Authors: Paddy Cummins
As they lay naked and exhausted on the bed, Jenny felt the chill again. They rolled back the blankets, snuggled beneath them. Ken was about to give Jenny a tender goodnight kiss when to his consternation he
realised she was crying. Raising himself up, he touched her face with his hand, felt the soft tears flow gently on to the pillow.
'Jenny Darling ... what's the matter?'
'Nothing ... sorry Ken ... it's just ...' her voice was
little more than a whisper. 'It's just me.'
'It's all right Love, I understand. You were great yo-night. I love you, Jenny; you know that, don't you?'
'I do, I do Ken ... but me ... am I worth it? I keep causing
you a lot of trouble.'
'No Jenny, you don't. Look, this is not the night to be thinking of all that ... you're too hard on yourself.'
She didn't reply, just nodded. He knew she was concealing
the real reason for her tears. A deep underlying craving dominated her inner being, a natural desire for ultimate fulfilment that she knew would not be satisfied, that had to be constantly suppressed and endured. Their lovemaking to-night was so natural and beautiful, so conducive to the result she craved,
the conception of the child that would complete their lives. Sadly not for them. For Jenny, that awful truth reared its ugly head each time they made love recently. The more beautiful and satisfying the experience, the more painful
the after-thoughts.
Ken was acutely aware that it couldn't continue indefinitely. She wouldn't be able for it, something would give, the strain would be too much. As the years of her life-giving prime passed, the loss of
her natural entitlement would become unbearable. He had to try something else. He embraced her tightly, turning her directly towards him.
'Jenny Darling, I'm going to have a new treatment, something I haven't tried before. There's now a top consultant in Dublin. I've read about
him and I'm going to see him. It may not work ... at least I'll give it a try ... for you Jenny ... for us.'
She raised herself up. With a gentle smile she kissed him on
the forehead.
'Thanks Pet.'
They lay in silent contemplation for a while, before dozing off.
* * *
Garry's dinner was in the oven ready for him when he arrived. His mother Stella always fussed over him when he came home. He was the
youngest, the last of four, two girls and two boys. She thought of him every day since he first went to England, prayed that he'd be safe - you'd never know with those horses, she would worry. Now living on his own in that old place,
she wondered was it a good idea at all. Was he getting a proper bit to eat? Was he looking after himself? Was he paying his way? Would he get into debt? How would it all work out?
She was happy about the others. They were all fixed up,
Maura teaching in Wexford, Ellen a nurse in Waterford. Padge was a head barman in The Rosslare Hotel and would eventually take over the little pub when herself and Tom would retire. It had been in the family for four generations,
hadn't changed much over the years. Hopefully it would stay in the family. The twenty acres of land that was with it was a big help - a little extra cushion. It was good to them down the years - no great wealth, just a comfortable
living.
Being the only pub in the little village of Glengriffen, it was the social centre and meeting place for the locals, whatever the occasion. Births, weddings or funerals, the little pub was there to play its part. Tom
and Stella were the ideal hosts, always mindful of the important role they played in the community. They had the perfect temperament for the job - Tom laid-back, patient, unflappable - Stella a kind, loving, generous soul. They were ever-ready at all times to share whatever emotions came with the people -
joyous occasions, or times of trauma and tragedy that can befall families.
Although he felt hungry, not having eaten since breakfast, Garry wasn't ready to sit down to dinner yet. Sandra hadn't been mentioned. His
mother was moving cautiously, knowing well that it was heartbreaking for him, and not wanting to cause further pain.
'Who's in the bar?' he enquired.
'Joe is there. Your father is over in the farm-yard feeding
up. There's only a few out there - we're expecting a big crowd in later.'
Garry knew why. Always the night before a funeral - he didn't want to think about it.
'I'll go out for a pint and have a chat with Joe.'
'Do boy. I'll keep your dinner hot in the oven.'
She was glad. A drink would help him. Chatting with Joe would help too. She felt nearly as bad as her son, knew what he was going through.
