Authors: Paddy Cummins
'Something slow and romantic now, said the bandleader.
'Come on,' Jenny grabbed Ken, 'couldn't miss this,' it was
beautiful, a slow waltz.
They danced slowly, tightly, dreamily, to the hauntingly beautiful Tenor Sax solo, with the pianist and rhythm section exquisitely whispering behind. For Ken and Jenny, it was just heavenly, romantic would be
an understatement.
'And now,' said the bandleader, 'our next number is a special request for a gentleman from Ireland, his name is Ken. A little bird told us he likes 'Glen Miller.' We hope, Sir, you enjoy this one:
'Moonlight
Serenade.'
Ken was flabbergasted but delighted. Glen Miller was always his musical idol, saw the film at least six times, bought all his records, puts them on whenever he's a bit down.
As they danced to the marvellous unique sound, Ken knew the 'little bird' that gave up the request was Jenny. He would thank her later - in bed.
'The final number in this set is another special request,' said the bandleader. 'This time for a very beautiful and special lady, also
from Ireland. We understand she has been honoured here to-night. This is at the request of none other than the President himself. It's for you, Jenny ... hope you like it.'
She wondered what it might be, waited in astonishment. Then,
her all-time favourite melody, arranged in a magnificent orchestration filled the ballroom:
'Somewhere over the Rainbow.'
How did they know? Ken had something to do with it - that's
for sure. She was overcome with emotion, the sound was so beautiful, filling every fibre of her being. All she could do was hold on to Ken tightly, as they slowly, romantically hugged around the floor, soaking up the magic and beauty
of it all.
It was well after midnight when they made their way through the dimly-lit corridors to the lift and up to their bedroom. The air conditioning provided a welcome coolness as they staggered in and collapsed on the big double bed. Lying there motionless for a moment they were reflecting on
all that had taken place earlier, letting it all sink in. It was just wonderful, beyond their wildest dreams. Now it was time to crown it all with blissful love that couldn't be suppressed any longer.
They undressed, urgently, hungry for each other, ready to give and love as never before. Kissing passionately, they explored each other with a new infectious curiosity, generating powerful charges of electricity
that would demand to be released. Instinctively, their bodies fused in a magnetic coupling that made them one, banishing the sparks of friction and worry into oblivion. Now ready for the blissful trip of a lifetime, Ken checked himself, eased off slightly, moved back from the brink - concerned for Jenny's
fragility. She was surprisingly strong, wanted more of him, ravenous for him, grabbing him, arching, thrusting upwards with new energy and urgency. Locked together, moving in rhythm faster and faster, deeper and deeper, frenzied, Ken
wasn't holding back now. Hypnotised with ecstasy, he tried to make it last longer and longer, but he couldn't. Like a massive shock of electricity surging through him, he clutched her in a tight locking grip, feeling her strain
frantically beneath him, they both moaned the hysteric cry of beautiful joint release, as their energies ebbed away in a rushing tide of golden syrup.
Breathless and elated, they basked together in the joyous aftermath of contented exhaustion. The thought flashed through Ken's mind. This
surely must be what Dr Lucas meant:
"given all the right circumstances."
Could this be it? It certainly couldn't have been any better. Jenny had given her all. It was Heaven, a beautiful sensation of total
love that must surely initiate life.
Mentally, Jenny was thinking the same. Could it be, she wondered, that this day had been so special in every other way, that it might prove even more special and important for the rest of their lives. It would be
a dream come through, and to-night they were both in dreamland.
* * *
The sun was setting over a peaceful Dream Valley at the end of a sultry June day. The horses were munching contentedly, savouring their
sweet hay. It was a pleasant, reassuring sound that Garry liked to hear as he did his tour of inspection of the stables, before retiring for the night.
All ten stables were now occupied. He looked over the
half-doors of the new inmates. They were beauties, four-year-olds, good pedigrees, strong correct types - should pay their way. It was now a viable little operation, cash flow had improved, the work schedule better organised, and everything was going according to plans. Little Johnny Coady coming in for
three hours every morning was a blessing. Garry and Emily could now concentrate on the training of the horses, while Johnny did all the mucking-out, washing down, and other odd jobs around the yard. A small little fellow, single, about
sixty, living alone in a cottage nearby, Garry was delighted when he arrived in the yard offering his services. He was semi-retired, but with lots of experience, having worked on the Curragh for many years as a stable lad. Emily
was pleased too, being relieved of the heavy work, which meant her bones didn't ache as much in the evenings.
