The Enchanted

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘This is not all because of that at all, Gerry! Look – I’m a model, right? Not far off the top, neither, and I do not want some nothing and nobody knocking me out of the papers, right? Got it? I mean, who does she think she is anyway? Poncing around all over the place mouthing off as if she’s just won the bloody Derby or something!’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Gerry said, holding up both hands. ‘All right, all right!’

  ‘No it is not bloody well all right all right, Gerry!’ Maddy all but screamed back at him. ‘You told me when we got together I could have everything she had and more, right! So go get it, Rover! I want everything she’s got and more!’

  Gerry shook his head and went out to stare at his new BMW coupé, wondering why women couldn’t be more like cars, beautiful yes, sexy certainly, but under your control, with your foot on the accelerator and your foot on the brake. It was at times like this, and in Gerry’s view recently there had been a few too many times like this, but it was at times like this that he began to miss Lynne. Lynne might have been a bit boring and a little too compliant and even dutiful as far as Gerry was concerned, but at least she wasn’t given to these sorts of you-just-wait rages, the terrible spoilt tantrums that Maddy was beginning to throw all too frequently. But it was too late now, he thought to himself as he walked round his gleaming red car, idly kicking its wheels. There was no going back now. Lynne and he were divorced, a settlement had been made and Maddy had well and truly moved in, in more ways than one.

  Maybe the fact that he hadn’t married her yet was what was making her so mouthy, Gerry supposed. Or maybe it was all to do with this hormone thing he was always hearing about; maybe it was just her hormones playing her up at her time of the month or whatever. What did he know and how was he to know? He was just a bloke and, like so many of his mates, he admitted that women were more than a bit of a mystery to him. When they behaved the way Maddy was behaving they became totally inexplicable. Worst of all, he realised as he walked slowly back into the house, the reason didn’t make the slightest bit of difference, because life would in no way return to normal till Maddy got what she wanted. And if she didn’t get what she wanted, Gerry was beginning seriously to dread what might indeed happen to him. After all, not only wasn’t he getting any younger, what was worse, he wasn’t growing any new hair.

  Chapter Twenty

  Kicking On

  The horse was due to run next at Huntingdon. Rory was astonished at how well his charge had come out of his first race, which even though he had won it with ease had been run at a track-record-breaking pace. Yet the horse had come home, eaten up every oat that evening, slept like a baby and run out in the paddock next day with the sort of energy that made Rory think he could have raced again that very afternoon.

  ‘I see they’re running Fly The Flags,’ Grenville observed on the morning of the race, when he called the trainer before leaving for Cambridgeshire. ‘Quite a useful novice, I gather. He’s won his first two races by healthy margins, beating some other half-decent novices into the bargain.’

  ‘Yes. I asked Dad about him, now he’s sitting up and reading the racing papers—’

  ‘He’s that much better, is he?’ Grenville interrupted. ‘I’m so glad to hear that.’

  ‘Thanks, Grenville. Anyway, what the old man said – I think I should stop calling him that, actually – what my father said is that his connections have always seen him as a Cheltenham horse and so far nothing he has done has made them think of reconsidering.’

  ‘So the little horse will have his work cut out. Fly The Flag’s owned by some Yank or other, correct?’

  ‘The some Yank or other, for your information, isn’t just any Yank or other. He has six horses with Geordie Mainstone,’ Rory informed him. ‘He also owns the runner-up in last year’s Grand National and—’

  ‘Of course he does,’ Grenville ad-libbed. ‘I’ve been a bit out of touch since Papa bolted. We used to race all the time.’

  ‘Eddie Rampton’s running one of his hot hopes as well, and he doesn’t send them this far if he hasn’t had a good touch.’

  ‘And you don’t think the increase in distance is going to bother the little horse?’

  ‘Don’t think so. According to our pilot, our fellow hasn’t just got toe but stamina as well.’

  ‘Yes, right, Rory – but untested stamina.’

  ‘No – no, that’s why we decided to try him out over two and a half miles, Grenville. Huntingdon’s a flat track like Wincanton – another fast galloping track – so it’s not going to ask too big a question of him.’

