Authors: Paddy Cummins
It was so painful to think that for so long he foolishly refused to entertain even the remotest possibility that there might be a serious situation developing. The stupidity of him brushing aside Jenny's increasing concerns. As a doctor, he had of course recognised the existence of
a problem. He was used to situations like that every day at the Clinic. But it never crossed his mind that it was anything other than a slight gynaecological malfunction relating to Jenny - to be corrected in time, given the right
treatment.
How devastating it was when all her tests came up clear, proving beyond doubt that it was him, his sperm, his manhood, that was the failure, and likely to remain a failure for the rest of his life. It was a tragedy they
now rarely discussed - too painful and sensitive - but it was clear that it had already etched its trademark on every facet of their relationship.
He showered, shaved and dressed without really noticing what
he was doing. His mind was pre-occupied trying to analyse and reconstruct the jigsaw of his life with Jenny. His tension eased when he reflected on their joyous beginning. That special night in Toronto when fate pushed them together; love at first sight for him, a bit less intense for Jenny, but enough sweet
after-taste to force her back for more. Age difference never entered her head, or her bed, and the ten year gap that he was conscious of, and made her aware of, never figured with Jenny, as she teasingly proclaimed the magic of old
fiddles and the sweetness of old wines.
He tried to relive in his mind those great times. Their glorious encounter that first night in Canada after their chance meeting - him, a young graduate getting overseas experience - she, over from Ireland
addressing a seminar of doctors and insurance executives.
That night finished Canada for him. It was back to Dublin and Jenny from then on. And how well everything clicked into place; the new
Belmont Clinic opening in Dun Laoighaire, the beautiful old house in the country, the wedding in heavenly Glendalough, the honeymoon in the Bahamas, Jenny's promotion - it was almost to good to last.
Still, all was not lost - just unbearably insecure. They
were still together, but for how long? The future was a thick fog - he wished he good see through it.
He left for work. At least he wouldn't have much time to think about it for the rest of the day. Pain-relieving and life-saving at the
clinic had its own special rewards - he was thankful for that.
******
Garry Wren dropped the reins on the bay horse's neck and lit his third cigarette of the morning. Hacking back from the hill gallop with
Emily Troy on the chestnut, they had slowed down to negotiate the narrow rocky lane that led down to his little stable yard.
'That's three now to-day already - you'll be burned out before long if you keep smoking like that,' cautioned Emily, his miniature
stable lass - and self-appointed medical adviser.
'Yeah, I suppose you're right, but if I was like you, Emily, with nothing to bother or worry me, I probably wouldn't smoke either ... they keep me sane.'
'Oh, I know,' sighed Emily, 'I suppose so,' she knew when she was defeated.
Passing under the large ash trees that flanked the rustic, primrose-laden lane, the army of crows high above them were busy constructing
their nests. The loud raucous chatter unsettled the horses only slightly now - they were getting used to it, and soon wouldn't blink an eye. Emily was becoming ever more fascinated, as she daily monitored their progress. Cranking her neck and looking up, she wondered:
'Do they eat at all when they are building? They seem to be too busy.'
'If you keep looking up like that, Emily, you'll get a mouthful of that white slimy shit ... and you won't want to eat for a while
either.'
'Oh you rotten sod!' Grimacing, she could almost taste it.
Garry's stables were at the end of the lane. A stony plateau sloping away on three sides, and visible for miles from every corner of Dream
Valley. It was an old stone-built farmyard surrounding a single-storey thatched dwelling-house, and though ramshackle when Garry spotted it on a trip home from England, it instantly captured his imagination.
It fitted his financial limitations, and he could visualise the work of art it could become, with a little bit of time, and some tender loving care. The picturesque landscape, the clean healthy fresh air, the steep hills - vital for muscle building and real fitness - convinced him that this
was the ideal place for him to train racehorses. The little launching pad. The tiny beginning that would eventually propel him to wealth, status and stardom in the Sport of Kings.
Back in the yard, the tack was removed and Emily hurried to
get the second lot saddled up quickly. Everything was a bit rushed to-day because of Garry's trip to Kildare. Having sponged the two sweating horses with cool water, he led them out to the paddock behind the whitewashed thatched
house. They loved the pick of fresh grass and the morning sun drying them off, while he made a call on his mobile.
