When Girl came off the horse it didn’t look like a bad fall. More like an involuntary and rather hurried dismount. She’d landed on her feet, that was the main thing, so I wasn’t initially too concerned when she lay writhing and yelling on the grass. Nasty sprain I thought. Give it five minutes…
But five minutes later she was still on her back, still in pain, and I began to worry. Mainly for my darling Girl’s sake, of course, but partly for my own. ‘Oh God oh God,’ I thought. ‘She’s supposed to be going back to school tomorrow. I am going to be in such shit with her mother.’
Unfortunately for Girl — who I’m sure would have preferred an air ambulance, ideally piloted by Prince William — I managed to get the car into the field. As we sped home, trying to avoid bumps, Girl kept her spirits up by swearing at me, listening to Taylor Swift at full volume and occasionally calling up school friends to gauge their level of concern. Those who didn’t recognise the gravity and drama of the situation were put on a death list. I went on it too — and rightly so — for stopping at home to change out of my jodhpurs, grab some painkillers and make a cheese sandwich, ready for the afternoon of hell in casualty.
Still, what’s great about living in hunt country is that everyone knows the most civilised casualty centres. Round us, it’s Rugby for lesser injuries, and the teaching hospital in Coventry for the serious stuff.
‘My daughter has a suspected broken leg,’ I told the receptionist in Rugby, hoping that the pathetic sob in my voice wasn’t too obvious. ‘Dad, stop saying it’s broken when you don’t know it’s broken,’ said Girl, who was being much tougher and braver than me.
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