The Tour

by Jean Grainger

  As the afternoon wore on, Patrick found himself telling Cynthia about his life, his numerous shortcomings and about the offer he had been made by the Boston PD. She, in turn, told him about the man she had once loved, who it turned out was married all along and everyone knew it except her. How she was the pity of her family and friends for years afterwards, and how after that experience, she wasn’t overly inclined to go down the relationship road again.

  As the sun set on the courtyard of Fota House, Cynthia and Patrick both speculated on the fact that it had been a long time since either of them had spoken to anyone so honestly or in such detail about their lives, their hopes or their expectations.

  Chapter 18

  Conor eased the coach out of the hotel car park with Ellen and Bert as his only passengers.

  ‘All in a day’s work, eh Conor?’

  ‘Sure I love this,’ Conor replied. ‘It breaks things up a bit and anyway I’m very interested in genealogy. The trouble with all this family tree research is that a lot of it is down to luck. I have known people over the years who have nearly bankrupted themselves trying to find their people. And I’ve known others who, with very little time or effort, strike it lucky and find out a huge amount. It doesn’t seem fair when that happens but it’s how it is.’

  ‘I guess we Americans must seem a bit crazy to you, obsessing about people we have never even met,’ Ellen said.

  ‘No, I can’t say I ever felt like that about it. I think every person needs to know where they came from, and that need gets stronger as we get older. I think when we’re young we never think of dying or the generations before or after us, but that changes as life goes on, and we all realise we are part of something bigger. Here in Ireland we’re lucky. We take our heritage for granted. Most people can easily go back at least two or three generations, but I can’t imagine what it would feel like not to know, not to have any inkling of what your grandparents or great-grandparents were like. Maybe not even know their names. So no, I don’t think it’s mad at all. In fact, what I can’t understand is why so many people don’t want to know. I’m amazed all 44 million Americans who claim to be of Irish descent don’t come back here desperate to find out where they originated from!’

  ‘Well my story is something I’ve been thinking about for a long time,’ said Ellen slowly. ‘I always wanted to come back but my father never showed any interest in returning, so I suppose I took my lead from him. I think, like a lot of Irishmen, he wasn’t too comfortable talking about his feelings,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Well, I don’t think that’s just a problem with Irishmen,’ Bert joked. ‘My wife regularly used to tell me that she got more emotional talk from our old skinny cat than she did from me. Maybe it’s something to do with working on the land. It’s a kinda quiet job, so you don’t get too good at all that jibber-jabber talk. Most American men are not like Doctor Phil you know.’

  All three of them laughed.

  Around noon, they stopped for a break near Glengarriff As they sat and chatted over coffee and walnut cake, Ellen thought Conor seemed quite distracted, constantly checking his BlackBerry, something she’d never see him do before.

  ‘Conor, I don’t mean to pry, but if there’s something you need to do or deal with, please don’t let us stop you. I really hope I haven’t put you out by dragging you away today.’

  Conor shook his head, ‘Ah no Ellen, it’s nothing like that. I’m sorry, I know I’m like a teenager today, glued to the phone.’ He decided to do something he rarely did, on the basis that Ellen and Bert seemed like very genuine people and maybe they could advise him.

  ‘I just have a bit of a situation going on and I’m not too sure how to deal with it.’

  ‘Well between myself and Bert here, we have a combined age of about two hundred years, so we might be able to help if you want to tell us.’ Ellen said encouragingly.

  ‘The thing is I’m in the middle of a bit of a dilemma at the moment,’ Conor said. ‘You see there’s this woman…well anyway she and I were friends years ago, and I really thought back then that it might have turned into something. But anyway it didn’t. I think she knew how I felt about her but she was dazzled by my younger brother, Gerry. I can’t blame her. All the girls were mad about Gerry.’

  He paused, sipped his coffee as the atmosphere filled with a slight tension. Ellen wondered what kind of girl would turn down the very handsome and also kind and charming Conor. Bert was wondering what revelation was coming next.

