The Enchanted

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Really?’ Lynne’s blue eyes came alight once more. ‘I see. You mean sharesville?’

  ‘Sharesville. Precisely. And a lot of people do it.’

  ‘Lynne?’ Grenville said in a tone with a distinct warning note. ‘Lynne?’

  ‘Go on, Mr Rawlins,’ Lynne continued, ignoring her escort. ‘So what would that mean?’

  ‘If you were serious,’ Rory replied, ‘and if you could find three other people, and if, say, I let you have the horse for twelve K, that would be three thousand one hundred and fifty guineas a leg, plus training and racing costs.’

  ‘Which costs will run out to at least a hundred guineas a month per share,’ Grenville chipped in. ‘So you would have to think pretty carefully, Lynne.’

  ‘I think I could afford that, Grenville. Easily, in fact. Particularly since it would be fun, which is something I have been a bit short of recently. Wonder who else would go sharesville?’

  Both Rory and she pretended to think deeply; then they both turned to look at Grenville.

  ‘Now wait a minute, one and all …’ he stammered.

  ‘All that stuff you were saying just now?’ Lynne asked him overseriously. ‘About how he covered the ground so nicely, and got his legs under him, and stood up to his withers and all, and how he’s got these huge bones—’

  ‘We’d still have to find two other people, my dear.’

  ‘But you just said you were thinking of buying a horse. I mean otherwise why did you come down here? You just said you wanted to buy a fun horse, wasn’t it? Right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Grenville said uneasily. ‘But I just spun this one.’

  ‘Spun?’

  ‘Said thank you but no thank you, Lynne.’

  ‘We won’t hold it against you,’ Rory said. ‘In fact we’ll pretend you never said it.’

  ‘That’s right, Rory,’ Lynne agreed. ‘That’s what we’ll do.’

  ‘Good,’ Rory said. ‘That’s exactly what we’ll do. While if you refuse, Mr Fielding …’ Rory teased, wagging a schoolteacher’s finger at him.

  ‘Right,’ Lynne said with a grin, following suit.

  Grenville smiled weakly back and nodded once again. He found himself in a dilemma. By now he was so taken with Lynne that the last thing he wanted was to lose the pleasure of her company. Since the horrendously painful experience of his broken engagement to Jane some twelve years earlier he had never enjoyed any sort of medium- let alone long-term relationship with a member of the opposite sex, and not even a short-term one with a member of the opposite sex as gloriously attractive and glamorous as Miss Lynne Faraday. If he were now to refuse a share in this little racehorse with which she had suddenly become so enamoured, he knew it could easily spell the end of any chance he might have of extending this burgeoning friendship, particularly if she went ahead and formed a partnership to buy the horse, since chances were she might well meet someone else infinitely more attractive and personable than he. Yet as he knew – something of which he now felt properly ashamed – he’d only really brought Lynne down to Rory’s yard to try to win a few Brownie points, or in other words to show off, hoping that by airing his knowledge of the horse world but spinning anything Rory might have to offer he would succeed in impressing her.

  But now it all seemed to have backfired, and to such an extent that he was going to have to dig deep into his pockets to finance a quarter-share in a horse that he considered had as much chance of winning a race as he had of landing a Hollywood contract.

  ‘Look,’ he said finally. ‘This is lovely. A lovely idea altogether, but one we should perhaps talk over between us.’

  ‘Why?’ Lynne wondered. ‘I mean, sorry, but it’s not as if we’re contracted to each other in any way. My money is my money to do what I like with, if you know what I mean. No offence and everything, but really, if I feel like blowing it all in one sort of great big spending spree, then the only person I’ve got to answer to is me. Really, isn’t it? Sorry. But you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do,’ Grenville agreed, feeling himself beginning to redden under the collar. ‘I was only trying to help. Explain all the ins and outs. Owning a racehorse is not as easy as it sounds. Perhaps on the way back to town I can explain exactly all the whys and wherefores.’

  ‘Well of course you can, Grenville, because that’s something you’re good at.’ Lynne nodded seriously. ‘But I doubt it’ll make much difference ’cos this is something I really think I might like to do. OK? So when you’re ready and everything, you promised me we could have a look at those apartments on the way home.’

