The Enchanted

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘I do know rather a good poem,’ Constance said as they continued on their way towards the enclosure. ‘A very smart lady named Suki, said she liked to mix business with nookie – before every race she’d go home to her place, and curl up with a very good bookie.’

  ‘Oh, I think you must say that,’ Millie said. ‘You’ll bring the place down.’

  ‘Should I really?’ Constance asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Most certainly not, my lady,’ Grenville laughed. ‘You’ll be up before the stewards.’

  ‘I think I’d quite enjoy that,’ Constance sighed. ‘Oh well.’

  They were just in time to see a radiant Kathleen leading in their horse. A great round of applause began and lasted until Teddy had thrown a rug over the winner’s quarters and Rory had gone to the horse’s head to pat his neck and congratulate him. As is so often the case with horses after they have won, The Enchanted now looked quite a different animal; not only did he seem to stand taller but the look in his eyes suggested that he sensed what he had just done. As he looked imperiously around him he looked altogether stronger and even more purposeful, ears pricked, eyes bright and so full of himself that it took all Kathleen’s skill to keep him contained in the small enclosure.

  Grenville escorted his three co-owners into the pen, hat off and smiling broadly. Alice and Lynne went shyly to join Rory, who was calling them over to the horse’s head so that they could all have their picture taken with their hero and their jockey, who was smiling broadly and hugging the horse’s neck.

  ‘And Constance?’ Rory looked round. ‘Where’s Constance gone?’

  ‘She’s up on the podium already,’ Grenville said, spotting her. ‘Waving to her subjects.’

  After they had all been photographed, Grenville took Alice and Lynne with him to the podium while Rory was besieged by the racing press. A cheerful woman in a large felt hat and horn-rimmed glasses announced her pleasure in presenting the trophy to the winning owners, the cup being accepted on their behalf by a mercifully silent Constance. The presentation was followed by yet another photograph session.

  ‘The last time I saw as many cameras as this,’ Constance remarked loudly, ‘I was not wearing anything like as much clothing.’

  The party were then finally led away by two of the course’s directors, to enjoy a celebratory bottle of champagne in a small back room heavily decorated with photographs of famous horses winning famous races at the track.

  ‘Good race, Blaze,’ Rory told his jockey in the weighing room after Blaze had weighed in. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me, boss,’ Blaze replied. ‘That horse is magic.’

  ‘Got a bit of toe, hasn’t he?’ Rory said. ‘Jumps, too.’

  ‘Did you see the way he took the last?’ Blaze asked, his smile replaced now by a serious expression. ‘It was as if he had wings on him. Listen now, I could have picked the leaders up any time I wanted to, boss. I never got a feel like it. I never asked him a thing, not once. I never asked him to pick up, I never asked him to see a stride, I didn’t even have to ask him to jump round that other horse at the second last. He did it all himself. And when I let out that much rein …’ Blaze opened his index finger one inch away from his thumb. ‘That’s all. When I let out that much rein – whoosh. He quickened so fast I hardly even remember the final furlong.’

  ‘He hardly blew after it, as well,’ Rory remembered. ‘While you have to say the second and third were out on their feet.’

  ‘Congratulations, young man.’ A tall, distinguished-looking man with a racing saddle slung over one arm stopped to offer his good wishes. ‘That was some performance.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ Rory replied. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘I never mind losing to a good horse,’ the captain replied. ‘And that is most certainly a very good horse.’

  ‘Captain Timms,’ Rory said. ‘You probably don’t know my jockey, Blaze Molloy.’

  ‘Well ridden, young man,’ Captain Timms said. ‘Well ridden indeed. I shall keep my eye on you. And by the way, Rory, did you get the time? A new course record for two miles. Well done indeed.’

  ‘A new course record?’ Rory repeated when Captain Timms had left them. ‘A course record? I thought it was a fast pace, but a course record? It can’t be. It looked as though you were easing up at the finish.’

  ‘I was, Mr Rawlins,’ Blaze replied. ‘Or rather the horse was.’

  Kathleen had almost finished washing her horse down when Rory found her.

