The Enchanted

by Charlotte Bingham

  Grenville took Lynne home for Christmas to meet his mother. This was something on which he had not been overly keen, but owing to his feelings for Lynne and the feelings she had for him it was something that he knew he would have to do sooner rather than later. He warned Lynne what his mother was like, and although Lynne said little in return it worried her and Grenville saw that it did so.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Linnet.’ Grenville smiled, feeling strangely proud of the pet name he had given his beautiful girlfriend. ‘It really does not matter one jot, tittle, whit or scrap. It’s simply a formality.’

  ‘I know, Grenville, you’re sweet and I’m sure it’s all fine,’ Lynne replied. ‘It’s just I’d much rather have Christmas with just you. Chez me.’

  ‘Me too, dearest girl. But one has always felt one should have Christmas at home, especially since the old man went AWOL.’

  So he drove them to Esher, to his mother’s house, which was situated at the end of a lane well away from the town and the main road, a small but very pretty redbrick Queen Anne house Grenville’s grandfather had lived in before bequeathing it to his only child, Grenville’s father. Since Grenville’s father’s disgrace, as it was known in the family, his mother had been granted custody of the house in which she resided and over which she presided like a Victorian matriarch. As small as her son was tall, Catherine Fielding was famous for the sharpness of her tongue as well as her arrant snobbery, and as a consequence had an exceedingly select circle of friends, a company of like-minded people who saw modern life as a shocking disgrace, particularly the change in social and moral values, which they all considered – and not particularly privately – to be the beginning of the end of civilisation as they had known it, and a terrible waste of all the lives that had been sacrificed trying to preserve it.

  Her only weakness was her son, Grenville, whom she had always considered to be something extraordinary, in spite of an extremely average career at school and the attaining of a less than distinguished university degree. To her Grenville was simply a late developer, like so many brilliant people in life, and once he achieved a certain seniority he would come into his own. For the early part of Grenville’s life such an indulgent maternal attitude was nothing but harmful, spoiling the child by giving him an inflated sense of his own ability and worth.

  Fortunately his father was an altogether stronger character, and besides taking the wise decision not to send Grenville to Eton, which he himself had hated, while he remained married to Grenville’s mother he did at least manage to teach his son some of what he considered the more masculine virtues and interest him in some manly pursuits. Terrified that his son might turn into a mother’s boy, he made sure Grenville went to boarding school from the age of seven, and when he was a teenager encouraged him to take a healthy interest in the opposite sex, something of which Catherine Fielding most certainly did not approve.

  ‘So why exactly are you taking me to meet her, Grenville?’ Lynne asked him on their way there. ‘If what she thinks doesn’t matter a dot, whittle, scrip or scrap, then why are we doing it instead of getting legless at home and watching The Wizard of Oz?’

  ‘It’s just a formality really, Linnet,’ Grenville assured her. ‘Don’t worry your pretty head. We’ll just put in an appearance, have lunch and then take off back to yours.’

  The one thing of which Grenville was sure was how pretty Lynne looked that Christmas Day, dressed in a black and white silk and wool dress worn under a beautifully cut crimson velvet jacket, her hair piled expertly on top of her head, and her long elegant legs clad in a pair of black silk stockings, one of the gifts he had bestowed on her. He was happy to see her looking so elegant, because he knew that yet another thing his mother was picky about nowadays was appearance, taking every chance she could to pronounce that people simply did not know how to dress any more.

  ‘Ah, Mummy,’ Grenville said on finding his mother sitting waiting for them in the drawing room, ostensibly working on a sampler on her knee.

  ‘Grenville, dearest boy,’ Mrs Fielding replied, remaining seated while Grenville came over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I was beginning to worry.’

  ‘Quarter to one, you said, Mummy,’ Grenville said, tapping his watch. ‘Quarter to one on the dot.’ He hated still calling her Mummy but knew that if he tried anything else all he would get in return was a severe dressing-down.

  ‘I am sure I said quarter past twelve, dear,’ Mrs Fielding replied with a small shake of her head, before turning to regard Lynne with a pale smile. ‘Good. And you must be Anne,’ she said, offering a hand vaguely.

