THE
ENCHANTED
Charlotte Bingham
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781409057369
www.randomhouse.co.uk
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
A Random House Group Company
www.rbooks.co.uk
First published in Great Britain
in 2008 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Charlotte Bingham 2008
Charlotte Bingham has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9780593055946
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009
For perhaps the only actor, playwright,
singer and painter ever to train
a winner under Rules.
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Also by Charlotte Bingham
Ireland In The Late 1970s
Prologue
Chapter One
England In The Early 1980s
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Also by the Author
CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS
LUCINDA
CORONET AMONG THE GRASS
THE BUSINESS
IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW
STARDUST
NANNY
CHANGE OF HEART
GRAND AFFAIR
LOVE SONG
THE KISSING GARDEN
THE BLUE NOTE
SUMMERTIME
DISTANT MUSIC
THE MAGIC HOUR
FRIDAY'S GIRL
OUT OF THE BLUE
IN DISTANT FIELDS
THE WHITE MARRIAGE
GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART
THE ENCHANTED
THE LAND OF SUMMER
THE DAISY CLUB
The Belgravia series
BELGRAVIA
COUNTRY LIFE
AT HOME
BY INVITATION
The Nightingale series
TO HEAR A NIGHTINGALE
THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS
The Debutantes series
DEBUTANTES
THE SEASON
The Eden series
DAUGHTERS OF EDEN
THE HOUSE OF FLOWERS
The Bexham trilogy
THE CHESTNUT TREE
THE WIND OFF THE SEA
THE MOON AT MIDNIGHT
Novels with Terence Brady
VICTORIA
VICTORIA AND COMPANY
ROSE'S STORY
YES HONESTLY
Television Drama Series with Terence Brady
TAKE THREE GIRLS
UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS
THOMAS AND SARAH
NANNY
FOREVER GREEN
Television Comedy Series with Terence Brady
NO HONESTLY
YES HONESTLY
PIG IN THE MIDDLE
OH MADELINE! (USA)
FATHER MATTHEW'S DAUGHTER
Television Plays with Terence Brady
MAKING THE PLAY
SUCH A SMALL WORLD
ONE OF THE FAMILY
Films with Terence Brady
LOVE WITH A PERFECT STRANGER
MAGIC MOMENT
Stage Plays with Terence Brady
I WISH I WISH
THE SHELL SEEKERS
(adaptation from the novel by Rosamunde Pilcher)
BELOW STAIRS
For more information on Charlotte Bingham and her books,
see her website at www.charlottebingham.com
IRELAND IN THE LATE 1970s
Prologue
They come upon her one blustery spring morning with an April tide running up the white sand shore. She is just standing there, looking out to sea, still as a statue in a square. She could indeed have been a monument for all they know as they slide carefully down the end of the cliff path to get a closer look at her. There are three of them, father, son and daughter, the children full grown into late teenage, the wind from the sea blowing their long dark hair back from their heads as quietly they approach her, afraid of scaring her, wondering when she will sense them and if when she does she will make a sudden dash for continued freedom.
Yet even as they approach she stands quite still. She must hear them, know they are there, but not a move does she make. She just stands there still, looking far out to the sea. And now they are near they see she is pregnant and greatly so. At first glance it would seem she is about to give birth there and then, which might explain her stillness, so they take even more care lest they should frighten her into delivery. She is astonishingly lovely. Wild certainly, so it would seem, for what else could explain her presence here on this lonely stretch with no one in sight of her and no visible means of reaching the beach unless from round the corner of the cliffs through the seas? Yet she is more beautiful than any wild one they have ever seen before. In fact she looks every inch an aristocrat with her fine head, her perfect limbs and her noble bearing.
They are only a matter of feet away from her now, and at last she turns and looks at them and when she does they can see the past in her large wise eyes. From dark brown orbs there shines a sense of times before, times that seem to stretch back to when everyone was wild and untamed and the gods ruled the land from strange and wondrous kingdoms. They put out hands, not to catch or touch but to make peace, and it seems she has no fear of them for she just keeps looking at them, her eyes unmoving from theirs. The father watches, then says he thinks she wants to be taken and sure enough, when the girl with the long dark hair stretches closer to her, with a last look at the sea she turns herself round and begins to walk towards them.