  ‘I said this was a special horse, Mr Rawlins,’ she said, throwing the last of the bucket of water under the horse’s stomach to cool him. ‘Didn’t I say just that?’

  ‘He was certainly d-d-dreadfully impressive,’ Rory agreed. ‘I don’t mean dreadfully. I meant he was certainly – he was certainly – he was – ter-ter-terrifically impressive. Wasn’t he?’

  ‘Didn’t I just say so? This is a very gifted horse, so this is,’ Kathleen said, straightening up and looking into her horse’s eye before kissing him on one cheek. Rory watched, wishing for the first time in his life that he was a horse, here and now.

  ‘OK,’ he said, bringing himself back to earth. ‘What have I got to do? Yes – yes, I have to go off and join my owners, but look, what about later? I mean, what about when we get h-h-home this evening …’

  Kathleen glanced at him then carried on fussing her horse.

  ‘Thanks, but we’re all going down the Chequers,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Blaze asked me just now. Teddy, Pauline, Blaze and I. After we’ve done stables.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Fine.’ Rory nodded. ‘Yes of course, that’s fine. Yes. I just – I just wanted to make sure you all had something organised.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome to join us, Mr Rawlins.’

  ‘Am I? You mean …? Right. Right, thanks, but no, we’re all going out as well. The owners and I. I think I said I’d take them all out to dinner. Something like that. After all,’ he added, ‘this isn’t exactly the sort of thing that happens every day.’

  ‘It most certainly is not,’ Kathleen agreed, now turning to look at Rory, to stare right into his eyes. ‘But then this is not exactly an everyday sort of horse.’

  Before going out to dinner, Rory called in to see his father.

  ‘Any improvement, Dan?’ he asked the doctor, catching him just before he went off duty.

  ‘I was going to ring you, as it happens, Rory,’ the cardiologist replied. ‘I think we might have turned a corner.’

  ‘When?’ Rory asked as the two of them walked down the highly polished corridor that led to Intensive Care. ‘What, you mean there’s been a general improvement in the last couple of days?’

  ‘I would say today, actually, Rory. This afternoon to be exact.’

  ‘This afternoon?’ Rory said, feeling his blood change. ‘Right. Tell me, yes – why this afternoon exactly?’

  ‘I looked in on your father this morning and he was much the same. Sleeping, as he mostly does, although quite comfortable. But his temperature was still raised – we can’t really seem to get it to come down and stay down, not safely, that is. And while as we all know a temperature means the body is fighting the infection, in infections such as the one your father is suffering from, and particularly following several heart attacks, obviously it’s not only worrying, it’s very debilitating for the patient. Anyway. Anyway, all said, until the nurse called me at – what was it? About quarter past two.’

  ‘Round about the time we were weighing in,’ Rory muttered.

  ‘Sorry? What was that?’

  ‘Nothing. No, I was just – it doesn’t matter. Go on with what you were saying.’

  ‘The nurse said your father’s temperature had dropped down to normal. So of course I went across to see him at once …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And not only was it normal, but the patient was awake,’ Dan said. ‘His temperature has stayed down ever since.’

  Dan pushed open the door to the side ward. Ror
y’s father was sitting propped up on his pillows, looking while not exactly the picture of health considerably improved since the last time Rory had seen him, when he had thought he might lose him at any minute.

  ‘Hi, Pop,’ he said, going in.

  ‘Hello, old boy,’ Anthony whispered. ‘Haven’t got much of a Hobson’s, I’m afraid. So if you want to hear me, best pull up a chair.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say I’ve come empty-handed, I fear,’ Rory said, sitting by the bed by his father’s head. ‘I didn’t know you were back with us. By that I mean awake and everything.’

  Anthony cleared his throat and then put one long-fingered, elegant hand on his son’s.

  ‘I had the very devil of a dream today,’ he said, barely audibly. ‘There was this horse. And it had wings. I was on it, do you see, this flying horse. It had somehow rescued me from the sea, I knew that. It was a very rough sea, and very cold. Then I was on this horse’s back and it flew me to safety. The devil it did. It plucked me out of the sea and flew me to safety.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Headlines

  ‘Hey, Gerry?’

  ‘I’m in the bathroom!’

