevented the light ever flooding through them the way it did at Park House. The back of the house had the rise of the hill just behind it, meaning that light from that side came only into the top-floor windows. The bathrooms were new and colorful. My parents’ bathroom was avocado, the bathroom I used was apricot and the guest shower was dark green. They all had carpet on the floor, something that continental Europeans think so unhygienic.

  The kitchen was modern, with Formica tops and a cork floor. I liked to scrape away at the cork, like a dog scratching. It came up in satisfying chunks. It didn’t take long before the floor looked like it had acne, with miniature potholes all over it.

  The saving grace of The Lynches was the most incredible south-facing view, right across the “Starting Gate” field, the four-furlong woodchip gallop called “the Chippings,” the peat-moss gallop called “the Peat Moss” and the grass gallops called “the Near Hedge” and “the Far Hedge.” The names were not an attempt at subtlety or postmodern irony. They said what they were and they did what they said.

  So far so good, but this is where it gets confusing. The gallops we could see from the windows of The Lynches were the gallops “down below,” as opposed to the gallops up on the Downs. Learning that “up” is “down” and “down” is “up” is confusing at any age, but when you’re only just mastering the language, it’s hopeless. This was where the horses were exercised on regular, nonwork days. It was also where the younger horses were educated before they were allowed to make the hike to the Downs for their first exams.

  The Starting Gate field was where the practice starting gates, or stalls, were kept. The young racehorses would be driven through them on long reins, then ridden through them and finally galloped out of them from a standing start, as if at the beginning of a race, so that by the time they got to the racecourse, they knew what they were doing.

  Looking across the sweep of green, divided by hedges or tall lines of trees, the stud paddocks were to the right. This is where the foals were born and first learned to gallop on their spindly, tottering legs. They didn’t have Candy to help them get going, so I think it was harder for them than for me. Beyond those paddocks were the ancient red-brick buildings of the stables. Built to house the growing list of horses tended for by the great Victorian trainer John Porter, Park House had been designed with the express intention of keeping thoroughbred racehorses fit, healthy and relaxed.

  With thick brick and stone double walls to keep them warm in winter and cool in summer, the spacious boxes were largely hidden from view so that no horse could get upset or distracted by the goings on outside. Whereas, nowadays, stables are built to give horses fresh air and a view, back in the 1880s, it was all about keeping them safe, quiet and away from prying eyes. It worked for John Porter, who was the most successful trainer of his day, with seven Derby winners, chief among them Ormonde, who, in 1886, won the Triple Crown of 2000 Guineas, Derby and St. Leger.

  ~

  This entire fairyland for thoroughbreds was far, far away from me. I lived up on the hill in a room that the subsequent owners would use as a broom cupboard.

  It had a bunk bed and bars on the window. There was a chair in the corner, and I’m pretty sure I had a chest of drawers, but there wasn’t space for anything else.

  I lay on my top bunk and stared out of the window at the big mast on top of Cottington Hill. It had red lights that burned throughout the night. We called it the “television mast” and you could see it from miles away. Even now, as I drive toward Kingsclere from Ashford Hill, I feel the pull of home when I see that big, ugly mast.

  The huge garden spilled down the south-facing hill toward a clump of trees. There was hardly a flat patch on it, but it was great for pretending to be a sausage roll. I liked to wrap my brother Andrew in a blanket and roll him down the slope. When he reached the bottom, he emerged from the blanket blinking and swaying. Nearly always, he fell over. I enjoyed the sport of “sausage rolling” far more than he did.

  My father had proved that he could train racehorses and, thanks to the exploits of Mill Reef, he had become champion trainer in 1971. He was the hot new kid on the block, and most of the owners were satisfied. They loved to feel part of a sport, enjoying success in what was essentially a high-stakes form of poker.

  There was no knowing how good a horse might be, however fine its breeding, however knowledgeable its trainer and however talented its jockey. A champion racehorse is a unique being, and it’s due partly to nature, partly to nurture. Equally, its development is part science, part art, because reading a horse is an instinctive thing. You can look at charts, consult stopwatches and plot programs, but knowing whether a racehorse is ready to give of his best is based on intuition.

