She got her clipboard into action; started sketching. A new roadway leading up from the rear of the dwelling house. An American style barn housing four stables, a feed-house and a tack-room. A shed to store the bales of hay and straw and all the other equipment such as barrows, tools and the horse trailer. To the rear would be the sand ring, a vital facility for getting the young horses started, calming fresh ones, and where they could roll and frolic loose after exercise. The yard and roadway would be enclosed by post and rail fencing, dense laurel hedging, and embellished with a variety of richly coloured trees. The whole little development would merge in with its surroundings, would compliment and enhance the entire property.
She was happy with her design. It was now out of her head and roughly on to the drawing board. The next step was to get it properly drawn up to scale for the builder. That would take time - she hadn't done it before, but she would tackle it. It would be fun.
It was late afternoon and hairdresser-time. She was surprised to find herself looking forward to the Captain's Dinner. She didn't know many of Ken's golfing friends, but that wouldn't bother her - it was a night out, would do her good, and most importantly, would keep Ken happy.
The car park of the Golden Lodge Hotel was full of BMW's, Volvo's and Mercedes Benz's. Ken and Jenny came by taxi. There would be drinks in abundance and driving was out of the question. Inside was a gathering of 'everyone who was anyone' from a wide span of the area. Dress was informal so the variety was wide, from simple plain outfits to extravagant creations. No expense was spared. There were lots of large egos there too, especially evident when the drinks began to lubricate and banish inhibitions.
Ken looked great in his bright grey suit, wine shirt and matching silk tie.
'You're the best-looking man in the place,' Jenny flattered - made him smile.
'You're not looking too bad yourself, Jenny ... look around, there isn't another lady here to match you.'
'Thanks, Ken, much appreciated ... even if you might be a little bit biased.'
She did look really great. He meant every word of it. That pink Moschine cowl-neck dress enhanced her perfect slim figure, the matching jewellery glistening under the lights, highlighted her stunning facial beauty. She felt great too, even better after the pre-dinner appetiser of two large vodkas and tonics. Ken prescribed them - she gladly took the doctor's orders. They were badly needed and did the trick nicely - a great little confidence booster - she was now ready for anything.
After a sumptuous five course dinner, the speeches began. Thankfully they were few and short, ending with the presentation of prizes for the tournament. Ken had a good day, surprised himself by winning the prize for the best 'back nine.' Jenny vigorously led the clapping as a smiling Ken climbed the rostrum, received his Waterford crystal and rejoined her at their table. It brought the spotlight on them, which Jenny enjoyed, proudly congratulating him with a big hug and a kiss.
The music was great, they danced several times. Vodkas kept arriving. Jenny saw that Ken was a big link in the golfing chain. They were coming to him from all angles, just to say hello, praise him for his win, and be introduced to Jenny. Then the inevitable: "What would you like to drink?" Ken was reluctant to refuse - Jenny wondered about his head in the morning; her's too. Oh sod it, we're out for a good night, really enjoying ourselves, we'll have to-morrow to recover.
Ken, now nicely inebriated, bear-hugged a handsome hulk that Jenny never saw in her life.
'Jasus Leo! Where have you been all those years? You look fantastic! Great to see you.'
'You too, Ken. You never changed; looking great.'
Ken turned.
'Oh Jenny; this is Leo Hurley, my best mate at collage. Leo, this is Jenny.'
A warm handshake and a big kiss on the cheek impressed her. He sounded charming, bubbly, warm. He certainly had a few drinks in him too; she could see that.
'You left early; what did you do?' Ken had lost touch with Leo when he abandoned the Medical Collage for a different career.
'I went into the garage business. Best thing I ever did - four main dealerships now - we're really flying.'
'Great! Are you still into motor racing?'
'Oh yeah ... I go to as many international rally's as I can.'
How exciting, thought Jenny. Ken's life seems dull and boring compared to that.
'Remember Monte Carlo Ken?' They both burst into laughter.
'Sure do,' enthused Ken, 'that was something else, wasn't it?'
