Dream Valley

by Paddy Cummins

  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.

  The crowd, now forming a tight mass around the grave seemed to hold their collective breaths as each little twin in turn, bravely stepped to the edge and dropped a pink rose on to the coffin of their mother now lying six feet below in its final resting place. The prayers were completed with a special prayer for the bereaved: "Merciful God, look down with compassion on those who mourn for Sandra and give them strength and courage in their sorrow ..."

  The temporary green covering board was placed on top. The flowers were laid out, spreading far beyond the confines of the grave, forming a carpet of sweet scented colour. The priest gave the final blessing, the crowd relaxed their tension, the murmuring began again. They moved in on Ray and the family to say: "Sorry for your trouble" and meaning it with deep sympathy and sincerity in their hearts.

  Garry waited. The crowd was still swarming around Ray and the children. Handshakes, hugs, Mass-cards, tears. It was an outpouring of genuine empathy. He then made his move. He approached Ray, who now had the little boy in his arms, and the little girl by his side. Their eyes met. For a moment nothing was said. Garry knew that Ray knew him, the way he looked at him wide-eyed, as if he had been expecting him to turn up. Their hands clasped.

  'You're Garry, aren't you?'

  Garry felt his legs weaken, his eyes swimming; he couldn't speak; just nodded. Ray tightened his hand-clasp, pulling him closer, as if to bring him into the little family circle, acknowledging his legitimate right to be part of this tragic day.

  The little girl felt left out, standing to the side as her brother enjoyed the limelight in Daddy's arms. Garry saw her plight. He smiled down at her - she smiled back. Instinctively he lifted her up in his arms and gazed lovingly at her angelic features. He felt a warmth pervade his whole being. It was almost like holding Sandra in his arms again, soothing the pain, calming the nerves, giving him inner strength and solace.

  His mother was watching, amazed at what she was witnessing, but proud as any mother could be of her youngest son. That loving reunion was surely Heavenly inspired. Two young men sharing grief with dignity and fortitude. It was too much for her. She turned, and with tears of sadness, tinged with a little joy, she moved away.

  **********

  Fertile Flight

  It was an eventful first day back at the office for Jenny. A big welcome from all the staff showed they were delighted with her quick recovery; really glad to have her back. Sheryl was fussing all over her.

  'I'm fine, Sheryl ... don't worry, I'll be grand.'

  'I know, Jenny, but be careful and mind yourself ... I've been thinking and worrying about you.'

  'Oh, Sheryl, you shouldn't, you're so kind. Anyway, you can stop worrying now ... you see I'm fine ... tough stuff; that's me.' They laughed.

  Don Lenihan was conveniently absent - some meeting in the city - would be back in the afternoon. His secretary rang down - Jenny took it.

  'Mr Lenihan would like a one-to-one with you at two-thirty.'

  'That's fine,' replied Jenny cheerfully. She was about to request a meeting herself to be updated on things.

  The stack of files on her desk seemed higher than usual. Skipping through them prompted an interesting observation. Some of those files were from last Thursday - should have been dealt with on Friday. Big cases too, that needed extra work and study. She got the picture. Mr Poole was such a nice man when she spoke to him last Friday. But leaving all those complicated files for her on her first day back? That was a bit much, very unfair and mean. He chickened out - that's what happened. He did all the easy ones and left the hard work for her - the cowardly, lazy sod - just as well she came back early. And he's the 'Head of Underwriting' in the British Division. No wonder we are streets ahead of them here in Dublin.

  There was also a pile of mail
unopened. Some were marked for her personal attention - she would deal with them later; the files came first. One letter did alert her sufficiently to be opened immediately. It was from the Vice President and Chief Executive at their world headquarters in Toronto. Intrigued and impatient, she quickly slit the envelope and read:

  "As you know the President's Convention takes place this year in Palm Beach, Florida, from June 14th to 21st." (She knew that.) "Twelve members of the Irish Direct Sales team and three Branch Managers have qualified to attend on the basis of their sales achievements." (She knew that too.) "The Chief Executive of the Irish Division, Mr Don Lenihan, will be attending." (That's obvious, she thought, it wouldn't be held without him.) "We would like you and your husband to join us in our celebration of a great year's performance. One of our business meetings will deal with the subject of 'Underwriting' with experts from all international divisions contributing. We would like you to be there to share your knowledge and experience with your overseas colleagues.

