The Enchanted

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘I really thought Trojan Jack ran an absolutely splendid race, Rory,’ Grenville said, sitting down beside him. ‘And how’s your father? Rory’s father used to train for mine, do you see?’ Grenville continued, enlightening the rest of the company. ‘They were in the army together.’

  Rory put Grenville in the picture regarding his father’s current condition, about which Grenville was immediately considerate and sympathetic, assuring Rory that as soon as Anthony was well enough to receive visitors he would be there.

  ‘Actually though,’ Grenville said after a moment of further reflection, ‘actually this could be karma, or whatever it is they call it. Seeing you here. Meeting you like this, because I was thinking only the other day I should get myself a racehorse. Now the old man’s gone AWOL I rather miss having an interest.’

  Rory nodded but said nothing. Much as he would like to sell the donkey that had just arrived from Ireland, given Grenville’s family background and racing experience he saw little chance of persuading him it would be just the sort of horse for him. Anyway, even if Grenville Fielding were to visit the yard his eye would hardly be taken by an animal that hadn’t eaten an oat since its arrival from the Emerald Isle, a self-imposed starvation diet that was beginning to cause everyone at Fulford Farm a considerable degree of worry.

  ‘So how are things at the yard?’ Grenville wondered, as Rory finished his drink and began to think about leaving.

  ‘On hold a bit, really.’ Rory pocketed his racecard and started winding the strap round his race glasses. ‘We’re keeping things ticking over, but with my father in hospital and not knowing what sort of recovery he’s going to make …’

  ‘So not a good time to come and have a look-see then. Got you.’

  ‘There’s not exactly a lot to have a look-see at, Grenville.’

  ‘Thought you said earlier about some horse or other you’d just brought over from Ireland,’ Millie remarked. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Did I?’ Rory muttered. ‘Oh yes, that’s right. But there’s somebody coming to look at him.’

  ‘Really?’ Grenville asked, pricking up his ears. ‘Got any form, has he?’

  ‘The person coming to see him? Don’t really know.’

  ‘The horse, old chap.’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘Unexposed?’

  ‘Sort of. Now if you’ll excuse me …’ Rory made to get up and take his leave.

  ‘Worth coming to take a look?’

  ‘As I just said, someone else is already interested.’

  ‘Even so,’ Grenville smiled. ‘If someone’s already interested, someone else might also be interested. Look – I have to come down west on some business, so why don’t I pop in and take a shufti? Nothing ventured as they say, eh?’ He produced his pocket diary and consulted it. ‘I could in fact come down quite soon, as it happens – this business thing being a movable sort of feast. Why don’t I call you when I get back to town – when I’ve sorted out the old diary? Right?’

  ‘We might see you there,’ Alice said with a smile, as she too began to take her leave, prompted by Millie who wanted to watch the last race. ‘Millie and I are planning a visit to the stables as well.’

  ‘Then why don’t we all make a day of it? I should be charmed,’ Grenville said, standing and raising his hat to Millie and Alice. ‘I shall liaise with Rory here.’

  ‘Nice man,’ Alice remarked as she and Millie returned to the grandstand. ‘Lovely manners.’

  ‘I thought the woman with him was his mother,’ Millie remarked, putting up her glasses to watch the horses at the start. ‘He looks the sort of man who’d take his mother racing.’

  ‘Unlike my son,’ Alice said with a wry smile. ‘The only place Chris takes me is to the cleaners.’

  ‘They’re off,’ Millie said. ‘Last chance saloon.’

  The race was won by yet another long shot, a victory greeted in near silence by the few dogged punters determined to see the end of what had turned out to be an expensive afternoon for backers.

  ‘Don’t tell me you had it or I shall scream,’ Millie said to Alice, consigning her worthless ticket to the litter bin.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Alice replied, looking at the slip in her hand. ‘Only on that thing you said I should do.’

  ‘The Tote Double? That’s been and gone.’

  ‘Oh. Then what’s this?’ Alice handed Millie the ticket for her perusal.

