Dream Valley

by Paddy Cummins

  '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.

  ******

  Serious Business

  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.'

  ******

  The Chase

  'You'll have me spoiled rotten, Andy. I feel like a princess, being waited on hand and foot like this.'

  Jenny had parked her car at Punchestown behind a long queue of lorries, jeeps and horse trailers, and walked to where Andy and Joe were about to unload the horses. Andy was at the rear of the trailer ready to let down the ramp; Joe was inside releasing the ties.

  'Oh, it's yourself, Jenny,' he had that look of admiration again, 'sure a princess wouldn't be a patch on you to-day!'

  She did look resplendent in her dark green hunting coat, white silk cravat, adorned with a 'gold whip' broach. Skin-tight cream jodhpurs and shining black riding boots emphasised her shapely hips and legs. A black hunting cap fitted neatly over her smooth blonde hair, which was combed back, nestling tidily in a net behind.

  Thanks a million, Andy, you're a real old charmer ... I don't know what I'd do without you.'

  Jenny knew that Andy would do anything for her. He loved her, and she loved him too. Not anything remotely to do with romantic or sensual love, but that powerful spiritual bond that unites all horse lovers. It's something intangible, a mutual understanding, a special affinity, a unique culture that speaks the same language the world over.

  'Do you know what I'm going to tell you, Jenny?'

  'Yes Andy?'

  'Doing this to-day brings back old memories to me.'

  'You mean ... going hunting?'

  'Yeah, sure didn't I do it all my life ... since I was knee high to a grasshopper ... and I can tell you, I'd be still doing it, if it wasn't for herself.'

  'Madge?'

  'Aye. Soon as I hit sixty, she put down her foot ... put a stop to me gallop ... made out I was gone too old for it.'

  'And do you miss it, Andy?'

  'Miss it! There's nothing surer than I do ... the old thrill and the excitement ... it was powerful.'

  'I know ... there's nothing like it, Andy.'

  'But sure, maybe she was right, Jenny.'

  'The women are always right, Andy,' she joked.

  He just smiled, shaking his head in resignation.

  When the horses reversed from the trailer and were stripped of their travel rugs, they were already fully tacked up and ready for mounting. Jenny couldn't believe her eyes when she saw how beautiful they had been turned out. The sheen of their coats glistened in the mid-day sun, their tightly platted manes and tails were like art creations, the mixture of hoof oil and saddle soap produced a strong aroma that hung in the air, enhancing the unique hunting day atmosphere.

  'Poker looks absolutely immaculate!' Jenny beamed her praise at both Andy and Joe, 'how did you manage to get him to look like that?'

  'Ah, a labour of love,' chuckled Andy, sliding the stirrups out to the end of their leathers.

  'And the mare looks terrific too, Joe.'

  'Thanks, Jenny, I'm glad you think so.'

  Lifting his foot into the near stirrup, he effortlessly threw his leg over the big bay mare.

  'I hope that Kilkenny chap will be as impressed with her.'

  'I hope you do really well with her, Joe. She's a lovely mare ... good luck with her.'

  'Thanks Jenny.'

  She reached for the reins as Andy gave her the leg-up. She didn't need much lift. Her slim body was fit and nimble now - she was beginning to feel all the old agility and confidence that made her a champion rider in her youth. Andy could see that too. She was born for the saddle - it came natural to her.

  Joe and Jenny trotted their horses up the short distance to the main gate of the famous Punchestown Racecourse, where about forty other riders had assembled. They were just in time for the release of the pack of highly charged foxhounds, and the ceremonial move-off, with the scarlet-clad Huntsman and Whipper-in leading the way, and the large colourful cavalcade enthusiastically following.

  * * *

  'Is it Mrs Bellemy we have here? Good morning, Mrs Bellemy ... I'm Doctor McKevitt ... I'll be looking after you for the next little while.'

  He shook her little bony hand.

  'How are you?'

  Sitting in the chair beside the bed in her bright, modern, expensive private room, as Nurse Lambert was about to undress her, the old lady studied the doctor carefully before replying

  'I'm not we
ll at all, Doctor ... I'm very old, you know ... I think I'm on the way out.'

  Mrs Bellemy had been referred to the Belmont Clinic by her G.P. She was ninety-one, a wealthy old lady, and although there was nothing specifically wrong with her, she needed a general check-up, and a review of her medications. She had out-lived her Lawyer husband by over twenty years, living alone, cherishing her independence.

  'Ah, we'll have you jumping around the place in no time at all ... won't we, Nurse?'

  'Of course we will!' Nurse Lambert concurred.

  Undressed, The old lady lay on the bed ready for the doctor.

  'What we need now, Mrs Bellemy, is to check your blood pressure, your heart, lungs and your tummy ... on your back now ... that's it ... you wouldn't be pregnant, by any chance, Mrs Bellemy, would you?'

  Her eyes widened, an impish grin appeared.

  'Well, if I am, Doctor ... it must be cooking a bloody long time.'

  He laughed heartily, and felt the old lady's sense of humour cheering him up, on a morning that he felt he needed it.

  Ken was happy to be working at the Belmont. The place was thriving. All the favourable publicity that surrounded the opening was now paying off in full wards and a healthy balance sheet. The atmosphere among the staff was great too. Being there from the start gave him a feeling of loyalty and ownership - the other early starters felt the same. They were all united in nurturing this new concept. The patients were happy too. It wasn't cheap, in fact, it was very expensive - but it was top class. Money didn't matter to this clientele; they had plenty of it. All they wanted was to get the best treatment in Ireland, and they were prepared to pay for it.

  He admired Dr Turner for his vision and courage in starting it all. It was one thing to hatch an idea and promote a new concept, but putting your money where your mouth was, and risking your future in bricks and mortar was another. He was proud to be involved with such a man.