  ‘Anyway they took off for the States, and I stayed. I never said anything to her or to anyone else. I thought maybe she would be good for Gerry, settle him down a bit. My father left us when we were kids and my mother died when he was twelve and I was fifteen. So, I kind of took over the rearing of him. He was always too restless and he got into trouble a lot. I might as well be honest, it broke my heart to let her go, and I nearly said something, but in the end she made her choice. The thing is, she got back in touch the other day, and she wants to meet up with me again. She has a child now, well he’s a teenager, and she has cancer herself, and I’m all she has in the world it seems. I did write a few times over the years but they never replied so it’s all news to me now. I just got this email from her a few minutes ago.’

  Conor handed his phone to Ellen who read,

  Hi Conor,

  It’s so great to talk to you again. It feels like nothing has changed really does it? I could always tell you anything. I remember that about you. I wonder what you look like now, I’m a bit scared about you seeing me to be honest. This bloody cancer is playing havoc with my looks J. Seriously though, it’s such a relief to me to know that Conor Jnr will have someone when I’m gone. I’m so looking forward to reconnecting as they say here. I hope I won’t sound like one of those returned Yanks! Remember that guy who used to come back to Passage West when we were kids and how we laughed at him with his faucets and highways? Anyway I’ll be arriving next Friday into Shannon and I was thinking I could check into the hotel you stay at? I can’t wait to see you,

  All my love xx

  Bert observed Conor as Ellen questioned him about the woman. He had seen him leave the hotel in Clare a few nights earlier with another young woman and it looked to him like they were a couple. The way the young woman looked up at him seemed to indicate it was definitely more than a friendship. So, he was surprised to hear about this new woman. Conor struck him as a very honest guy who wouldn’t mess people around. He hoped this woman from that past wasn’t trying to take advantage of his kind nature.

  ‘But why now? Do you think she wants you to take over rearing her son? That’s a big ask from someone you haven’t seen for twenty years’ Ellen observed.

  ‘That’s the thing Ellen. I don’t know. Maybe she has become too sick to take care for him, or for herself. Or maybe she just has had enough of waiting for Gerry to turn up and has just decided to come home.’

  ‘Do you think she is coming back for you?’ Ellen asked him pointedly.

  Conor winced. He wasn’t used to answering such questions about his personal life.

  ‘That is something else I don’t know,’ he admitted ruefully.

  ‘It’s not my business I know,’ interjected Bert, ‘but I happened to see you the other night with a woman leaving the hotel. I assumed you and she were together? Where does she fit into all of this?’

  ‘Ah no, that’s just Anastasia. She’s my friend. In fact, she’s the only other person I’ve talked to about this whole thing.’

  ‘And what does she think?’ asked Ellen

  ‘She didn’t know what I should do either. Though she has been kind of strange lately anyway. I think she might have relationship troubles of her own,’ Conor sighed. ‘I’m grand at fixing other people’s problems, but not so great when it comes to fixing my own.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ellen quietly, ‘for what it’s worth I think you should tread very carefully with Sinead. I don’t know her of course, but she did let you down once before, and in my
experience people rarely change.’

  ‘Ah Ellen, maybe you’re right but it wasn’t really like that. I mean if you met my brother you’d understand. Anyway enough about me. I’m sure it will all work out, it always does. Now, let’s get you going on your adventure shall we?’

  As Conor turned the key in the ignition he said, ‘I think the best place to start is in the village of Inchigeela and see if we can locate the exact house, that is, assuming of course, it still exists. You say your father had two brothers, one older and one younger who stayed in Ireland, so there’s is a good chance that one or both of them may have stayed in the Inchigeela area and may even have family there. The brothers on your mother’s side are worth checking too. Let’s just go there and see what we can turn up.’

