Frankie: The Autobiography of Frankie Dettori. Frankie Dettori

to this day that I worked my way hungrily through a bag of sweets and Mars bars on the long drive to Yorkshire. The horse started long odds-on favourite and won easily. The next evening I was back at Goodwood for another success on Lizzy Hare. This time we made all the running.

      Two winners in two days! Things were picking up at last. Early in July, Chris came up trumps again by booking me for another winner, Camallino Rose, who beat Rae Guest on Luca’s colt Fill My Glass in a photo finish at Carlisle. Although the winning distance was only a head, I won quite cheekily, and on the way back to unsaddle I made the mistake of giving Rae a bit of stick. Chris told me later that Ivan Allan, the owner of Camallino Rose, was furious with me for being so cocky in the finish. Ivan is a huge gambler, and when his money is down he likes them to win by twenty-five lengths. Apparently watching me playing jockeys had almost given him a heart attack.

      Next time I really made a mess of things on Camallino Rose at Hamilton, and it was all down to the lip I’d given Rae Guest at Carlisle. I didn’t know that some of the other jockeys had taken exception to the way I spoke to Rae. They got their revenge at Hamilton where they managed to box me in on Camallino Rose in a four-horse race. I just had to sit and suffer, trapped in on the rails, and though she flew once we escaped it was all too late. That taught me a valuable lesson because we should have won by five minutes.

      I was in trouble again two days later at Ascot after winning an apprentice race for Luca on Local Hero by a length and a half from Red River Boy. The rider of the second, Stephen Quane, who was also apprenticed to Luca, immediately objected to the stewards, claiming we had crossed in front of him. It was my first experience of an inquiry in England and I was immensely relieved when we kept the race, but that was not the end of the matter.

      Ron Hodges, the trainer of Red River Boy, then appealed against the Ascot stewards’ decision, so we all had to go to the Jockey Club’s headquarters at Portman Square in London. Ron’s solicitor believed their case was watertight, but Ron wasn’t so confident when he arrived at the hearing to discover Luca having a cup of tea with the JC stewards! Luckily for me Luca and our solicitor did most of the talking during the hearing and the appeal was thrown out.

      My sixth victory that year came at Brighton early in August. I travelled to the meeting with Steve Cauthen in his chauffeur-driven Jaguar. Steve was very good to me when I was young. Of all the senior jockeys he was the one who took time to speak to me. He quickly became a good friend, but in those days I used to irritate him like mad on long journeys. He would be trying to doze sprawled across the back seat, clutching a can of diet Coke, and listening to tapes of Fleetwood Mac, while I sat in the front next to his driver asking him a zillion questions, always trying to pick his brains. Steve was a cool dude, who seemed to have life well organised since his move from America in 1979. He was one of my first heroes in racing, a lovely guy who knew how to treat people properly—and he was the jockey Luca suggested I watch more than any other. I didn’t need a second invitation. He’d already been champion jockey twice, was a wonderful judge of pace, and the day he took me to Brighton he needed only two victories to reach the 1,000 mark in this country.

      Voracity swiftly took Steve on to 999 early in the afternoon. Then, riding Know All for Luca, I ruined the script by pipping his mount In The Habit in a tight finish. It looked like being a long walk home from Sussex for me, but luckily Steve had one more ride in the last race on Picnicing, which won easily. The racecourse executive presented him with a bottle of champagne but he was more interested in devouring a huge ice-cream as we left the track. I was swiftly forgiven and we drove back to Newmarket in style.

      When I could I always tried to ride John Francome’s horses in the hope that his gorgeous wife Miriam would be in charge at the races. The first time we met was at Salisbury. As I weighed out there she was, an absolute stunner. Still is. Anything in a skirt would excite me in those days, but Miriam was the real thing, a beautiful model with a lovely nature to go with it. I was overcome standing beside her in the paddock, letting my mind run wild. I was heartbroken when John gave up training shortly afterwards to concentrate on his TV career and his golf.

      By now I was well into the swing of an English season which often involved long journeys to distant racecourses for one ride without any obvious chance. At least Our Krystle finished third for me at Newcastle on August bank holiday Monday, but she had hung so badly left in the closing stages that a stewards’ inquiry was a formality. She was disqualified and I picked up a three-day suspension for careless riding.

      I was looking forward to a night in the pubs of Newcastle but managed only a couple of drinks before I was forced to change my plans. A drunk Geordie punter decided that he wanted to kill me because he’d backed my horse each-way and had done his money when it was disqualified. He was so aggressive that I rushed straight back to the lads’ hostel and, as usual in times of danger, locked myself in my room.

      The next morning I caught the train to Chepstow. This involved a marathon trek across country involving several changes, and then a long walk on a boiling hot afternoon from Chepstow station to the racecourse with my bag on my shoulder, because I couldn’t afford a taxi. I was melting by the time I staggered into the weighing-room. I’d come for the one ride, a 20-1 chance, and you can imagine how I felt when the trainer told me the horse wasn’t fancied. Sure enough we finished in the rear before I managed to hitch a lift back to Newmarket.

      I had much better fortune when I returned to Chepstow ten days later. William Haggas, in his first season as a trainer, booked me for a horse called Far Top in the second leg of the apprentice race, while Colin Rate was down to ride Girotondo in the first leg. Colin and I persuaded a friend to drive us down to Chepstow, but none of us was very experienced at finding our way to Wales and we became so lost that we arrived at Chepstow just in time to see Girotondo romp home ridden by a late substitute jockey. Far Top, who started hot favourite at 4-9, then scrambled home with me by a neck.

      So far I had managed only seven more winners in seven months in England. For someone who badly wanted to set the world on fire I was having trouble igniting the spark. Despite having plenty of confidence in my ability, I began to wonder if I would ever make the big breakthrough. My doubts grew in September during a lean spell at the same time that I was forced to move my digs after two happy years with Dennis and Val. The local council, it appeared, objected to tenants taking in paying guests. I didn’t want to be the cause of them losing the house and felt the only course was for me to pack my bags. Several years later I was delighted to hear that their daughter had bought the house for them from the council, so now they have a home for life. Finding somewhere to match the comfort of the last two years was always going to be an impossible task, but a friend, Bernice Emanuel, who was Ben Hanbury’s secretary at the time, had a room in her house and was prepared to put me up for a month until I sorted out something more permanent. I ended up staying two and a half years.

      I’d been to her home before for supper with parties of Italians she hosted from time to time. Bernice made me more than welcome and proved to be a loyal friend, but straight away she made it clear she wouldn’t be cooking for me very much nor was she planning to wash and iron my shirts. Instead, she taught me how to use an iron.

      Soon after moving in I spoke to my father about my lack of success in England. The next morning I told Bernice that I was determined to try my luck in France, which had been part of my dad’s original plan. Luca was having none of it. He rang my father and persuaded him that I should persevere in this country. A few days later I rode my final winner of the season on Luca’s filly Sumara in a maiden race at Haydock. She was owned by Sheikh Mohammed who would later play such a key role in my success as a jockey.

      Most mornings I was allergic to climbing out of bed. I was working long hours and trying to keep my weight down, so I often slept straight through my alarm. I was late at least once a week, and many times Luca would ring Bernice to ask if I had shown any sign of life. Then I would make a mad dash to the yard, be given the inevitable lecture and try to catch the others up. To teach me a lesson when I was seriously late, Luca would take me off the horses that were working or galloping and put me instead on ones that were on the easy list, walking and trotting.

      I had no difficulty waking up on the morning of the famous storm on 16 October 1987 which left a huge path of destruction as it swept through the town. The noise in the