'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.
Ken's golf had improved greatly in ten days. His driving, pitching and putting had all become razor sharp. He looked forward to showing off his new skills on his local course at the weekend.
The flight was silky smooth, and with seven hours flying in front of them, most of the passengers, including Ken and Jenny were sleeping peacefully. After a couple of hours, Jenny found herself awake, refreshed, and with nothing to do except admire her handsome, sleeping husband beside her, and do some thinking. The poor fellow, she thought, is exhausted. He certainly didn't spare himself - showed great stamina. All that golf every day, the socialising in the evenings - dinner, cabaret, dancing, drinking - then the strenuous love-making every night, brilliant passionate sessions that would drain any man. Not Ken though; he proved a real champion. She was proud of him, felt blessed to have him as a husband. She hoped and prayed his sperm deficiency would be rectified, not only for herself, but for him too. She knew it was getting to him - she could see that now - it was even more apparent since her accident.
She could sense his new determination. Their love-making recently, especially those last few days in Florida had a new intensity. Dr Lucas has certainly given him hope. Those new experiments, positions, techniques, must have come from his consultant. He didn't divulge, she wouldn't ask, just enjoyed it. It might have worked, who knows? We'll know in a couple of weeks. It might be a forlorn hope. Still, all that beautiful sex, that intensive, passionate love-making, surely can't be for nothing. Perhaps inside her at this very moment is the flicker of a little heartbeat. No. It was too early for that - not too early for fertile hope and imagination though. She held her breath, held her body still as she gazed across lovingly at her sleeping husband. If only she could feel the slightest sensation of life within, it would be a whole new world for her, for both of them - for the three of them.
She hauled her mind back to reality. She had better be prepared for disappointment. That way, it wouldn't be as bad, wouldn't be the end of the world, she could handle it, put Plan B into operation, get on with her life. But what about poor Ken? He would be devastated. She knew exactly how he felt, would love a c
hild, be a proud father. It would surely effect their relationship too. That's probably Ken's biggest worry. She could see that he was pre-occupied with this fear already. He was becoming a bit possessive and protective. That's something she couldn't suffer. A little baby would prevent all that, would sort it all out. Amazing what little babies could do, she smiled to herself, as she dozed off again.
* * *
It was Saturday morning, exactly a week after Mrs Dilworth's tragic death. The shock and sadness of the people had abated a little. Bart was still suffering - Garry knew that - could see it in his face. He seemed to have aged a lot in only a week, not walking as tall or as erect as he always did, even a slight stoop in his shoulders becoming apparent. His heart went out to him, such a nice man, so good and generous to everyone - he doesn't deserve this.
It's hard to fathom religion, Garry thought. The good seem to suffer while the not so good enjoy life with hardly a care in the world - it didn't seem fair. No doubt the Rector would have a good explanation for it. Happy to suffer on Earth, a kind of endurance test, a cleansing exercise - all worthwhile in the end. 'Suffer little children to come unto me' He wondered, wasn't sure. He hoped it was true - for Bart's sake.
'The mare is looking great ... you're doing a great job, Garry,' Bart was looking in over the half-door of the stable while Garry was renewing her bed and giving her a brush over.
'This mare always looks great,' he said, patting her admiringly on the neck, 'I'll need to start riding her out next week or she'll get too fresh ... she's already getting a bit full of herself.'
'I see that,' replied Bart, 'all that feeding and no exercise, I suppose.'
'Yeah, but you can't blame her, she'll be grand when she gets out and about ... use up some of her energy.'
'I was thinking,' said Bart, seriously, 'would 'Goff's Sales' be the best place to sell her?' I was looking up their dates ... there's a sale next month.'
Garry was surprised by the question. He had thought about the mare's future, wondered what Bart would do.
'Oh yeah, 'Goff's would be fine. She should sell well there ... plenty of customers for a mare like her.'
'Yes.' Bart paused thoughtfully. I suppose you'd be a customer yourself, Garry?'
That question caught him a bit unprepared.
'Ah, not really,' he replied hesitantly, 'Oh now, don't get me wrong ... I do love the mare ... it's just that right now ... I couldn't really afford her for myself ... and also ... I haven't an empty stable at present.'
He immediately regretted the last part of his answer - the 'no empty stable bit.' It just slipped out, was stupid, probably ruined any chance he had of getting the mare. He didn't want to sound too eager in case Bart would feel guilty about sending her to the sales. The truth was, if there was any way that he could get her, an empty stable wouldn't be a problem - he'd build one overnight for a mare like that.
'Well, we'll do that then. I'll ring the sales company and enter her, and sure you'll prepare her for me, won't you?'
'Yes of course I will ... you can leave her to me ... I'll have her ready.'
Garry knew that the decision was now made; no going back. He felt sad and miserable, cursing himself for his stupidity. If he had handled it differently, some arrangement might have been worked out with the Rector - he had his chance, and blew it.
He left for home, frustrated, but trying to shrug it off with an old saying of his mother's - sure it might all turn out for the best.'
* * *
Deceit and Deception
Thank God, exclaimed Jenny to herself, this week is almost over. It was almost five on Friday evening. She had completed what really amounted to three week's work in one. The backlog of complex files - built up during her trip to Florida - had to be cleared, the current ones seemed to be never-ending, and being the last week of the quarter, the various reports had to be done.