  Ellen smiled. ‘My father was born in 1898. Even the great genes of the O’Donovan’s didn’t last beyond a century. In fact, my grandmother died soon after he left and my grandfather died some time during the Second World War, as I recall. My father’s younger brother, Sean, wrote to tell us.’

  ‘Did your uncle tell you anything else about the family in those letters?’ asked Bert.

  ‘Not really. He married and had children. There was a photo. Remember those old square ones with the scalloped edges? Well, we got one of those in a Christmas card one year and I think the people in the photograph may have been Sean’s family. He would have been born around 1913. He was just a child when we left, so roughly thirteen years younger than my father, maybe even more. He became a schoolteacher, and I think that’s perhaps why he was better at writing letters than anyone else in the family. I’m not even sure my grandfather could read and write. My father’s oldest brother, Michael, worked the family farm, but I don’t think he ever got in touch, or at least if he did, those letters don’t exist today…’

  Ellen’s voice trailed off as she lapsed into a reverie about all the questions she wished she had asked her father before he died.

  ‘Can you remember when that photo arrived?’ Conor asked. ‘You see, if we knew, or if we could guess, the ages of his children then we might be able to find some birth records in the parish record books. But you would need a rough idea of the date to look under. Otherwise, it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.’

  Ellen paused and tried to remember

  ‘Well, the date on the back of the photo is 1942,’ she said, drawing the photograph out of her handbag.

  Bert leaned over. ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Sure,’ she replied, handing it to him. ‘The funny thing about it is I think one of the girls in that picture looks just like a picture my Dad took of me when I was that age.’

  ‘Have you any clue why they lost touch?’ Bert asked. ‘A dispute of some kind maybe?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t think so. My Dad just wasn’t much for writing letters. Even when I moved away from home, I only got the occasional postcard from him. I don’t think anything happened between him and Sean, just that he was never that good at staying in touch and I guess Sean died and that was that. I know everyone says this, but I wish I could turn back the clock and just ask my Dad so many things about Ireland, and what happened here all those years ago. I don’t know what it is I expect to find in the village of Inchigeela. All I know is that I’ve wanted to go there for so many years…you are both so kind. I mean, this is probably a wild goose chase.’

  As they saw a signpost for Macroom, Ellen recalled her father mentioning the town on one of the rare occasions that he spoke about his life in Ireland.

  ‘It was here that he got a job in a big store, I think. He said there was a big army barracks here?’ She struggled with her memory.

  ‘Well,’ Conor offered, ‘this is where the Crown forces would have had their headquarters. And I suppose any IRA activity in the surrounding townlands would have been monitored from here. It seems hard to imagine now, but Ireland in the 1920s was a dangerous, violent place. People were living in fear of the British, especially the Black and Tans and the Auxies, as they were called.’

  Ellen nodded in agreement, but Bert looked confused. ‘Y’see Bert,’ Conor explained ‘by that time, around 1920, the War of Independence was in full flow and the British forces here were stretched to breaking point. That and the First World War nearly finished them, so they had to recruit men specifically in order to keep on top of things over here. The people had no love for the regular British soldiers, there’s no doubt about that. At least they had a kind of code of behaviour and, for the most part, they observed that code. But the Tans and the Auxies, well they were a different story altogether. A law unto themselves. Most of them were recruited from demobbed ranks after the First World War. A fair share of them were so damaged by what they had witnessed – or had been involved in – over there that they were never right in the head again. Half mad a lot of them. Heavy drinkers and very unpredictable. People were really scared of them because it seemed they just did anything they felt like.’

  ‘Tough times then,’ Bert interjected. ‘Tell me Conor, why were they called Black and Tans and Auxies and not just British soldiers?’

  ‘Well, I suppose they were different to the ordinary Tommies who were just part of the regular army. It seems there was no love lost between the army and the Tans, that’s for sure. The British Officers generally had control over their men. So, for the local people, if you kept your head down, and you didn’t cause any trouble, they left you alone. But the Auxies and the Tans could just pick a fella off the street or in a pub and rough him up for no reason. You never knew where you stood with them. The Black and Tans were called that because they had a kind of mismatched uniform, not a proper kit at all, bits of police and army and whatever else was going spare.’

