The Enchanted Page 29

  ‘Can anyone else join in this?’ Alice wondered. ‘Or is it boys only?’

  ‘Of course, Alice.’ Rory moved his chair slightly away from Grenville’s and turned to Alice. ‘All we’re doing – we were only discussing the next race.’

  ‘Yes.’ Alice nodded. ‘Well, I know we’re not exactly au fait with all that stuff, the distaff side as it were,’ she added, indicating Lynne, Constance and herself. ‘But we do have something to say, and the point is that if you two are hatching some sort of plot to enter our horse in the Grand National you can forget it—’

  ‘Alice—’

  ‘Seriously, Rory.’ Alice overrode him. ‘Because that’s what we’ve been discussing, the three of us, and Millie, while you two have been talking. And the Grand National is over our dead bodies.’

  ‘Mine too. I couldn’t agree more,’ Rory assured her. ‘Not that it would be on even if we thought it was a good idea, because the horse is still a novice, and the National is no place for novices. Even so—’

  ‘Even when he’s not a novice,’ Alice insisted. ‘None of us want him ever to run in the National.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Grenville said. ‘Too many good horses get injured in the National, and usually through no fault of their own. So you mustn’t worry, Alice, because that was not what we were discussing at all, I do assure you. We have our eyes on something quite different.’

  ‘Grenville here has his eyes on something quite different,’ Rory said with a frown. ‘I prefer to look not quite so far ahead. I’ll send you all a list of suggested entries in a day or two, but now if you’ll excuse me I have to hit the road. My father’s coming home from hospital tomorrow, and I have to make sure everything’s in place.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news, Rory,’ Millie said. ‘When did he turn the corner?’

  ‘After Wincanton, would you believe?’ Rory said. ‘After the horse’s first race.’

  Since they had come such a distance to see the race, now their horse had won again none of the owners was in any great rush to get home, so they all decided to stay and enjoy the rest of the excellent racecard. The feature race was a three-mile handicap chase, the betting for which was dominated by Insider Trading, a big grey horse from Eddie Rampton’s yard ridden by Sandy Bridger, his retained jockey, a man with a reputation as formidable as the trainer’s.

  ‘Think I should have a flutter?’ Lynne asked Grenville as they stood at the paddock rails watching the sharp-faced jockey receiving his instructions from the pug-nosed, broad-shouldered Eddie Rampton. ‘It’s not much of a price.’

  ‘I think that’s because it’s considered one of those nailed-on certainties, my dear,’ Grenville replied. ‘If I were you I’d go for something a little longer priced, some little each way chance.’

  ‘Who’s that dreadful-looking villainous type in the Al Capone hat?’ Constance wondered, pointing at Rampton who was now turning round to face their group. ‘He looks as though he should be carrying a gat.’

  ‘Careful,’ Grenville warned her, dropping his own voice as he thought he caught a glare from the trainer while quickly lowering Constance’s accusing finger. ‘And I’m sure Nanny told you how rude it is to point.’

  Having both decided to back Whistlestop, one of the rank outsiders, Lynne and Alice hurried off to the Tote with Millie while Constance and Grenville made their way to their appointed spot in the grandstand. By the time the others finally found them, the race had started.

  ‘Did you get my bet on, Millie dear?’ Constance enquired.

  ‘Certainly did, Constance,’ Millie said, handing Constance a Tote ticket. ‘Two pounds each way number seven.’

  ‘You’ve had a bet, Constance?’ Grenville asked in surprise. ‘You the great anti-gambler? You who said no one ever put enough on a winning horse?’

  ‘Just a smokescreen, young man,’ Constance replied, putting her ticket in her bag. ‘I have a whole multitude of hidden vices.’

  ‘Number seven,’ Grenville said, looking at his racecard. ‘Piper Aboard. No chance.’

  With two miles of the three completed, Insider Trading was lying second and going easily, his jockey already looking around for any sign of danger.

  ‘The way he’s going, five to four looks generous,’ Grenville remarked, as the favourite ranged up alongside the now struggling leading horse.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Lynne said. ‘I could still have made a packet. And where’s blooming Whistletop, girls? I thought we were going to get rich.’

