Pulse(29)

I took that to be a good sign. At least he was conscious.

I went down on my knees next to his back and gently touched him.

‘Dr Rankin here,’ I said. ‘Don’t try and move. Let me assess you first.’

‘It’s my left shoulder, doc,’ he said, panting slightly with the pain.

‘Dislocated?’ I asked. Many jockeys knew from prior experience what the excruciating pain of a dislocated shoulder was like and, if you’d felt it once, it was difficult then to forget.

‘Collarbone, I think,’ he said. ‘I’ve done it before.’

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Dave,’ he said. ‘Dave Leigh.’

I pulled up his racing silks and ran my hand down his spine inside his body protector. ‘Any pain here, Dave?’

‘None.’

Next I felt round his neck. ‘Anything?’

‘No.’

‘Can you remember if you banged your head?’ I asked.

‘I know I didn’t,’ he said with certainty. ‘I instinctively put my bloody hand out to break the impact. Stupid idiot. I landed on that.’

The classic method of fracturing a collarbone.

‘Wiggle your toes for me.’

He did so. I could see them moving inside his wafer-thin riding boots.

‘Can you sit up?’ I asked.

I steadied him as he rolled towards me until he was sitting upright on the damp grass. He supported his left wrist in his right hand. I had a gentle feel around the joint. As far as I could tell, the head of the humerus was correctly located into the glenoid fossa, the shallow shoulder socket, so it didn’t appear to be a dislocation, but the left arm hung down slightly lower in a manner expected with a broken collarbone. However, only an X-ray could confirm if that was truly the case.

My doctor colleague came over to join us, his fallen rider having hurt nothing more than his pride.

‘Dave Leigh,’ I said. ‘Suspected fractured clavicle. Hospital job.’

‘Can he be moved?’

I looked around. The other two riders had already got up and gone and, much to my relief, even the horse was now on his feet and being led away, but the fence attendants were hovering nearby, getting ready to doll off the fence for the remaining runners to bypass on the second circuit.

Our primary concern was always the welfare of the jockey and my decision had to be in his interests first but I would not be thanked if I didn’t make every effort to clear the course if it was safe to do so.

‘Come on, Dave, let’s get you up,’ I said. ‘But tell me immediately if anything else hurts.’

The other doctor and I helped the jockey to his feet and, together, we walked him off the track towards the waiting ambulance, and just before those horses still running in the race arrived back at the fence.

I turned and watched them again jump the open ditch, this time without incident, and, with the injured jockey now safely installed in an ambulance ready for the journey to hospital, I jogged back to the Land Rover to continue the pursuit, smiling broadly.

Boy, it felt good to be doctoring again.





11


The fourth race was the big event of the day, the Champion Hurdle Challenge Trophy – not that any of the races at the Festival were small. But this was the one that made racing history. As its name suggested, this race determined the year’s champion hurdler and the name of the winner would be painted on the racecourse honours boards to be viewed in perpetuity.

The rotation of the doctors had me on foot on this occasion. I was to remain in the parade ring until the last horse departed, follow it down to the track and then stand close to the final flight of hurdles for the race.

Statistically, more horses fall at the final obstacle than at any other and that is not just due to tiredness. At the last, jockeys are urging their mounts forward for a final effort to the finish and are infinitely more likely to ask them for a large stride than to take a pull on the reins and put in an extra small one – that could be the difference between winning and losing and, in horseracing, winning is everything.

In many a jockey’s mind, falling while trying to win was far preferable to being safe and finishing second, and to hell with the bruises. That’s what separated the greats from the also-rans. It was also why a doctor was positioned close by to pick up the pieces.

I watched as the riders were tossed up onto the horses, the atmosphere almost crackling from the excited static of owners and trainers as they hoped and prayed that, this time, it would be they who would be hailed the champion. Even the usually ultra-calm Peter Hammond looked nervous as he gave last-minute instructions to his two jockeys, one of whom I noticed was Dick McGee, this time wearing green-and-yellow-striped silks.

Indeed, the calmest individuals were the horses themselves, who behaved impeccably by not throwing a rider, nor giving the doctor anything else to do.

I stood near the exit watching the horses file out of the parade ring before following them down the horse-walk towards the track. As he passed by, Dick McGee looked down at me from his lofty position, no emotion readable on his face.

I know he knows who the dead man is, I thought, and, what’s more, he knows I know he knows.

I stood by the final hurdle watching the race unfold on the big-screen TV in the centre of the course.

As one might expect from the best two-mile hurdlers around, the contest was run at lightning pace, all ten of the runners remaining tightly bunched as they passed the grandstands for the first time.