To-morrow would be worse when the bell tolled and the hearse came up the village - she dreaded it.
'How's it going, Garry?' Joe was his cousin, around his own age; they grew up together. A qualified butcher in Wexford, worked part-time in
the bar some evenings and weekends. Nice friendly fellow, popular with everyone, Garry liked him a lot.
'Fine Joe, how's yourself?'
'Oh, not a bother.'
There were just a few drinkers in the bar. Sean Woods and
his wife from the top of the village. Tim and Con Ronan from Kilmore, fishermen, hard workers when at sea, hard drinkers when ashore.
Garry ordered a pint of lager, sat himself up on the high
stool at his favourite end of the counter, took a sweeping look around the little bar. No change since his last visit. Neat and tidy, everything in its place. Nothing ever changes here - he was happy about that. These little old-world pubs were the best. Quaint and cosy, they were now coming back. People
were spending fortunes trying to make new pubs look like this. But this was the real thing, the genuine article with lots of charm and character - he loved it.
'You're still up there, Garry.'
Joe was pointing to the big framed picture of Garry, commanding pride of place in the centre of the back wall. His mother proudly erected it, took pleasure in explaining it to strangers when they came in. Garry was proud of it too. It was a special picture taken at Royal Ascot after
'Morning Song' had won the 'Gold Cup.' He was in the centre smiling broadly as he held the horse, with the trainer, Major Norton on his left, and Lord Chester, the owner on his right.
That was some day. He really loved that horse, looked after him since he was a yearling, nursed him, groomed him, rode him in all his work on the gallops, moulded him into a star. That day at Royal Ascot made up for a lot of frosty mornings and cruel hardship at Newmarket. It also made him into a
kind of celebrity in his parent's little pub. He was the first from the village to do anything like that. That picture was important, more than a mere photograph of a great occasion. It gave him status at home. His mother knew
that too, and felt a little pride in her own contribution to the accomplishment. That picture would proudly hang there for the rest of her time.
Garry got a second pint. He was enjoying the chat with Joe.
They discussed all the local news, all except the main story. It was touched on, then dropped.
'Terrible sad about Sandra Greene,' Joe said.
'Yeah,' replied Garry, dropping his head, tightening his
lips, eyes fixed on the floor. Joe knew it was time to change the subject.
'Young Brian Logan is gone off to be a jockey ... did you know that?'
Garry jerked back to attention.
'I didn't. Where did he go? Is that young Logan from the
Lower Road?
'Yeah, he's about fifteen ... gone up to the Racing School at The Curragh.'
'Well, that's great,' Garry enthused, 'I hope he gets on well ... he'll get a good job out of that.'
'He's the right size anyway,' said Joe, 'no more than six stone weight.'
'That's right, all the Logan's are small. Be gor, I won't be stuck for a jockey now when he serves his time. He might be a right one, a
champion ... wouldn't that be great.
Garry didn't say it, but the thought crossed his mind; a champion trainer and a champion jockey from the little village of Glengriffen; that would be something. It was a nice dream, but it could happen.
The bar was starting to get busy for Joe, and Garry didn't want to be distracting him. He finished the pint and went inside for his dinner.
* * *
The sky was grey, dull and sombre, in keeping with the dark
mood of the villagers. It was early afternoon on that gloomy Sunday when the little close-knit community came out to welcome home one of their own. Glengriffen was in mourning.
The farming families from the surrounding hinterland were
there too, swelling the population of the little village to double its normal numbers. Cars were parked bumper to bumper along both sides of the street that split the village through the centre. Some of the occupants waited in their
cars, some stood by, leaning against walls chatting, others had moved up to the graveyard that surrounded the church, where they could hold a good position, be close to the action.
The circle outside the big entrance gates of the church was
filling up, leaving just a narrow space for the hearse to enter. The chatting was in quiet low tones, almost whispering, as if to raise a voice was a serious indiscretion. They were all waiting restlessly for the cortege to arrive from
Kildare. The notice said:
Leaving after ten o'clock Mass. Arriving in Glengriffen at approximately two o'clock.