  ‘The Tote Treble, duck,’ Millie informed her, then widened her eyes. ‘You did the Tote Treble?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They all seem to have won.’

  There were three winning tickets and the Tote paid out seven hundred and ninety-eight pounds exactly.

  Coincidentally Lynne had also been to Sandown races. She had been out shopping first, her newly gained money already burning holes in her pockets, and among other items she had bought she was extremely pleased with the outfit she was wearing, a silk dress in a particularly fashionable Matisse blue, with big shoulder pads, and a wide, tight belt, teamed with a particularly outrageous pair of pink shoes. She also wore a well-cut middle brown suede top coat with a pale cream fur lining, which came to just below the knee and was very flattering. When she got to Sandown Park and remembered that this was a jumps meeting, not a flat one, she immediately buttoned up her coat, and wished she had chosen the sort of sensible racing outfit being sported by the other women racegoers.

  Happily, since everyone seemed to be caught up in their own little worlds, Lynne seemed to attract little undue attention. However, one man whose attention she most certainly grabbed was Rory Rawlins, for the good reason that Lynne quite literally bumped into him as he was backing out of the building she was walking past, his arms full of saddles and bridles. Lynne had been looking round at a couple of young men who had given her the full up and downer. The next thing she knew she had knocked someone flying.

  ‘Oh, God, sorry,’ she exclaimed, immediately helping the man she had knocked over to his feet. ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘No, no – my fault entirely,’ Rory replied. ‘I really should look where other people are going.’

  ‘All your stuff, it’s gone everywhere,’ Lynne said, picking up some of the spilled tack. ‘Oh, I just love the smell of leather. I used to think if I had the money I’d have a tack room just for the smell. Actually – what the hell.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve got the money now, so who knows!’

  ‘Sorry – I have to go and saddle up a horse,’ Rory said, retrieving his racing saddle.

  ‘Right,’ Lynne replied, standing up. ‘That what you do?’

  ‘In between training horses,’ Rory replied. ‘Or rather trying to train horses.’

  ‘OK,’ Lynne said, nodding. ‘I’d heard it was a tough job. A friend of ours – well, that’s when there was an ours – this bloke we knew was a trainer but he found it so tough he took to burglary.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Rory said, having now collected the rest of his tack and standing back up. ‘That’s just the steer I needed.’

  ‘No, seriously. He lives in a huge villa in Marbella all year round now. So it doesn’t have to be all bad.’

  By now Rory was taking a good look at the beautiful young woman who had just knocked him for six. She was handing him the last piece of recovered tack, smiling and regarding him with a pair of blue eyes that were quite literally the colour of her dress.

  ‘Got a runner then?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, feeling himself lightly blushing, which was certainly not a habit of his. ‘Trojan Jack in the handicap hurdle.’

  ‘Worth a couple of bob?’

  ‘That’s what they tell me.’

  ‘Even though you’re the trainer?’ Lynne raised two perfectly shaped eyebrows.

  ‘Next to owners, trainers are the last to know anything.’

  ‘Seriously. Should I back him?’

  ‘He’s very well,’ Rory muttered, hugging his tack to him. ‘He could go close.�
�

  ‘Then I certainly shall back him,’ Lynne said. ‘And if he wins I shall find you and buy you champagne.’

  ‘Date,’ Rory said with a nod to indicate he was on his way.

  ‘Date,’ she called after him. ‘Good luck!’

  When she heard the announcement telling racegoers that Trojan Jack had failed to win his race because of his lost weight cloth, Lynne remembered the handsome young trainer and went in search of him, thinking she might buy him a drink to console him. She saw him in the distance by the unsaddling enclosure, but just as she was about to approach him she saw someone else, too – her now ex-husband Gerry, with one arm draped round her now ex-best friend Maddy’s shoulders. As The Gossoon was proclaimed the winner, Gerry punched the air, kissed his mistress, and turned in Lynne’s direction. Before he could spot her Lynne took evasive action, hiding herself behind one of the large trees that stood nearby and shifting carefully round its great trunk as Gerry and Maddy crossed close by. When they were past, Lynne trailed a safe distance behind them until she saw where they were headed, then she took her dark glasses out of her handbag and set off in the opposite direction.