  ‘In your case richer, dear,’ Constance said. Then, startling them all, she suddenly called at the top of her voice, ‘That’s the one. Come on, Piper Aboard! Stuff that great big grey carthorse!’

  Most people in the immediate vicinity smiled or laughed, all except naturally the horse’s bullnecked trainer, who was standing right in front of Constance, who having heard Constance’s exhortation turned round to stare at her with a considerable degree of menace.

  ‘Pipe down, you silly old woman,’ he commanded.

  ‘I most certainly will do no such thing,’ Constance replied. ‘Not even if you say please.’

  For a moment those witnessing this brief but pointed exchange believed that Eddie Rampton was about to add to his notoriety by hitting a woman in public, so dark had become his countenance, but the call of the racecourse commentator drew his attention back to the race, much to the relief of those in Constance’s party.

  ‘And coming to the second last it’s now Piper Aboard who’s laying down the challenge to Insider Trading, on whom Sandy Bridger is now hard at work …’ the commentator called.

  ‘He’s hitting that poor horse far too much,’ Alice remarked, an observation which earned another look of consummate fury from the animal’s trainer. ‘That is just awful.’

  ‘And Piper Aboard and the favourite Insider Trading rise at the fence together! And land together – neck and neck!’ the commentator continued. ‘And if anything Piper Aboard has got away from the fence the better!’

  ‘Come on my horse!’ Constance yelled. ‘Come on my lovely little horse!’

  ‘Somebody should shoot that jockey!’ Alice insisted. ‘Surely he’s not allowed to hit his horse like that?’

  ‘He’ll be up before the stewards don’t you worry,’ Grenville whispered to Alice, not wanting to incur another fit of rage from the man in front of them.

  ‘My horse has done it! He’s only gone and done it!’ Constance cried whacking Grenville on his hat with her rolled-up racecard. ‘The carthorse is estuffadoed!’

  Everybody nearby held their breath waiting for the inevitable eruption. But it seemed that the notoriously short-fused trainer was far too taken aback both by the performance of his hot favourite and the behaviour of some mad punter behind him to do anything other than give Constance yet another drop-dead look.

  ‘And as they approach the last it seems Piper Aboard has got the favourite’s measure!’ the commentator called. ‘He’s drawn a length clear now and at the run to the fence he definitely has the measure of Insider Trading, who in fact might even be beaten into third place by Whistlestop!’

  ‘Whistletop!’ Lynne shrieked. ‘Come on, my son! Come on Whistletop you beauty!’

  ‘And as they land over the last it’s Piper Aboard clear by three lengths from the fast tiring Insider Trading – with Whistlestop closing on the favourite now – and passing him easily – it’s Piper Aboard increasing his lead to four to five lengths now, with Whistlestop running on in second, two lengths ahead of Insider Trading who’s in danger of being caught on the post by Catzoff – and Catzoff just catches the favourite on the line to snatch third place!’

  ‘We won – we won!’ Constance carolled, waving two triumphant arms in the air. ‘My little horse won!’

  ‘Will you shut up about your wretched little horse woman!’ Eddie Rampton finally warned her, turning to face her. ‘Some of us do this for our living!’

  ‘I do hate bad losers,’ Constance groaned. ‘It’s only
a race, chum – it’s only a silly old horse race.’

  ‘Get me out of here,’ Eddie Rampton rumbled. ‘Before a terrible tragedy occurs.’

  ‘Oh pooh!’ Constance sighed after the thickset retreating figure. ‘What a dreadfully rotten sport.’

  ‘Yes indeed Constance,’ Grenville agreed, taking her arm to lead her off in the opposite direction. ‘But he is absolutely not someone to cross swords with.’

  After the three women had collected their winnings from the Tote they walked past the unsaddling enclosure where to judge from the sound of raised voices it seemed that Eddie Rampton had not yet regained his composure. Grenville tried to chivvy his party through and past the confrontation but Constance was having none of it.

  ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport Grenville,’ she said, detaching herself from his arm, ‘I want to hear what Al Capone is sounding off about now.’

  Rampton was addressing the small company of racing journalists who had gathered around him to learn his thoughts on the race.