Yet they know better than to touch her, so they wait to see if they can discover
what she wants. The girl turns away as if to walk back down the beach and when she does so she finds she is being followed. They all walk away now with nothing said, no questions asked and no promises made. The wind off the sea is dying down and the tide has turned and is running out fast so that by the time they reach the head they may walk round it safely without need to climb any path. Soon they are approaching home with her walking easily behind them, her stomach swaying with every pace as if her advanced pregnancy is no burden to her whatsoever.
But what none of them saw, as far as is known, was the man on the beach now far below them, a young man with long wet blond hair and eyes the colour of sea coral. He stands where she had stood and quite as still as she had been, looking after her to where she has gone yet making no move to follow her. He stands in the very edge of the sea, as darkness falls and an April moon rises to shine on waters that stretch into the blue of the night, until there is nothing more to see or hear and finally then he moves, turning and walking back into the sea, away from the life of the land.
Chapter One
New Life
She lay in the deep, dry straw prepared for her delivery. Someone knelt by her head, gently pulling one of her ears; the other one stood by her tail, watching, waiting, smoking his pipe as he did so, well used to such times. Nothing was said. There was silence, broken only by her breathing, which had become deeper, more powerful and urgent, as the foal moved inside her, ready now to be born.
‘I’d say we’re under orders.’
‘You’ll be fine. I’m here. You’ll be just fine,’ the girl murmured.
The mare’s head tilted back once as birth began in earnest, nostrils widening, eyes half closing. She gave a groan that caused her to shudder massively, while her flanks heaved with the effort.
‘’Tis all right, girl,’ the man said, bending lower, his pipe still stuck in the corner of his mouth. ‘Come on now – you’ll be all right.’
‘She’s not comfortable, Da.’
‘I’d say she is not as young as we would like her; ’tis more of an effort, so.’
‘Whatever her age, she has the look of the eagle, and the mark of the prophet’s thumb in her neck.’
‘Whose horse is she, I wonder? A fine mare like this has to belong,’ Padraig said, shaking his head.
‘She’s come out of the sea, so she has. She’s a horse of Mananan. She’s come from the kingdom under the seas.’
‘Whether she has or hasn’t, she has to belong to someone,’ Padraig repeated. ‘A thoroughbred mare like this is not a tinker’s donkey. She probably escaped from one of the farms beyond and got herself cut off be the tide.’
‘But don’t I know every one of the horses in these parts? She has to have come from much further abroad.’
Kathleen interrupted him. ‘This is not going to be easy, Da. Look, the poor mare is never going to do it on her own.’
‘There’s never any need for the vet, Kathleen. You know that.’
Kathleen shook her head. They were poor, it was true, but not so poor that she could bear to let the mare die, when it was evident the foal was stuck.
‘I’ll go call Mr Sweeney, Da. He’s only ten minutes away. I’ll pay for him myself, so I will.’
‘If he’s home. And if he’s sober, which I doubt, and never mind the payment; didn’t he take a mountain of hay from me last year and divil a penny from him.’
‘I’ll go call him anyway.’
For once the vet was at home. He muttered thickly that he’d be there as soon as he could, and when Kathleen returned to the stable she found things were no better, and said so.
‘And no worse, either, girl,’ Padraig protested, as he struggled to find the foal. ‘The foal’s just not presenting itself – not the right way. I’m trying to turn it now.’
The mare seemed to be giving up the struggle. Kathleen could see it in her eye and in the damp dark sweat that had broken out over her skin. She arched her neck, trying to look round at her flanks, but overtaken by another contraction she threw her great head back into the straw and kicked out in a sudden spasm.
‘Careful, Kathleen. You don’t want to have her catch you. Where’s Mr Sweeney got to anyhow?’ her father grumbled. ‘I’m doing me best here, but it seems a fore leg is stuck. And for the life of me …’
Padraig had both hands in the mare now, but all he could get hold of were the unborn foal’s hindquarters. If they couldn’t turn the foal they knew they were lost.
The vet arrived a quarter of an hour on in slippered feet, the bottoms of his flannel pyjamas showing under the legs of his trousers and the end of a Sweet Afton stuck to his top teeth. He lurched over to Padraig and all but fell to the floor as he bent down to start his examination.
‘We need more light here,’ he said.
‘More light?’ Padraig growled. ‘The mare’s throwing a foal, not a moth, man.’
‘More light and some whisky,’ Sweeney repeated. ‘We’re on for a long haul. And some rope, child!’ He called to Kathleen as she rose to go. ‘We’ll have to pull this fella out.’
Padraig saw it was wrong. He knew the rope was on wrong. He couldn’t really see how Sweeney had it attached but he just knew the drunken oaf had it wrong.