  ‘Wait till you see this!’

  Maddy stared again at the news stories in Gerry’s copy of the Sporting Life and the racing pages of the Telegraph and the Mail. The Enchanted’s victory was a major sports story in both dailies.

  ‘You just wait till you see this,’ Maddy said, pushing the Sporting Life Gerry’s way as he came into the kitchen in a white towelling dressing gown, still drying his hair.

  ‘So where’s the fire, then?’ he asked. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘Get reading and you’ll find out, lover.’

  Maddy poured herself another cup of black coffee and sat watching Gerry read, coffee cup held two-handed, both her elbows on the table.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Gerry said, having glanced up and noticed what she was doing. ‘It’s dead common.’

  ‘I am dead common,’ Maddy replied, remaining exactly as she was. ‘Anyway, dead common according to who?’

  ‘You know who,’ Gerry replied, sitting down with the paper. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Maddy agreed. ‘How about that?’

  ‘How long has she had a horse? I mean, it can’t be long. We haven’t been divorced that long.’

  ‘Well, she’s got one now, Gerry. And not only a horse, a winning horse and all.’

  Gerry read on, shaking his head.

  ‘“The Enchanted,”’ he read out from the Life. ‘“A breeding mystery.”’

  ‘Yeah, I know, I read it,’ Maddy said, still watching him.

  ‘“The easy winner of yesterday’s Markham Novice Chase at Wincanton as far as the stud book goes is a completely unknown quantity.”’

  ‘Her mug is staring out at me everywhere,’ Maddy complained. ‘Look!’

  She turned her copy of the Daily Mail to Gerry, simultaneously tapping the picture on the front of the Sporting Life with a long, manicured, bright red fingernail.

  ‘I mean, look, Gerry!’

  ‘I’m looking, Maddy. I’m looking.’

  ‘“Lynne Faraday, one of the four owners of the debuttant horse …”’ Maddy read out to him, taking her paper back.

  ‘Debootant,’ Gerry corrected her. ‘That should be debootant horse, Maddy.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Maddy sniffed. ‘“Lynne Faraday blah blah blah expressed herself delighted with the horse’s performance and said as a first time owner she never for a moment imagined herself as being a winning owner. Certainly her part-owned young and unconsidered horse won a fast-run race with considerable authority and without making the semblance of a mistake. The Enchanted has to be one for the notebook and certainly goes on my list as one to follow, as indeed does his lovely co-owner.” I mean, that just isn’t fair, Gerry!’

  ‘What particular part just isn’t fair, Maddy?’

  ‘She’s got her picture in every blooming newspaper, that’s what! It just isn’t fair!’

  ‘So what am I meant to do about it, my love?’

  ‘I dunno, Gerry! But I do know something.’

  ‘You do? I’m dying to hear. What do you know?’

  ‘That you are going to have to do something!’

  ‘Mum? Is this true?’ Georgina was asking Alice on the phone. ‘I mean, I am looking at this picture of you in the Daily Mail and it says—’

  ‘It’s all perfectly true, Georgina,’ Alice replied, picking up Sammy’s water bowl to freshen it.

  ‘So what are you groaning for, Mum?’

  ‘I’m groaning—’

  ‘I’m the one who should be groaning, Mum.’

  ‘I was groaning because I was bending down, dear. To pick up Sammy’s water bowl.’

  ‘Just tell me this isn’t true, right? Seriously? That you’ve bought a racehorse?’

  ‘Part of a racehorse, Georgina dear. A share in a racehorse.’

  ‘Are you completely out of your head, Mum? Have you totally lost it?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘First of all you suddenly decide to move miles away from your family, without so much as discussing it with us, then the next thing we know is you’ve bought a racehorse.’

  ‘A share in a racehorse, Georgina. Do get your facts right. A share in a winning racehorse.’

  Alice smiled to herself and sat down on the old sofa she’d put under the kitchen window in the cottage, patting her knee for Sammy to jump up. It was a cloudless winter day, and the wonderful views she now enjoyed were lit by a gentle early November sun.

  ‘I honestly don’t know what to say.’ Georgina sighed down the phone.