  With one last look at the new object of her affection, who was standing nearby pushing his groom in the back with his muzzle, Lynne said goodbye to Rory and walked off towards Grenville’s car. Rory followed them, saw them off, instructed Pauline to put Boyo back in his stable, and prepared to leave for the hospital to visit his father, unconvinced by anything that he had heard. Lynne was obviously a nice young woman at a loose end, and Grenville was clearly besotted with her, but he would talk her out of it on the way to see the flats. Rory was quite sure of it, which, he thought ruefully later, once again only went to show how little trainers know not only about their horses but about those who own them.

  Constance Frimley was walking her neighbour’s dogs in the square when Grenville finally returned from his day in the country, having dropped Lynne off at her London rental. Contrary to Rory’s belief, Grenville had been completely unsuccessful in talking Lynne out of buying the horse, or forming a partnership. In fact the more he had told Lynne about the ups and downs of racing, the more fun she declared it sounded. Even her decision to rent the apartment in the large house she had inspected on the borders of Hampshire and Wiltshire after leaving Rory’s yard had not deterred her. On learning roughly what the rent on the large, unfurnished apartment might be on the pretext that a relative of his was looking for exactly the same sort of accommodation, Grenville had hoped the cost of the place might finally dampen her enthusiasm, but since this was not the case he could only conclude that Lynne must have more money than sense. Furthermore, she had given him every indication that if he didn’t want to join the racing partnership he would have to expect to see very little of her, because she would be spending so much time on the gallops and going racing. Although that had been more of a tease than an ultimatum, Grenville reflected as he locked up his car in his resident’s parking bay, if he wanted to continue to see the gorgeous Miss Faraday it looked as though he would have to declare himself in and put his winter skiing holiday on hold for at least a year.

  ‘Good evening, Lady Frimley,’ he greeted his neighbour politely, having every intention to hit and run. ‘Bit of a chill about it, alas.’

  ‘Been racing again, Mr Fielder?’ Constance remarked, having noticed the binoculars slung over one of Grenville’s shoulders. ‘Quite the sportsman.’

  ‘No, no, Lady Frimley, been down to my trainer’s,’ he replied. ‘Down to watch gallops – and it’s Fielding, Lady Frimley. Not Fielder.’

  ‘We galloped, Dick galloped, we galloped all three,’ Constance replied vaguely, reining in her two small canine charges. ‘We had racehorses, once upon a once. In the dim and distant.’

  ‘Did you now?’ Grenville wondered, suddenly interested, seeing a window of opportunity open. ‘Do well? Were they any good?’

  ‘Arthur Budge-Thomas used to train for us.’ Constance avoided the question. ‘Frightfully nice man, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘Hence your interest in the horse, obviously,’ Grenville continued, falling into step alongside Constance as, having locked the garden gate behind her, she began to head for home. ‘Something that never leaves one, yes?’

  ‘I dare say, if you say so,’ Constance replied. ‘I find the older I get the less need I have for opinions.’

  ‘True, Lady Frimley, very true.’

  They stopped when they reached Constance’s front door, and she handed him the two dog leads while she fished in her bag for her key.
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  ‘I’m off racing on Thursday, as it happens,’ Grenville said carefully. ‘A friend’s got a runner at Wincanton.’

  ‘Never been there,’ Constance said, having located her key. ‘Wouldn’t even know where it was.’

  ‘Charming course in the west country. Perhaps if you’d like another day out, Lady Frimley …’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Constance nodded. ‘Thank you. But only if you don’t drive too fast. You know how I cannot abide this modern habit of driving at absurd speeds.’

  ‘Once again I shall be a maiden aunt behind the wheel, Lady Frimley,’ Grenville assured her. ‘Shall we say ten o’clock?’

  It was raining heavily at Wincanton, sheets of water being driven across the course by the prevailing westerly directly into the faces of any racegoers brave enough to take the grandstands. The less courageous had sought refuge in the bars or were sheltering on the eastern side of the Tote building, trying to catch sight of the horses in the paddock directly in front of them where connections for the first race stood in miserable huddles, some of them occasionally testing the ground with the heel of a shoe or the point of an umbrella. Others, their coats dripping with rain, hunched their shoulders and narrowed their eyes the way people do when exposed to remorseless torrents sluicing down from windswept skies.