  ‘Lynne, Mummy. This is Lynne.’

  ‘It’s my great age, Grenville, darling boy.’ Mrs Fielding sighed. ‘Things just go. Names particularly. I lie awake at night going through my address book in my head. I’m on the Gs at the moment, and not, I have to say, doing all that brilliantly. Do forgive me, Lynne.’

  ‘It’s fine, really, Mrs Fielding,’ Lynne replied with a quick reassuring look to Grenville. ‘You can call me whatever you like.’

  ‘I do so like your jacket, Lynne, and such a – such a nice bright colour,’ Mrs Fielding continued smoothly. ‘Have you been to cocktails somewhere on the way?’

  ‘No, no.’ This time it was Grenville who gave Lynne a reassuring look. ‘No, of course not, Mummy. No, we came straight here.’

  ‘I find everything so confusing nowadays, don’t you, Lynne? People do such different things. In such different ways. Shall we have some sherry, Grenville? Traditional, isn’t it, sherry at Christmas? Ever since you were a boy. The first time you drank it you must have been … eight, yes?’

  ‘Eleven actually.’

  ‘And you got terribly squiffy. Then you were sick after lunch. There’s only the three of us, I’m afraid, Lindy.’

  ‘Lynne,’ Grenville corrected her.

  Lynne smiled. ‘I don’t mind Lindy. Lindy’s fine.’

  ‘Most of one’s friends are dead. Or losing their minds. Alas. The perils of great age. It will come to you, my dear, just as it will surely come to me.’

  ‘Let’s talk of something more cheerful – Christmas and all that,’ Grenville said, pulling a small face.

  ‘What was that you said, Grenville? I missed it.’

  ‘Nothing, Mummy – nothing at all,’ Grenville said hastily. ‘Do you need any help in the kitchen? Sprouts need doing or something? Can we do anything?’

  ‘Mabel is here.’ Mrs Fielding gave a little laugh then rose from her chair to accept the sherry Grenville had poured for her. ‘Mabel is here and everything is in hand.’

  ‘Mabel?’ Grenville frowned. ‘I thought you’d – I thought you’d dispatched Mabel.’

  ‘Did you?’ His mother stared and then smiled slightly at him. ‘Mabel is undispatchable, Grenville dear. You know that as well as I.’

  Grenville tried to put on a brave face, and failed. The thought of Mabel’s dreadful cooking filled him with gloom. She had been his mother’s housekeeper since time immemorial. Food inedible, Mabel unsackable, it all contributed to the general atmosphere of immutability in this house where nothing that needed changing was ever changed, and no discussion wanted or allowed either.

  ‘Perhaps Lynne and I could go and give Mabel a hand?’ he suggested, hoping it might still not be too late to salvage something of the lunch that was being prepared.

  ‘Oh, no, really, Grenville, darling. I hardly think that’s necessary. Of course if Lynne here would like to go and help … ?’

  ‘No, I think we should both go,’ Grenville suggested, finding himself defying his mother for the first time in as long as he could remember. ‘Take Mabel a glass of sherry and wish her the compliments of the season, yes? And since it’s Christmas, in the spirit of Christmas we could also see if she needs a hand.’

  ‘I see.’ His mother regarded him without even the semblance of a smile. ‘Very well. But please do not be long. I shall stay here by the fire. By myself.’

  Grenville rolled his eyes pri
vately to Lynne as they left the room, and Lynne grabbed his hand as soon as the door was closed behind them, kissing him quickly.

  ‘Stop looking so tragic,’ she whispered. ‘You said yourself it didn’t matter and it doesn’t. So come on, let’s go and get old Mabel tiddly.’

  Mabel needed no help. Grenville and Lynne found her in the kitchen singing an incomprehensible carol with a nearly empty bottle of Fine Old Tawny open on the table. Happily they were just in time to do a rescue operation on lunch, Grenville pouncing on the sprouts before they turned to water, taking out the potatoes and sausages before they went quite black, and managing also to salvage the turkey before it was reduced to the size of a quail, removing it from the oven and wrapping it in tinfoil while Lynne concocted what smelt as if it was going to be a most delicious rich gravy. Leaving the Christmas pudding to steam gently and Mabel likewise, they repaired to the dining room where Grenville carved and Lynne served what was, while not the best Christmas lunch they had ever eaten, most certainly a more than serviceable one.

