The Enchanted

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Wash him down, Teddy, and give him a decent feed. The poor fellow looks half starved.’

  Boyo shook himself thoroughly, from the top of his head to the end of his thick tail, and then took another look at his new surroundings. That done, he raised his head and shouted as loudly as he could; after a moment, from some distant field, another horse answered his cry. Boyo listened attentively, then gave another loud shout. Neither Teddy nor Rory could hear any response this time, but Boyo obviously did because he pricked his ears and whickered to himself quietly before allowing himself to be led away for a good hosing down.

  Rory watched him walk away, noticing that even in his travel-weary state the horse moved well and easily. He was a long way short of what his father would call match fit, but there was plenty on his quarters, tissue that if Rory and his small team did their work right should soon build up into good racing muscle.

  Once the horse was washed down and housed in the box reserved for newcomers – a stable set well apart from the others just in case the incomer was carrying any sort of infection – Rory wandered back to his father’s office. The horse’s papers, including his passport, lay on his desk.

  ‘That the new boy?’ Maureen, his father’s and now his secretary, asked, looking up from her paperwork. ‘Not very big, is he?’

  ‘Don’t you start,’ Rory replied. ‘We have to find an owner for him, so as far as everyone here is concerned, he’s a fine stamp of a horse. OK?’

  ‘Got it.’ Maureen smiled. ‘As it happens I like small horses.’

  ‘Then get one of those brown paper parcels out from under your bed, Maureen, and buy him.’

  ‘I wish. What’s he called? Is he named?’

  ‘He must be, because they’ve already raced him. But I can’t remember what they called him.’

  ‘Small wonder,’ Maureen said, rolling another letter page into her typewriter. ‘It usually takes your father a good two or three days to recover from his Irish trips.’

  ‘Small Wonder would be a good name, but he’s called The Enchanted,’ Rory announced, having consulted the horse’s passport. ‘That’s apparently his given name, although what is enchanting or enchanted about him has yet to be seen.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s just that,’ Maureen returned. ‘And before I forget, Colonel Willoughby wants you to call him.’

  Rory made the call immediately, the colonel being both one of his father’s oldest friends and an owner.

  ‘Any improvement, Rory?’ the colonel wanted to know up front. ‘Do hope so.’

  ‘No change as yet, Colonel,’ Rory replied. ‘But he’s no worse and that’s good. I think they describe him as stable.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Keep me posted.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The colonel cleared his throat. ‘Now this isn’t easy, Rory. I prefer to do these things face to face. But fact is, don’t have much option. Betty’s fallen ill, I’m afraid, and is going to take a lot of looking after.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Colonel. It never rains, does it? Has to damn well pour, as my father always says.’

  ‘Absolutely so, Rory. Now, you know as well as I that when this sort of thing happens, one has to clear the deck somewhat. And, as you also know, certain people have been pressing me to sell Hardway Boy.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ Rory replied, his heart sinking at the realisation that they were obviously just about to lose the only class horse they still had in the yard. ‘But before you do, Colonel—’

  ‘Too late for that, I’m afraid. Don’t want to sell him, you know that. We all think he could be a National sort of horse, but it’s a question of needs must, and of course Betty comes first.’

  ‘I quite understand, Colonel. If you’ll just keep me informed as to when and where, and all that.’

  ‘Naturally,’ the colonel replied, and cleared his throat once more. ‘And you keep me posted about your father.’

  ‘Damn,’ Rory said after he had put down the telephone. ‘Damn, blast and every other wretched swear word.’

  ‘I thought something was up,’ Maureen said, typing away. ‘He doesn’t give much away, but there was something in his voice.’

  ‘Not a good day,’ Rory concluded. ‘Out goes the only class horse in the yard, and in comes an Irish donkey.’

  ‘You never know,’ Maureen replied, handing him the letter to sign. ‘Strange things do happen, particularly with horses.’

