Ben Lay and my obscure association with an obscure jockey from history.

​I am presently reading ‘The Ups and Downs of a National Jockey’, the memories of Ben Lay who rode before and after the 2nd World War and who later became a trainer. I shall not pretend that this book is unputdownable or that it is beautifully written and crammed full of amusing anecdotes and great insight. Lord Oaksey, who wrote the foreword, incidentally, it is not. It is self-published and as with all books of this sort, mine included, I should imagine, it could have done with the guiding hand of a good editor and proof-reader. These people are professional and do not come cheap and as sales will only ever be small without the aid of the advertising budget of a publishing house, such expense can scrub away any hope of profit. That said, the book is an addition to the historical record of the sport and I advise all retiring jockeys and trainers to consider publishing their own account of their careers for the very same reason.
There is no reference to what year the book was published, though through quick research I discovered he died in 2007, aged 92 and the photograph of the author on the back cover suggests he was in his seventies at the time of publication.
Though he cannot be considered a successful jockey, Percy Dennis Lay, as he was christened, was no also ran. He rode several winners at the Cheltenham Festival, including the Cathcart Chase when it was still a handicap and was second in a pre-war Grand National and might have ridden Freebooter if circumstances had been different. He was what is referred to in the present day as a ‘journeyman jockey’, riding what was offered to him and supplementing his income by milking his small herd of cows, farming in general and buying, breeding and selling horses. As all jockeys are, he was a grafter. His life-story is interesting simply because he was a jumps jockey who mingled with and was friends with people who today are merely familiar names that crop up now and again when the roll-call of great races is required by journalists or t.v. He played his part in the writing of the sport’s history and deserves to be remembered. If nothing else, he gave Jeff King, said to be the best jockey never to have been champion, his first ever winner and who knows if without that winner on that day if Jeff King would have been given the opportunity to make his mark on the sport.
When he started training, Ben Lay moved to Rectory Farm, Broughton, near Banbury, and it is here my vague association with him occurred.
As I have admitted before, I have a poor memory and most of the story I am about to relate is lost to the mists of my malfunctioning brain.
I cannot remember if I applied for a job at Vic Lay’s yard, Vic being Ben’s youngest son, a trainer at the time, or whether he replied to an advertisement I placed looking for work. At a time when good staff were more easily acquired than now, I had little confidence in my ability and thought I had an advantage if trainers contacted me. It was poor policy then and not recommended now. Anyway, I cannot even recall where I lived at the time, who I was working for or how I travelled to Rectory Farm. All I recall with clarity is this:
I never met Vic Lay, I believe, and cannot remember being shown around the stables. I was though ‘interviewed’ by a woman, perhaps Mrs.Vic Lay. As usually occurs during an introduction to someone who either owns horses or is a trainer of racehorses, I was shown a photo album filled with horsey pictures. Mrs.Lay stood at my shoulder, as I sat at a table, turning each page and giving me chapter and verse on the equines and humans in the photographs. There were no Grand National winners, of course, to eulogise over but every home-bred and every winner is a source of pride to the teller.
About halfway through the album she turned a page and started to talk about whatever photograph was on the left-hand side. Unfortunately, at least for my host, my eye fell on the photograph immediately in front of me of a spreading oak tree adorned by a nude young girl standing on a bough without inhibition as if on the bowfront of sailing ship. Eventually my host witnessed what took my undivided attention and snapped the album shut, without even pausing to offer explanation or apology.
I never worked at Rectory Farm. Understandably so, perhaps. I vaguely remember leaving without a bag or suitcase or whatever and they kindly transported it to Worcester races where I was either working or attending as a racegoer.
It’s odd how these coincidences come about and how they can stir the tentacles of memory, as Ben Lay did for me, reminding me that back in the days of my history I lived a different sort of life. Perhaps a more fulfilling life, though one equally led by an ambition to be more than I capable of attaining.