The Tour (3 page)

‘Well Ma’am, I’d be honoured,’ he replied, with an almost audible gulp of fear.

‘I’m Corlene Holbrook, originally from Greenville, Alabama, but I’m a citizen of the world these days. I just love to travel and meet new folks, and y’all seem so nice, I think I’m going to have a really swell time here in Iceland.’

Her words seemed slightly slurred and, if she had noticed her geographical error, she gave no indication. Ellen considered making a response, but then thought better of it. Most of the group seemed bemused by Corlene’s antics, none more so than the teenager accompanying her, who was desperately trying to hide his embarrassment.

‘
Ireland
, Mom, we’re in
Ireland
, not Iceland,’ he said through gritted teeth.

Corlene exuded a smell of bourbon, which intermingled with her nauseatingly strong perfume. Ellen thought she cut a less than stylish figure in her five-inch leopard-print stilettos and matching leopard-print Lycra dress, which looked as if it had been spray painted on her ample frame. To compound this disastrous look, it was impossible not to notice that her brassy blonde head of hair featured a good two inches of blackish grey roots. She had possibly been good looking in her day, Ellen thought, but now she bore all the signs of a woman well and truly gone to seed.

‘Ireland, sure, that’s what I said,’ she replied, returning her attention to Bert.

‘This sure is a beautiful bus isn’t it Bert? I’ve never seen one like it, but I guess I’ve never taken a tour before. I tend to do more sophisticated vacations, exotic beach locations, that sort of thing. I just spent a month at a friend’s villa in the Caribbean. I sure do miss those Mojitos,’ she giggled with even more exaggerated batting of her eyelashes.

‘Yes, it really is quite something. It’s nice to be able to stretch out,’ Bert replied.

‘Oh I do love to
stretch
out too. Though you travelled first class, I noticed. I would have done also but this trip was a last minute decision and coach was all that was available. Still, now we’re here, we can stretch out together.’ Corlene flirted outrageously, running her red taloned hand along Bert’s arm.

Ellen caught Bert’s terrified glance and tried not to smile.

Dorothy Crane decided to do a headcount.

‘We seem to be missing someone,’ she said in an imperious tone.

The coach suddenly seemed to list to one side as all eyes were drawn to the enormous mountain of a man climbing on board, his face shining with perspiration, his green Hawaiian shirt sticking to his vast torso. He looked like he might be in his late fifties, Ellen thought, almost certainly of Irish origin. In his hair, which was short and greying, she could make out flecks of the original colour – unmistakeably red. He wore a sovereign ring on the little finger of his left hand.

‘Well you all just sit pretty here and leave the Paddies do the donkey work. Me and Conor here had some job getting your luggage into this little bus. But we got it done, didn’t we Conor?’ he said in a booming voice.

Conor climbed on board, looking mortified.

‘No problem at all folks,’ he said, wishing with all his heart that Patrick O’Neill of the Boston Police Department would mind his own business. If there was one thing worse than tourists’ ridiculously heavy suitcases, it was helpful but clueless tourists trying to assist the driver to load them on board. Conor had perfected his own system and he always preferred to be allowed to get on with it. Unfortunately, Patrick seemed determined to make friends with him. As he fired the bags into the boot in any old way at all, he told Conor his life story.

Conor had met so many Patricks in his career he could almost predict it before they started recounting it. In Patrick’s case, the salient details were: born in South Boston, a true “Southie”; raised by an alcoholic, violent father and a saintly mother, both of Irish origin; beneficiary of a Catholic education and a survivor of endless chastisement by two double-barrelled nuns, Sister Mary-Margaret and Sister Bridget-Bernadette; long-serving member of the Boston Police Department, where he had spent his career waging war against the organised crime perpetuated by erstwhile schoolmates, including the infamous Whitey Bulger, a neighbour’s child.

Irish-Americans like Patrick were Conor’s least favourite tourist. They often considered themselves superior to others on the trip because they were “Irish”. To most Irish people, these “Plastic Paddies”, as they were unflatteringly called, were no more Irish than the Dalai Lama, but they seemed to have a strong sense of belonging nonetheless. The problem, or so Conor thought, was that the culture they were looking for simply didn’t exist. Corned beef and cabbage is not the national dish and you would very rarely hear ‘Danny Boy’ or ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’ being sung at an Irish music session. It also seemed to be a mystery to these Irish Americans that most people in the Republic had a desire to find a peaceful settlement to the conflict in the North, and did not burn with resentment towards England. Most reasonable people wanted to see a permanent solution to the hostilities, where both sides can be reasonably accommodated.