  ‘You could try “Well done. Congratulations”,’ Alice suggested.

  ‘Mum?’ her daughter replied in her particularly irritating sing-song way. ‘Mum, do get real.’

  ‘Actually, Georgina,’ Alice said, ‘I think that’s precisely what I am doing. Bye-bye.’

  Instead of being cross, which she felt she should be, Alice found herself first smiling and then laughing out loud. Now that the little horse had won she was even more determined to stand firm and be free. She was no longer invisible. And she had ended another telephone call by putting the phone down first.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Back Across the Wather

  ‘There is only one certain remedy for a sore head,’ Michael Doherty announced to his fellow sufferers in the snug of Finnegan’s Exclusive American Cocktail Lounge in Cronagh, ‘and that is to avoid excess in the first place.’

  ‘And if they was to mind you, Michael,’ Donal replied, polishing a pint glass with a tea towel decorated with the head of Arkle, ‘what would I be doing for a living?’

  ‘And where would we be doing our drinking?’ Tim O’Cloughlan asked from further down the bar. ‘Perish the thought altogether and have another. That’s generally considered to be the best cure-all for this sort of malarkey. Donal? Fill all the glasses again, man, for God’s sake now.’

  ‘Let’s hope for the sake of all our sanities this is not going to be a regular occurrence,’ Padraig muttered, leaning on the bar and holding his head. ‘I have a large motorway gang at work in here.’

  ‘This business about a statue,’ Eammon pronounced Yamon said from his usual standing position in one corner of the snug. ‘Was this a serious thing or was this just a jest?’

  ‘Who said anything about any statue?’ Padraig groaned. ‘A statue of whom, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Not of yourself, Padraig,’ Donal told him, wiping the bar with Arkle. ‘Of that you can be sure.’

  ‘I’m not following you one whit, Donal.’ Michael frowned at the landlord. ‘If there’s any statue to be posted, then I think most certainly Padraig here should be in the running.’

  ‘Whoever heard of posting any statue?’ Tim wanted to know. ‘Meself I never heard the like.’

  A red-faced man with a large powdered nose burst into the snug, shaking his head viole
ntly.

  ‘May I never live through such a time again, so help me God,’ he announced, collapsing against the bar and resting his head on it. ‘May I never bear witness again to the like.’

  Donal filled a tumbler with a double measure of John Jameson and put the glass on the bar for the new arrival.

  ‘Will the bank not recover then, Mr Coulihan?’ he enquired politely with a wink at the others, throwing Arkle over his shoulder.

  ‘The bank?’ Coulihan wondered, standing upright now and regarding his peers wild-eyed. ‘The bank indeed? I doubt if the entire Irish economy will ever get back on its feet. I have never seen such a run on our money.’

  ‘Your money?’ Padraig muttered. ‘And there was I going round thinking now the money belonged to the depositors.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Michael said. ‘What about poor old Tobias Tandy? Surely he’s the one facing the ruin? All you did is what you always do – give us some of our money back that you’ve been making yourself even fatter on.’

  ‘The problem with you people is that you do not have a proper grasp of banking in any way whatsoever,’ Coulihan retorted. ‘There is a lot more to banking than just counting out money, you know.’

  ‘That’s the bit you enjoy, Mr Coulihan,’ Donal said, with a nod. ‘The rustle of all them new green ones sent down from Dublin. I’ve seen the expression on your face.’

  ‘Tobias is never ruined now, surely?’ Padraig said, concerned. ‘I’d never forgive meself if Tobias was done out of it.’

  ‘He’s a bookmaker, Padraig!’ Michael said fiercely. ‘He’s there to be done out of it!’

  ‘He was in and out of the bank like a hen on fire,’ Coulihan told them. ‘For him to meet his obligations to his customers, sure the bank had to take a charge on his shop.’

  ‘What he means is Tobias had to cancel the charge he has on the bank,’ Michael said with a broad grin. ‘Isn’t that so, Coulihan? Wasn’t it yourself that had the very worst of times this last Cheltenham?’

  ‘Mr, if you don’t mind, Michael Doherty. That is if you want me to go on cashing those rubber cheques of yours.’