mood. The phone had been ringing nonstop with journalists wanting to find out just how much I knew of Musgrave's activities and trying to suggest a possible link between the bookmaker's suicide and Edward's murder.
Not surprisingly, perhaps, Ralph himself had a lot of questions to ask, beginning with why I hadn't told him about the pressure put on me to throw the Gold Cup and whether that was the only occasion when I had been asked to pull one of his horses. While he recognised that Musgrave's exposure would help our case in front of the Jockey Club, he scarcely wanted to retain a jockey who might be bent. I decided that the best thing to do was to come clean and tell him the whole story, starting with the very first race at Worcester when, on Edward's instructions, I had pulled Fainthearted. He listened intently for nigh on half an hour, during which I recounted the threats and assaults to which Edward had subjected me. Finally I explained why I had changed my mind about the Gold Cup. From his impassive expression it was impossible to tell whether he had any sympathy or not, and as I spoke I had to accept that my racing career might be on the point of collapse. When I had finished, assuring him as I did that I really had tried to win on Fainthearted on that second occasion at Worcester, he rose from his armchair without saying a word and went over to the drinks cabinet and poured two large whiskies. He thrust one into my hand. I thought to myself, this is it, the big heave-ho. I couldn't blame him really. I had cheated him and then enjoyed his hospitality when my own fortunes had taken a turn for the worse. Breach of trust was what they called it in the courts.
To my astonishment, Ralph cheerily raised his glass and simply said, 'Well, here's to us and the future.'
I was momentarily too shocked to react and then, clinking my glass against his, all I could say was 'Thank you,' before throwing my arms around him. He reciprocated by giving me a paternal hug and pat on the back and promptly changed the subject to his favourite topic, the horses in the yard.
'I've decided to run Admiralty Registrar on Tuesday at Sandown. I thought you'd be pleased.'
That last comment was Ralph's idea of a joke. He had bought the horse out of a field on a farm in Tipperary three years ago and this was his first season as a novice chaser. Admiralty Registrar undoubtedly had ability, only it wasn't allied to the slightest respect for the fences he had to jump. He had run four times, winning on the second occasion with me up and carting me twice and the champion jockey once. His owners were fanatical enthusiasts of National Hunt racing and wouldn't have a word said against their 'little chap' (all sixteen hands of him!), who in fact would have been more aptly described as a juvenile delinquent. Sandown was their favourite course and since they paid the bills they were entitled to call the tune as to which track he raced on. Tuesday's race now had every chance of being a painful experience.
Admiralty Registrar's owners were brimming with enthusiasm in the paddock, and going down to the start, their 'little chap' was as docile as I could remember him. Maybe all those weeks of schooling were at last going to pay dividends. For the first mile and a half he jumped like the proverbial stag and as we rounded the right-handed bend to gallop down the far side of the course, I started to believe we even had a chance of winning. He met the first of the three quick railway fences spot on and I patted him on the neck by way of encouragement. It obviously went to his head. Six strides from the second, I knew we were all wrong. I had either to take a pull on the reins and make him shorten his stride or give him a kick in the belly and hope that he found the energy to quicken his pace and put in a big jump. If I chose the first, bang went our chance of winning, so I opted for the second. It was a mistake. Admiralty Registrar was willing in mind but his weary body couldn't respond to his brain's command. Too late, he tried to save himself coming down right in the middle of the fence. We both turned a complete somersault and as we hit the ground, as if in tandem, I felt a shattering pain in my left hip and thigh. I tried instinctively to roll across to the sanctuary of the nearby rail, yet the mere attempt made me scream in agony. All I could do was lie on my buckled left leg with my right leg outstretched and throw my hands around my head in a protective reflex. I was vaguely aware of following horses racing past but the excruciating pain in my thigh monopolised my senses until there was a searing crack somewhere in my right leg.
