The Tour

by Jean Grainger

  ‘Y’know Cynthia, our group is staying here again tomorrow night and we’re supposed to visit a fort tomorrow, but I’d be happy to skip the tour and come and help you sort out your uncle’s house if that would help? It doesn’t seem right you having to do it all on your own. And you know I’m a member of the Boston Police Department, so you’re quite safe.’

  Patrick wasn’t quite sure what he was doing but he knew he really wanted to spend some more time with this bizarre but compelling woman.

  ‘Well Patrick that is really extraordinarily kind of you. If you’re sure I wouldn't be imposing on your holiday, I’d be delighted with the help. Though I hope you aren’t squeamish. It is in rather a state.’

  ‘After thirty years in the Boston PD I think I’ve seen it all.’

  As he walked Cynthia back to her very dirty and battered Volvo station wagon, they shook hands and arranged to meet the following morning.

  Chapter 7

  Juliet Steele was unpacking her bag and taking in her surroundings when Dorothy’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘It says here that you can avail of an early bird special in The Fishmarket Restaurant if you order before six-thirty. I have booked us a table for six-fifteen.’

  Juliet groaned inwardly; they had only eaten lunch at three and she wasn’t remotely hungry. On the other hand, she knew better than to argue with Dorothy when she was in money-saving mode, which was all of the time. Juliet thought she had never met such a penny pincher as Dorothy in her entire life. She would have much preferred to wait until eight o’clock and have something small in one of the local pubs, and maybe absorb some of the atmosphere of this charming seaside town. The prospect of an empty hotel dining room with only the sound of a ticking clock to break the silence filled her with dread.

  She thought again, how much Larry would have enjoyed being here in Ireland. Being from landlocked Iowa, the ocean fascinated him. What she wouldn’t do right now just to be able to sit on the terrace of one of the local hotels overlooking the harbour, order a glass of wine and have a leisurely chat with her dear late husband. She had never admitted to anyone that she spoke to Larry every day, in case they thought she was crazy.

  Suddenly, a new sensation washed over Juliet, and she heard herself say, ‘Actually Dorothy, I’m not really hungry. I think I’ll pass on dinner if you don’t mind. I might just go for a walk to stretch my legs after that long bus ride today. I’ll see you later.’

  Her heart was pounding as she reached for her jacket, but she made the fatal mistake of making eye contact with her travelling companion.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous Juliet,’ Dorothy said with weary disdain, ‘you can’t just go wandering off on your own. Anyway, Ireland is a very expensive country. If we don’t eat here and avail of the special offer, we will probably be ripped off in some fancy spot up the street.’

  Reluctantly, Juliet placed her jacket on the bed. ‘I’m sure you’re right Dorothy.’

  ‘Well then, let’s go down now. And remember, we must stock up at all the included meals, take anything portable, so that we can have snacks in the evenings, when meals are not included. That way we can eat in the room and we won’t overspend,’ she said emphatically.

  As they took their seats in the empty dining room, a waiter approached with the wine list. ‘Good evening ladies. Can I get you a drink while you browse the menu?’

  ‘Em yes pl…’ said Juliet.

  ‘No thank you, just a jug of water please, not mineral water now, tap water is fine,’ Dorothy dismissed the young man peremptorily.

  ‘You didn't want a drink did you? It’s probably plonk sold at Grand Reserve prices anyway. Better stick with the water. Oh look, they do a starter platter for two, let’s order that.’

  Juliet looked at the menu. The starter platter was all shellfish, which she didn't like, but well since she wasn’t hungry anyway, what the …

  The dinner progressed with the two women eating in silence, the only interjections coming from Dorothy who criticised the hotel, the staff, the bus, Conor, generally finding fault with just about everything. This latest stream of complaints grated on Juliet even more than usual. Fortunately, no one else could hear them, so at least she was spared that embarrassment.