  Apologies for the short notice. We would appreciate an early reply."

  Jenny sat back in her chair, exhaled a long deep breath, allowing time for the significance of this startling message to sink in. This is unbelievable - incredible!

  She had watched longingly every year as the top sales producers with their wives, the managers, and the Chief Executive, jetted off for an all-expenses-paid holiday in the sun. It was their incentive to reach high sales and a just reward for their efforts. She often wished she could have joined them, but it wasn't for the Underwriting Department - they didn't create new business - expensive junkets weren't required for their motivation. Why the change this year? Why were they making a special exception for her?

  She considered it carefully. It could only be one thing - a really great honour. She knew 'Toronto' were impressed with the profitability of the Irish Division. Those high profits traced back directly to shrewd underwriting decisions, which meant that her work was highly valued. They were now showing their appreciation in a very special way. She felt grateful and privileged to be working for such a fine international company and honoured to be invited personally by the Senior Vice-President to their World Convention. This was just marvellous. Of course she would attend. Why not? The trip of a lifetime.

  Her mind was already planning ahead. She would use the opportunity to meet those fine people from Toronto. She would make the most of it, enjoy herself; it would do her the world of good. Ten days in sunny Florida would crown Ken too. She hoped he could go, couldn't wait to get home to tell him. He would be delighted - he would definitely go - sure Florida is the home of golf - he'd be in Heaven.

  It was two-thirty to the second when Jenny entered the Chief Executive's plush office on the top floor. Don Lenihan greeted her with his usual insincere waffle. She was impatient to get down to real business - he was more interested in her personal life, something she always resented, and was determined to nip in the bud every time.

  'You've made a remarkable recovery, Jenny.'

  'Yes, I feel fine now, thank you.'

  'You shouldn't overdo it though ... take things easy for a while, build yourself up.'

  'Oh, I'll be fine ... a day longer, a day stronger.'

  'It was a horrible thing to happen ... you were very unlucky.'

  God, will he ever leave off. She was becoming tired of this.

  'It could happen to anyone,' she said.

  'Would you ever consider changing hobbies? You know, change to a less hazardous one?'

  Jenny was now at the 'end of her tether.' That was enough. She looked him in the eye.

  'Did you ever have an accident, Don?'

  He thought - smiled.

  'Come to think of it, I actually did ... it was a long time ago.'

  Jenny waited, wishing he would get on with it - not sure if her little trick question was such a good idea after all.

  'Well, what happened?'

  'I was in my bedroom ...'

  'An accident in your bedroom?'

  'Yes, dressing myself, hurrying to go somewhere.'

  'And?' She wondered where this as leading to.

  'Sitting on the side of the bed pulling up my socks and bang! A disc in my back slipped. I collapsed on the floor and couldn't stir ... was there for two hours ... ended up in hospital ... out of work for three months.'

  Jenny didn't know whether to laugh or show sympathy. She did neither, but saw her chance.

  'That was amazing ... a freak accident really.'

  'Oh yes; for me at the time it was very serious ... the Company weren't very happy either.'

  'Well, tell me now, Don?' She paused thoughtfully - he suspected she was up to something. 'Did you change? I mean ... did you ever wear socks again?'

  He was stunned. Looking down at his outstretched legs, clad in their usual bright colours, he retorted:

  'Of course I didn't change. You know I wear socks ... don't be ridiculous Jenny.'

  'Well, the same applies to me, Don. It's you're being ridiculous suggesting I should change my lifestyle just because I had a freak accident. That makes two of us, doesn't it?'

  'Point taken,' he replied tamely, accepting his defeat, and mentally cursing himself for mixing it with this 'crafty little woman' who wins every time.

  They got down to the real purpose of the meeting - a review of the previous month's business.