  She could have kicked herself when she realised how stupid she had been. Why wouldn’t she bump into Gerry taking Maddy to the races? After all, he had taken her racing often enough when they were married, so there was every possibility that he would now take Maddy. Had Lynne been with someone else she might possibly have had enough confidence to see her through the afternoon, regardless of whether or not she bumped into Gerry. But by herself she felt exposed and vulnerable, and yet determined not to be put off. She would not, absolutely would not be scared away. Lonely, friendless, but not scared. Besides, it was becoming a kind of duty to spend Gerry’s money, even lose it, and she proceeded to do so on a procession of horses.

  Just before the last race she saw them leaving and breathed a sigh of relief, deciding to treat herself to a drink to celebrate their departure.

  Rory passed her going out as she was coming in.

  ‘So there you are,’ Lynne said when she saw him, as if she had been spending her time looking for him rather than hiding from her ex-husband. ‘That was such tough luck about your horse. Maybe I could buy you that drink I promised, even though for a rather different reason?’

  There was nothing Rory would have enjoyed more at that moment than to have a glass of champagne with this particular young woman, but whether he liked it or not he had a job to do.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But I have to see my horse loaded and get him home.’

  ‘Oh,’ Lynne said, trying not to let her disappointment show. ‘Right. Some other time, perhaps.’

  ‘You bet,’ Rory agreed. ‘Sorry.’

  In two minds whether she should stay or go, Lynne found herself hailed by someone else who recognised her.

  ‘Mrs Fortune?’ a voice from across the bar called. ‘Mrs Fortune.’

  When she turned Grenville Fielding was at her elbow, doffing his brown trilby hat.

  ‘I thought it might be you,’ he said. ‘Grenville Fielding. I had dinner with you and your husband not long ago. Last year sometime. At Cappelli’s, wasn’t it? I thought it was you.’

  With his hat off Lynne just about remembered him from a rather overlarge dinner Gerry and his business partners had thrown in a restaurant to celebrate some company coup or other.

  ‘Sorry,’ she replied with a smile. ‘There were rather a lot of people there.’

  ‘I sat next to you,’ Grenville reminded her. ‘We talked about the house your husband was thinking of buying in Provence.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry. It’s just that since the divorce—’

  ‘You’ve got divorced?’ Grenville frowned at her. ‘I am so sorry. I had no idea.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Lynne replied rather too brightly. ‘It’s not as if someone died.’

  ‘No, I am so sorry,’ Grenville said again. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Why should you? Hardly page one stuff.’

  ‘Can I buy you a drink, Mrs Fortune? I’m with some people over here, and we’d be delighted if you joined us.’

  Lynne glanced over at the man and woman sitting at the corner table and, seeing no danger, agreed. Grenville introduced her to Constance and to Charles Danby before going off to buy more drinks.

  ‘You look very colourful, my dear,’ Constance said, lighting a cheroot. ‘That blue doesn’t look good on everyone.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lynne replied, pleased at being complimented by an older woman, particularly one as stylish as Constance. ‘I like your hat and all.’

  ‘Of course,’ Constance said with a regal smile. ‘You’re acquainted with Mr Fielding, then.’

  ‘Well – yes and no. He’s a friend of my ex – least, I think he is. Business friend, that is.’

  ‘Your ex?’ Constance puffed her cheroot. ‘You are divorcée, alors.’

  ‘You got it.’ Lynne nodded. ‘Hole in one.’

  ‘It happens to the best of us,’ Constance said. ‘It happened to me all over the place.’

  ‘Right,’ Lynne agreed. ‘So let’s just hope it might also be the best thing to happen to us.’

  ‘I like that,’ Constance replied. ‘I think I like you, too.’

  The crowd was dispersing fast as Grenville returned to the table bringing glasses of champagne for Lynne and Constance, and gins and tonics for Charles and himself, but before the party broke up he discreetly managed to get Lynne’s current telephone number while Constance had disappeared to the loo – as she informed the company with a perfectly straight face – to shed a tear for Lady Hamilton.