  While Dorothy rattled on, Juliet recalled one of her friends from church telling her a story about how Dorothy had managed to wangle a free holiday by way of compensation for the litany of complaints she had lodged with one particular tour operator. Juliet wished she had to nerve to stand up to Dorothy and be allowed to do her own thing, but the prospect of confronting her speaking her mind was just too daunting. She knew that at the first sign of conflict she would dissolve into floods of tears.

  En route to the room after their dreary dinner, Juliet gave herself a pep talk. Come on Juliet, you’re a grown woman and she is not in charge. Just be assertive. As Dorothy was putting the key in the door – Juliet was never allowed to take the key in case she lost it – she heard herself say, ‘I’m just going downstairs for a little while Dorothy, I need some fresh air.’ Before Dorothy could object, she took off down the corridor, all the while fighting the urge to giggle at her audacity. I don’t know what’s got into you, she said to herself delightedly. Deciding to make the most of her temporary freedom, she headed to the hotel bar and ordered a glass of wine. Glancing across the bar, she spotted Conor sipping a coffee, frowning slightly as he concentrated on a newspaper crossword. She didn’t know whether she should interrupt him or not. Maybe he was trying to unwind; on the other hand, she didn’t want to appear rude.

  ‘Hi Conor, I won’t disturb you but I just wanted to say how much I’m enjoying your commentary on the coach. It’s really interesting, all the history and everything. I don’t know how you manage to remember it all.’

  Conor looked up from his paper, ‘Ah Juliet! No Dorothy with you I see?’

  Conor had seen women caught up in this type arrangement many times before. As ever, he was mystified as to why a nice woman like Juliet would be friends with such an old battle-axe as that Dorothy one. But, as he reminded himself, his job was to drive the coach and keep them happy, not enquire too deeply about what was going on.

  ‘Em no… She…she’s in the room. I just came out for a walk and thought I might just have one glass of wine since I’m on vacation…’ Juliet’s voice trailed off.

  Conor smiled. ‘Of course you did. You are in Ireland after all. Do you want to join me or would you rather some peace and quiet? I won’t be insulted if you want to be on your own?’

  ‘Well if you’re sure you don’t mind I would be happy to join you.’

  ‘So, have you and Dorothy been friends for long?’

  ‘Well, yes and no I suppose. I know her through our church, and when my husband died, she suggested that we take a trip together. And so, I guess, here we are.’

  ‘You must get on great so, to say ye went on holidays together,’ Conor prompted.

  He was intrigued by this woman who, when away from her companion, wasn’t nearly as mousy as he had originally thought.

  Juliet smiled sardonically.

  ‘I guess so. Though to be honest, I sometimes wonder what, if anything, we have in common. Dorothy is very well travelled and well read. She’s actually a university professor in some kind of science, but to be honest I’m not sure exactly what. So, she’s kind of hard to please I guess. She’s very definite about what she does and doesn’t want, and usually gets her own way in the end. I tend to go with the flow a bit more.’

  Conor considered the various aspects of Juliet’s predicament.

  ‘Well Juliet, I’ll tell you something I’ve observed in my amateur studies of human behaviour, well …on my coach tours anyhow, for the past twenty years. You can please some of the people some of the time, but not all of the people all of the time. To my mind, people decide either they are going to have a great time or a miserable time and there’s very little anyone can do to change it once they have decided on that. I hope you d
ecide you are going to have a great time, and that you don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks.’

  Juliet smiled.

  ‘Do you know Conor, I think you’re right. That’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ she said with a grin.

  For the next hour, a very pleasant hour, they spent the time talking about Larry and about her life in Des Moines. She told him she was thinking of buying a condo in Florida, about her life as a librarian. Conor was so easy to talk to, she even confessed to him about her daily chats with Larry.

  ‘I guess you get all kind of fruitcakes on these trips, so one who talks to a dead guy every day isn’t all that amazing.’

  Conor smiled. ‘Do you know something Juliet? I think you are a very lucky woman to have known such happiness as you had with your husband all those years. I do believe we go somewhere when we die, and that we’ll all meet again, so why shouldn’t you keep in touch with Larry? He’s probably looking down at you right now, hoping you have a great holiday, that you splash out on a nice steak and a bottle of wine tomorrow night, and that you forget about having anything to do with the tap water and the early bird seafood platter.’