  Millie and Alice had sought refuge in the owners’ and trainers’ bar, a charming but ramshackle building packed with trainers in gently steaming Barbours and owners in saturated tweeds. Several badly tuned televisions were broadcasting highly coloured pictures of the action from Wincanton and two other racecourses.

  ‘This is the downside of winter racing,’ Millie said. ‘Weather like this on courses as exposed as this.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ Alice replied. ‘It sort of adds to the fun, really. It’s better than sitting inside staring at the rain pouring down the windows.’

  ‘I forgot to ask you. What news about your house? That call you had before we left – I’ve been so busy talking about Jack’s chances, I quite forgot to ask.’

  ‘Yes, I put it out of my mind as well, isn’t that odd? I was so excited about coming racing again. Anyway,’ Alice continued, ‘it seems they have someone definitely interested and so it’s really a case of fingers crossed. I could be moving in a month.’

  ‘And you’re really not going to tell Georgina?’ Millie smiled. ‘I mean until it’s a fait accompli?’

  ‘I don’t really see the point, Millie. It’s really got nothing to do with her or Christian. They know something’s up, I’m sure, but I’m dashed if I’m going to tell them what.’

  ‘Right on, sister.’ Millie laughed, clenching one fist.

  ‘Hello,’ Rory said, returning from the bar with drinks. ‘Not another outbreak of white power?’

  The door of the bar was once more pushed open as three more refugees from the weather came in.

  ‘Here we are,’ Grenville announced to Lynne and to Constance, who was still trying to hold an enormous and totally unsuitable picture hat in place even though she was now well out of the wind. ‘Soon dry out in here.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know anyone here,’ Constance said, looking round the crowd. ‘In fact I couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘Rory?’ Grenville called, spotting the trainer seated at a corner table with Millie and Alice. He led his charges over. ‘Well, well, so here we all are again. The Rawlins Racing Club, perhaps we should call it. Mrs Brandon, Mrs Dixon, may I introduce Miss Faraday?’

  ‘I’ve never been to wherever this is before,’ Constance said, sitting down on the chair Grenville had pulled out for her while Millie and Alice exchanged greetings with Lynne. ‘I must say the climate is most incontinent.’

  ‘This is nothing,’ Rory said, as Grenville went to get drinks for the newcomers. ‘You want to try one of the February meetings. There’s nothing between here and the Urals.’

  ‘It is a bit pissy, isn’t it?’ Lynne said, taking off her Mrs Miniver hat and shaking the rain off it. ‘I think we should have come dressed as frogmen.’

  ‘I hear you have a runner today,’ Grenville said to Millie on his return, producing his racecard. ‘Trojan Jack again, yes? Must have a squeak after that good run at Sandown.’

  ‘He’ll like this ground,’ Rory said. ‘Got just enough cut in it. He really doesn’t like the soft, not a bit.’

  ‘Might have a little interest then, Rory,’ Grenville decided. ‘That was such rotten luck at Sandown. Now then – how’s our horse then?’

  ‘Grenville has just bought a horse,’ Rory said in response to Alice’s quick look of concern. ‘Or rather Lynne has and Grenville might well be.’

  ‘Which horse have you bought?’ Alice enquired of Lynne. ‘One of Rory’s? Please not the one with the big floppy ears who likes to listen to Irish songs.’

  ‘The very one.’ Grenville smiled.

  ‘Put the sock back under the bed, duck,’ Millie murmured, turning to Alice. ‘It’s sold.’

  ‘Please not?’ Lynne repeated, picking up. ‘You hadn’t got your eye on it, had you? Seriously?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Alice replied. ‘Yes and no, really. Yes when I saw him, and no when I found out how much he’d cost.’

  Everyone fell silent for a moment, during which Rory finished his drink and stood up to take his leave.

  ‘I’d better go and see how everything is with Jack,’ he said. ‘Don’t want anything falling off him today. If you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘You really have bought that horse?’ Alice asked Lynne. ‘You and Grenville?’