  ‘Fine,’ Grenville replied. ‘Right. Jolly good – see you at the track, then.’

  As he hung up the phone, Rory could almost see Grenville tipping his hat on the other end of the line.

  In spite of having bought herself a nice low-mileage secondhand Renault 5, Alice did not feel sufficiently roadwise to drive herself all the way to Cambridgeshire from Dorset and so had persuaded Millie to drive her there – not that her friend needed very much persuasion.

  ‘It’s very flat, Cambridgeshire, isn’t it?’ Alice observed after they had motored a dozen or so miles into the county. ‘Alex always said it was murderers’ country.’

  ‘The Fens are worse,’ Millie replied, ‘Lincolnshire particularly. I don’t think I could stand living in a flat county. How are you feeling, duck? Getting the wobbles yet?’

  ‘Nowhere near as badly as last time. Although I must admit to feeling slightly nauseous.’

  ‘The horse must have a good chance.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have called him that,’ Alice continued. ‘Slightly Nauseous. On the other hand, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I don’t think you can change a horse’s name once it’s registered,’ Millie told her. ‘At least, if you do – if indeed you can – I do know it’s considered the most frightful bad luck.’

  ‘Even if we could and we wanted to, I couldn’t possibly change his name. I’ve always felt sure the horse was called The Enchanted because that’s exactly what he is.’

  ‘An enchanted horse, indeed,’ Millie mused. ‘Certainly looked like it at Wincanton. And today perhaps he’ll look even more so.’

  ‘Rory says it’s quite a hot race.’

  ‘If he’s a good horse he has to beat good horses,’ Millie said. ‘And here we are – we’ve arrived.’

  It was a mid-week meeting, but due to the quality of the racing there was a good crowd, despite the rain that had now begun to fall, accompanied by a biting east wind. After Alice had picked up her complimentary owner’s tickets, she and Millie walked out on to the course with the first race only five minutes from the off. Alice’s increasing nervousness was allayed by the good-humoured atmosphere, the vibrant colours of the jockeys’ silks and the elegant beauty of the thoroughbreds parading in the paddocks. As arranged, they met up with Lynne, Constance and Grenville just outside the weighing room, then went and had a drink to refresh themselves after their long journeys.

  ‘Right,’ Lynne said, opening her racecard, after they had all sat down at a table. ‘Let’s see which ones are going to make us rich today then.’

  ‘A man I knew once, can’t remember his name,’ Constance said, ‘he was a reformed gambler who always maintained that the only people who made money from following the horses were the ones with a brush and a shovel.’

  ‘You’re full of those things, aren’t you, Connie?’ Lynne remarked. ‘Full of equine bon bons.’

  ‘Bons mots,’ Grenville said, helping her out.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ Lynne replied, putting a hand on his, and cueing an exchange of looks between Alice, Millie and Constance.

  ‘Trouble was, that’s about all he ever did say,’ Constance concluded. ‘He was the most frightful old bore. And totally bald, which made it even worse.’

  ‘Rory tells me the word is out for Fandangle, another west country horse, in our race,’ Grenville said. ‘Won easily a couple of weeks back at Devon and Exeter from
a big field of novices, including two Lambourn hotshots.’

  ‘You’ve seen Rory already, have you?’ Alice asked.

  ‘We have indeed,’ Grenville replied. ‘He said the little horse is very well and travelled up fine. But I’m afraid he will be favourite.’

  ‘He’s favourite in about eighty per cent of the papers,’ Millie said, having consulted the tipster’s table in the Sporting Life. ‘I must say I always hated it when Jack was favourite. Seems you’re there to be shot at, instead of just another runner.’

  ‘That’s racing.’ Grenville sighed. ‘Time to go and look at our runner, I’d say.’

  The Enchanted started at an even shorter price than forecast, finally going to post at six to four on, four pounds on to win six, in spite of the fact that this was only his second race in Britain and he came from a small and what was largely regarded as an unsuccessful west country yard, was trained by a novice assistant trainer and was ridden by a conditional jockey who was having only his second ride in England. Yet throughout the race there was never really a moment’s doubt in anyone’s mind that the horse was going to win. This time, with no front-running Pope horses entered, Blaze jumped his mount off in front and let him lead the rest of the field the merriest of dances. Three fences out he was an easy twelve lengths clear of the chasing bunch, who were all quite obviously beaten horses, and the race was his bar a fall.