  ‘It is a perfectly disgraceful situation,’ he announced loudly. ‘Certain trainers run their horses in handicaps not on their merits. We all know this for a fact – that they do it to get the weights down when their horses are fly weighted then what a surprise! They trot up in handicaps such as this. And no one says a bloody thing. No one.’

  ‘Except for you, Eddie,’ one of the braver scribes suggested.

  ‘The horse that won today hasn’t even been placed for eighteen months, he’s getting a stone and a half from my horse and you saw the result!’

  ‘Isn’t that what handicaps are for, Mr Rampton?’ another journalist wondered. ‘To give horses such as Piper Aboard a chance to compete favourably with higher-rated horses?’

  ‘When horses are run on their merit it’s a level playing field.’ Rampton replied in no uncertain tones. ‘When they are not, it’s a bloody travesty.’

  A heavyweight man with what looked like visibly high blood pressure pushed his way through the throng.

  ‘I hope you are not suggesting I’ve not been running my horses on merit!’ he asked in a west country accent. ‘One of the reasons my horse hasn’t won for eighteen months is because he was swallowing his tongue.’

  ‘Too right he was, Peters,’ Rampton growled. ‘More’s the pity you don’t follow suit.’

  ‘We tied his tongue down today, you oaf,’ the other trainer replied. ‘Hence the improvement.’

  ‘And you never thought of doing that before? Don’t take it, pal. You’re not doing yourself any favours here. Now bugger off before I make your nose bleed.’

  With that Rampton pushed his blackcurrant-complexioned rival out of the way and stormed out of the enclosure, passing right by Constance and her group. ‘And as for you,’ he said, stopping briefly to eye Constance. ‘Don’t you ever be fool enough to stand anywhere near me on a racecourse ever again!’

  ‘Not unless you have full police protection,’ Millie murmured as they made their way back to the bar. ‘What a sweetie.’

  On their way to the bar, they passed a short, thin-faced man with sleek oiled-down hair and darting eyes, dressed in a double-breasted pinstripe suit, standing gossiping with a small crowd from the county set just past the unsaddling enclosure. Suddenly noticing Constance, he stopped and stared at her, then looked sharply at her again.

  ‘Sylvia?’ he said, breaking away from his associates and pursuing her.

  Constance, who had been idling along at the back of her group with Grenville, grabbed Grenville by one arm and began to hurry him forward.

  ‘Quickly, Grenville,’ she urged. ‘You’re being the most awful Mr Slowcoach.’

  ‘Sylvia Topsham?’ her pursuer repeated, now almost alongside Constance. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘It most certainly is not,’ Constance replied haughtily, hurrying on even more quickly. ‘Now go away at once. I have no idea who you are.’

  ‘You mightn’t know me, Sylvia,’ the man insisted, following on, ‘but I think I know you all right. You’re Sylvia Topsham, aren’t you?’

  ‘Grenville,’ Constance muttered, dropping Grenville’s arm and preparing to flee forward. ‘Get rid of him. Lose him. See him off. I mean it.’

  ‘Look here,’ Grenville said, placing himself between the rapidly departing Constance and her pursuer, ‘I’ll be most obliged if you will stop pestering my mother.’

  ‘Your mother?’ the man said with a frown, stopping in his tracks.

  ‘My mother, precisely,’ Grenville assured him. ‘My mother, Lady Frimley, who for some reason you mistakenly believe is someone else, apparently.’

  ‘Lady Frimley, did you say?’ the man repeated, raising his eyebrows. ‘Your mother. Apologies. OK – sorry, but I could have sworn—’ He stopped, looking in the direction in which Constance had now disappeared from view. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and left.

  Grenville waited and watched to make sure he did not double back in pursuit of the obviously distressed Constance before going after her himself to make sure she was all right, but although he looked everywhere he could find no trace of her. None of the others appeared to know where she had gone to either, although Millie thought she had seen her hurrying away, hand on hat, towards the owners’ car park. Grenville went there at once, happily to find Constance all but hidden behind his car.

  ‘Constance?’ he called in bewilderment. ‘Constance …’

  Instead of replying or greeting him, Constance simply put a finger to her lips and remained where she was, stooped low beside the passenger door of Grenville’s Jaguar.

