The Enchanted

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘The doctor won’t have known about it. They were horsing about in the changing room, playing piggy-back jousting or some such idiotic game as played by people with size three hats, and our jock banged his head on the lockers. When I was briefing him in the paddock he thought he was at Chepstow.’

  ‘Can’t you get another rider?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Bit late now,’ Rory replied. ‘Trouble is he knows the horse and he also happens to be a good pilot. So let’s just hope his wretched concussion is only temporary.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine once they’re off and running,’ Millie said. ‘Jack’s such an old hand I could ride him round here.’

  ‘Now why didn’t I think of that?’ Rory said. ‘As it happens, it’s not much of a race. The two good horses have been withdrawn because of the change in the going, and so if only I’d remembered the blasted shades—’

  ‘They’re off, old sport,’ Grenville announced, putting his race glasses up. ‘And your chap’s gone straight into the lead.’

  It was a handicap hurdle race over two miles, the same as at Sandown but of a lower standard. This was perfectly apparent because as they passed the stands for the first time, having only jumped two flights of hurdles, half a dozen of the field of ten runners looked to be tailed off already, the two back markers already receiving hefty reminders from their pilots that there was still work to be done.

  By the time they turned out of the back straight Jack was still ten lengths in the lead, and cantering, his jockey sitting still as a mouse.

  ‘Bar a fall, Rory,’ Grenville announced, glasses fixed firmly on the action.

  ‘Just wait and see,’ Rory muttered in return. ‘Early days. Jack has a sleeve full of tricks.’

  With two flights to jump, breasting the sharp rise in the track, Jack could be seen making his way to the far side of the run-in, his pilot having obviously decided to finish with the help of the running rail.

  ‘Wrong,’ Rory announced. ‘Wrong move.’

  ‘He’s still five lengths ahead,’ Grenville said, watching the horse clear the penultimate flight with ease. ‘And going easily.’

  ‘But look at this other horse coming at him!’ Rory shouted, slapping his head with his rolled up racecard. ‘I told him to come over on the stand rails! To avoid exactly this! Seeing another horse coming at him! Kick him, Derek! Kick him on, for goodness’ sake!’

  But as he landed over the last flight, even though he was still a good three to four lengths clear, Jack’s head went up as he became aware of another horse at his quarters and he started to look round. Even when the challenging horse was within three-quarters of a length of Jack, he was not really catching him, so if Jack just kept galloping, which he could well have done, so full of running was he, he would still have the race at his mercy. But the moment he sensed and then saw a rival out of the corner of his eye, he simply downed tools. He didn’t just slow up and get caught: he all but stopped dead, his tail swishing round furiously and his head sticking up high in the air. The jockey did his best to regalvanise him, kicking him and hitting him, but the horse was having none of it. He simply planted himself a hundred yards from the winning post and let the second horse labour past him, and then the third and finally the fourth, the rest having pulled up. Finally, as if at last completely sure there was no danger from any other passing horse, Jack picked up his bit again and galloped happily past the post, barely out of a sweat.

  Rory refused a consolatory drink, excusing himself on the score that he had to go off and shoot the jockey, while the rest of the party hurried back out of the rain and into the owners’ and trainers’ bar.

  ‘That was dastardly,’ Constance said, pressing Lynne’s hand. ‘Snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory, yes? What hard luck, my dear. Better luck next time.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lynne replied. ‘But it’s not my horse, Lady Frimley. Sorry. It’s Millie’s.’

  ‘I imagine you must feel a bit like the Queen Mother when that horse of hers did that silly thing it did,’ Constance said, linking arms with Millie. ‘The horse that writer chappie rode. Now come along, you need a good stiff drink. Glanville? Millie here needs a stiffie.’

  ‘Of course, Constance, just coming.’ Grenville sighed. ‘And it’s Grenville, not Glanville.’

  ‘As if it matters,’ Constance retorted. ‘Just get this poor creature a large brandy. Really. Did you ever. The manners of the young nowadays.’

  As Constance took herself off to the ladies, Alice sat down by Lynne while Grenville was busy at the crowded bar.