  Chapter Six

  The Odd Couple

  Constance always chose the same ensemble for such occasions: a middle-length skirt in dark grey, black silk blouse with cravat, three-quarter-length black wool jacket and large-brimmed black hat. Looking at her image in the cheval mirror in her bedroom, she was forced to realise that really, give or take a few wrinkles on her hands, she was nevertheless remarkable for her age. She still had a good figure, her eyes were nothing less than brilliant – many remarked on them still – and her complexion was flawless.

  Beneath the shade of her deeply brimmed hat she reckoned she could pass for a woman in her fifties rather than one of her real age, which she was far too vain to acknowledge, even to herself. This proved to be no misconception, she was very happy to discover, since the moment she left the house to walk to the bus stop two workmen high up on the scaffolding wolf-whistled at her, and a well-dressed gentleman walking along the King’s Road nodded in her direction, or at least she thought he did. No matter. It was a good feeling to think that the opposite sex noticed you at all, and that for a change it wasn’t just you noticing them.

  The only thing that spoilt her growing good mood was the fact that she had to travel by bus, but since it was very unlikely that anyone else attending the service in St George’s, Hanover Square would be taking public transport she assumed it was quite safe to do so, as long as the bus arrived promptly so that no one she knew saw her lingering at the stop.

  She sat downstairs towards the front of the bus. It wasn’t too crowded, since it was well past the morning rush hour; the conductor gave her a smile, there were riders and horses trotting through the Park, and flowers still blooming in window boxes even though they were now well into autumn. In all, Constance decided she liked the look of London that morning. It was a good place to be, a great city which still had a heart.

  She alighted from the bus, and made her way slowly towards the church. It was only as she made her way up the steps that she realised she had forgotten the name of whoever it was whose life and times she had come to commemorate. Nor could she recognise the faces of any of the other people who were now arriving, alighting from taxis or out of very large and frankly, as far as Constance was concerned, somewhat vulgar motor cars.

  She gave her engraved visiting card to the man on the door; then, as she always did on these occasions, settled into a seat halfway down the church, the right position for someone titled but not related, an acquaintance of the deceased but not necessarily a close friend. Constance enjoyed memorial services, attending at least two or three a month, carefully earmarking the date of any forthcoming event. She worked from information gleaned from the Daily Telegraph, naturally, yet there was something about the congregation gathering for this particular commemoration that bothered her. She knew she had the right day because it was obvious that a service was about to be held. But when she looked about her, as she felt increasingly free to do, she found there was no one there whom she could recognise, which was unusual to say the least. There was always someone who knew her, or whom she knew – but not, it seemed, today.

  None the less, she would be able to identify the deceased from her programme – or dance card as she called it for her private amusement – just as soon as she had retrieved her spectacles from her handbag. She managed to find them after some initial difficulty, and having held them carefully at the end of her nose so that she did not have to disarrange either hat or hair she stared with some surprise at the name. How very embarrassing, she thought. She had absolutely no idea of who the deceased mig
ht be. She had never heard of him, in fact, nor indeed of any of the speakers marked down on her card. However, to judge from their names and the general look of those beginning to fill up the seats, the departed perhaps had been somebody from either the world of sport or possibly even the underworld, two things about which she knew absolutely nothing at all and cared even less.

  As soon as the service began she found herself quickly able to reject the notion that the subject might have been a gangster, thanks to the innumerable references to scoring the goal of ambition, playing the game of life, and passing on to what was – it was to be devoutly hoped – the final round of a long and distinguished cup tie. All too ghastly for words, Constance decided, but sitting as she was in the very centre of her pew, hemmed in by both gentlemen and ladies carrying considerably more weight than she, she was quite unable to slip away early without causing offence. So she had to sit through what turned out to be a long and extremely tiresome service, with terrible hymns and embarrassing eulogies. As she listened to a large red-faced man in a shiny suit telling singularly unfunny anecdotes about the dead sportsman, Constance decided that, given the nature of a memorial service, in order to avoid total boredom at least a rudimentary knowledge of the deceased was an absolute necessity.

