A Pocketful of Holes and Dreams (28 page)

After having been turned down by every mortgage company I approached, I sold my four best ponies for £20,000, and used the money as a deposit on a loan with a French bank. Even though their interest rates were much higher than everyone else’s, it was the only bank I could convince to lend me the £180,000 I needed. At this point, we were as good as beggars, and therefore could not be choosers.

Packing up all our personal belongings in the run-up to leaving Abbots Walk was very sad, particularly for Gina, as she had loved that house. She never said anything, but I did notice tears in her eyes on several occasions. All I could do was give her a hug, promising that everything would be all right and things could only get better.

On the day we moved, we were faced with the problem of getting the horses to the new house. Without a horsebox, the only alternative was to walk them along two miles of narrow country roads.

I was at the front, with two polo ponies on lead ropes, while Katie, now eleven, and Faye, now nine, followed in the middle with their ponies. Gina brought up the rear with the remaining pair. It was a dangerous journey walking along the winding lanes with so many animals, and my stomach felt tight with tension. Gina suddenly called out to me, ‘Jeff, we really do look like gypsies now. I wonder what our new neighbours will think when they see us turning up looking like this.’ I couldn’t help but laugh.

With much shuffling back and forth, we eventually moved into Stone House Farm. Katie and Faye immediately ran upstairs to claim their bedrooms. Faye opened her window and it fell crashing to the ground. I soon realized that the 150-year-old farmhouse was in need of a little more than a coat of paint!

There was no central heating, for example, only coal fires to keep us warm. It was like going back in time to my childhood. But it didn’t really bother us; we were together as a family, and that was all that mattered.

That year soon passed. Five days a week, I would travel to Liverpool in the early hours of the morning to set up my market stall. Gina would follow to help me after dropping the girls off at school, and Karen Foster, our devoted friend from the Girls Talk days, was now working with me again.

When I wasn’t trading, I was teaching aspiring men and women how to ride horses and play polo. I became the Cheshire Polo Club’s official coach, with my own polo school. Who would have guessed that when I first went to Argentina to learn how to play, I would one day end up teaching it myself!

I found myself doing everything and anything to make money to pay the bills, which never seemed to end. Isn’t it funny how you never seem to notice the postman coming every morning when times are good, but when you’re broke you seem to see him all the time.

Bob Broster, a good friend of mine, offered me a job jousting at big county shows, an offer I couldn’t refuse. It involved riding out in front of thousands of spectators, dressed in shining armour, and charging towards another ‘knight’, lances at the ready.

I was often sent crashing to the ground at speed, and the armour didn’t make for a soft landing! I may have been battling as a knight, but I was also fighting for survival, more than happy with the £300 I earned in a day.

All was beginning to go well, and I was managing to keep the wolf (and the dreaded postman) from the door. Then, one day in September 1994, I received a call from Pinewood Studios asking if I was interested in doing some work as an extra in a film they were shooting in Wales. Apparently, I now had a good reputation as a stunt rider, and they were offering £100 a day, and £50 to cover the costs of the horse. The caller asked if I knew any other riders, and Peter, a young man I was teaching to play polo, sprang to mind. He didn’t own a horse, but I could lend him one of mine and, in return, collect an extra £50 a day.

Gina said she would look after the markets in my absence, so I borrowed a horsebox and, before we knew it, Peter and I were setting off to Gwynedd in North Wales.

When we arrived, there were hundreds of horseboxes and rows and rows of makeshift stables. Large white tents had been put up across acres of farmland, and in the distance there was a huge construction of a castle with a moat and drawbridge. This spectacular site was mind-blowing.

We slowly made our way through the hive of activity, eventually signing in at reception, where we were given a stable number and told to report to wardrobe. The costumes had been designed by Giorgio Armani and were amazing: royal-blue tunics with layers of armour that glistened in the midday sun, a thick leather swordbelt and knee-high suede boots.

