The Enchanted

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘No, no – less of the old,’ Mr Morgan chimed in. ‘I feel perfectly sure that you will only attract the best, Mrs Fortune.’

  Lynne gave him a quick glance, and then looked away, frowning lightly.

  ‘What I meant to say—’ he continued, too late, only to be stopped at once by his client.

  ‘Think nothing of it, Mr Morgan,’ Lynne assured him. ‘As I was saying, this settlement, if it’s as good as it looks—’

  ‘Which it is, Mrs Fortune. Believe me. It most certainly is.’

  ‘Provided, of course, that Gerry coughs up with the cheque a.s.a.p.’

  ‘They’re much stricter about this sort of thing nowadays, Mrs Fortune – he really won’t be allowed to delay payment.’

  ‘You have to watch Gerry. He’s not someone to take your eye off. He didn’t get where he is by playing soppy date.’

  ‘He’s certainly been very successful, Mrs Fortune.’

  ‘I’m just surprised the way he’s simply rolled over the way he has. I really thought he’d put up a bit more of a fight. I suppose he’s so glad to be shot of me, he doesn’t mind paying.’

  Lynne sipped her champagne and looked over the top of her glass at Mr Morgan, hoping he might contradict her. He did not.

  ‘You have half the value of the house, you keep your car, you have a generous settlement in consideration of your excellent record as a wife,’ he said. ‘So, as long as you take the right financial advice, you most certainly should remain more than solvent, Mrs Fortune.’

  ‘OK, Mr Morgan.’ Lynne checked her lipstick in her compact mirror. ‘Fair dos. And now I think I might treat myself somewhere. After all, getting divorced isn’t something you do every day.’

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong with that,’ Mr Morgan agreed. ‘Provided we don’t go too mad.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lynne looked at him teasingly, wide-eyed. ‘You coming along too, then?’

  Mr Morgan smiled shyly back, turned a beautiful plum colour, and walked uncertainly back into the broad daylight of the street to return to his office.

  Lynne stared at herself in the mirror behind the bar, all her put-on flirtatious manner gone, a sense of trepidation and muted excitement taking its place. She still had half a bottle of champagne to finish, and by the time she had done that justice she reckoned she should feel ready for the fray. After all, as she’d decided, this was the start of the rest of her life. This was her, herself, by herself.

  She drank another glass of champagne and thought some more about the reality of her position. Until this moment there had still been half of her that believed this was happening and half that did not, yet now she knew it was in fact all true, one hundred per cent so. She really was on her own. By my own, as she used to say when she was small. I don’t want to be by my own. Yet now, like it or not, she was indeed by her own, totally and utterly and completely. And because she was alone she knew she would be lucky if she didn’t end up as some dreary divorcee with a backlog of hard luck stories about relationships that hadn’t quite worked out, tales of near misses, of what might have beens. She knew, champagne or no champagne, that from now on she was going to need all the luck that was going. She looked into the face staring back at her in the mirror behind the bar and saw the former Mrs Gerry Fortune, looking a lot less poised and buffed and groomed than the happy young woman who had waltzed happily out of the Lakeside Beauty Spa, on her way home to surprise her gorgeous sexy husband.

  Chapter Five

  Back Across the Wather

  He sensed the change; smelt it even. It was the tones of the voices of those who came to feed him, to look at his feet, to brush out his coat and mane, to check his legs. And he knew it because wasn’t herself coming too often, bringing his favourite sweet things to eat, pulling his ears and resting her face on his neck before kissing him on his nose, the way she knew he liked it. More than that, he noticed that despite all this there were none of the words that were normal to her coming to him. Since he was hardly old enough to put his head over the door he had known it was her coming, for she would sing quietly to him as she went about her work, and ask him all the time, time after time, if he was all right then – which he always was. But not today. Today he was not all right. He was uneasy, walking about in the straw, holding his head away from her, standing at the back of his stable and looking into the corner. He sensed something was up, and not something good. Something bad was about to happen. He understood this from the tone of her voice and the sadness in her dark eyes.

  ‘I shall try to come and see you, Boyo,’ Kathleen told her horse, as if sensing his trepidation and seeking to reassure him. ‘I don’t know how, my love, and I don’t know when, because it won’t be easy, but I’ll find a way. I’ll think of a way of getting to see you, because if I don’t …’ She fell silent, as if reluctant to spell out the rest of her thoughts. ‘You just make sure you’re a good boy and behave yourself, Boyo. You’ll always be mine, don’t you worry.’

  She pulled his ears and kissed his muzzle softly and gently.

  ‘At least you’ll have your friend Finoula with you,’ she whispered. ‘Some of the way, at least.’

  Which indeed was the case, since their neighbour had sold the young filly who was Boyo’s paddock playmate to a horse scout from England, arrangements having been made for the two horses to travel with a large consignment of other bought horses from the area.

  A lad came in later, looked in Boyo’s manger, then slapped the horse on the neck and asked him why he wasn’t eating. In answer the horse just pushed him aside, turning his rump on him, ready with his hind feet. The lad was about to have a go but seeing the way the horse had laid his ears back flat thought better of it.

