The Tour
Authors: Jean Grainger
The Tour
BY
JEAN GRAINGER
Copyright © 2013 Jean Grainger
The rights of Jean Grainger to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is entirely coincidental.
eBook formatting by Maureen Cutajar
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For Diarmuid
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Conor O’Shea sat on the edge of the four-poster, king- size bed trying to wake up. The heavy damask curtains hanging in the big bay window admitted not a single chink of light. It struck Conor, not for the first time, how odd it was to feel perfectly at home in any hotel, especially this vast edifice, but somehow he did.
He padded across the deep-pile, taupe carpet to the centre of the room. Twenty minutes later, power shower completed, he stood in front of the mirror, smiling ruefully at his reflection while he shaved. His silver hair had the effect of making him look older than his forty-six years, he mused, and although people told him it made him look distinguished, he wasn’t quite so sure. As he dressed – black tailored trousers and cream Ralph Lauren shirt, which contrasted sharply with his tanned skin – he mentally ran through his itinerary for the day ahead. He would have breakfast quickly, just some cereal and a cup of tea, and get the Mercedes mini-coach organised to pick up his passengers from Shannon Airport at seven o’clock.
Conor often wondered about the wisdom of his fellow coach drivers eating full, cooked breakfasts every morning, and then munching their way through scones and apple tart all day during their numerous tour stops. Many of them were so overweight it made their job of loading and unloading heavy suitcases almost impossible. Conor liked to stay fit and he was also careful not to get carried away with all the free food offered to him and the other coach drivers.
Today would be a nice easy day: it entailed nothing more than picking up his tour group at Shannon that morning and bringing them back to the Dunshane Castle Hotel. The tour operator for whom Conor had worked as a driver-guide for nearly twenty years had strong business links with the five star castle. As a result, he stayed there almost once a week.
As he walked across the busy lobby towards the dining room, a haughty voice rang out: ‘Mr O’Shea. Your post,’ Ms O’Brien, the Head Receptionist said, proffering several postcards and one letter. ‘Although what gave you the impression that this was your office, and that I and the Reception staff here are your personal secretaries, I cannot possibly imagine’, she added curtly.
Conor accepted the small bundle and smiled at Ms O’Brien in spite of her glare. ‘I know that Katherine. I’m an awful nuisance, and ye are all so good to me here.’ The two young receptionists gaped at each other, amazed at Conor’s use of Ms O’Brien’s first name. No one else at Dunshane would ever dare to do such a thing.
‘And I’m really sorry for the inconvenience. But, as you know, I’m kind of homeless during the tourist season, so I rely on your unending generosity in keeping post and other things for me here while I’m on the road. I really do appreciate it though Katherine.’
‘Well, yes. I suppose we have no choice. By the way, Rosemary from your office booked in six more tours, so that means we have a whole summer of being your unpaid PAs ahead of us,’ Ms O’Brien continued, revealing just a hint of a smile. Conor’s twinkling blue eyes always seemed to have a melting effect on her frosty personality, something that was a source of amazement to the other staff. He knew her bark was much worse than her bite and that underneath it all she actually liked him and appreciated the fact that he didn’t behave in the manner of some of the other coach drivers, who were always drinking and flirting with the waitresses. He was friendly and chatty, but never disrespectful, and he genuinely did value all the extra little things the Dunshane staff did for him. Equally, however, he knew how important an asset he was to the hotel; his tour operator employers regularly sought his opinions on the accommodation used, and so it was in the hotel’s best interest to keep him happy. It worked both ways: the hotel staff knew exactly how to cater for the clients he brought them, knew precisely what standards were expected of them, and they delivered accordingly. If things needed a little tweaking from time to time, Conor usually had a quiet word in the right ear and succeeded in solving the problem.
He continued into the dining room and was immediately greeted by one of the waitresses, Anastasia. ‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite communist!’ he said with a big smile. When she didn’t respond in her normal, friendly fashion, Conor took a closer look and realised she had been crying. His first instinct was to ask her what was wrong, but he hesitated, in case it was something personal that she might not want to discuss with him. In any event, she was busy taking an order from another table, so he took a seat and waited, wondering what, if anything, he should say. Probably boyfriend trouble, he thought to himself, best keep out of it.
Among the Dunshane staff, the young Ukrainian was the person he had struck up the closest friendship with. His chats with Anastasia revealed that she, like so many of her countrymen and women, had come to Ireland in search of a better life. Conor was surprised when she told him that she had in fact, worked as a teacher in Kiev, but the money she made waitressing in Ireland was twice what she could earn at home. Two weeks earlier, in between departing and arriving tour groups, one of the receptionists had told him it was Anastasia’s birthday, so he had taken her out for a meal to cheer her up, she had seemed a bit lonely for home.