Mrs Dilworth, the local rector's wife, was pleased to hear that he was heading up to Punchestown to check out a mare for her. Having
spotted the advert in "The Irish Field" he felt it could be the very animal she had asked him to look out for. The man selling the mare told him on the phone, that if he wanted to see her hunting, he could only do so at
Punchestown to-day - he was leaving for America shortly. It was a chance to evaluate the mare and hopefully, she would suit his client.
It wouldn't be easy though. Where horses were concerned, Mrs Dilworth was a perfectionist. A horse would nearly have to be designed
specially for her.
'What I want now, Garry, is a five or six-year-old, big strong, good-looking mare - preferably a bay. A good safe jumper with a nice temperament, and bomb-proof in traffic, because I want to ride her myself for a
few years, and then breed from her.'
A tall order, Garry thought, but with Mrs Dilworth's healthy cheque book, and his sharp eye for a horse, it shouldn't be a problem. He was
surprised and proud to be trusted with the assignment, which, when successfully completed, would yield a bit of urgently needed cash - something he was regularly short of.
Replacing the phone to his wax jacket, he took a long
sweeping look over the picture-postcard Dream Valley, inhaling a large helping of fresh spring morning air. He felt good. Things were looking up. The eight horses he now had were coming on nicely. Soon he would be hitting the racecourse to become what he always dreamed of; a racehorse trainer.
The little place wasn't yet anything near perfect, but he was happy with the work he had done so far. The six little fields - making ten acres - stretching four furlongs downhill from the yard would soon become a
steep, uphill, all-weather gallop. The old long cow-house didn't need much to convert it to five stables, to merge nicely with the five more that leaned against its back wall. Two more horses and they would be all full. The little haggard was just the right size for the sand-ring, the old dairy - for decades
smelling of milk and butter - now reeked of leather oil from its new role as the tack room, and even the old hen house has changed its foul odour of hen-shit, to rich, sweet-smelling horse feed.
It was all a long way from the 'state of the art' facilities he was used to when he was head stable lad at Major Norton's big complex in Lambourne, or later when he was assistant trainer at the famous Jack Holden Stables in Newmarket. But Garry knew that expensive facilities weren't
everything. He had no regrets. At twenty-five, he figured he had to make the break. A secure career was fine, but lining someone else's pockets didn't appeal to him. He was certain that, with a bit of luck, to go with his
knowledge, ambition and determination, he could make it here. The dream would have to be made a reality - and it would.
******
The headquarters of Global Life (Ireland) Limited, was located in a prestigious modern office block in the heart of Blackrock, on
Dublin's south-side.
Jenny's journey didn't encounter any traffic problems. At seven-forty she was entering her reserved space in the underground car park. Walking briskly from the lift to her office on the third floor, she passed
through the swinging doors that led to the large open-plan area which her underwriting team would soon be occupying.
Crossing the dimly lit, soft carpeted expanse, cluttered with computer-laden desks, silent phones, empty swivel chairs, and the aroma of
recently applied wood polish, the unfamiliar air of solitude prompted her to stop and ponder. Here she was, all alone in this wonderful building, the Irish 'flagship' of a renowned international company, founded one hundred and fifty
years ago. An institution with five million satisfied clients around the world, and a workforce of twenty thousand dedicated people.
She felt privileged to be part of it. Her eyes filled up
when her father's role in all of this came back to her. The Chief Executive here before she was even born, he worked wonders building up the company. His big wish was for her to follow in his footsteps. Steering her through university to her Commerce Degree, recruiting her to the Underwriting
Department, and grooming her for his job whenever he would be ready to step down. It was all working so well, just as he planned it. What a tragedy for him and for all of them when a massive heart attack took him before he could see
out his master-plan, and enjoy a bit of well-deserved retirement. His premature passing ended her hopes of succeeding him. If she had to have another few years of experience, Don Lenihan would not be Chief Executive now.
Still, her father had made a huge mark, stamped his legacy,
and his record of achievement was there for all to see. How proud he was when he showed that 'we in little Ireland' could prove to the world that we could make the Irish division of Global Life the jewel in the crown, surpassing the
performance of the British, the French, and even the American divisions. It's no wonder that Sam Howard's name is still revered here, and his portrait displayed so proudly in the boardroom.
