A 63-year-old Essex girl puts her tack on to her first of two lots on a cold, windy morning in Closutton. The place has changed since she moved in here with her husband when it was just a wrecked farm house and a few old stone stables.
The “tack room’ used to be in the back kitchen then. Not anymore. She pulls her horse from the stable, out of the Burgundy Barn and jumps on him from the blue mounting block sitting in the middle of the concrete yard.
It’s a long way from studying Law at University College London. The daughter of two doctors, they must have rued her trip over to visit her uncle, who was Paddy Mullins’ doctor.
Seeing as she was a keen eventer, she was sent to ride out in the mornings at Duninga and there she met a long haired, curly, blonde fella called Willie. And now here we are. And here I am.
Champion lady rider in 1993/94, she has quietly been keeping the cogs of the ever growing machine at Closutton turning and working at full tilt ever since.
Finger on the pulse
She warms up her horse, sailing gently amongst the sea of riders, asking questions and making suggestions, keeping her finger on the pulse. A quiet word from Jackie seems to elicit a rather faster response than a roar and a shout from other people.
It must be the perfect grammar and English accent. Willie appears at the gap, on the phone, and wades into the organised confusion that is second lot. Horses and riders are dispatched to different places.
“Three two’s on the sand … One big ... Two work … a pick of grass…”
“Jackie, what’s he doing?”
“One big.”
“Let’s move him up to two.”
“I’m not so sure, I think he’s a little behind himself.”
“I’ve a race for him next week, two big.”
“Perhaps tomorrow, darling.”
And she serenely strolls away from the rising head of steam appearing over her shoulder.
After she’s finished riding out, she grabs some Bovril soldiers and a boiled egg before hopping into the jeep with her Rhodesian Ridgeback Lara, who is far less enthusiastic about feeding the young stock in muddy fields than her owner is.
Together they pop across to a nearby farm to feed and check the broodmares, yearlings and two-year-olds. She has had plenty of success in this field, with Joe Cullen winning the Champion Bumper in 2000 being the first major triumph, still in her own colours.
The fact that he was only put on the lorry after Adamant Approach was lame the day before the boat sailed remains one of the great strokes of luck.
She spots a limping yearling and makes a quick call. “Brendan, could you collect the Screaming Witness yearling please, we’ll need a farrier to look at him.”
At the moment the mare Sixhills, who was taken on as a bad debt, is the star attraction having bred dual Grade 1 and Nakayama Grand Jump winner Blackstairsmountain. Mt Leinster and Purple Mountain are currently upholding that family honour.
Every day of their upbringing, they were checked, fed, moved about and treated as necessary and the results on the track have followed. It’s muddy and wet work and I tend to side with Lara on the enthusiasm side when dragged along every so often.
Yard groups
Lunch is cooked and eaten while Willie, on the phone, reads the papers.
This afternoon is spent doing bills and interacting with Jo, Matt and John in the office. Sporadic WhatsApps are sent to the yard group.
“Cold tonight, barn doors closed please.” “Carrots arriving soon, can everyone please grab a bag.” “Mickael, I have a new bridle for you, please call in and collect.” “Has anyone seen Willie?” and the like.
Racing is on the TV but she won’t watch it live, preferring to know the result beforehand. A curiously new habit. Often she’ll ring me on the way home. “Was he moving alright? He was on the wrong leg around the home bend. We might get the physio to take a look?”
“Yes, Mum, he won 20 lengths hard held, doing handstands but better safe than sorry, I suppose.”
Relaxation
Later at night, she will check the top yard to make sure they are warm, eating, drinking, not cast or loose or making one of the usual casual suicide attempts that thoroughbreds seem to innately practice, while her husband (on the phone) checks the bottom yard.
More WhatsApp messages will be sent, asking other questions and making further suggestions. “Dick, Whatdeawant was a little warm, we might put a lighter sheet on him?” “Rachael, should we feed Kilcruit more hay?”
The devil in the detail, marginal gains, constant improvement, call it what you will. It works. And it works pretty well.
The day usually ends on the couch with Lara at her feet, Willie (on the phone) by her side watching TV and a Lee Child thriller in her hand. Lots has changed at Closutton over the years, bigger gallops, more stables, different owners, younger jockeys, new staff, a kid, a variety of dogs and cats. But some things have stayed just the same. ?