  Conor paused for a few seconds, wondering whether his impromptu history lesson was sufficiently impartial. He was always wary of presenting the case of Irish history with too much of a republican slant. Deciding his account was objective, he continued.

  ‘The word Auxie is short for Auxiliary and they were different kettle of fish altogether from the Tans. They were a highly trained force of commissioned officers who had all seen significant action in the First World War. They were considered an elite kind of a force. They arrived in July 1920 and their job was to deal with the growing support for the IRA. They occupied the barracks in Macroom Castle. The Auxies and the Tans between them terrorised the local population, especially with their arbitrary reprisals for any subversive activities. Their idea was to scare people into denouncing the IRA by burning houses, carrying out beatings and even killings. Only a week before the famous ambush at Kilmichael, they opened fire on a crowd at a Dublin - Tipperary football match in Croke Park in Dublin, killing fourteen civilians, one of them a player on the pitch. The leadership of the IRA in West Cork felt that people were losing heart for the fight because the IRA hadn’t made any significant strike against these Auxies, no matter what atrocities they had committed. Since open combat was never going to be effective against them, it was decided that a series of ambushes on British troops as they moved around the countryside would have the best chance of success, to raise the profile of the IRA and give people hope.’

  Ellen was familiar with the history but Bert was fascinated, hanging on Conor’s every word. The history of this island was becoming more and more real to him – all the more so because today they found themselves travelling the very same roads that many of the people Conor was describing had done eighty years earlier.

  Chapter 19

  Ellen and Bert sat outside the petrol station while Conor made enquiries about directions. Bert leaned over and squeezed her hand.

  ‘How you doing?’

  ‘I don’t really know, it’s sort of strange, realising your dreams. I don’t know what to expect. I really don’t.’

  Climbing into the driver’s seat, Conor announced: ‘We’re on the right track anyhow. The girl in the shop is only a young one, but she said that there’s a man living up the road here, a local historian, a
nd he might be able to help us.’

  He turned to face Ellen, ‘Are you ready?’ ‘As I’ll ever be’ she replied

  The house they were directed to was a modern bungalow with manicured lawns. The door was answered by a woman Conor judged to be in her fifties.

  ‘Oh hello,’ Conor began. ‘I wonder would Eamonn be around at all?’

  She hesitated, eyeing Conor a bit suspiciously. He noticed her glancing at the coach – no doubt making a mental note of the registration and wondering why this stranger needed to speak to Eamonn. Conor could feel her discomfort and thought he had better elaborate. ‘You see the girl in the shop told us he was a local historian and that he might be able to help us. Myself and my two American friends there are trying to find out about a family who lived around here, and we thought maybe Eamonn could help.’

  ‘Come in let ye for a minute,’ said the woman, visibly relieved now that she knew the purpose of the visit. ‘He’s up the yard at the moment, but I can give him a ring. She ushered the three of them into a sitting room featuring an array of photographs ranged across two walls. Among the pictures of weddings, graduations, children and babies three poster-sized framed photographs stood out: a triumvirate of Pope John Paul II, President John F. Kennedy and General Michael Collins. As the woman disappeared to phone her husband, Bert whispered, ‘Hey, I guess I’ve seen it all now. An enormous photograph of an American president in the living room of a house, up the side of a mountain in Ireland. Why do they have him on their wall do you think?’

  Both Conor and Ellen smiled.

  ‘Well Bert,’ Conor answered, ‘there are only a few people who make it into the Hall of Fame in certain Irish women’s living rooms. Jack Kennedy was a great favourite of the Irish, and he was well-loved here. He visited Ireland just before he was assassinated and he’s always remembered in this country with great fondness, especially by the ladies it must be said.’