Poor Sheryl was jaded too - all that typing - and she didn't have the benefit of a holiday in the sun. The weekend break would be a welcome respite. They couldn't wait to get out of the office to inhale the freshness of the evening air. The phone rang.
'For you, Jenny.' Sheryl had that knowing look, pointing upwards, indicating who it was, so that Jenny would be prepared.
'Yes Don?' She was determined to cut this as short as possible.
'That Bailey case ... how far have you gone with it?'
She knew the one. This was the third time he had enquired about it. She wondered why. True, it was a large case - one million pounds 'Mortgage Term Cover'. Serious work - wasn't near finished yet.
'I expect to be in a position to make a decision on it early next week. There are still three medical reports that I have to study. It's not a straight forward case. That Diabetes that Mr Bailey has is the problem - we've got to be cautious.'
'Damn it! I promised Tom Bailey I'd have word for him this evening. He's ringing me at eight o'clock. All I want is a yes or no. We can complete the documentation next week. There's a big property deal hanging on it - he has to know this weekend or it falls through.'
She sat listening, getting angrier by the second. Sheryl was watching apprehensively as Jenny's face was changing colour, knowing that she was about to explode. She didn't. She held her temper.
'Don, have you some connection with Mr Bailey?'
She wanted to get that straight first. Why was he so concerned? He knew well that these big cases take time. He's the one that wouldn't bend the rules for anybody. Why now? Why for Mr Bailey?
'Oh, no connection at all. It's just that ...' he paused. 'It's substantial business ... we need it all.'
'Substantial business, yes, but it could also be very bad business. This man has Diabetes. No other company would even consider him for that level of cover.'
'Oh now Jenny, hold on. His diabetes is a thing of nothing ... he's the healthiest man in Ireland!'
'Oh is he? And how would you know that, Don?'
He lowered his voice, as if to impart a 'State Secret.'
'I just happen to know them, Jenny. His wife is an old friend of mine ... I know them both for many years.'
Jenny had her answer - she might have guessed. She wondered what category of friend she was, platonic?
Platonic my eye - another of his bits on the side. Now she knew why he was pushing this case.
'Look Jenny, do me a favour. Read through the three reports, make a provisional decision, some sort of holding arrangement, something I can tell him tonight, that's all.'
'That's all! Do you know the time it is on a Friday evening? Do you know the week's work I've been through? Not one week's work, but three!'
'I know, I know. Just this once.'
She calmed down, gave a massive sigh.
'I'll ring you in an hour. I'm not guaranteeing anything. If there's any doubt about this cover, I'll refuse to underwrite it, and it certainly won't be going to our re-insurers.'
'Thanks Jenny ... you're a star.'
Jenny and Sheryl exchanged tortured looks that said: He won - the bastard! Their exit to the fresh evening air would have to wait at least another hour.
Sheryl placed the Bailey file on Jenny's desk and continued typing the reports. Their desks were at opposite sides facing each other. Jenny was reading silently. She was almost through the second medical report. Sheryl noticed something odd about her. Clearly not herself, she was uneasy in her chair, looked agitated and exasperated. Lenihan's handiwork, Sheryl figured. Nice time on a Friday evening to upset her. She kept a watching brief without making it obvious.
Jenny's flushed complexion was rapidly turning pale. Suddenly, she gave a muffled groan, holding her stomach with both hands. Sheryl jumped up and rushed across.
'Are you okay, Jenny, what is it?'
Jenny just raised her hand, dismissing Sheryl's anxiety, indicating that she would be alright in a minute. Her acute pain was easing off, leaving a familiar ache in the pit of her stomach. She didn't mind the discomfort, knew it would go, but was devastated by the me
ssage it brought. After all the hopes and endeavours, she had again failed to conceive. Sheryl helped her up.
'I'm okay now. Thanks Sheryl. Must go to the loo.'
Sheryl's suspicions were now confirmed. She was relieved it wasn't anything serious - some repercussion from the accident.
Jenny was back from the toilet and about to resume at her desk, but felt she couldn't. The pain in her belly had subsided a little, but the ache in her heart had intensified. Her mind was in turmoil. She couldn't look at another file. Don Lenihan and Mr Bailey would have to wait, whether they liked it or not.
'I'm going, Sheryl ... I have to go.'
She gathered up her papers, prepared to leave.
'When I'm gone, Sheryl, ring Don Lenihan. Tell him I had to go. You can explain about me suddenly becoming unwell. Tell him anything you like ... but mind your ear. He'll explode, but don't mind him. Don't take any shit from him ... It's nothing to do with you ... I'll fix him on Monday.'
'No problem, Jenny. You go ahead ... I'll handle him.'
'I know you will, Sheryl ... I don't know what I'd do without you.'
'Mind yourself, Jenny.'
'I will, thanks, bye.'
Ken wasn't used to being home so early on a Friday evening. It was a pleasant change, courtesy of Dr Wynn returning one of the many favours Ken had done for him. He was whistling to himself as he bounded into the house. Surprised not to find Jenny busy preparing the dinner - he hadn't noticed the absence of her car from the side of the house - that's strange, he thought, she's always home early on a Friday evening. Switching on the jug kettle, he made a coffee and got stuck into his favourite read: 'The Irish Independent.' She can't be too long.
The phone rang in the hall. Maybe that's her now. He jumped up, hurried out, allowing the phone just two rings.
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