Jenny's luxurious office was in keeping with her important role, lacking nothing in modern technology, warmth or comfort. Pulling her soft leather-bound swivelled chair closer to her large mahogany desk, she began work
on the pile of Life Applications deferred from the previous day's New Business. Those were cases that involved complicated underwriting risks that only Jenny, as the head of underwriting, was authorised to adjudicate on.
It was a vitally important aspect of the business, fraught
with dangers that could cost the company dearly. If she was too cautious, declining applications for substantial 'cover' on medical grounds that other companies might consider acceptable, good business would be lost to competitors. If she
took a more liberal approach, accepting large cases of high-risk business, the possible financial consequences for the company could be extremely damaging.
She had to strike a fine balance, based on the most up to
date methods of assessment, aided by an intuitive, educated mind. Jenny took it all in her stride, never doubting her ability, and always proved well up to the task.
The files were almost completed when a cocktail of sounds
and movements signalled the arrival of the team. Sheryl Khan entered with her usual cheerful greeting.
Sheryl had been Jenny's personal secretary for almost five years - a real brick, solid as a rock. She was now thirty, with stunning large
blue eyes, soft features and pearly white teeth. Born and raised in London, she was only ten when her Indian doctor father divorced her Irish nurse mother, Kay. It was quick and amicable, and with the generous settlement, Kay returned to the place of her birth, bought a lovely cottage outside Shankill village,
and went to work in the local hospital. Sadly, her old chronic asthma flared up again, eventually causing early retirement.
That's why Cheryl chose the job at Global Life. She would be
close to home and to her mother. It suited both of them fine. They were a happy pair - Kay keeping busy with her cats and her garden - Sheryl contented with her job and her paintings, a hobby for which she had a great love and a special
talent.
Jenny took a phone call from the chief executive's secretary, requesting her to call up at her convenience.
'Mr Lenihan would like a word with you'
Jenny never liked him and she knew the feeling was mutual.
He was too opportunistic, cunning and arrogant. He was also a randy bugger that couldn't be trusted. That night in The Western Hotel after the Galway branch's Christmas party when she found herself in his bedroom on a false pretext. She
soon copped on to his lusty ambitions - told him where to go. His pride was badly shattered. At breakfast next morning he was still in a sulk. She got the message - her rebuff and rejection was mentally recorded for future reference. The bloody cheek of him - with a wife and young daughter at home - she enjoyed
his humiliation.
Ready to leave for home, she passed on the day's list of work to Sheryl, grabbed her bag, and rushed up the stairs to the chief's office on the fourth floor.
'You wanted to see me, Don?' she hadn't time for trimmings.
'Oh, yes Jenny, sit down for a moment.'
She sat, reluctantly, impatient for him to get on with it.
'You got my memo about Clive Richards coming to-day?'
'Yes ... a few days ago, wasn't it?'
Clive Richards was the chief executive of the British division and occasionally came over for an exchange of views with his Irish
counterpart. There was nothing unusual about it and Jenny regarded the memo from Don as nothing more than a matter of courtesy.
'Well, I told him you and I would join him for lunch in the Burlington to-day. He has a couple of problems in his underwriting department,
which I suggested he should run past you for your opinion.'
Jenny's blood began to simmer.
The silly bastard!
Making arrangements for her without her knowledge or agreement. She kept her
composure.
'Well Don, I'm sorry. You didn't mention that in your memo. The fact is that I have been working in my office for the past two hours, clearing my desk of yesterday's cases. I've got arrangements to go hunting for
the rest of the day.'
She stood up as he leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully. She anticipated his reaction, knowing that he was constructing a reply that would contain a piercing stab, cunningly designed to hurt and humiliate her.
'Well, that's it then ... nothing we can do ... pity those hunts aren't held at weekends.'
'It may be a pity for you, Don, but I don't fix the dates. But something
you
might fix is your tendency to make arrangements for me
without my permission ... next time you should check if I'm available.'
Closing the door behind her, she could hear his parting words: 'Have a nice day.. ee.'
******