Pulse(71)

‘Doc one joining.’ I recognised that as Adrian.

I ducked under the running rail and sprinted across the grass to one of the two jockeys, while the paramedic team from the ambulance went to the other and the groundsmen followed on with their green privacy screens.

I went down on my knees next to the moaning figure.

‘Dr Rankin here,’ I said. ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘My left leg, doc. I think I heard it go crack.’

It was a woman’s voice.

Female jump jockeys had been riding against men since the Sex Discrimination Act of 1975 finally forced British racing to allow it, but they were still rare, there being only a handful of female professionals among several hundred of their male colleagues.

I smiled.

I, too, was a member of a profession that had initially tried to exclude women until Elizabeth Garrett Anderson had broken through the prejudice to become the country’s first female doctor. More than a hundred years later some 60 per cent of British medical students were now girls. Female jockeys clearly still had some way to go.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Ellie Lowe,’ she said.

‘Did you hit your head at all, Ellie?’

Legs could wait but head and neck injuries could kill quickly.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It was an easy fall but my lower leg got landed on by one of the others.’

Ouch, I thought.

Horses were generally pretty good at avoiding human beings lying on the ground but sometimes there was nowhere else to go and the weight of a landing horse, acting through a slender metal-shod hoof, could do a lot of damage.

I gently examined her leg and she winced.

‘It’ll need an X-ray,’ I said. ‘I think you may have fractured your fibula above the ankle.’

‘Fuck,’ she said in a very unladylike manner. ‘Does that mean they’ll cut my boot off?’

‘Quite likely,’ I said.

‘Fuck,’ she said again. ‘They’re brand new and were bloody expensive.’

She seemed more concerned about her riding boots than her broken leg.

‘Doc two to spotter,’ I said into my radio. ‘Another ambulance needed here.’

‘Roger,’ came the reply. ‘On its way.’

The attendants were already dolling off the fence so it would be bypassed by the other runners next time round.

I looked across at the other fallen rider about four yards away, and the two paramedics who were still tending to him as he lay on the ground. I thought there was something quite urgent about their movements.

‘Faller, downhill open ditch. Jockey still down.’ The spotter’s voice was loud in my ear.

‘Doc one attending,’ came the call from Adrian through the radio.

‘I’ve ordered an ambulance and stretcher for you,’ I said to my lady jockey. ‘The horses are bypassing this fence. Will you be OK for a second, Ellie? I want to check on him.’

I pointed at the other fallen rider.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Go ahead. I’m sure I can hop.’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘No hopping. Wait for the stretcher.’

I’d once had a patient arrive at A&E who, having broken one ankle, hopped across the waiting room when called and, while doing so, snapped the Achilles tendon in the other. The result had been both legs in plaster and eight weeks before he could walk again.

The other rider was Dick McGee and he wasn’t swearing about not winning this time. He was conscious but with wide frightened eyes.

‘Back injury,’ one of the paramedics said quietly to me as I went down on my knees next to him.

‘Hi, Dick,’ I said. ‘Dr Rankin here.’

‘Oh great, that’s all I need,’ he replied sardonically, which I took to be a good sign.

‘Stay still,’ I said to him. ‘We’re going to put a collar around your neck, just as a precaution.’

‘I can’t feel my legs, doc,’ he said, the worry etched deeply across his forehead.

‘It may just be spinal shock,’ I said, trying to be comforting. His back didn’t appear to be out of shape. ‘Sometimes a bang to the spine causes things to stop working for a short while. Don’t worry. Just let us look after you.’

One of the paramedics slid a plastic immobilisation collar gently under Dick’s neck and fastened it with Velcro under his chin.

‘Can you remember what happened?’ I asked.

‘Bloody nag hit the top and I went arse over tit. Landed flat on my back. Drove the bloody breath out of me, I can tell you.’

Flat was good, I thought.

I felt down his legs to check that there was no major injury there. If he couldn’t feel them then he wouldn’t be aware if one or both of his legs were broken.

I couldn’t detect anything wrong.

‘My feet have started bloody burning,’ Dick said, panic causing his voice to go up at least an octave. He was even trying to sit up.

‘Lie still, Dick,’ I said urgently. ‘You don’t want to do yourself any more damage, do you?’

‘But my bloody feet hurt,’ he said.

‘That’s a good sign,’ I said. I ran my hand down his left leg and squeezed each side just above his knee, just like I used to squeeze the legs of my twins to make them laugh. ‘Can you feel that?’