That evening, as they left the hotel grounds on their way to the restaurant, he had been acutely aware of the looks he attracted from the other drivers: clearly, they believed there was something more going on between him and Anastasia. Ah, what the hell, he said to himself, they always believed that about everyone. The female tour guides had an awful job coping with some of those drivers, much to Conor’s embarrassment. For some, the idea that a man and a woman could remain just friends or colleagues was inconceivable to them. Only last week he had caused a bit of a stir by telling Ollie Murphy to give it a rest, as he told one sexist joke after another to an eager audience of drivers whiling away the time in the airport car park as they waited for their passengers to arrive.
As if Anastasia would be interested in him anyhow, he mused. She was absolutely gorgeous and way too young for him, a mere twenty-nine, he reminded himself, although she actually looked a lot younger than that with her pixie crop blonde hair and enormous green eyes – reminiscent of Meg Ryan when she first became famous he thought.
Anastasia’s work uniform of cream and gold fitted blouse and black skirt was markedly different from her dress sense outside of work – quite bohemian, hippyish even. During one of their many long chats in recent months, she had explained to him that she loved to make her own clothes. Conor was well aware that they made an unusual pair – Anastasia’s tiny frame and barely five feet tall beside Conor’s six foot two muscular bulk. But they could gossip all they liked the lot of them, he didn’t give a hoot what they thought about any of it: he was far too interested in hearing about her stories and he loved to listen to her accent, a peculiar mix of Ukraine and West Clare. Listening to her unique combination of inflections and idioms invariably made him smile.
‘Hi Conor,’ she interrupted his reverie, standing beside the table, pen and notepad at the ready. ‘Ah Anastasia, are you all right? he blurted out. ‘You seem a bit…eh upset or something.’
The genuine concern on Conor’s face seemed to have the effect of opening the floodgates. ‘Oh Conor, I am sorry. Is not your problem. Is just I get phone call this day from my brother. He tell me my mother is in the hospital, but he is cut off before he can tell me more. So now I am all day worried. I think maybe she is dead, or maybe she need me and ...’ her voice broke off.
Conor pulled out a chair and made her sit down, ignoring the disapproving glare from Carlos Manner, the restaurant manager. ‘Ah God love you…you poor thing. That’s terrible. Listen, why can’t you just call him, or one of your other relations, and find out what’s happening? That’s an awful worry to have going on in your head all day.’
‘Well yes, but there is no more a pay phone in the hotel and my mobile plan don’t let me make call in Ukraine. I must wait until after shift to go to Internet place in Ennis.’
‘Sure that’s no problem at all, use my phone. I use it to call the States for work all the time, so I’m sure it will manage a call to the Ukraine too,’ Conor said, relieved at being able to help his young friend in some practical way.
‘Conor, you are so kind,’ she said smiling faintly, ‘but even you cannot afford cost of calling Ukraine on mobile phone! No is OK, I will call later in Internet place.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Conor said, handing her the phone. ‘Sure I’m loaded! I’m only doing this job for the craic!’ He was glad to see another hint of a smile creeping across her tear-stained face.
‘Now, go on over there to that quiet corner by the window and ring your brother. I’m sure everything will be grand. OK?’
Anastasia relented and took the phone. A few moments later she was talking to someone and seemed, from her body language at any rate, to be reassured, although Conor had no clue what she was saying. Just then, he spotted the manager heading her direction. As he passed the table, Conor put out his hand to stop him. ‘She’s just had something urgent that she needs to deal with at home in the Ukraine,’ Conor said quietly, ‘she’ll only be a minute.’
Carlos Manner was an imperious little man with slicked down hair and perfectly manicured nails. Always immaculate in his appearance, he had the air of someone who slept in a straight line every night wearing a pair of perfectly ironed pyjamas. His clipped South African accent never ceased to grate on Conor’s nerves.
‘With all due respect, Conor, I think it is my concern if a member of my staff is attending to personal business on hotel time’, he intoned as he made to move towards where Anastasia was standing.
‘Carlos,’ said Conor quietly but firmly, ‘just give her a chance to finish her call. I’m sure the place won’t go up in flames without her for five minutes.’
Carlos winced at Conor’s use of his first name, but realised that he couldn’t win against him. They both knew that if Carlos took it up with the General Manager of the hotel, he would be overruled instantly; he would be told that Conor was a valued business associate of the chain and that he must be accommodated wherever possible. Carlos turned on his immaculately polished heel, seething with resentment.
A few moments later Anastasia returned and handed Conor his phone. ‘Thank you so much Conor, you are so nice. My brother say she is OK, little pain in the heart, but she must stay in the hospital for some more days, but is not really serious. Oh, I am so better now, I would be all day worried if I could not call,’ she smiled gratefully. Then, lowering her voice, she added, ‘Is Mr Manner mad now?’
Conor knew the staff detested the prissy little man who found fault with everyone and everything. ‘Not at all no. He was just wondering if you were OK. I told him you were. Don’t worry your head about it. Now, I’m off to pick up my group, but we’ll be back for dinner tonight, so I’ll see you later. And I’m really glad your mam is alright.’ Giving her an encouraging wink and a smile, he left the dining room, breakfastless, but feeling none the worst for it.