  ‘The horse,’ she began. ‘There are to be what? Four partners?’

  ‘So I’m told,’ Lynne replied. ‘And so far there’s Grenville and me. So seriously, if you do want to come in, apparently it’s three thousand, one hundred and fifty guineas, plus training, and all the bits and bobs.’

  ‘Three thousand,’ Alice repeated, more for her own ears than Lynne’s. ‘Still, that’s a bit less than the fifteen thousand Rory was asking.’

  ‘You’d have got him for twelve.’

  ‘I couldn’t have afforded that!’ Alice exclaimed. ‘That is an awful lot of money.’

  ‘Yeah, me neither,’ Lynne agreed. ‘Well actually I suppose I could, but I didn’t think I should. No – no, this seems to be the way to go, right? We’ll have fun. Life’s too short, Alice. So maybe let’s try and have a bit of fun while we still can, eh?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Alice agreed with a nod. ‘After all, and as they keep reminding us, we all only pass this way once. Three thousand, one hundred and fifty guineas. Millie?’

  ‘It’s your money, duck,’ Millie returned. ‘And since it looks as though you’ve sold your house, and compared to what you’re paying for Cherry Tree Cottage – if I were you, why not? Go for it. Why ever not?’

  ‘We’d still need one more partner, to make it viable,’ Alice said. ‘Will you come in, Millie?’

  ‘I’d love to, but I can’t really, angel. Least not while I’ve still got old Jack to pay for. But really, it shouldn’t be that hard to get the last leg. Perhaps Rory will take it, except I don’t think so. Not given the precarious state of his business.’

  ‘Hello,’ Lynne said with a grin. ‘I think Connie’s scored.’

  The other two women looked over to where Constance now was, having reappeared from the ladies, and saw she was being chatted up by a short red-faced man in a bright tweed suit who was holding an opened bottle of champagne up by way of invitation. After a moment’s hesitation Constance allowed herself to be almost frogmarched off to a table in the far corner of the bar.

  ‘Not really her type, surely?’ Millie remarked. ‘She told me she only likes tall men with silver hair, not short tubby bald oranges.’

  ‘Well anyway,’ Alice decided, ‘I’m in. You can definitely count me in.’

  ‘Great,’ Lynne said. ‘Grenville’s doing all the paperwork. I reckoned he should look after the partnership since he seems to know all about it. Horses, I mean.’ She added a shy smile before raising her glass to celebrate their forthcoming partnership.

  ‘Alice is in,’ she told Grenville when he returned with Millie’s drink.

  ‘Good,’ Grenville said. ‘Excellent. But I thought I was going to sharp-end it, as it were?’

  ‘You are,’ Lynne replied. ‘I just invited her in, that’s all. You can do all the dotting and crossing and all that.’

  ‘Here’s poor Rory,’ Alice said, opening her bag. ‘Rory, let me get you a drink – and I insist. What would you like?’

  ‘A large hemlock would do nicely, Alice,’ Rory said as he sat down. ‘And if they can’t do hemlock a brandy and ginger would do the trick. Thank you.’

  ‘Well?’ Millie said.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Rory sighed. ‘What can I do to get this wretched horse of yours first past the post?’

  ‘A one-horse race, maybe?’ Grenville laughed. ‘Find a nice walkover somewhere?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ R
ory replied. ‘Knowing Jack he’d find a way to lose a walkover as well.’

  ‘Quickly, one of you,’ Constance hissed, quite suddenly reappearing at their table at considerable speed, pursued by her claret-faced, bright-check-suited suitor. ‘One of you say you’re my husband. Quickly!’

  ‘I think this had better be one of you two,’ Millie said with a smile at Rory and Grenville.

  ‘Perhaps I could be your son?’ Grenville wondered sotto. ‘Would that be any help?’

  ‘Darling,’ Constance sighed, putting her hand over Grenville’s, as her admirer arrived equally hotfoot, bottle of champagne still in hand. ‘Have you seen that great big strapping husband of mine anywhere?’ She fixed Grenville firmly with her eye and waited, while her beau came to a stop behind her chair, wondering whether or not to pursue his suit.

