up and down the corridor, cursing myself for letting Cartwheel drift off a straight line and then for making such a fool of myself during the enquiry. How was I going to face Ralph and the owners and tell them that I'd blown it?
The wait seemed interminable, but in fact it was no more than five minutes before we were recalled. As we entered, the stewards' secretary rushed out holding a pink ticket in his hand with the announcement to be given to the operator of the tannoy system. It would either say that the placings remained unaltered or give the details of the corrected result. His stony face gave nothing away. It was left to the chief steward to deliver the verdict.
'Jockeys, we've looked at this film and heard what you both had to say.' He coughed and reached for a glass of water, at least I presumed it was water, in front of him. 'Get on with it,' I muttered impatiently under my breath.
'We have decided that there was interference,' – I swore to myself as he paused – 'but that in no way did it affect the result. The placings remain unaltered.'
I couldn't stop myself smiling and victory was made all the sweeter by the apoplectic look on Sir Arthur's face.
Outside, Ralph Elgar was waiting for me with a smile as big as Bechers. He had heard the result over the tannoy and for all his sixty years was in a state of uncontrolled boyish joy. It is every National Hunt trainer's dream to win the Gold Cup and he was certainly no exception. Although not one of the biggest or most fashionable trainers, he had sent out a steady stream of winners for the last thirty years and had the support of a devoted band of enthusiastic owners. What's more, he had given me a retainer when everyone in the racing world, from fellow trainers to racing tipsters to punters, had told him he was crazy. Now at last I had repaid that trust, although my shameful conduct over the past few months had far from merited his continuing support.
Seeing Ralph's excitement brought me back to reality. The original decision to pull the race had not been taken for fun. I had agreed to do it, just as I had those earlier races at Fontwell and Worcester, because at the time there had seemed no other option. At least, that's what I had told myself before each of those races, and how I consoled myself afterwards. The only trouble is that once you've sold your soul, you can't buy it back at any price. What I had achieved today was a part penance. The original instigator of my sin still remained and was likely to become even more demanding, if not threatening. I just had to hope that I could negotiate more time to think of a way out.
One thing at least was clear. I had to give up my retainer with Ralph. He had done so much for me and I couldn't go on cheating him. Today may have ended well, but I knew I couldn't give any guarantees as to my future conduct. I decided to tell him immediately after the presentation of the winning trophy, and I was still working out what to say when I was collared by a man from the BBC and asked to give an interview. It was the last thing I wanted to do but Ralph patted me on the back and pushed me forward:
'Go on with you. It's not every day you're a piece of history.'
Ten minutes later, having enthused about the race in front of the cameras, I made my way across the paddock towards the changing room. The area was almost deserted as the runners for the next race had already gone down to the start and would shortly be off. I was looking forward to changing out of my silks and having a few minutes to myself before meeting Ralph and the owners in their box for a victory drink. For once, I was glad that I didn't have a ride in the last two races.
I was so buried in my thoughts that I barely heard my name being called. I hesitated for a second and then turned round, just in time to catch the full force of a clenched fist in my mouth. I staggered back for a moment and then, as much from shock as from the blow itself, fell to the ground.
'I hope you're bloody satisfied!' screamed my attacker as he rushed away in the direction of the tented village.
Within seconds a crowd had formed and all I could see as I tried to focus was a muddle of faces peering inquisitively at me. No wonder babies scream so much. Soon a very kind St John's ambulance woman arrived and cradled my head while another went off for bandages and dressings. I told them that it was nothing and I was fine, but they were not going to miss this moment for anything. I looked up to see the anxious face of a uniformed policeman.
'I saw it, officer!' shrieked an hysterical middle-aged woman clutching a couple of tote tickets, and pointing in the direction of the tented village. 'He was in his early thirties, I'd say. He ran off in that direction.'
'Are you all right?' the policeman asked, ignoring her and kneeling beside me. 'Did you get a good sight of him?'
I shook my head. This time lying came easy. Of course I knew him. I'd recognise my husband anywhere.
Chapter 2
Half an hour later I was on the road back home to Lambourn, leaving a bemused police officer and a posse of journalists behind me. The courts, or for that matter the front pages of the tabloids, were the last places I wanted to air my troubles. It wasn't the first time Edward had assaulted me, but it was certainly going to be the last. Now, looking back over the past few months, I still found it hard to believe that our marriage had deteriorated so dramatically. But there was no point pretending we could get back to normal after this.
Edward had never had a job since I'd known him, but always seemed to have plenty of ready cash, which he claimed was an inheritance from his grandfather. Then gradually the money seemed to be lasting for shorter and shorter periods as his gambling increased and he'd begun to drink heavily.
He refused to tell me how much he owed but the quantity of whisky he was putting away each night made me think that the situation was becoming serious. Luckily for us, I was now beginning to get some decent rides and had taken over paying all of the bills.
Then one night, he came home drunk and calling me all the names under the sun. We hadn't had an argument, so there was no reason for his bad temper and, at first, I thought it was just one of his stupid pranks and that a few of his mates would follow him in and begin laughing. But then suddenly he lashed out with his fist and caught me on the cheek, knocking me to the floor. I was terrified and tried to scramble to my feet but as I did so he walked over to me and kicked me twice in the stomach. As I dropped back to the floor, completely winded and gasping for air, he swore at me a few more times and went upstairs.
I'd had plenty of falls whilst I was riding and I thought I was pretty tough, but being beaten up by my own husband shocked me more than I thought possible.
As I got my breath back and pulled myself onto a chair, my legs turned to jelly and I began to tremble. I sat wondering what to do. My first instinct was to go upstairs, collect our little boy, Freddie, and leave. Go anywhere; I didn't know where, but just go. The only problem was where could I go with a child at eleven o'clock at night without everybody knowing what had happened?
My mother lived over sixty miles away, at Wincanton, and anyway she had enough worries of her own without me adding to them. Since I'd left home to become an apprentice jockey, after a brief period as a cub reporter, nothing had gone right for her. First of all, my father had run off with another woman and left her to manage the farm on her own, but that had probably been a blessing. He had treated her like a skivvy for years. Then her eldest sister had been paralysed in a car accident that had killed her husband. Mum insisted on nursing her at home herself even though it hadn't been easy for her, and although I had sent money home for her every week, I knew that she struggled to make ends meet. I was an only child and felt guilty that I hadn't given up my apprenticeship and gone home to help her, but I was just beginning to get a few rides. I'd also just started going out with Edward. He was tall and well built, with jet black hair brushed straight back and the darkest eyes I had ever seen. He was also very amusing and, so he was always boasting, very rich. His father was Sir Gerald Pryde, one of the most able High Court judges presently sitting on the Bench, and the man tipped to become the next Lord Chief Justice.
Edward and I had met at the annual Jockeys' Dance at Newbury. I'd gone with James Thackeray, an old friend and a journalist for the
All of this happened on a Saturday evening and my 'niceness' lasted until about three o'clock the following afternoon, when, after having had a good lunch in a local pub, we spent the rest of the day in bed in Edward's