  ‘What on earth is the matter?’ Grenville enquired, begging the question.

  ‘Please open the car,’ Constance hissed at him. ‘And then please take me home? Please?’

  Too much a gentleman to refuse, Grenville opened up his car, went to find Lynne, explained the situation to her, and returned with her to the car park.

  ‘Right,’ Grenville said, starting the car. ‘London first, everyone.’

  ‘I don’t care where you take me,’ Constance muttered from the back, sitting down in her seat with her face turned well away from the window.

  ‘I thought you wanted to go home?’

  ‘And I said I don’t care where you take me,’ Constance repeated. ‘As long as it’s away from here.’

  Grenville frowned at Lynne beside him as he backed out of his parking space. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll be awfully late home.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Lynne said quietly. ‘I can stay in London tonight and take the train home tomorrow. Long as that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ Grenville said quickly. ‘I should have suggested it. Sorry.’

  ‘You really must stop apologising for yourself all the time, Grenville,’ Lynne teased him, putting a hand discreetly on his knee. ‘You really have nothing to apologise for. Nothing at all.’

  On the road now and headed south, Grenville glanced in his driving mirror to see Constance slumped down even further in her seat, a handkerchief held to face.

  ‘There’s something the matter,’ Grenville said sotto to Lynne. ‘Perhaps if we stopped and put you in the back …?’

  As soon as he could safely do so, Grenville pulled the car off the road and Lynne slipped into the rear seat.

  ‘It’s OK, Connie.’ Lynne took one of her hands, leaving Constance to dab at the tears on her face with the other. ‘Listen, if you want to talk, I’m here.’ Constance just shook her head. ‘Look – something’s upset you, and that’s terrible. I mean, on a day like this. Of all the days to be upset …’ Still Constance tried to tough it out, shaking her head again and clasping her handkerchief even more tightly to her mouth. ‘Did someone say something to upset you, darling? Or what? Why don’t you tell us? It’ll be much better if you talk about it. Honestly.’

  ‘It was something that happened long ago,’ Constance whispered, glancing red-eyed at Lynne over her hankie. ‘And if I told you, you’d only hate me.’


  ‘I couldn’t hate you, Connie,’ Lynne assured her. ‘Don’t be daft. I love you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. Not if you knew. Not if I told you.’

  ‘Was it anything to do with that man at the racecourse, Constance?’ Grenville asked from the driving seat. ‘The chap who thought he recognised you? As a matter of fact I thought I recognised him from somewhere.’

  Connie nodded and carefully wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.

  ‘He’s that gossip columnist johnny,’ she said. ‘And he did recognise me.’

  ‘Sylvia – what was it?’ Grenville frowned at her image in his driving mirror. ‘Sylvia …’

  ‘Topsham,’ Constance replied. ‘My married name. I was born Sylvia Barton, which was my professional name as well.’

  ‘Professional?’ Lynne asked. ‘Professional as in what, love?’

  ‘I was an actress,’ Constance replied. ‘Before you were born, dear, so don’t worry.’

  ‘Sylvia Barton,’ Grenville said to himself. ‘You were more than just an actress, Connie. You were a bit of a film star.’

  ‘A bit is about right, Grenville, dear.’ Constance sniffed. ‘Rank School of Charm.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’ Lynne asked.

  ‘The J. Arthur Rank studios, just after the war, dear. Made all those British films, and put a lot of us girls and boys under contracts. Trained us up the way he wanted us to go. I was what was called a Rank starlet. Which is not quite what everybody called us – as you can imagine.’

  ‘You were in some rather good films, Connie,’ Grenville said.

  ‘Didn’t have much to do with making them any good, dear. I was there purely as decoration.’

  ‘Yes, but even so, Connie,’ Lynne continued, with a reassuring smile, ‘I don’t see what’s so dreadful about being a starlet. I mean that’s hardly going to make us hate you, is it?’

  ‘You are so sweet, Lynne,’ Constance said, squeezing her hand. ‘I’ve really grown terribly fond of you.’

  ‘I told you, I love you too.’