Once he had everyone on board, Conor set off for the hotel, pointing out interesting landmarks to the group as they passed, and giving them their itinerary for the rest of the day. ‘After you’ve checked in, I’ll be leaving you to get over your jet lag, get your body clock onto Irish time. You can eat in the hotel this evening, but there are also plenty of nice pubs and restaurants in Ennis, a short distance away by taxi. We’ll be leaving tomorrow at 9.30am. In the meantime, you might like to make a note of my room number. It’s 409, so give me a call if you need anything.’

‘Well, Conor, I’m sure we’ll all be just fine, but it’s so nice to know we are in your
capable
hands,’ Corlene said breathlessly.

She virtually ignores all the women and fawns over the men, thought Conor, as they pulled in the gates of the hotel. Like Patrick, she was not unique. There was a perception that tours were full of wealthy old men and women so gold- diggers of both genders were not uncommon.

As he and Patrick unloaded the last of the suitcases, Conor leaned over and said quietly, ‘Thanks for all the help today Patrick, but you relax in the morning and enjoy your breakfast. I’ll get the porter lads here to help me load up. Sure they’ll be glad of the few extra bob.’

The look on Patrick’s face clearly indicated that he really would have preferred to lend a hand with loading the coach. On the other hand, it would be mean to begrudge the young lads the chance of making a bit of money.

Chapter 3

That evening, as Conor was coming back from the hotel pool, he saw Anastasia making her way down the corridor, looking distracted and more than a little pale and wan. He was practically beside her before she noticed him.

‘Oh so sorry Conor, I did not see. You are not working now?’

‘No, the group are on their own tonight, so I was a very good boy and did all my paperwork for the afternoon. I hate it, but it has to be done. I’m just back from a swim. How are you doing? You look very pale. Are you alright?’

‘Yes. Just bit tired. I finish now only. Mr Manner make me stay behind to clean windows. I tell him it crazy to make cleaning of windows in raining weather, but he say he is the boss and he decide. Is easier I think to do it,’ she sighed wearily, examining her chapped hands.

‘Ah, you poor thing. That seems a bit pointless right enough,’ said Conor, thinking quietly that this must have been Carlos’s way of punishing her for making the phone call in the dining room that morning.

‘Will I run you home, or have you got a lift?’

‘No, is OK. I have bicycle.’

‘It’s lashing rain, and there’s no way you can cycle to your place now. Come on. I’ll run you home. It’ll only take a few minutes. Have you heard anything more from your brother?’

Anastasia gave another sigh. ‘I spoke this evening with him and he said she was OK, but always people in her family always they have problem with the heart. I am still worried, I think my brother do not tell me all of the full story because he knows there is nothing I can do from Ireland. I think maybe my mother tell him to not say to me, so I will not worry. It is hard I think for mothers, they want the best thing for their children but also they want them to be close.’

Conor looked at the lines of worry etched on her face. ‘I know sure, my own mother had to manage without a man to support her, and she with me and my brother to rear and, even though it was tough, she always thanked God that we didn’t have to emigrate. So many boys and girls left Ireland over the years hoping to have a better future abroad. It’s a wonder we Irish don’t remember that particular fact when we’re dealing with all the new people arriving into this country now. People have short memories I think.’

‘So your brother and you just stayed here for all of your life? Does he drive buses too?’

Conor was taken aback by the question. He almost never referred to Gerry; in fact, very few people even knew had had a brother.

‘Em no, he’s in America. He did emigrate in the end, although he didn’t have to. My mother was dead by that time. He’s gone years,’ he said.

Quickly changing the subject, he added: ‘Are you whacked, or will we stop off for a quick drink on the way home?’ Anastasia looked confused,

‘Whacked? I don’t know what is this word, but I think I need a drink if you have time,’ she smiled. ‘Righty-ho so. The lady has spoken.’

Conor observed Anastasia from the bar as he waited for their drinks. She had changed out of her uniform and was now wearing faded Levi’s and a T-shirt with a smiley face. God, she looked so vulnerable and childlike sometimes, he thought.