  Some of the owners understood horses. Others understood business, or fashion, or music. There were American philanthropists, Canadian businessmen, British entrepreneurs, members of the aristocracy and the odd dodgy dealer who liked to pay his bills in readies and always tipped the stable staff double the standard amount. There was also Her Majesty the Queen.

  Twice a year, in the spring and autumn, the most high profile of my father’s owners came to the yard to see her horses. She always arrived early to see First Lot on the gallops and then have breakfast. This caused a kerfuffle. We relocated to the dining room, and my mother asked Mrs. Jessop, our daily, to come in early to help with the breakfast. I practiced curtsying for days—is it left leg behind right or the other way around? I’m still not sure.

  It was OK when we were young because we could get away with not knowing how to behave. We also had Valkyrie to fall back on. The Queen would be thrilled to see her and, if we were with her, all was plain sailing.

  You see, not long after I was born, the Queen had given my parents a gift. Knowing that the children of a would-be jockey turned trainer would most certainly want to ride, she gave us Valkyrie.

  Valkyrie was a sweet-natured old girl, round and dark and fluffy, with a long tail that trailed the ground and a long, dark-brown mane. She was patient and wise, a proper Shetland pony schoolmistress whose first job was to teach me manners. She had no time for tantrums, shouting or foot-stamping. If she thought I was not behaving well, she would simply back me into the wall of the stable and pin me there until I calmed down. This could take minutes, it could take an hour, but she wouldn’t budge until I had settled down and said sorry.

  Valkyrie would do what she wanted to do, so the trick was to make her want to do what I wanted to do. She taught me the first and most important lesson of my life: if you want a pony, a horse—or a person—to do something for you, it’s better if you ask nicely. If you are patient, kind and consistent, you will reap the rewards.

  Valkyrie had taught both Prince Andrew and Prince Edward how to ride and had no doubt trodden on their toes as well. She may also have backed them into the corner of the stable when they were being naughty. Valkyrie was her own woman and would not be subject to anyone, Royal Family or commoner. I suspect that is one of the reasons the Queen was so fond of her.

  When Her Majesty came to assess her blue-blooded racehorses at evening stables, I was dispatched to get Valkyrie. At the end of the line of gleaming, fit, polished bluebloods with their lads in spotless matching jackets and caps would be this little hairy Shetland pony with her equally scr
uffy-looking rider, neither of whom ever quite got the hang of the curtsy. The Queen smiled, crouched down and always had a long chat with Valkyrie, who generally remained well behaved. As soon as the inspection was over, Valkyrie dragged me toward the racehorses’ feed room, knowing from one illegal visit that she would find sugar beet, oats, chopped carrots, freshly pulled grass, racing nuts, molasses and all sorts of goodies that she was never allowed. She was a strong old girl and I had no chance on the end of a rope, so one of the lads had to take over and haul her away from the treasure trove of fine foods.

  Valkyrie was permanently on a diet. Not because she was fat—she was, but it didn’t really matter, all Shetlands are pot-bellied—the diet was for her various ailments, which needed to be controlled, including laminitis and sweet-itch. Laminitis is a disease of the foot that, if managed well, need not cause serious problems, but it meant that Valkyrie could not be turned out in a field of lush spring grass, as it would cause a nitrogen-compound overload that would trigger an attack. I understood none of this, of course, so thought it most unfair that she wasn’t allowed to enjoy the lovely green grass.

  The sweet-itch was more obvious and rather more unattractive. It was caused by an allergic reaction to insect bites, which clearly caused her great discomfort, as she always rubbed her neck and backside on the nearest fence post as hard as she could, losing lumps of mane and tail in the process and leaving bald, red, sore patches of skin. My mother did her best to keep her in the stable as much as possible, to douse her with anti-fly spray so that she didn’t get bitten when she was out being ridden and with ointments to soothe the broken skin if she did, but Valkyrie’s summer look was never her best.

  I started to ride her at roughly the same time I started walking. I had a soft red leather saddle with a bar on the top to hold on to, and I had no fear because I didn’t know there was anything to be afraid of. I knew this was where I should be, where I felt comfortable and where I was at home. I was born to ride.