  ‘Suit yourself so,’ the lad said, taking his manger away but avoiding his hind quarters as he eased his way to the door. ‘You’re the one who’s going to get hungry, not me, and you won’t be getting much on your travels.’

  Sensing something bad, the horse walked his box for the next two hours before finally sleeping. He woke at first light, but it wasn’t the dawn that woke him. There were sounds in the yard, the sort of noise that he normally didn’t hear until much later in the day. His stable door was thrown open and the tall boy came in, carrying the things they put on his legs when they took him to some different field to jump hedges with others like himself, things to protect his legs in the moving box. So perhaps that’s what it was. Perhaps this was another of those times when they went and raced each other in another field somewhere, yet if it was, why was herself so upset? Why had her face been wet? And why wasn’t she here now? Why wasn’t she here now with him? It was always herself who put these things on him, not this skit of a lad who liked to hit his rump and slap his neck. So why was she not here?

  So when they led him out to the moving box with the things on his legs and a warmer on his back he tried to get away. He stood up on his hind legs and gave the moving box a great whack with his fore legs; then he crashed down again and turned and turned and bucked and pulled. The great strip still had a hold on his head collar but he was red in the face and yelling at him fit to burst.

  The noise brought herself down. She rushed out of the house, shouting at the lad and taking hold of the leading rope.

  ‘What in hell do you think you’re doing, boy?’ she shouted. ‘You get him stirred like this you’ll never get him in!’

  Now he stood still and looked at her, wanting her to tell him why she hadn’t been there earlier and why she wasn’t dressed to go with him in the moving box the way she always did when they went to another field. But she said nothing. She stroked him, gave him a carrot, stroked him again, and led him silently into the moving box. He went in. He would always go in for her. He would do anything she wanted. So he walked up the ramp and went in, and still she said nothing.

  When he was in, she tied his head. He gazed at her, turning both his great brown eyes to her, looking to her for help. Still she said nothing. All she did was suddenly hug his neck, hug it tig
ht, and then she was gone. Why? He gave a great cry. What are you doing? Come back to me! Come back now! Come back! Come back!

  ‘Quiet!’ the strip told him, checking his head rope to make sure he couldn’t get free. ‘And stop stamping those damned feet of yours!’

  Then they led Finoula in. He didn’t know she was coming as well, or going, whatever it was they were doing. Where were they going? No one had said where, but the little mare was standing beside him now, her own head roped to a ring, and she looked frightened. She had never been in the moving box before and had had to be manhandled and beaten before she would jib her way up the ramp. Finally she had relented and allowed herself to be installed and tied up, but she was scared. Boyo could see it in the way her eye was, with half the white showing. He whickered at her and she whickered back, but nothing it seemed could stop her trembling.

  When they took them out, the horses found themselves in a very big barn. Outside, through the doors, Boyo could see something huge and dark, like another barn but much, much bigger, with enormous doors thrown wide to allow a line of wheeled boxes to enter, which they were doing, slowly, while people in brightly coloured coats waved and pointed at them. The huge barn seemed to be moving very slowly up and down, up and down, and on top of that he could smell and taste salt. A wind was blowing hard, swirling heavy rain about the large barn and drenching everyone who was standing between the two buildings. He and Finoula were made to wait in a small box with rails, with their heads tied and no hay or water, so Boyo stamped and shouted until Liam appeared with a bucket. He stroked his neck.

  ‘It’ll be all right, lad. I wanted to come with you all the way and so did Kathleen, but we can’t afford that now, so we can’t. But I’ll see they take care of you all right.’

  And then the two of them were put in a big box with other horses, but all their eyes talked of was fear, and then the big box moved, slowly, and there was a lot of noise outside the big box, the rumble of other boxes, and the slamming of doors. There were raised voices, the smell of fumes and a slow, sickening, rocking motion. Some of the other horses whinnied fearfully, and started to stamp, and someone moved among them tightening their heads, talking to them roughly.

  Boyo knew that here was danger, and knew also not to make a sound. After a lot of darkness there was a long, slow shudder and the sound of something deep and low and powerful, a throbbing noise, and the clanging of a bell somewhere, and he could hear the rushing of water. Alongside him the other horses began to stamp and whinny, calling to each other, crying out, What is happening, where am I?

  Now this new, more frightening box was moving, swaying from side to side, then plunging forwards and backwards. The deep throbbing had become louder and more powerful, while all the time there was the distant sound of thrashing, rushing water.

  In the darkness Boyo could see Finoula’s eyes grown even larger. She was pulling back on her head collar, whinnying pitifully, her eyes rolling white and huge, half sitting as she tried to break free. Boyo whickered to her; he whickered to show her that she would be all right if she stood but not all right if she went down. They were packed tight in the big box and it was hot and airless. If anyone went down they could really hurt themselves. They had to stand. They had to endure it, to stand together, to keep each other on their feet, although the big box was now dipping and climbing and swaying terrifyingly. The water could be heard now smashing on the sides of whatever huge thing they were in and the journey got rougher and rougher.

