John Francome - Declared Dead

'What the hell did you do that for?' I demanded angrily.

'Nothing personal,' he replied, turning to gallop back to where the also-rans were unsaddled on the course in front of the parade ring. I made my own way back.

'What were you playing at out there?' screamed the lad as he caught hold of the reins and began leading Fainthearted back to the unsaddling enclosure in front of the weighing room. 'Nijinsky couldn't have won from where you left it.' I tried to explain but he made no attempt to listen. He had done his money and wasn't in the mood for excuses.

Ralph and the owners were waiting and looking just as upset.

'That was a disaster,' said a crestfallen Ralph, angrily, as I dismounted. 'How could you have left it so late?'

I could feel myself going redder and redder. I explained what had happened but Ralph insisted that I should have pushed Brennan out of the way.

'That's what you're paid for,' interrupted one of the owners.

A few of the punters had come over from the stands and were now shouting their opinion of my riding ability. Nothing speaks with more eloquence than a burnt pocket. Forlorn, I undid the surcingle and girth, pulled the saddle off and gave Fainthearted a sympathetic pat on the head. I only wished he could give evidence for me. Having apologised to the owners I muttered my regrets to Ralph and disappeared up the concrete steps into the weighing room. I just wanted to get to the changing room and beat the wall in anger but even that relief was to be denied me. As I sat on the scales to weigh in, the ominous figure of the stipendiary steward appeared out of the ground like a mushroom. Leaning over the wooden rails that divided the scales from the rest of the room, he informed me in a quiet yet authoritative voice that the stewards wanted to see me straight away. My heart sank. A premature confrontation with Sir Arthur Drewe was all I needed.

'Third, sir,' I called to the Clerk of the Scales, who looked up to check that I was within two pounds of the weight I had gone out at. He dismissed me with a sideways movement of his head and I dumped my saddle, together with my helmet and whip, in the corner by the number cloth deck and walked despondently to the stewards' room. The stipe who had spoken to me only a minute before came out just as I was about to knock on the door.

'Just wait here,' he commanded.

He left the weighing room only to return a couple of minutes later bringing Ralph in his wake. The trainer raised his eyes to the heavens, as if to say what a right mess I had landed us both in, and all I could do was to say again how sorry I was.

'Follow me, please,' said the stipe, opening the door and ushering us inside. The three stewards were seated behind an old wooden desk. In the middle, looking as complacent as ever and a veritable model of self-righteousness, was Sir Arthur, flanked on either side by two much younger men wearing almost identical tweed suits. Having introduced us by name the stipe began the proceedings:

'Mr Elgar, will you please tell the stewards what your riding instructions were?'

Ralph was standing bolt upright, as if on regimental parade, holding his worn trilby behind his back with both hands. He repeated what he had told me in the car and paddock and added that he had never had any cause to complain about my riding before.

'I think she just lost her head and overdid the waiting tactics. Everyone makes a cock-up once in a while.'

I wanted to hug him. You couldn't put a price on loyalty and he had every reason not to stand by me. I had heard plenty of stories of trainers who were not so steadfast in their support of their jockeys in front of the stewards.

Drewe wasn't impressed by such loyalty or plain speaking. He launched into the attack. 'Are you seriously saying that you are pleased with Pryde's riding performance?'

Ralph did not suffer fools gladly and was livid at being asked such a ridiculous question.

'Of course I am not pleased!' he retorted. 'A blind man could see that the horse should have won, but that's racing.'

Drewe wasn't finished yet. 'There's no need to be offensive, Mr Elgar. Can you explain why Fainthearted opened as 6-4 favourite but by the time the race began had drifted out to 7-2?'

Ralph went through the roof. 'If you're suggesting that I'd stop a horse you're mad!'

The stipe intervened.

'Mr Elgar, we're not accusing you of anything. We're just holding an enquiry to establish the facts.' He then turned to me.

'You looked to leave far too much ground for your horse to make up. Could you please tell the stewards why?'

I fixed Sir Arthur straight between the eyes and told him that once I had managed to settle Fainthearted I was perfectly happy with my position until we had approached the final bend. It was then that I had got boxed in. Sir Arthur had no intention of letting me finish.

'So you're telling us you got penned in. That's almost unheard of in a hurdles race.'

'I know, sir, but Brennan was doing it deliberately.' I felt no guilt about blaming the Irishman. He owed me and I had absolutely no intention of earning a suspension on his account.

'You should be very careful before you make allegations like that, my girl,' snapped Sir Arthur. He turned to the stipe.

'Mr Pugh, could we please see the video.'

Mr Pugh signalled to the video operator to begin and told him to start at the last hurdle on the far side. The stewards' secretary, who had been seated all the while in the corner taking notes, rose to switch off the lights and draw the curtains. As the film began Mr Pugh pinpointed with a cane both Fainthearted and Brennan's mount. Unfortunately for me, the incident was at the furthest end of the course and not particularly clear. What could be made out, however, was Brennan using his stick and me sitting as still as a nun at prayer.

As the film played on and showed the runners turning for home, the head-on camera came into use. All it showed was the gap appearing and Fainthearted bursting through. They waited for the film to end, both head and side on, before turning the lights back on and pulling the curtains.

'Have either of you anything to say?' asked Sir Arthur.

'No sir,' we replied in unison.

'All right then. Kindly wait outside.'

The stipe opened the door and we left the room accompanied by the secretary, who was not allowed to be privy to the stewards' deliberations.

'That didn't look too good,' said Ralph gloomily.

'No it didn't, did it?' I replied dejectedly. 'Brennan really did fix me, you know. What do you think's going to happen?'

'You'll be fined for riding an injudicious race and I'll have to eat a large slice of humble pie in front of the owners. What really concerns me is why he drifted in the betting. It's as if someone knew what was going to happen. You don't think Brennan is in with the bookies do you?'

Before I could reply the door opened and we were called back in. Drewe could hardly conceal his pleasure.

'We've discussed what we've seen and what you've told us and quite frankly we're not satisfied. We're reporting this matter to the disciplinary committee of the Jockey Club at Portman Square and you'll be informed when you have to appear. That's all. Thank you.'

I couldn't believe my ears and nor could Ralph, judging from his stunned expression. We were barely outside the room before he let fly a string of expletives, casting doubt on the parentage of each of the stewards. 'I've got to go and have a very large drink,' he raged. 'This is absolutely disgraceful. This is nothing personal, Victoria, but do you mind if I put Stevenson up in the last instead of you?'

Of course I minded. No one likes being jocked off, even if it was in favour of the champion jockey, and it would inevitably lead to talk of a rift between us. I swallowed my pride. 'No, if you think that's right, Ralph, it's fine by me.' I tried not to let him see how close I was to tears.