I was saddened, as were his legion of fans around the world, to hear of the death of Dick Francis in February, 2010. As the UK Guardian obituary put it, "he showed a mastery of lean, witty genre prose." From the time my wife introduced me to his work almost forty years ago, I made it a point to acquire every one of his books. I prize my autographed first American editions. I admire his works, and in Ben Jonson's words, "do honor his memory on this side idolatry as much as any."
But I was deeply disappointed by the ending of his novel
Come to Grief
. He had written a magnificent erotic scene between Sid Halley, his injured hero, and India Cathcart, the journalist who tried to destroy him but came to love him.
Of course Francis did in three sentences what most writers would need several paragraphs. "The touch of her fingers on the skin of my forearm had been a caress more intimate than any act of sex. I felt shaky. I felt more moved than ever in my life." She had just put his artificial left hand back on what was left of his forearm.
But then she leaves. And Francis marries Halley to one Marina van der Meer in his later novel
Under Orders
. As far as I am concerned, India has more in her little finger than Marina has in her vagina.
However, read the novels. They are, flaws and all, well worth your time.
Over the years, though, my dissatisfaction remained. I thought out, again and again, how I wanted the novel to end. Of course, my proposed ending was destined for the desk drawer, if not the wastebasket, with an abrupt "impertinent clown!" as its epitaph.
But then came Literotica, and Celebrities fan fiction. So here is my version of what should have happened, with deepest homage to one of the best writers I ever read. Halley is in hospital recovering from a gunshot wound. India visits him there.
*
The ward sister said I'd be released next day or the day after. The tubes were disconnected, the electrodes and monitors removed. The endless "beep beep beep" was silenced at last. Several batches of medical students were walked through my room to peer at me. Their professor lectured them about my speedy recovery. If they were impressed, they didn't show it.
Finally, the next morning, the catheter was removed from my penis. I'd had no sensation there for days, shock being followed by the discomfort of having my sphincter held open to drain my urine into a bottle next the bed. I expect my prostate had shut down, but my testicles were jogging right along, as I thought about India Cathcart and the kiss we had shared.
It was ten days after Ellis Quint had died and seven since that kiss. India hadn't come, might never come.
I had nearly destroyed one beautiful, fragile girl, my loved and lost Jennie. Was India gone, too?
Don't give in, I told myself, never give in.
Rachel Ferns would live, they told me, the little leukemia girl in her bubble. I wanted to cry for joy, but I waited until night when no one could see the tears. Don't ever let it touch you, not love, not fear, not pain, not pity, not even joy. So neither foes nor loving friends could hurt you, I thought, echoing Kipling. I cried even more. I was dead, even though the bullet didn't kill me, I was dead before it ever came.