  Juliet felt guilty revealing all that stuff about Dorothy, but it felt good to let off some steam. Somehow, she knew that Conor O’Shea was the soul of discretion. She finished her third glass of wine and stood up.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely chat, Conor. I really enjoyed talking to you.’

  ‘And I enjoyed talking to you too. See you in the morning Juliet. Codhladh Sámh.’ Noting her confused expression, he said, ‘It’s the Irish for goodnight. It means I wish you a peaceful sleep.’

  ‘Well, Colla sawve to you too,’ she replied, and went back to face the wrath of Dorothy Crane with a lighter heart – the first time she had felt light-hearted since she left Des Moines the previous week.

  Chapter 8

  After the informative tour of Charles Fort the following morning, the group sat outside a café taking in the spectacular harbour view. Bert was entertaining the group with stories of the funeral party he had stumbled across the night before.

  ‘I walked up to the bar and this real old-timer was sitting there, just a few teeth you know? And he asked me where I was from. I guessed the guy was a little deaf, so I said loudly, “I’m from Texas, in the United States of America.” I tell you this guy looked like he hadn’t moved off that stool in fifty years. Then he said, “Well, I only was in Texas once, but I spent four years in Butte, Montana and my brother lives in Chittenango, Nebraska.” You could have knocked me down with a feather. I was trying to find out more about him, why he went there and why he came back to Ireland, but no way, he wasn’t one for sharing! He wanted to know what I had for breakfast but I didn’t even manage to find out his name! Man, that was some party. I think when I die, this is the right place to have a funeral shindig. You know what they told me? The only difference between an Irish funeral and an Irish wedding is that there’s one less drunk.’ The group laughed at Bert’s story.

  ‘Of course, the Irish have always had a weakness for alcohol. It’s probably due to an innate inability to face reality,’ Dorothy interjected.

  Conor noted the embarrassed looks on the faces of the other group members at this obvious slight against his compatriots.

  Quick as a flash, he piped up: ‘Do you know why God invented whiskey?’

  There was relief on the faces around the table as he was obviously going to save the situation.

  ‘I have a feeling you’re gonna tell us Conor,’ laughed Bert.

  ‘Well,’ Conor replied, ‘they say that the good Lord invented whiskey to stop the Irish taking over the world.’

  There was laughter all around the table and Dorothy’s withering remark was instantly forgotten. The skinny latte that Anna Heller had bought for her husband sat cooling on the table. He had walked away to take a call on his mobile phone twenty minutes earlier in the middle of the fort tour and had not reappeared since. Anna tried not to look like anything was amiss, but she was acutely aware of how anti- social her husband was being. Ellen, who was seated on her right, sensed this and said, ‘So, Anna, what did you and Elliot get up to last night?’

  ‘Oh we…em…we went for a meal with some business associates of Elliot’s. He’s looking at some investments over here so it was…’ her voice trailed off.

  Dylan addressed the group for the first time. They gazed at him, looking a bit surprised that he had decided to involve himself in the conversation. Bert couldn’t be exactly sure, but he thought Dylan was wearing lipstick, which was a mystery to him, as he had remarked to Ellen earlier. Ellen had replied that she wasn’t remotely shocked by Dylan’s appearance. She had seen many students over the years experimenting with a variety of different images; it was all part of growing up.

  ‘I went to a gig,’ Dylan said quietly. No one responded to this conversational offering. Ellen noticed colour beginning to creep up the young boy’s neck, so she asked, ‘What kind of music was it?’

  The group looked even more bemused at the notion of this strange young man discussing music with an elderly lady.

  ‘Irish music, like traditional kinda stuff,’ he replied, grateful that someone in this group seemed capable of having a normal discussion. ‘I heard these guys playing music in a church yesterday, when you were all at that castle place, and so I just got talking to them.’

