John Francome - Declared Dead

I left Amy at her flat and drove down to Wincanton, badly shaken by Musgrave's death. I was conscious that I had been neglecting Freddie over the past weeks and no doubt if the Prydes or their lawyers were to discover he was staying with my mother, it would be paraded in court as a further example of my inadequacy as a parent.

Freddie was delighted to see me and I spent the rest of the day with my little boy, catching up on his news and doing my best to kick a football in the garden. I had kept him away from school since his father died and was determined that as soon as Tom's trial was over, he should return. If the law permitted it, I would sell the cottage, which was now owned by him, and buy another home in the Cotswolds or somewhere like that. Starting life afresh was going to be a daunting prospect and I hoped that at some stage Tom might be able to help me enjoy it and fill the role of a father to my son.

I stayed the night and left at the crack of dawn to return to Ralph's yard to find the governor in none too good a 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.