  Finally the service began to draw to a close with ‘I Vow to Thee My Country’, a hymn that Constance at least knew and could sing. As she did so, she heard a rather fine tenor giving out right behind her, so, when able, she took a discreet peep to see who owned the fine, well-modulated, upper-class voice, hoping as always to see herself staring into the eyes of some handsome grey-haired patrician gentleman with whom she would at the earliest opportunity find something or perhaps even someone in common. Instead she found herself looking at the tall, slim, well-dressed figure of early-middle-aged Grenville Fielding.

  ‘I think we know each other, but from where?’ Constance asked at the end of the service, when she found herself lined up in the aisle beside Grenville as they queued to leave the church.

  ‘Ah, yes – well, we live in the same square, Lady Frimley,’ Grenville replied, having recognised her immediately. ‘You walk your dogs in the gardens, and we have met once or twice at various things – last December, for instance, at the Belvilles’ drinks party. They always have such a good party on the Sunday before Christmas, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, the Belvilles. It was there, was it? How interesting. They’re in Eaton Square, of course. I know. And I think you shared my cab back, did you not?’

  Grenville smiled politely, although the way he remembered it, it was the other way round, with Lady Frimley getting into the cab he had called, and sitting herself down even before she had asked him in which direction he might be headed, simply announcing that they would share the cab.

  ‘Very interesting service,’ he heard Lady Frimley continue. ‘A close friend?’

  ‘An acquaintance,’ Grenville replied. ‘I looked after his affairs for a while.’

  ‘I am a complete dunce when it comes to sport.’ Constance sighed. ‘I don’t even do the pools. Does anyone these days, I wonder?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Grenville said, looking to see if he could spot a fast path out. ‘Oop north and that. Old habits, right?’

  ‘He was some sort of footballer, this chap, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Grenville nodded. ‘Quite a famous one, as it happens.’

  ‘Do you watch football?’

  ‘No. No, it’s not actually my game, Lady Frimley. Ours was purely a business relationship.’

  They were now almost at the book of condolence, a landmark after which, Grenville knew, he could find freedom.

  ‘On to the reception, Grenville?’ someone asked from one side of them.

  ‘Thought I’d opt out actually, Charles,’ Grenville replied. ‘Not really being a familiar. Thought I might stroll along to Claridges, and avail myself of one of their excellent dry martinis.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’ Constance seized the moment and turned to him with a smile. ‘Why don’t we stroll along there together?’

  Constance drank champagne, while Grenville slowly sipped his cocktail, making it last as long as he could. He had already guessed who would be picking up the bill, and he wasn’t sure how quickly he would be able to escape.

  ‘Interesting title, yours, if I may say so.’

  ‘An old title, and an interesting one,’ Constance murmured, looking at him a little more closely now over her champagne flute and wondering as to his sexuality. Were he some twenty or so years older he really would have made the ideal walker. Nicely mannered without being too smooth, good-looking enough but not in a gigolo way, and well dressed without being a peacock. He also looked at people when they were speaking as well as apparently listening to them, appeared to mean what he said, laughed without showing all his teeth, or his gums; altogether he was very what the French called comme il faut. ‘It wasn’t always Frimley,’ she continued. ‘That is the modern appellation.’

  ‘I always thought Frimley was a town in Surrey,’ Grenville said. ‘I never knew there was a title.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with Frimley as in Frimley, Surrey. People always make that mistake. It is a medieval title, as I understand it, originally of course spelt entirely differently.’

  Taken aback by this apparent non-sequitur, Grenville decided to let it pass.

  ‘The title hove from a husband, obviously?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Constance sighed. ‘It certainly hove all right. Some earldom or other granted during the Barons’ Revolt way back when. Long before things began to matter.’ She smiled. It was still the smile of a great beauty, which she had indeed once been, and she hoped this was a fact that her new friend appreciated.