  ‘When last seen he was just putting some welshing bookmaker to flight,’ Grenville replied. ‘Not a pretty sight.’

  He turned to smile at the small bald man behind Constance, who was now obviously having very visible second thoughts. A moment later he withdrew and hurried away.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Grenville said, reclaiming his hand. ‘All clear.’

  ‘What a perfectly dreadful fellow,’ Constance said, straightening her skirt and adjusting her hat. ‘Owns supermarkets and wanted me to go up to Blackpool. Imagine.’

  ‘I’ve always thought it was a pity about Blackpool,’ Grenville mused. ‘Among the best sands anywhere. Be quite a different proposition in the south of France.’

  ‘Thank you, Glanville,’ Constance said, blowing him a little kiss with one gloved hand. ‘What’s that they say nowadays? I owe you one.’

  ‘And I think I might just have the answer to that, Lady Frimley,’ Grenville replied. ‘And it’s Grenville, remember?’

  ‘Yes, yes. You do make such a fuss, you men. So what is your answer to everything, young man?’

  ‘Let’s discuss that on our journey home, Lady Frimley,’ Grenville smiled. ‘Or may I call you Cynthia?’

  Almost caught, Constance looked at him sharply, then saw the smile in his eyes. Opening her bag, she took out her cheroots and lit up once more with the help of her table lighter.

  ‘What you may do, Grenville,’ she said carefully, ‘is get me a nice large gin and It.’

  ‘Hope you’re feeling flush, Connie,’ Millie remarked after Grenville had gone to the bar. ‘I think your so-called son has plans for you.’

  Chapter Eleven

  A Sickness

  Boyo wasn’t at all himself. The day before he had relished every mouthful of his food, but this morning he couldn’t even stand the smell of something he generally found delicious. Instead he stood with his head hanging down in the corner of his box, his nose running, giving the odd shiver.

  Then he coughed.

  ‘I don’t believe what I just heard,’ Rory groaned as he did his morning rounds, having just passed by the horse’s box and now turning back. ‘Don’t tell me that was you, matey,’ he told the backside that he saw facing him. ‘Because if it was, that’s all I something well need.’

  Drawing the bolt on the lower door back, Rory entered the stable and saw the full manger of food. When he did, he knew the worst.

  ‘Teddy?’ he called in despair as he returned to the yard. ‘Teddy – fetch the thermometer. This horse is coughing.’

  ‘Never,’ Teddy said, wide-eyed.

  ‘No, of course he’s not,’ Rory replied. ‘I’m just joking. You know it’s the kind of thing that has me rolling about the yard holding my sides. He’s coughing – and he hasn’t touched his grub.’

  ‘Typical,’ Teddy sighed, dumping his pitchfork in the muck barrow. ‘Just as I was getting some condition on him.’

  ‘It might be nothing,’ Rory said, without much conviction. ‘It might be just a bit of dry food stuck somewhere. Though if it is I’ll eat your hat.’

  Just when he’d been getting the horse right and ready, Rory mused as he headed towards the office to ring the vet just in case of trouble. Since Kathleen’s visit the little horse hadn’t looked back. He had put on condition so fast that Rory had been forced to revise his training schedule, curtailing his road work and getting the animal cantering much earlier than anticipated. In fact so well had the horse come on that Rory had even managed to get a good fast piece of work under his belt, and had been well pleased with the result.

  And now the little horse was coughing.

  When he got into the office he noticed that Maureen had her bad-news look on.

  ‘Now what?’ he groaned. ‘Don’t tell me – someone else is taking their horse away.’

  ‘No. That was the hospital, Mr Rawlins,’ Maureen replied. ‘They want you to call them.’

  Rory bit his lip in anguish, as if to swallow what he had just said. As far as his father’s health went, everything was going so well that Rory had simply assumed that any day now his father would be discharged and returned home all but fully mended. But when he spoke to the hospital he learned this was far from the truth.

  ‘It’s just one of those things, Rory,’ said the doctor, a man with whom Rory had become friends, so much respect had he for the care he had taken over his father. ‘These secondary infections catch us all out. We took every precaution we could.’