Back in the house the hot humidity was overbearing. Garry let down all the little sash windows and left the half-door open. The coffee he
usually had before bed didn't appeal to him - it was too warm. Remembering the two cans of 'Bud' in the fridge he grabbed one of them, lit a cigarette, got the 'Racing Post,' and spread himself across the sofa.
It was quiet and peaceful, so silent it almost felt eerie. Reaching over to the little radio on the dresser, he switched on the local station, eased back on the sofa to the strains of Tom Jones and
'It's not unusual.'
Every hour, on the hour, the station broadcast the national news, followed by a short bulletin of local news. Normally it didn't interest Garry, passed over him without really hearing it. The last item of local news grabbed his attention. He sat up, dropped the paper on his knees, removed the
cigarette from his lips.
'A woman, believed to be an elderly lady from South Kilkenny, was fatally injured in a traffic accident this afternoon on the Waterford/Kilkenny road. Her car was
in collision with an articulated
lorry at Clanmore, about one mile from Thomastown. She died instantly at the scene. The driver of the lorry was uninjured.'
Garry exhaled the long breath he was holding, and shook his
head. He wondered who it could be? Someone from around here. Those big trucks, they were lethal, he thought angrily. They go far too fast - you've no chance with them if something happen - and they always come out best. That poor woman
was probably driving along correctly, then smashed into oblivion. It's just not fair - something should be done about it.
He relaxed again, studying the race results in more detail: the owners, trainers, and the breeding of the winners. This was an important
exercise. If he discovered relatives of his own horses winning, he would make notes of the 'conditions' of the races, distance, ground, weight etc. It all helped in evaluating his own horses and placing them to their best advantage.
The mobile rang.
Bloody Hell! Who could this be at this
hour of the night?
It was Emily.
'What is it, Emily? Did you forget something?'
'No Garry, I just rang to tell you about Mrs Dilworth ...
did you hear it on the radio?'
He didn't answer. He couldn't. He just sat there staring into space, speechless, mesmerised.
'Garry ... hello ... are you there?'
'Yeah, yeah Emily, I am ... I'm just so shocked ... God,
this is awful ... I heard it ... I did ... never thought it would be Mrs Dilworth ... what happened?'
'Dad was coming home from Waterford, happened on it. She was driving along on her right side and all. This big truck was meeting her, coming
behind a van. The van stopped suddenly, the truck couldn't stop and jack-knifed across the road and into Mrs Dilworth. Dad said they had to cut her out ... she was in bits. He said you wouldn't even know what kind of car she was driving.
Terribly sad isn't it, Garry, and she such a lovely woman.'
'Yeah Emily ... it surely is ...it's horrible ... thanks for ringing ... I'll see you in the morning, Love ... you're very good ... bye.'
He switched off the radio, collapsed back into the sofa, still staring into space. His mind was racing, everything flashing through, confusion, disbelief, anger, frustration. That other can of 'Bud' in the fridge, he needed it now, a dozen of them. Wrenching the ring off, he halved it
in one gulp - calmed down.
Steadying his mind, he tried to recall Mrs Dilworth as he knew her. A lovely motherly woman, she took a special interest in him. It
helped to know that someone as well known and important as her was supporting you - especially starting off. You knew that if you were ever really stuck, or in any kind of trouble, she'd be the first person to turn to - she wouldn't let you down. He would never forget the things she did for him, a complete
stranger.
Now she's gone! Christ, what's the meaning of
it all?
First it was Sandra, now Mrs Dilworth - two tragedies in a couple of months. What's gone wrong? Was it him? Who's going to be next?
With his eyes swimming, his heart pounding, he entered the bedroom, lay on the bed, thinking intensely, grieving for his friend, his benefactor, his second mother. Trying to make sense of it all, he slipped into an uneasy sleep.