  * * *

  Jenny was in the sitting room working on the drawings for her new stables. Getting started was proving more difficult than she had expected. She hadn't done this before - it was all new to her. She had procured the tools during her lunch-break in Dublin, also a book on building plans which showed her the correct format to follow. It looked straight forward and easy enough in theory -doing it for the first time was proving a real challenge. She had all the measurements, had decided on the scale, had plenty of drawing paper to discard mistakes and start again - she would persist and succeed eventually.

  She didn't expect any interruptions. Ken wasn't due home for another two hours - working late again. She would work for an hour and a half, and put them away. There was no big rush on the project. She would take her time, do it right, enjoy doing it.

  She would then show it to Ken, finished and ready for building. That way, he would get the full picture, see all the hard work she had put into it. He would realise that she was determined to complete the project, be able to see from the drawings what the finished buildings would be like. She hoped he would be impressed. Then he might not object - he might even help her along the way.

  On the other hand, he might blow a fuse - refuse to agree to anything that would facilitate her return to horse riding. That, she thought, would be too awful to contemplate, would lead to terrible friction between them - something she wanted to avoid at all costs. Anyway, that wouldn't be for a while yet - she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. Must get these plans done first.

  Ken was in the lift descending to the underground car park. The doctors and staff had their reserved spaces there. Stopping on the first floor, the lift picked up another passenger, Dr Turner. They hadn't spoken for a few days.

  'You're late this evening, Ken, held up were you?' It was eight o'clock - he usually finished around six.

  'Yes, I was in the city for a couple of hours on an appointment this afternoon ... had some catching up to do.'

  'Oh, that's fine, I just thought you had an emergency or something.'

  'No, no,' replied Ken, hoping to leave it at that. Out of the lift, they were about to head for their cars. Dr Turners Mercedes was in its usual number one reserved - Ken's Honda was at the other side.

  'Tell me, Ken, how's Jenny?'

  'Oh, she's fine, made a remarkable recovery, no problems at all, getting stronger every day.'

  'That's great, Mr Bailey is a wonderful surgeon, isn't he/'

  'He certainly is,' said Ken, 'we're very lucky to have him.'

  'We are indeed. Now Ken, be sure to get her to take things easy for as long a
s possible ... you know yourself what can happen.'

  'Oh I know ... I'm doing my best.'

  'Give her my regards.'

  'I certainly will, thank you.'

  'Okay then, I'm away Ken ... talk to you later.'

  Ken watched the gleaming black Mercedes roll smoothly up the ramp and away. He soon followed.

  Get her to take things easy. Ken repeated mentally Dr Turner's words. Get Jenny to take things easy! You might as well save your breath. It would be like talking to the wall. Where she gets the energy from, nobody knows. I suppose that's just the way she is - pointless to try and change her.

  He didn't tell Dr Turner who he had the appointment with in the city. Dr Lucas had said he knew Dr Turner well; they sometimes socialised together. Still, Ken trusted the doctor/patient relationship, was confident his consultations with his Endocrinologist would not reach the ears of Dr Turner. His problem was a private matter. He would not share it with anyone except with his consultant and his wife.

  Cruising along the road that led to the dual carriageway, reflecting on his first visit to Dr Lucas, he didn't know whether to be optimistic or pessimistic - somewhere in between. The results of his previous sperm tests seemed to surprise the consultant. "They were conclusive ... nothing there to be optimistic about."

  Still, he made a very good point: "They were done two years ago; things could change in two years," he suggested a new test.

  "Abstain from ejaculation for five days, produce a new sample by masturbation, ideally at the Infertility Clinic, allowing the sample to be stored immediately under optimum conditions. This, when analysed, will determine the volume and composition of semen produced, the density and quality of sperm within it. Further analyses may be made as treatment progresses."

  It was all very technical. Worth trying though, thought Ken. It could be possible that his sperm may have improved in the past two years; obviously not enough - Jenny wasn't yet pregnant - but if there was any improvement at all, perhaps with new technology and medication, there might be some hope.