  ‘So it seems,’ Lynne replied. ‘Actually Grenville’s still hovering, but I think he’ll come in.’

  ‘He will if he knows what’s good for him,’ Constance observed, straightening her hat.

  ‘No, no, I’m definitely in,’ Grenville said quickly. ‘I was just kicking the tyres on this one, that’s all, do you see.’

  ‘Whatever that may mean,’ Constance said.

  ‘It’s not all writ in stone,’ Grenville continued, trying again. ‘So if you really are interested …’

  ‘It’d be great if you came in,’ Lynne said, putting her hand on Alice’s. ‘I mean it really would be fun.’

  ‘I’m not sure what it would entail,’ Alice said, turning to Millie for help. Ever since she had seen the horse she had thought about little else except how it might be possible to buy him, and even when she realised there simply was no practical or indeed sensible way she could do it, she had still been unable to put the idea out of her head. Yet now it seemed there might be a way, although before she allowed herself to get her hopes up she needed to know the nuts and bolts of the situation. The matter had become vitally important to her and up until today she hadn’t been quite sure why. Now, as she sat in the warm fug of a bar at a small rural racetrack, she began to understand. It was as if she was beginning to discover herself – the person who had disappeared during her marriage to a man whom she had loved but for whom she had sacrificed the greater part of her personality. But now, today, she felt a stirring in her soul, a reawakening of the person she had once been, of her younger self.

  Millie was telling her how partnerships worked in racing and what a wonderful thing they were for small would-be owners, giving them a chance to enjoy all the excitement of owning without having to pay out the sort of money that only big business or the rich could afford.

  ‘Then there are all the extras,’ Millie was saying, in conclusion. ‘The shoeing, the vet, the insurances, the entry fees, et cetera, but again in a partnership you are only paying a quarter. And if the horse you buy is any good and you want to go on racing it, you take it in turns to have it carry your colours.’

  ‘Your colours?’ a wide-eyed Alice repeated, since such a notion had never occurred to her. ‘But I don’t have any colours.’

  ‘You design what you want, duck, and if they’re available you pay an annual fee and they’re yours.’

  But before any real and businesslike conclusions were made there was
Trojan Jack’s race to be watched. When they all went to look at him in the paddock Millie remarked that he had one of his cross days on, since he looked moody and restless, swishing his tail as he walked and laying back his ears. Grenville commented that it might well be due to the increasingly inclement weather, to which Millie replied that it was the same for all the horses and none of the others seemed to be minding. There was certainly little confidence in her horse in the market, his opening price of two to one having drifted to nine to four, then to three to one, finally to settle at an uneasy nine to two.

  ‘Not as uneasy as Herr Trainer,’ Grenville observed as they saw a rain-sodden Rory scuttling across the paddock towards them, beetle-browed. ‘Something amiss, guv’nor?’

  ‘Only forgot to declare the blasted blinkers,’ Rory muttered as he joined the party, now up in the grandstand as the horses went to post. ‘My own damned fault.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Alice wondered.

  ‘Means he can’t wear them, Alice,’ Grenville explained. ‘You have to declare the fact you want to run your horse in a blindfold. Which would explain why he’s taken a walk in the market.’

  ‘A walk in the market?’ Alice sighed. ‘This is all way over my head.’

  ‘The way his odds have drifted,’ Millie said. ‘He really should be favourite, given his last run, and the fact he hasn’t gone up notably in the handicap.’

  ‘He’s now five to one on the Tote,’ Grenville said, looking at the show of the approximate Tote odds.

  ‘Why would he need blinkers?’ Alice asked. ‘I thought only milk ponies wore blinkers.’

  ‘It’s meant to make them concentrate,’ Grenville said. ‘Stop them becoming distracted by other horses. Lot of horses stop racing altogether when they see another horse drawing up alongside to challenge. They simply throw in the towel.’

  ‘Like this one,’ Rory said. ‘And as if that’s not bad enough, our pilot’s just taken a bang on the head. Or on what passes for his head.’

  ‘Then he won’t be fit to ride, surely?’ Grenville said in astonishment. ‘He won’t pass the MO, surely?’