  ‘Do you see now, Grenville?’ Mrs Fielding asked her son after sampling her food. ‘You do see what I mean about Mabel?’

  ‘We saw exactly,’ Grenville replied urbanely. ‘All to the good that you dispatched us to the kitchen.’

  ‘So,’ Mrs Fielding continued. ‘And what are you young doing for the rest of the holiday, might I ask?’

  ‘We’re off racing tomorrow,’ Grenville replied. ‘Lynne and I have shares in a horse that’s running—’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to come with us?’ Lynne put in, to Grenville’s surprise.

  ‘Not on Boxing Day, I don’t think so. The crowds are simply frightful. In more ways than one. They most certainly do not consist of what I would call true racing people.’

  ‘It would still be fun. This horse we have, he’s really rather promising.’

  ‘Perhaps some other time, Grenville dear. I was thinking we might go to Royal Ascot this year, for Ladies’ Day. Have you ever been to Ascot, Lynne?’ Mrs Fielding enquired, slowly turning to gaze at her.

  ‘Not really,’ Lynne replied. ‘I mean not Royal Ascot. I’ve been to Ascot, but only to ordinary Ascot. Not Royal Ascot.’

  ‘I think I understand what you mean, thank you.’

  ‘I don’t know whether I could now, anyway,’ Lynne continued, after taking a sip of her claret. ‘Don’t they still have some rule or other about divorcees?’

  Grenville took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling.

  ‘And that might concern you perhaps?’ Mrs Fielding asked. ‘Are you saying that you, personally are divorced?’

  ‘I don’t know whether it’s actually possible to be divorced impersonally, Mummy,’ Grenville chipped in, hoping to create a diversion.

  ‘I was divorced only a few months ago, actually,’ Lynne admitted.

  ‘I see,’ Mrs Fielding said. ‘I see.’

  She took a sip from her wine glass and looked away from Lynne, as if it would be improper to go on addressing her directly.

  ‘A lot of people get divorced nowadays, Mrs Fielding,’ Lynne said. ‘And a good thing too, if you ask me.’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Fielding sniffed. ‘I wonder why you should nurse that particular sentiment? I personally have always believed in the sanctity of marriage and, please God, I always shall.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Lynne replied. ‘But all that left the men free to do just what they wanted, right? Which is not always such a good thing.’

  Mrs Fielding tapped the mahogany table in front of her and shook her head. ‘People of my generation never believed hurting the children helped anything. And as for airing one’s marital difficulties in the divorce court, just try to imagine the effect on one’s family.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Lynne agreed. ‘Luckily, in my case there are, or rather were, no children.’

  Mrs Fielding looked at her. ‘And had there been?’

  ‘Maybe it would have all been different, who knows? The last thing I would ever want to do would be to hurt my kids.’

  Mrs Fielding dabbed her lips with her linen napkin. ‘I see.’

  ‘Lynne was the totally innocent party,’ Grenville said carefully, mindful of the dangerous ground they were still on. ‘Her husband was flagrantly unfaithful.’

  ‘Grenville,’ Mrs Fielding warned him. ‘I have just said I do not wish to hear about it. As I have always believed in the sanctity of marriage—’

  ‘Even though Papa was serially unfaithful and left you to run off with another woman?’

  ‘Grenville?’ Lynne pleaded quietly.

  ‘Whatever your father might or might not have done, Grenville—’

  ‘There’s no might or might not about it, Mother,’ Grenville insisted, brave enough now to dare a change of address.

  ‘Grenville? I can look after myself, sweetheart,’ Lynne said to him. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Whatever your father might have done, Grenville,’ Mrs Fielding persisted, ‘it remains something between your father and me. It was certainly something he and I would never have wished to have resolved in the divorce court.’

  ‘Mother—’ Grenville started, now determined to see his mother off for the first time. But seeing the look in his eyes Lynne hastily put a hand over one of his and came in quickly.