There were 260 horsemen in total, and we were playing knights of the realm in the army of King Arthur. Some of the horses didn’t take kindly to wearing their armour, especially over their heads, and at times the field was full of knights being thrown off their horses in every direction. Poor Peter was in a terrible state, frightened to death, and even though I was more confident, I spent the next three hours hanging on for dear life while my horse reared and kicked to throw off its costume. At one point the man who seemed to be in charge of managing all the horses came up to me and asked what breed my horses were. ‘Argentinian polo ponies,’ I replied. When I said that I played, he smiled, and said, ‘You’ll be all right then. Get back in line.’

Later that afternoon, a helicopter appeared in the sky above. Everyone watched it land, and there was a huge cheer as Sean Connery emerged and waved to the hundreds of extras standing on the hillside. Half an hour later, another helicopter arrived, and Richard Gere stepped out. Word spread like wildfire, and I soon discovered we were about to appear in a £60 million blockbuster called
First Knight.

The horsemen were instructed to form a long line, two abreast, to wear stern expressions and ride with our backs straight and our chests out. Most importantly, we had to keep our eyes firmly fixed on the head of the rider directly in front of us. The director then called out, ‘You’re the King’s men going into battle, so act like it.’

Everything was going well until we were told to go into a rising trot. The instructions were clear: we had to rise up out of our saddles, then sit back down in unison, repeating this every couple of seconds. All 260 of us had to be in harmony. We practised for one hour and then we were told that, when we arrived at the throne where King Arthur was sitting, one column was to turn left, the other right. We all got into position and waited for the call of ‘Action’, then off we went. Peter and I were towards the back, and I could sense that he was not in time with the rest of us: as we were rising up, he was sitting down. He was also shouting out, ‘It’s hurting me.’

‘What is?’ I asked.

‘Your sword!’

Taking my eyes off the rider in front for a split second, I looked down and saw, to my horror, that my sword had disappeared inside Peter’s boot. And the more I tried to free it, the more he cried out in pain. We were now getting closer to where the two columns would separate. But we were stuck together like Siamese twins. Within seconds of us seeing the colour of Sean Connery’s eyes, I managed to undo the buckle of my belt, releasing the sword, and turned sharp right. How Peter managed not to kill our precious ‘king’, I’ll never know!

Everyone watched in disbelief as Peter then carried out an Oscar-winning performance of his own. His pony bolted off at great speed across the countryside while Peter held on for his life, with a large metal sword sticking out of his boot!

The next day, it was my turn for action.

All the horsemen had been in the saddle for several hours, trying to perfect our departure out of the castle gates and over the drawbridge to the fields beyond. We must have done it a dozen times, but still it wasn’t right. We were being put back into position one more time – and it’s not easy to get 260 horses exactly where you want them – when a message that had been passed down the line finally reached me: ‘Where’s the polo player?’

Peter called out, ‘That’s you, Jeff, They’re asking for you.’ I shushed him to be quiet, thinking we were going to be thrown off the set. Then the man who had called me over on the first day came riding up the long line of horsemen calling out, ‘Where’s the polo player?’ I thought we were about to be sent packing, so I tried to shuffle further towards the back, but then the man recognized me and pulled me out of the line.

‘Come with me,’ he said, setting off at a gallop. When we arrived at the front, he explained what was going on. ‘It’s Richard Gere’s horse,’ he said. ‘Every time he rides over the drawbridge, it shies away from the big arc lights that are positioned along the way. I want you to ride directly behind him and, as he gets closer to the light, I want you to push your horse up to the back of his so that it has no time to shy away. Can you do it?’ He knew, as I did, that polo ponies are bred for that sort of work.

Before I knew it, I was being introduced to Richard Gere, but I could sense that the clock and the pounds were ticking away and that this was no time for idle chitchat. We all got into position once more. But this time my heart was pounding faster than ever with the extra responsibility. ‘Action’ was called, and we set off out of the castle gates. As we hit the drawbridge, my eyes focused on the bright lights in the distance. As soon as I felt the time was right, I signalled my horse to move forward and push the horse in front. To my relief, I heard a voice on the Tannoy saying, ‘Well done, everyone. That’s a wrap.’