It was two-twenty when the heads turned and the chat ceased. The big black streamlined hearse, laden with flowers and Sandra slowed down and
began purring its way up the village.
Garry had quietly made his way up, positioned himself inside the church grounds. Leaning over the wall, he had a clear view all the way down
the street to the far end of the village. He was a bit away from the crowd - better that way. Most of his own age group would know of his closeness to Sandra. They would be observing him, curious to see his reactions - to talk about him later.
He had promised himself last night as he lay awake in bed,
that he wouldn't break down at the funeral. He wouldn't cry in public. He had cried enough already in private. He could cry more later, but not in that graveyard in front of everyone. He would be strong. His mother would be
watching him too. He would be brave - be a real man. She would admire him for that - be proud of him.
Casting his eyes down the street to the far end, he remembered how he used to do the same when waiting for Sandra to trot along on
her pony. The waiting used to be terrible, but her big smile and the wonderful feeling he used to get when she'd arrive made it all worthwhile. He could almost hear the sound of the pony's hooves now, see her slim figure lifting up
and down with the rhythm of the trot.
There was no trot to-day. The cortege was approaching slowly, solemnly, enlarging in view as it got nearer. The drone of the engines gaining volume, the snake-like procession stretching as far as the eye could
see, the mourners along the street staring vacantly, silently, waiting until the hearse was abreast, then joining the silent masses of shuffling shoes, almost reluctantly, edging towards the graveyard.
The bell tolled its intermittent, solemn welcome home. The
Parish Priest, joined by three other priests, stood at the church gates, ready to receive Sandra and pray her into the graveyard. Garry stayed where he was. He had a good view of the hearse coming through the big piers, halting beside
the church door. The crowd moved closer. The rear door of the hearse swung up. The slim oak coffin was hardly visible with the masses of flowers that surrounded it. They had to be taken out first and shared between the family
members. There wasn't enough family to carry all the flowers and they were given to other mourners to take into the graveyard. Almost everyone had flowers. Garry didn't want any. His grieving would be private. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. Sandra would know he was there - that's all that
mattered.
He gazed up at the sky. The large dark clouds that hung overhead took his attention. He wondered which one of them would Sandra be behind. She was up there somewhere, looking down at this large gathering of
relatives and friends grieving for her. T'would be nice to be up there with her now - better than all the flowers in the world.
As the coffin was being carried past him, Garry blessed himself and waited until the family had gone by, before moving with the crowd
to the open grave behind the church. Sandra's husband, Ray, looked shattered and devastated. It was the first time Garry had seen him. He had often wondered what he would be like. Small, but stout-figured, surprisingly young,
fair-haired with a handsome boyish face.
God, he's even younger than
myself.
On each side of him he was clasping the hand of a little three-year-old twin, the boy on his left - the picture of his dad - the little girl on his right -
so like Sandra that Garry's heart surged with a pain that almost brought a flood to his eyes, which he quickly controlled.
The twins seemed oblivious to the entire occasion. It was just another new experience for them. Garry wondered how growing up without
their mother would effect them. He tried to envisage what his own growing up would have been like without his mother - he couldn't. His heart went out to Ray. No more than twenty-five, three little children, no wife or mother.
It's
an awful old world.
What sort of God would allow that to happen? It's not fair at all. All that suffering should be shared more equally - some get off too lightly.
He felt guilty for his own self-pity. Guilty for all the
times he had cursed Ray for taking Sandra from him. Guilty for accusing him of being a lot older and taking advantage of a young girl. He was now deeply sorry for being so judgmental and so unkind.
His guilt and sorrow was so intense that he decided to do
what he had told himself he would never do - speak to Ray - shake his hand, offer his heartfelt sympathy. Ray wouldn't know him of course; they had never met. Perhaps Sandra might have told him - that would be nice. They might even become
friends.