  ‘I know that, Dan,’ Rory replied. ‘I know what care you’ve all taken.’

  ‘The good thing is he was beginning to make such headway that the possibility is he’ll be strong enough to resist the infection, which certainly would not have been the case a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Can I come in and see him?’

  ‘Of course. We’ve isolated him, naturally, but there’s nothing to stop you coming in and showing him your cheery mug.’

  ‘I’ll come in now,’ Rory said. ‘I just have to call the vet and then I’ll be on my way.’

  He rang Noel, the stable vet, immediately.

  ‘Yes,’ the lugubrious Noel sighed. ‘I’m not being surprised here. There is an awful lot of this about, young man.’

  ‘I don’t have any other horses coughing,’ Rory replied. ‘I’ve isolated him, but I’d like you to come and have a look at him as soon as you can. One good thing – his temp’s only half a point over normal.’

  ‘They don’t always run a high temp with this thing. And I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘I have to pop over to the hospital to see Dad, but I won’t be gone more than an hour.’

  Ten minutes after Rory left the telephone rang again.

  When she answered it Maureen could barely hear the person on the other end of what was obviously a very bad line.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t catch who this is.’

  ‘Leen,’ was all Maureen could hear. ‘Leen Lanagan. Peek to Mr Rawlins?’

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Rawlins isn’t here at the moment. Can I help you? This is a very bad line, I’m afraid.’

  On the other end of the phone Kathleen missed that information altogether. This time Cronagh really was suffering the aftermath of a severe storm that had brought most of the country telephone lines down. She was making her call from one of the few lines still available, the one in Finnegan’s Exclusive American Cocktail Lounge.

  ‘I was just ringing to see how the patient was,’ Kathleen said, raising her voice against the interference that she could now hear. What she didn’t say was that the night before she had experienced a very vivid nightmare in which the horse was found sick and starving in a field. It had been such a disturbing dream that, unable to get it out of her head all morning, she had felt compelled to call his trainer, as Rory had told her she could.

  ‘The patient?’ Maureen repeated, having heard that question clearly enough and raising her own voice even more in reply, although misunderstanding the enquiry. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news. He’s had rather a bad setback and is suffering from a quite serious secondary infection. Mr Rawlins is with him now.’

  ‘How … he?’ the caller as
ked, now all but drowned in atmospherics.

  ‘You’ll have to repeat that, I’m afraid. This really is a terrible line.’

  But all Maureen could hear was appalling interference on the line.

  ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Hello?’

  But since it seemed she had lost her caller Maureen hung up, thinking that if the woman wanted to know more she would ring back when the lines were better.

  ‘Hello?’ Kathleen said in desperation at the other end, hearing Maureen well enough now, but then realising that she herself could not be heard. ‘Hello – hello!’

  But the line had gone completely dead. Kathleen tried going through her friend the local operator, but could get no joy there either.

  ‘Sure the lines are down all over the place, love,’ the operator told her. ‘That was a heck of a storm and you were lucky to get that line out at all. I had to put it through on Father Leroy’s line.’

  The last time all the lines were down after such a storm they had stayed down for nearly a fortnight, all but cutting off the entire area from Cronagh to the Atlantic coast itself. Fearing the same thing might happen again, Kathleen knew what she must do. Somehow or other she would have to cross over to England again and go and see her beloved little horse, who she was now convinced was dangerously if not mortally sick, although how she was going to be able to afford the trip had not yet occurred to her.

  Rory was back from the hospital in time to catch Noel before he left.

  ‘I’ve taken some blood, and I scoped the horse as well, young man,’ the vet told him. ‘I’ll call the moment we have the results. Been making any noise at work?’

  ‘Not a sound,’ Rory said, shaking his head. ‘He’s completely clean-winded.’

  ‘I know it’s little consolation, but there really is a lot of this about. Nick Granger’s had to shut up shop.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Noel.’

  ‘Keep an eye on his temperature,’ Noel advised, closing up his bag. ‘You’re right. It is only half a point up so it might be just a dirty nose.’

  ‘And pigs might do aeronautics.’