  ‘I’ve warned Blaze about the last two fences here,’ Rory said, as he watched his horse cantering into the straight, with Alice once more hiding herself behind his back. ‘They’ve just rebuilt them and they’re very stiff. Dad had a horse here at the opening meeting who took one heck of a fall at the last.’

  ‘Thanks for sharing that with us now,’ Grenville said, his large race glasses trained firmly on The Enchanted. ‘He’s coming to the last now.’

  They all held their breath, particularly as having nothing to race against the horse was seemingly beginning to idle, but closer inspection revealed Blaze sitting as still as a fox watching chickens, his eyes only on the last fence, his hands still full of horse. The nearer they got to the fence the more he felt his mount regain his rhythm, putting down foot perfect and still on the bridle with ears pricked, not touching a twig of the formidable black wall of birch, and landing still full of running. This time, having taken a quick look after clearing the last at the distance between them and the rest of the field, Blaze eased his horse back and they passed the post at almost a walk.

  ‘He’s only done it again,’ an incredulous Grenville said, as the cheering that greeted the little horse’s victory began to abate. ‘And if anything, even more easily.’

  ‘Blooming heck,’ Lynne said, grasping Constance by the arm. ‘Two in a blooming row.’

  ‘What else can you expect?’ Constance replied. ‘With such distinguished owners?’

  ‘He didn’t really win again, did he?’ A white-faced Alice had finally emerged from behind her human shield. ‘This is getting ridiculous.’

  ‘This is getting unreal,’ a none the less delighted Rory said. ‘Seriously. Come on – let’s get down and lead him in.’

  ‘Thanks, boss,’ Blaze said, when he’d been congratulated by his trainer, full of smiles and positioning himself for the team photograph. ‘And didn’t I say he’d stay? He could have gone round again. And again.’

  ‘Very well done, if I may say so,’ a tall and distinguished-looking American said to all the partnership met to greet their returning hero. ‘If I may intrude on your celebrations, I just wanted to say I thought your horse ran a simply marvellous race. If you ever feel like selling him …’

  He had a smile on his face which was reflected in his large blue eyes as he teased them, standing hatless with his hands clasped behind his back and his silver hair blown by the stiffening wind.

  ‘How very kind,’ Constance replied at her grandest. ‘But I doubt that you could afford him.’

  ‘I doubt that too, ma’am,’ the American replied. ‘Though I sure would like to own him.’

  ‘The only way you’d be able to do that,’ Constance told him, ‘would be to marry one of the owners. Or perhaps all three of us.’ She turned to her fellow partners and opened her eyes very wide.

  ‘Mr Lovell,’ Rory said, entering the conversation rather hastily, having dispatched Blaze to weigh in. ‘If I may – can I introduce you to everyone? Everyone, this is Mr Lovell who owns Fly The Flag.’

  ‘I thought your horse ran a very decent sort of race,’ Grenville said, after they had all been introduced. ‘Ran on to be second, I believe.’

  ‘He certainly did, Mr Fielding,’ Harrington Lovell replied. ‘He ran a very good race and he came home sound, which is what I always pray for. But he couldn’t hold a candle to your fellow. Not a lot of him, I dare say, but what there is is all heart and class. So my congratulations – and who knows? We may cross swords again some time. I very much hope so. Ladies.’

  And with a small half-bow and another smile he took his leave.

  ‘What a very nice man,’ Constance observed. ‘I think I shall go and marry him.’

  ‘Not a chance, Connie,’ Lynne said. ‘You’re far too young for him.’

  ‘Lovely old world manners,’ Alice remarked, looking after the departing American. ‘I do like that.’

  ‘My turn to buy the champagne, I say,’ Rory said, handing Grenville some money. ‘Even if it isn’t I’m buying – I’ll meet you in the bar after I’ve made sure Kathleen hasn’t forgotten about his dope test.’