‘Get away, man,’ he said angrily, pushing the vet aside.
‘No, Da, let me. I’ve the smaller hands and arms – let me do that.’
‘Where is it now, Kathleen?’ Padraig asked her as she took his place, and Sweeney collapsed against the wall of the stable, drinking whisky from a half-bottle clothed in brown paper.
‘It seems to be round the neck,’ Kathleen muttered, feeling the warmth of the foal, feeling it was still alive, still moving.
‘God help us all,’ Padraig sighed. ‘Take it off there, Kathleen – if you can – and you take yourself home, Sweeney. Sure you’re a disgrace to your profession.’
But the vet wasn’t going anywhere until the bottle was done. He just eyed his neighbour and drank some more while Kathleen slowly unwound the lethal noose and as her father instructed tied it firmly round the foal’s chest.
‘If we can ease him round now, child,’ Padraig told her. ‘If you can turn him now at all – then we can help him out.’
Kathleen prayed as she started to turn the unborn foal. The mare opened her eyes and turned slowly to look, sensing help, even perhaps sensing salvation.
‘I think I have it done, Pa,’ Kathleen said, the sweat running down into her eyes. ‘The head’s presenting itself now.’
‘Good girl yourself,’ Padraig told her. ‘Now all we must do is gently ease him out – gently so – and pray to God the mare gives us a bit of help.’
Padraig took hold of the rope while Kathleen tried to guide the path of the foal. She could see the head now through the sac, bent down to the animal’s chest, and as she saw it beginning to be born the mother took the very deepest breath Kathleen thought she had ever heard an animal take, and groaned mightily. As she did so, her foal was eased out into the world by loving hands, until it lay by its mother, still wrapped in its caul.
‘Is it alive, Da? Please God let it be alive.’
‘It’s alive all right, Kathleen girl,’ her father replied, taking a large handful of clean fresh straw and beginning to clean the newborn. ‘By some wondrous great miracle ’tis well alive – and there you are, ’tis a colt, too. A fine chestnut.’
Kathleen gazed at the foal, all leg and little else, soaking wet and covered in its birth, the faintest signs of breath barely discernible.
‘You sure he’s all right, Pa? You sure he’s alive?’
‘He’s alive, Kathleen – don’t fret. How’s the mare now? Is the mare all right?’
Kathleen went to her head, kneeling down to stroke her head, her ears. ‘She’s exhausted, Da. She’s barely breathing …’
‘But she is breathing, girl?’
Kathleen bent closer to watch and list
en. She counted the breaths and the intervals between them.
‘About ten seconds apart. They’re deep – and getting deeper. But she’s breathing real slow.’
‘And wouldn’t you, after what she’s been through?’ Padraig finished cleaning the foal and stood up. ‘The mare’ll need stitches, Sweeney, though she’s not too bad considering. Get up, man,’ he said, for the vet was now sitting in the straw. ‘Get up and finish the job we have just done for you. For all our sakes, get on with the stitching.’
He went to the corner of the stable and retrieved the vet’s bag, while Sweeney shook his head as if trying to get some sense into it. Kathleen stood watching mare and foal.
‘How we got him out, girl.’ Padraig sighed, shook his head and turned his pipe back the right way round to try to relight it.
‘It was a miracle,’ Kathleen said quietly. ‘We must thank St Francis.’
‘Isn’t he the man?’ her father replied. ‘Isn’t he just the man?’
As Sweeney set about his work, another miracle happened, a miracle that they both watched, struck silent as always by the marvel, as a creature not yet twenty minutes old somehow and against all odds struggled up from its bed – half up one moment, down the next, on three legs a second later, then down on its knees again – standing all at once and sensationally up on all four and staying up, balancing on a quartet of long, slender limbs that looked as though if someone suddenly opened the door the draught would snap them.
‘Would you ever?’ Kathleen laughed. ‘Will you look at that?’
‘He’s not over large, even for his age.’
‘He’s beautiful,’ Kathleen said defensively, moving a step closer and holding out her hand for the foal to sniff. ‘He’s enchanting.’
‘Show me a foal that’s not beautiful.’
They went outside to take the air, and stare at the stars, to catch their breath, and ever afterwards Kathleen would wake in the night and blame herself for that, for in that time Sweeney, the drunken son of a drunken father, did his worst, and they lost the mare. But for a few minutes – oh, dear God, but for a few minutes – they could surely have saved her.