  The group exchanged looks, as if the idea of Dylan spontaneously starting a conversation with anyone was unlikely to say the least. Ellen smiled encouragingly at the boy, so he continued, ‘They said they were playing a session last night in a bar down town, so they said I could come along. A session is what they call it when a bunch of musicians just all show up to the same bar at the same time and just start playing. It was awesome!’ His eyes shone with enthusiasm, ‘There is this thing like a bagpipe but it’s not and it makes the most incredible sound, like I dunno, I can’t describe it.’

  He suddenly became aware that everyone at the table was looking at him and he stopped talking, embarrassed once again.

  ‘Were they uilleann pipes I wonder?’ asked Conor ‘Was the fella squeezing them with one arm and covering holes on the pipes with his fingers?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dylan replied, but much quieter this time, ‘that’s it…that’s the name. There were some other guys playing violins and guitars too.’

  ‘Lord save us Dylan, don’t leave the fella with the violin hear you…in this country that’s called a fiddle.’

  ‘Oh OK, I’ll try to remember that,’ Dylan replied, smiling for the first time since the conversation had begun.

  ‘My son is a very talented musician,’ Corlene announced to the table. ‘I mean to say, he would have to be, my whole family is very creative. My niece won the beautiful baby contest at our state fair three years running. I myself, of course, am no stranger to the catwalks either…,’ she smiled coquettishly at Bert. ‘I have done some photo shoots as well. Swimwear, lingerie, that sort of thing…if anyone wants to see them I could bring them on the coach tomorrow…the photos I mean… not the lingerie hahahahahahaha,’ she finished raucously.

  The faces regarding her display were a mixture of disapproval and horror. Some of them gave their coffee their undivided attention to avoid looking at the long false eyelash that had escaped from her overly made-up eyes. It had already slipped half way down one cheek and looked set to progress even further.

  ‘So Conor,’ said Ellen, anxious to distract them all from the disaster, ‘Are you from around here?’

  ‘I am actually Ellen,’ Conor replied. ‘I was born here in County Cork, about twenty miles from Kinsale.’

  ‘And do you get home much?’ she went on.

  ‘Not much during the season, to be honest. I work tours back to back from around March to November.’

  ‘And is there a Mrs Conor?’ Patrick asked with a wink. Conor smiled. ‘Tis easy knowing you’re a cop Patrick!

  But to answer your question, no, I’m not married.’ />
  Corlene cast another lingering glance at Conor. He was very attractive, she thought, no doubt about that. He obviously worked out and his colouring didn’t look Irish. His particular combination of tanned skin, blue eyes, shock of silver hair and tall, muscular frame made him quite unusual looking and he attracted attention. She was a keen people watcher and had registered that he never seemed to notice the admiring glances he received, especially from women. He was a bit on the young side though, plus he was only a bus driver, so he wouldn’t make enough to keep her. With regret, she dismissed the idea of a potential conquest.

  Conor arranged for them all to meet for dinner that evening in the hotel. In the meantime, as he had a few hours to himself, he drove to the town of Passage West. While manoeuvring the coach down the main street, he was hit with that a familiar feeling of wanting to get out of there as fast as he could.

  The village consisted of one street, which split in two around a public square. On a hill, overlooking the town sat a Catholic Church with a Protestant one tucked behind it. The defunct St Mary’s girl’s primary school, with boarded up windows dominated the main street. It had been replaced by a newer, more modern building outside the town. There was one small shop, a children’s playground and five pubs. Although he had grown up there, it didn’t feel like home to him. His father, Jamsie, like many of his generation, had left to find work in England just before Conor’s eighth birthday. From that day on, he never returned once to visit his wife and two young sons. Conor had heard rumours years ago that his father had remarried in Dagenham, and had a family there, but the gossip never really affected him. At the age of eight and a bit, he assumed the role of man of the house. His mother, Lily, was a quiet kind of woman, slight and dark, good looking in an understated way. Everyone said his brother Gerry was the image of his mother, whereas Conor was tall and broad with reddish brown hair, just like his father.