As they sipped their drinks, Anastasia regaled him with stories of the dreadful Carlos and his stupid, new rules, the latest being that even if there were no guests within earshot, the staff were to communicate only in English with each other. Conor hid his annoyance and reminded her that she didn’t have to put up with harassment in the workplace.

‘People are mostly nice here,’ she replied, ‘but it is a bit frightening I think for local people when they see so many of us foreigners coming to Ireland at one time maybe. Is funny though, you know Betty who works in the laundry room?’

‘I do indeed. She’s a dote of a woman, washes my shirts for me every week though the boss doesn’t know anything about that, so keep it to yourself. She’s real old stock Betty, so she is. A heart of gold.’

‘Well, just yesterday, she said to me and Svetlana…remember I told you about her, she’s my flatmate from Lithuania. When we were on our break and having a sandwich, Betty come in and say to us that she now eats only Polish bread. She say she buy it in Polski Sklep, she even say Polish word for shop! Svetlana and me laugh so much at this. She is so nice. The Irish bread she say make her say things many times. I don’t know what she mean, but is funny to think an old Irish lady only eat Polish bread,’ she smiled.

Conor burst out laughing. ‘Did she say the bread repeats on her, by any chance?’

Anastasia looked at him blankly.

‘In Ireland, when we say some kind of food repeats on a person, it doesn’t mean they say things twice. It’s more that the food doesn’t make them feel too good. They get indigestion from it.’

Anastasia’s face lit up. ‘Ah yes! That is what she say. Ah, now it make sense. Svetlana and me don’t know what she say most times, but she is very kind to us. She made Svetlana a cake for her birthday, and we all had it on our tea break until Mr Manner come in staff room and say is against safety and health! Then later he tell me and Svetlana we must look better. Her hair is too long and my false eyelashes are health hazard.

‘I tell him my eyelash is real and not false at all but he don’t believe me. Everyone in my family have this long eyelash. I think he is a very mean man who is always grumpy and looking out for things to be wrong. Betty is only one who is not feared to be rude to him because she worked for many years in hotel and is friend of Mr McCarthy. She tell him we on a break and he cannot harass us or she will speak to union. I think Mr Manner a bit feared of Betty.’

Conor laughed. ‘Carlos better watch himself with Betty on your side right enough. In a fight, my money would be on Betty every time. And you’re right, I’m driving tours for twenty years and Betty has been in Dunshane for that long at least. She knows Tim McCarthy since he was a child and he has great time for Betty. When old Tadhg McCarthy set up the hotel back in the fifties, Betty got a job there. I think she’s the only member of the original staff still working there, so Mr Manner is right not to get in her way.’

Anastasia looked over at Conor. ‘I think he is little bit feared of you too Conor,’ she smiled.

‘Sure myself and Betty are the old guard. That hotel is more like home to me, I stay there so often. Don’t mind Carlos, he’s just trying to make his presence felt.’

‘Conor?’ Do you mind I ask you a question? Is kind of personal.’

‘Ask away.’

‘How old you are?’

‘Forty-six. I suppose to someone of only twenty-nine that’s ancient.’

‘No, I think you don’t look that much. But why do you live in hotel, and have no home or wife or children? You are such a nice man and so kind, I wonder why you live such a life alone.’

Conor put down his drink and turned to face her. ‘What brought this on?’

‘I am sorry. It is not my business at all. I just was thinking about it and …Conor I am sorry, I should not ask you about your life. It’s just that…’

Conor smiled, ‘It’s just what?’ ‘Nothing. Is nothing.’

She looked embarrassed to have crossed the boundary of their friendship.

‘Well Anastasia, to answer your question, I live in a hotel because I have no interest in going home. I do own a house, but it is just that, bricks and mortar. I work tours back to back because it’s what I want to do. I take myself off during the winter months to Spain, where I own a small apartment, and I do crosswords and play a bit of golf. I don’t have a wife because…’ Taking a deep breath he added, ‘because that side of things never really worked out for me. I’ve had a few relationships over the years, but nothing too serious. I’m happy enough with my life. I have great friends, I love my job and I’ve enough money to do what I want to do. Sometimes sure, I look at people playing with their kids in the park or pushing them on a swing and wish I had that, but it wasn’t meant to be. Does that answer your question?’