  ‘Your mother is absolutely right, Grenville,’ she said. ‘Marital difficulties should if possible be sorted out between the partners, not by a lot of greedy lawyers – particularly when there are children involved.’

  Grenville was about to disagree but, seeing the look of kindness in Lynne’s eyes as well as the small warning frown on her forehead, he pulled back from the brink.

  ‘Of course, Lynne,’ he said quietly. ‘Sorry, Mother – that really was uncalled for.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right, Grenville dear,’ Mrs Fielding replied, now sensing the understanding as well as the love that Grenville and Lynne shared. ‘I was probably speaking somewhat out of turn myself.’

  ‘So now it’s my turn,’ Lynne said, taking a deep breath. ‘To speak out of turn, as it were. The point is, Mrs Fielding, although I’d far rather you and I got on, Grenville is my real concern, and I don’t want anything to spoil what we feel for each other. You see I love your son, Mrs Fielding. He’s just about the kindest, sweetest and gentlest man I have ever met and I really do love him very much, OK? Just in case you’ve got it wrong – which I’m sure you haven’t, but just in case. And you see, I don’t care what anyone is or was or whatever because what matters now is what’s in the future because that’s the only thing we can really affect. We can’t change the past but we can care for the future. OK? That’s all.’ She smiled. ‘Sermon over.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Grenville took her hand. ‘I feel the same – exactly the same – about you and about everything, now that you have put it so well, which I most certainly could not have done.’

  ‘It’s all that matters,’ Lynne said quietly. ‘You said so yourself on the way here – you said it didn’t matter what anyone might think and all that, and I really go along with that. We just have to follow our star and feel what we really feel. Life’s too blooming short.’

  During the silence that ensued Grenville looked first at Lynne, then at his mother, then back to the woman he loved.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Happy Christmas to us all. I have a feeling this is going to be one of the best Christmases ever. If not the very best.’

  ‘Good,’ Mrs Fielding said after a moment spent carefully wiping her mouth on her napkin. ‘Now I do hope you two are not dashing off somewhere – at least not until after the Queen’s speech. Then of course there’s the Tree. Mabel and I went to a lot of trouble decorating the Tree, or rather, truth to tell, I spent a great deal of time redecorating the Tree after Mabel had finished ruining it.’

  Grenville and Lynne laughed quite genuinely at her observation, a reaction that pleased Mrs Fielding no end.

  ‘And then,’
she continued, ‘after that, perhaps we might play a game. Monopoly – or Cluedo, maybe. We always so used to enjoy playing Cluedo.’

  ‘Me too,’ Lynne agreed. ‘Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the candlestick. I think it’s my all-time favourite board game.’

  ‘I rather agree,’ Mrs Fielding said. ‘I never really tire of it.’

  ‘Whereas with Monopoly,’ Lynne observed, ‘someone’s always got a hand in the bank.’

  ‘Then Cluedo it shall be, Lynne,’ Mrs Fielding decided. ‘And now if you’d like to pour us all some more of this excellent claret you brought, Grenville, I’d quite like to finish my equally excellent lunch.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Lost in the Furze

  Rather than reveal that their pilot had been the victim of an unprovoked physical assault, Rory had already excused his appearance before Blaze came into the racecourse paddock. The jockey, he explained, had suffered a riding accident.

  ‘Taken a bit of a bashing off someone else’s horse, but he’s all right now, passed fit to ride.’

  And in fact, thanks in part to Kathleen’s powdering down the black and blue bits, other than the thin strip of plaster across his nose, as he stood taking instructions from Rory, Blaze did indeed look nearly, if not quite, himself.

  ‘It’s a good field, but not the strongest,’ Rory told the owners and their connections, as they gathered together just before the race. ‘That’s what my father says is the good thing about racing on Boxing Day. Too many meetings and not enough horses to go round.’ He stopped before going on. ‘Where’s Connie?’

  ‘She couldn’t come,’ Lynne said quickly. ‘We’ll explain afterwards.’

  ‘Rory?’ Grenville said, bringing a well-dressed woman to the fore. ‘I don’t think you’ve met my mother.’

  ‘Mrs Fielding,’ Rory said, taking off his hat and shaking her hand. ‘How do you do?’