  Chapter Eight

  Irishitis

  Kathleen had not been herself since Boyo had gone. A restlessness filled her being, and nothing that would normally give her happiness held much interest for her. Her father and brother seemed too human, and the dog too canine. The sea lacked impact without the image of a horse coming out of it, and the skies, whatever their colour, were merely patchwork pieces above her head when she could not hear the sound of her beloved horse cantering towards her. She knew that they had been too close, as an animal and a human being often can be. His feelings had become her feelings, and she knew before he knew it if he was sick. So now, even in her restlessness, she felt that he was ill, and yet she also had no way of knowing whether she was right. If only they had not had to sell him. If they had had just a little more money they would have been able to keep him, but they were poor and every penny counted, so it was inevitable that every horse born on their little farm would always finally be sold.

  If only things had been different, Kathleen would often sigh. If only her mother hadn’t died so young – if only her uncle hadn’t swindled her father out of his inheritance, which small though it was would have surely been enough to pay for rebuilding the yard. If only, if only. If only her Auntie Aileen had wheels sure she’d be an omnibus, she would scold herself. And sure with a big enough if you could even put Dublin in a bottle.

  ‘You’re not yourself, girl,’ her father chided her one morning when he found her sitting at the table with her chin in her hands, her tea undrunk. ‘You’re looking as pale as a winding sheet. ’Tis a grand morning, so take out auld Batty Boy for a spin. You like riding auld Batty Boy, so you do.’

  ‘Boyo isn’t well, Da,’ Kathleen stated, not looking at him.

  ‘Ah, and why shouldn’t the horse be well? He’s gone to a good enough yard, so why shouldn’t he be well? You and that horse. You and your imaginings. We’ve got enough to deal with here without your imaginings. The horse is fine. So now you go out riding.’

  ‘You know what happens to horses when they leave Ireland, Da. You told me so yourself. They often get sick. I know Boyo’s sick.’

  ‘And if he is, there is nothing you can do about it from here, Kathleen. They have veterinaries over there, and men of the stamp of Mr Rawlins look after their horses. If a man pays for a horse himself he’ll keep it well, so he will. There’s no
point otherwise.’

  ‘I’ll ride Batty Boy out for you, Da,’ Kathleen said, fetching her oilskin coat and taking down her boy’s cap. ‘But only because there’s little point in doing anything else.’

  It was a fine and breezy day with the rain keeping well off and a weak autumn sun shining down, the distant hills still blue and the valleys green though the countryside was about to give way to winter, yet even though Batty Boy was as good to ride as ever, striding out strongly with his tail held high behind him and his ears well pricked, Kathleen rode with a heavy heart. She knew her horse was ailing.

  Every anxiety ran through her. She could see what might happen. The new owner might become so dismayed by the horse’s lethargy he would sell him on. Boyo might find himself in some inferior yard where they would do all manner of things to him in order to get just the one race out of him, so they could recover some of the cost to themselves before selling him on to some rundown riding school, or worse.

  ‘There’s only one thing to do, Batty Boy,’ she yelled to the horse as she galloped him up the grass track. ‘He needs me so I must go to him, God help me!’

  After she had mucked out, groomed and fed the horses, she found her brother and told him he must look after everything.

  ‘And what am I to tell Da when he finds you gone?’ Liam asked.

  ‘You play the dumb one,’ Kathleen replied. ‘You’re good at that. Put back that old cap of yours, scratch your head and say, Jesus, Da, I didn’t know she’d gone anywhere – but if she’s gone at all sure she won’t be long for she never is. Anyway, it’s market day tomorrow, which is why I’ve chosen it. So if he notices it won’t be till he’s home, and when he’s home after market he’s always late and always drunk, so the chances are he won’t know I’m gone till the day after.’

  Kathleen smiled at her brother, kissed him fondly and hurried to her bedroom, where she took a small tin box from inside her mattress. Out of the box she lifted her trousseau money and counted out what she would need for the journey, then returned what was left to the box and the box back to the mattress.