A few minutes or so later – it seemed like an eternity – I was lifted into the course ambulance. I know they were doing their best, but it seemed to find every bump and rut as it proceeded at a stately pace across the centre of the course. The crew had strapped my legs in an inflatable splint and given me a pain-killing injection, yet every slight disturbance to the wagon's suspension was transmitted directly to the grating bones in my legs. The St John's ambulance man tried to comfort me but I just felt sick and out of it.
Arriving at the hospital, I was shipped onto a trolley and by comparison with the earlier drive the journey down the corridors was a glide. Even being pulled across and onto a hand X-ray couch was not too distracting, although the fear of having my poor bones reground made me tremble and feel close to tears. Then came the questions, the interminable questions:
Yes, I've had an anaesthetic before… broken collar bone, twice, and arm once. No, no serious illnesses but I'm Rhesus negative, discovered during pregnancy. Next of kin? I hesitated on that one, having been about to say Edward. I gave my mother's address. Yes, I'm sure I've had nothing to eat or drink since 11 am. Do I have to sign my name?
They then cut away my riding boots and I begged the nurse not to try and take them off. She responded by giving me another injection in my backside and within an instant I felt myself slipping away. How delicious it was not to be in pain any more; suddenly I didn't mind my mouth being so dry.
Soon we were off again, gliding down another corridor and into a smoothly plastered room where for some reason they were playing piped music. Yes, I thought I recognised the tune: 'Let it be.' A man in blue pyjamas with a green mask around his neck appeared by my side, smiling reassuringly: 'Just a little prick in the back of your hand,' he murmured as I looked up at him in complete submission. 'Come on Victoria,' he said, 'give me a cough.' I woke several times and asked Amy whether I was going to have an operation. Finally I emerged from my slumber and surveyed my surroundings. I was on my own in a badly painted room and everywhere around me were vases full of flowers and baskets of fruit covered in cellophane. The sight of a drip pumping somebody else's blood into my left forearm frightened and startled me. My god, I wonder if they've checked it for Aids? Hadn't anyone told them I had banked some of my own blood in a London clinic in case I ever had an accident? My legs. Gingerly lifting my head from the pillow, I tried to take m the scene and the full extent of the damage to my body. My left thigh was enormous and discoloured with a long white dressing applied to the side. My right leg was encased in white plaster of Paris from the foot to above the knee. Why did I feel so tired? I fell back onto the pillow and drifted into sleep again.
'Mr Maddox is here to see you,' announced the neatly pressed sister. Mr Maddox, a powerfully built bearded man of about forty, introduced himself as the bone surgeon responsible for the battlefield that had now replaced my previously shapely lower limbs. He had a certain rugged charm, but I had done my share of swooning in the back of the racecourse ambulance.
'That was a pretty nasty fall, ma'am.' The southern American drawl took me by surprise. I had thought the transatlantic brain drain was one way.
'I'm fine,' I muttered, knowing full well I was anything but.
Maddox responded with an understanding wink and started to explain the nature of my injuries. The impact of my fall had been so great that my left femur had snapped in the middle and the consequent muscle spasm had caused the two pieces to cross over in the well-known pirate flag design. The swelling of my thigh was due to several pints of my blood being pumped into the surrounding muscles and that was why somebody else's was now being used to top me up.
'I'm afraid, if that wasn't enough, you had even more bad luck when one of the horses following on behind you stamped on your right shin as he was passing. We've managed to reduce that fracture and get good alignment so it's just a question of time for the tibia to knit together with the plaster of Paris holding things in position. All clear?'
'Painfully so. Thank you.'
'The femur was hard work and I've screwed in a metal plate to keep the healing bone in proper alignment.' He took an obvious satisfaction in his work and at least I could feel confident I was in safe hands.
'How long before I can walk again?' I was too terrified to ask the question I most wanted answered.
'Well, that will depend on a number of factors. We'll take a couple of X-rays in the next day or so to check that the positions are satisfactory, which I'm sure they will be. You're young, so the bones should reunite quickly.'
'How long then?'