  The little mare saw his eye, felt his breath on her, and stopped her tugging. Half down and half up she scrambled, her hooves sliding on the wet floor as she tried to get her hind legs up under her. But the box was swaying and plunging so much now that as soon as she was almost up another great drop downwards would make her lose her balance all over again.

  He pushed his rump round behind her as best he could, standing there with his own hooves planted as firmly as he could manage. The mare felt his strength and pushed herself back against him, and then was safe, up on her own feet, shoving herself forward and regaining her balance. Her whinnying stopped and her eyes regained their proper look. They all calmed down as best they could, but after a long darkness the plunging and rolling became even worse and once again a panic broke out, and there was whinnying and stamping, neighing and snorting. He stood as steady as he could but it was so difficult now that he kept sliding sideways and almost falling over, his head and neck stretched out as he slipped and then wrenched as he lurched to one side. He had never known a feeling like this. And it was endless; endless, and so dark. Except for the dimmest light filtering in through the filthy windows of their big wheeled box, it was dark, and terrifying.

  Some time on, the long and horrifying nightmare ended. The ground stopped heaving, the water stopped rushing, and suddenly there was a great flood of light and noise.

  Boyo could hear the other wheeled boxes beginning to move, and finally their big box slowly but surely followed the others out into the daylight. There was still wind and rain, growing louder as the light in their box grew brighter, but underfoot it was firm, and the ground seemed to have stopped moving. In the calm that followed he looked around him at the other horses and saw that they were settling down as well, some beginning to pull at their hay nets even though the hay was dry as dust. He was thirsty too, but there was no water anywhere, just the dry and dusty hay to pick at.

  It was a very long day and the wheeled box grew very hot from the heat of all the horses. But there was no respite and no refreshment. Even when the box stopped for a time, there was no water brought, although the dust from the hay was parching. A man came in and they all looked at him as best they could. They tried to tell him they must have something to drink but he ignored them, blowing smoke out of his mouth and nose as he picked his way through the packed box looking at them all. Then he was gone and the door was shut again. The heat built up more and more and to his horror he saw the little mare suddenly stagger and slip even though they were not moving. He tried to help her again, but she was too distressed to respond and fell heavily against the partition separating them. The others sensed the crisis and started to panic but no one came, despite the crescendo of stamping and whinnying. Then the box began to move again, on and on and on.

  It was all but dark when the back of the box was finally lowered and a gust of fresh cold air blew in, making them all suddenly shake and shiver as the sweat dried on their steaming bodies. Some stamped again to get their blood running, others bowed their heads as if in hope of finding water, while others just stood trembling in every muscle. The box was full of the steam of their terror before they were all pulled out and led off to a block of stables. All but one. Finoula, his friend. The little dark mare was no longer moving, half held up by her head collar as if that was what had caused her death; as if she had been strangled by it. But she hadn’t. She had died from terror, and thirst, and shock, and unable to fall to the floor hung there with her beautiful head twisted grotesquely to one side and her big pink tongue lolling uselessly out of her parched mouth.

  As he was led away he heard them dragging her body out and half turned to watch. The man leading him pulled roughly at his head collar but he was so much the stronger that he just pulled the man over as he turned to see the body of his dead friend being towed away behind a wheeled box, bumping and shuddering over the concrete of the strange yard, steam still rising from her skin. The one at his collar tried to pull him on, hitting him round the head, but he just butted him away, causing the man to make a noise and hold his face.

  They were all put in a line of draughty stables with only the thinnest of beds to lie on, bedding that had not even been cleaned out after the other horses that had passed through the yard. They all wanted nothing more than to lie down, but the beds were so filthy and poor that most just stood disconsolately, their ears back, their lower lips sticking out in misery, with only half-buckets of lukewarm, dirty water within reach. Later they were given food, but it was old and worthl
ess, dusty nuts that tasted of nothing, and a slab of stale hay chucked on to the floor to see them through the long darkness.

  He stood in the corner of his box, resting his hocks against the splintered timbers behind him. He had no idea what was happening to him or why. All his life he had met nothing but kindness. He’d had to stand in the rain and the wind, he’d had to put up with the sun and the flies, but no matter, since every day he was brought into a stable and brushed and washed, and given fresh food and damp hay. And on the fine days they were all put out in a field with sweet grass and clean fresh water in a stream that ran down from the hills. But now all he knew was misery.

  When it was light again another wheeled box came for him and two other horses. It took him on a shorter journey to another place where he was taken out alone, leaving his new friends behind. He looked around him. Stables, and the sense of another horse nearby, and a new human standing looking at him.

  ‘There’s not exactly a lot of him, boss,’ Teddy said after he and Rory had unloaded the new arrival. ‘I thought the guv’nor liked ’em tall.’

  ‘He does,’ Rory replied, walking round the liver chestnut to take a good look at an animal that seemed a good deal smaller than the one he and his father had bought in Ireland. ‘And now he looks even smaller than he did over there.’

  ‘Knowing the Irish they probably sent you another,’ Teddy said with a shake of his head. ‘And there really isn’t a lot to him.’

  ‘He jumps well,’ Rory said defensively. ‘He can certainly jump. That we do know.’

  ‘He’d need to, boss. He’d need to stay as well.’