'And Nancy Meyers? Remember her?
More laughter.
'Christ will I ever forget her,' exclaimed Ken, suddenly conscious of Jenny's inquisitive look. Leo saw it too, realised he had made a bit of a bloomer. They changed the subject, Ken insisting on another drink to celebrate the pleasure of this unexpected and happy reunion.
Returning home, Ken was on a high and acting like a teenager on his first date. Cuddling amorously in the back of the taxi, he hugged and kissed Jenny sensually.
'Tell me about Nancy Meyers?' she whispered.
He wasn't surprised, was anticipating the question.
'Oh, just another student. She organised the trip to the Monte Carlo Grand Prix when we were at collage: Leo, Tracy Behan, Nancy and myself. We had a great weekend. Her father paid for it. He's a wealthy businessman in Waterford; into rallying.'
'A foursome? Tell me more.'
'Well there isn't much more really.'
There was a lot more, but he couldn't tell Jenny. It all came back to him; that fabulous weekend. Nancy was something else. Lucky to have a rich father able to finance her expensive college lifestyle. She had an insatiable appetite for pleasure. Tall, blonde, attractive and sexy. Very well endowed physically, but definitely not academically. She wasn't too bothered about studies or lectures, but miraculously managed to scrape through. If the exam results were based on her knowledge of the male body, she would pass with flying colours. A recognised specialist who had used most of the good-looking male students in her 'scientific studies, all of whom enjoyed the experience, and lived to tell the tale.
In Monte Carlo, they ate, drank, but didn't sleep much. Nancy saw to that. She made a man of him. It was a romp of sexual adventure that left him amazed and bewildered at her versatility, and his own stamina. Her wide variety of unique positions was astounding - stretch therapy was her description. To him it was a crash course in sexual gymnastics, that he would never forget. But was it enjoyable? He remembered making the suggestion to Nancy of a refresher course some other time - that would be no bother to Nancy - just say the word.
Jenny knew that Ken was savouring old memories and wouldn't be sharing them with her. It didn't bother her.
'And where is Nancy now?'
'Oh, I haven't a clue; never saw her since college. She had to repeat her final year. She could be anywhere now; America, Australia. She could be dead for all I know; probably never see her again.'
As the taxi wheeled around on the tarmac in front of the big house, depositing the tired but happy pair almost on their doorstep, the dawn was about to break. Jenny felt the chill as Ken struggled with the keys.
'Butter-fingers! You wouldn't be much use in the operating theatre to-night,' Jenny joked.
The door opened. He threw his arms around her in loving retaliation, lifting her over the threshold into the hallway. Closing the door behind him with a reverse nudge of his backside, he carried her up the stairs, exhausted and panting as he reached the bedroom. Dropping her on to the bed with a thump, he collapsed on top of her while struggling to regain his breath. It was the beginning of the end of a perfect night - and it wasn't near over yet.
Ken was really fired up. He never saw Jenny look so beautiful. The past month wasn't great for either of them. It was really rough for Jenny. To-night though, she seemed back to her old self again, relaxed, restored, recovered. God, does she have any idea how beautiful she is? He felt the luckiest man in Ireland.
She wriggled out of her clothes. Gazing at her, naked an
d stunning, he wanted her more than ever, more than he could find words to express. She really needed him too; been a long while. Having assisted him to undress, she cloaked herself around him in a tight clasp, both rolling to the centre of the bed.
He moved gently, carefully mindful of her recent injuries. She was responding with strength, with urgency, with overwhelming desire. He couldn't hold back. They were soon locked in a frenzied passion that quickly sent them both ecstatically, sumptuously, blissfully over the edge in a glorious and beautiful release. It was wonderful, spontaneous, and all too short. It felt so natural, so free, so satisfying, not laced with the old pressures of the past. To-night they made love pure and simple, not trying desperately to force conception at all costs, degrading it to a mechanical act that would inevitably end in failure. To-night they weren't tense or apprehensive about anything, just loving each other intensely, sharing the exquisite pleasure.
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.
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