We had two weeks filming in Wales, and at the end of it, the guy in charge of the horsemen was taking his six best riders to Scotland to appear in another movie. He invited me to join them, so I rang home to tell Gina the good news.

She listened quietly, then said, ‘Get your arse back here right now. If you think for one minute that I’m going to look after the business, the farm and the girls while you go galloping around a field with a bunch of movie stars, you’ve got another think coming!’ Her choice of words was so funny I burst out laughing. The next day, I set off for home, where I truly belonged. Two weeks later, I got a phone call from the stunt team to say they were having the time of their lives – riding alongside Mel Gibson in
Braveheart.

26. The Human Spirit Shines Through

Despite really enjoying working with horses, I soon realized I would always be scraping a living. It was too hit and miss. One week I would have half a dozen clients to teach; the next two weeks, nothing. Our small market business was subsidizing everything. It was a tough decision, but I had no other alternative but to close the polo school and concentrate all my efforts once more on building up the fashion business.

By now I knew my strengths, and I certainly knew my weaknesses. My strength was the vast knowledge of the fashion business I had acquired over the years. I knew in my heart I would be a great asset to any of the big names on the high street and I would have jumped at the chance to prove my worth. But, unfortunately, the reality was quite different. Who in their right mind would employ someone who could not even read or write? The truth was, I was unemployable. I would have to go it alone.

One night, I was talking to Gina after dinner and jokingly said, ‘Put me in a field with lots of women and I’ll make a lot of money!’ Then it dawned on me. ‘That’s it!’ I cried out. ‘The county shows where I used to joust. They get thirty thousand visitors through their gates – at least ten thousand must be women.’

The next day, I made enquiries and, as luck would have it, our local Cheshire Show was to be held in two weeks’ time. For £300, we could have a space to sell our clothes.

Even better, the show took place on a Tuesday and Wednesday, so it didn’t interfere with our market days. £300 seemed like a lot of money, but I decided it was worth a go. All I needed now were the styles that would appeal to the female country set. The art of successful retailing is in the buying. Anyone can sell, but not everyone can buy.

I had always kept a keen eye on the fashion icons of the day, and Princess Diana was one of my favourites. It wasn’t difficult to understand that, whatever Diana wore, these ladies would certainly wear, too. I’d always had a good relationship with many fashion manufacturers, and they were happy to give me sixty days’ credit on the extra stock I needed.

On the first day, Gina, Karen and I took £3,000, and on the second, £4,000. The female customers absolutely loved our styles.

As we were packing up, I got chatting to a married couple who sold leather handbags. They told me they were going to travel through the night to go to the Royal Lincolnshire show, which started the next day.

Gina and I discussed it that night and, just after midnight, I too was setting off on the 200-mile journey to Lincolnshire.

I arrived around 5 a.m., and the place was buzzing. The office had just opened, so I made my way inside. After much begging and pleading, I finally managed to obtain a space. Erecting my stall, I felt like the poor relation next to all these other, professional traders, who had gleaming white marquees, with brand-new caravans parked alongside. I felt slightly embarrassed at first with my feeble set-up. But I convinced myself that it was the product I was selling that would determine how successful I would be, not the look of my ‘premises’.

I spent the next three hours setting up shop and displaying my stock. It was a little harder than usual, trying to do everything on my own. But by the time the thousands of visitors had passed through the turnstiles, I was ready to do business. In no time at all, the Lincolnshire women were buying like there was no tomorrow. They absolutely loved my selection of clothes. But, even more importantly, they loved my prices.

I always believed in the three ‘right’s: the right product at the right price to the right customer. The rest is easy after that. My fellow traders stood gazing at the sight before them: a strange one-man-band set-up that would have looked more at home in a foreign bazaar. What they found hard to accept was that my small, humble stall was packed with customers giving me lots of money. I soon became the hot topic of conversation.

By 7 p.m., it was all over. I was well and truly exhausted. I’d had no sleep for close on thirty-eight hours. I put the remaining stock back in the van and crawled in after it on my hands and knees and lay on the floor. It was very dark and claustrophobic with all the garments touching my face. But exhaustion got the better of me and I fell fast asleep.