* * *
Garry inhaled a long breath, rang the door-bell and waited. He had parked the jeep on the road. The yard was full of cars. It was only eight-thirty in the morning. The house was probably full all night; close
friends and relatives of Mrs Dilworth who would have stayed with Bart. He must be devastated. Garry felt uneasy in case he was intruding at such a sensitive and tragic time. The door opened slowly. He didn't recognise the lady; must be Mrs Dilworth's sister.
'Morning, Mam,' he kept his voice low. 'I'm Garry Wren, a friend of Mrs Dilworth's. I heard the sad news ... I thought the mare might need looking after ... I'd like to help ... if that's alright.'
'Oh, thanks very much, Son,' she sounded exactly like Mrs
Dilworth, 'we're all in a heap here ... I think I better get Bart for you.'
'Oh, no, don't disturb him.' He was nervous about meeting the Rector - wouldn't know what to say to him.
'No, no, it's better if he has a word with you, I'll get him for you; just step in.'
In the narrow red-carpeted hallway, he could hear the rumble of voices in the sitting room where he had coffee the day the mare arrived.
The lady brought Bart out. Garry was tense and apprehensive. The Rector knew and put him at ease.
'You're so good to come over, Garry.'
Garry was amazed. There was even a smile on Bart's face, a
wan smile of resignation as he stretched out his hand. shook Garry's with a warmth that had a strange effect on him. He felt a kind of spiritual sensation, a sharing of love and affection, a sense of companionship and solidarity in the
midst of tragedy and devastation.
'Jane had great time for you, Garry, I really appreciate you coming over.'
'Oh, it's no problem at all. I'm terribly sorry about what happened.' He was now more relaxed.
'Ah, yes. Thank you so much.' Still smiling serenely, the Rector's calm dignity was completely intact.
'I'll look after the mare, if you need me to.'
Bart's eyes brightened.
'Oh, the mare ... the poor mare ... I almost forgot about her ... would you, please?'
'I certainly will ... she'll be fine.'
'Oh, that would be great ... you're very kind, Garry ... God
will reward you.' He paused thoughtfully. She'll have to be sold now, I suppose. I'd be no good with her. Anyway, we can talk about that later.'
'We can indeed,' replied Garry.
That thought crossed his mind on the way over. What would
happen to the mare now? Would she be sold? She'd be some mare to buy. Feeling guilty for such greedy speculation, he quickly banished the thought - too early. He wouldn't want to profit from the tragic death of his good friend.
'Can I leave her to you then Garry to look after for the time being?'
'Yes of course, no bother at all, but I'll have to do her over here ... all my stables are full.'
'Oh, that's fine ... thanks very much ... I'll pay you when
we get things sorted out. Isn't it great you're doing so well ... all your stables full! ... Jane would be delighted to hear that.'
'Thanks very much,' said Garry. Shaking hands again, the
Rector saw him out.
What a wonderful man, thought Garry, making his way to the stable at the rear of the Rectory. A genuine Christian, accepting this terrible 'Cross' without a word of complaint or despair. How could he be so strong and
forgiving? No criticism, no self-pity. It's probably something he is used to, from years of having to comfort families in similar situations - seen it all before - made him strong.
He was really pleased that he decided to go over after his
initial doubts - now he felt much better - being able to help when help was really needed. He saw the gratitude in that poor man's eyes. He owed that to Mrs Dilworth. She'd help him if he were in trouble. He suspected she was around somewhere in spirit, supervising it all - she was good at that.
As he leaned over the stable door, the big bay mare gave him a friendly rub of her nose, as much as to say: 'Long time, no see, boy, where's my breakfast?
* * *
Ken and Jenny were comparing their tans as they settled into their seats. Miami Airport was behind them, the big jumbo jet was cruising at thirty-five thousand feet and heading for Ireland. It had been the trip of a lifetime. They both agreed to differ on which of them had won the colouring
stakes, Ken's been darker, Jenny's more extensive. He had spent most of the time playing golf, clad in tee-shirt and shorts, giving his face, neck, arms and legs a dark brown. She spent most of her free time spread-eagled on the private
beach behind 'The Breakers' in the skimpiest of swimwear, allowing ninety-nine-point-nine per cent of her body soak up the hot sun while she just relaxed and did a bit of reading.