  ‘You are having another?’ she quickly observed as Grenville summoned a waiter to their table. ‘Thank you, then so shall I, thank you.’ She nodded at her now empty glass and then at the waiter, while Grenville picked up the order of service he had put down and tapped it on the table.

  ‘I suppose you go to quite a few of these things,’ he said, having decided on a change of subject from titles.

  ‘One sees so many very attractive men at memorial services,’ Constance replied. ‘I do so prefer my men to be grey. They look so much more distinguished. Although there were perhaps rather fewer such gentlemen there today, alas.’

  As fresh drinks arrived, Grenville once again searched for a safe subject, and found one.

  ‘And how long have you lived in our square, Lady Frimley? It is the most charming location, do you not agree?’

  ‘Our square?’ Constance repeated. ‘Whose square?’

  ‘I see you walk your dogs in the garden.’

  ‘They are not actually my dogs.’

  ‘But you have a key to the garden.’

  ‘I do have a key to the garden,’ Constance agreed. ‘The dogs too are residents.’

  In spite of another conversational impasse, Grenville managed to smile politely and sip his cocktail, wondering which of them was going to make the first move to leave.

  Moments later Charles Danby, the acquaintance who had first hailed him at the service, appeared with drink in hand.

  ‘Ah, Grenville, excellent,’ he said. ‘I was looking for someone to drink with. Mind if I?’

  ‘Oh. No. No, not at all, Charles,’ Grenville said, half rising and immediately and thankfully effecting introductions.

  ‘Are you going to Sandown tomorrow, Grenville?’ Charles wondered, after the initial small talk was over. ‘It’s the opening meeting of the new NH season and my bro-in-law, who trains, as you probably know – he’s got a runner. Says he rather fancies its chances.’

  ‘That sounds fun,’ Grenville replied. ‘First place I ever went racing, you know. Because of course the family home’s in Esher.’

  ‘I adore Sandown,’ Constance sighed. ‘I haven’t been there for centuries, but I have always simply loved it. I know! Why don’t we all go?’

  ‘Y
ou don’t have to if you don’t want to, Allie love,’ Millie was saying in a vague voice, turning back from the stove to where Alice was sitting at the kitchen table chopping carrots into neat julienne slices. ‘I’ll quite understand if you’d rather not.’

  Carefully side-stepping round not one but five dog dishes of varying sizes, she went to a kitchen cupboard to take out some wine glasses, while from his perch Excelsior, her parrot, made a cracking sound with one of his new satisfactorily overlarge nuts, a bag of which had been a gift from Alice.

  ‘Of course I’d like to,’ Alice stated, trying to make the best of a somewhat ancient and wrinkled carrot. ‘Why wouldn’t I want to?’

  She had no absolute idea as to what Millie was actually talking about, but since she rarely did she generally found it best to agree to whatever was being suggested, before Millie forgot what it was that she had proposed. It was their own particular way of going on, and had been for years and years.

  ‘And by the way, you’re looking better than ever.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Alice replied. ‘But I still feel quite tired. In fact this morning when I looked in the mirror I thought I looked so exhausted that … well. I think it’s when you stop everything that you feel at your most drained.’

  ‘Children are very demanding, duck. Particularly old children.’

  ‘It’s really so good to be here, and for you to have me to stay, Millie. I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘Stay as long as you like. It’ll do us both nothing but good.’

  ‘How does that poem go? Not waving but drowning? I’ve been treading water.’

  ‘It’s all right, you’re out of the water now – and do get out of the way, Simpkin,’ Millie grumbled, stepping round a tabby cat who was sitting washing itself on the kitchen floor. ‘I’ll break my neck tripping over you one of these days.’

  ‘It was my fault really,’ Alice continued. ‘After Alex died, I had the blinkers on. Charged about like the famous bull in a china shop – so what I got was what I well and truly deserved.’