  ‘Kathleen said it took him twenty minutes to do a wee at Wincanton,’ Lynne informed the rest of the party as they made their way to the bar.

  ‘I trust you’re talking about our horse and not our trainer,’ Constance remarked.

  Harrington Lovell was at the bar when Grenville went to buy the champagne. ‘Why don’t you let me do that, Mr Fielding?’ he suggested. ‘I had a good wager on your horse so I feel the need to celebrate as well.’

  ‘I have an even better idea, Mr Lovell,’ Grenville replied. ‘Why don’t you come and join us? I gather from the young lady at the bar here that the winner’s champagne is on the house, which might make the offer even more attractive.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Fielding. I would certainly appreciate the company.’

  ‘I gather you make it a habit to come over here to see your horses run,’ Grenville said as they sat down at their table.

  ‘Whenever it’s possible I do,’ Harrington agreed. ‘As a matter of fact I would live in this country if I could, I love it so much.’

  ‘And your family?’ Grenville wondered. ‘Are they Anglophiles as well?’

  ‘Sadly my wife died some six years ago and my family have all long flown the nest. Only thing keeps me home are my dogs.’

  ‘You like dogs?’ Alice chimed in. ‘How many dogs do you have?’

  ‘Far too many, ma’am.’

  ‘Alice, please.’

  ‘Far too many, Alice. Two Lhasa apsos, that were my wife’s originally, a French bulldog, a Standard poodle and two mongrels, both rescue jobs and consequently my friends for life.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re a little like me then, Mr Lovell,’ Constance said, lighting a cheroot. ‘The more I see of dogs the more I wish I was one.’

  ‘You want to be careful there, Connie,’ Lynne whispered. ‘That sort of remark could be whatever. You know. Mis-whatever.’

  ‘Misconstrued?’ Millie said helpfully.

  ‘If you say so,’ Lynne agreed cheerfully. ‘I doubt I could even spell it.’

  ‘And I agree with you, Constance,’ Millie added. ‘When I see how spoilt my dogs are, I think you’re exactly right.’

  ‘Your very good health, everyone,’ Lovell said, raising his glass of champagne. ‘And health to your quite magic little horse, too.’

  Blaze found Kathleen coming out of the dope box with her horse. They said nothing to each other about the race, because they did not have to. All they did was exchange smiles, smiles
perhaps a little longer than those they would normally give each other, and share a big, long, strong hug, which Rory happened to see on his way to find his horse. Unaware of him, Blaze then wandered off to watch the next race, and Kathleen went to prepare her charge for his return journey while Rory hung back, then turned and wandered back to the bar.

  ‘What is it they say?’ Grenville mused, offering Rory a refill from a fresh bottle of champagne.

  ‘Not for me, Grenville,’ Rory said, putting a hand over his glass. ‘I have to drive.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ Grenville replied, topping up the glasses of all those in the rest of the party who weren’t going to get behind a wheel. ‘Now what is it they say? Keep yourself in the best company and your horses in the worst, yes? Or is it the other way round? No – no, I think that’s the right way round, and if so, and à propos of the fact that I don’t know your exact thinking—’

  ‘I don’t know my exact thinking either – in fact I’m usually the last person to know what I’m thinking,’ Rory agreed. ‘But it might help if I had the slightest idea what you were on about, Grenville.’

  ‘Plans,’ Grenville replied, taking off his spectacles and carefully cleaning them on a spotless white handkerchief. ‘Plans for the little horse.’

  ‘I think they say, what is it? Keep horses in the worst company and yourself in the best, isn’t it? Not that I think he should run against the rubbish because that’s not going to get us anywhere.’

  ‘But if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, Rory—’

  ‘Sorry – one thing at a time, Grenville. What I was going to say was it might be a bright idea to keep away from the grade-one tracks and the more – how shall I put it? – the more spotlit races. Keep a low profile, in other words.’

  ‘Then you are thinking what I’m thinking.’

  ‘Just keep a low profile,’ Rory repeated. ‘Until we know exactly what sort of horse we actually have.’

  ‘Gotcha.’

  ‘And I think we should certainly run him over three miles next time. Blaze said he wasn’t in any way cooked, and finished full of running.’