The Tour

by Jean Grainger

  Patrick had never previously understood why women wanted to call sex making love, but now he completely understood. He also knew he had finally come home in every sense of the word. He decided to tender his resignation that very day and, apart from a quick trip back to Boston to sell his apartment and tie up some loose ends, he was moving to Ireland.

  They would get married here and live out their days together in this beautiful place, his homeland. Cynthia had told him that she had inherited her late uncle’s house, so maybe they could fix it up and live here? His pension would be enough to allow them to live comfortably, and maybe they could invest the money from the sale of his apartment in her horse breeding business. Cynthia certainly seemed to know what she was about in that department, and Patrick was excited at the thought of learning something completely new.

  Never in a million years had he envisaged anything like this happening. The way he had imagined Ireland had been all wrong. He found no kindred political spirits, no sense of outrage at the years of British oppression. Instead, he had found something profoundly better. For many years, he had harboured hopes of meeting someone, settling down and all that, but as the decades passed, such a possibility seemed less and less likely. He never knew why exactly, and he just accepted that he was just not the kind of guy women wanted.

  Sitting with Cynthia in the courtyard café yesterday, he felt like he was living a whole lifetime in one day. They had talked about work, friends, God, crime and punishment, Irishness and anything else that occurred to them. Never before had he felt so uninhibited with anyone. Sure, everyone saw Patrick as the big loud Irish-American, but underneath all the bluster he knew he was a shy man, especially when it came to the opposite sex. He had been burned in the past and his self-confidence in relation to matters romantic was zero. His sexual experiences had been a catalogue of disasters. He recalled some truly horrendous dates that had ended in embarrassment, with women saying not to worry, it was common, it happened to lots of guys. But Patrick knew they didn’t mean it and that he wouldn’t be hearing from them again. He got so nervous he just couldn’t perform and most women took it personally. The result was he avoided the entire sex thing altogether. That was the thing about Cynthia though; it’s as if she wasn’t a woman, well obviously she was a woman, but she wasn’t like any other woman he had ever met before. He could talk to her. As the afternoon turned to evening she fixed him with a stare.

  ‘Must you go back to the tour tonight?’

  Patrick didn’t dare think what he half hoped and half dreaded she was suggesting.

  ‘I’m on vacation,’ he smiled ‘I can do what I want.’

  With that she seemed to take a deep breath and said: ‘I hope you won’t imagine me forward, Patrick my dear. I’m afraid I’ve rather lost the touch of wooing, as it were. Not sure I ever had it actually. How and ever, I want to say this. I have never met anyone like you, and although I only know you a very short time, I feel, well, rather taken with you actually. Normally, I don’t speak like this. Well, normally, I don’t meet anyone with whom I feel any desire to speak like this. But what I am trying, albeit rather clumsily, to say is that, I like you Patrick, quite a bit in fact, and I don’t want you to walk out of my life now, just when we are getting to know each other. So, perhaps, do you think you could, or would like to… possibly… stay? Here? Well not exactly here in this café, but here in Ireland. With me. For a while or…?’

  Patrick’s life suddenly, for the first time in fifty-six years made sense. He knew why he had been put on this earth. Never before in his dealings with women had he been confident to take the initiative, but this was different. He stood up and took Cynthia’s hand and led her over to the sunny side of the old house. As they walked, he slipped his sovereign ring off his little finger and put it in his pocket. Then he stopped, and looking deep into Cynthia’s eyes, he said:

  ‘Cynthia, I don’t know what’s happened to me, but today is the best day of my life so far, bar none. You think you’re bad at this romantic stuff? Well, let me tell you, I am a whole lot worse. I have never managed to keep a relationship going longer that three dates, but with you it feels so different. I don’t know what you are talking about most of the time, and you kinda mystify me, but I know one thing. I love you, and now that I know you I can’t ever imagine being away from you, even for a second.

  ‘I always thought that this love at first sight was a crazy thing made up by people who wrote dime store novels and schmaltzy movies but it’s not. It’s happening to me, and to you too I hope. So, I can’t think of any reason why we should waste one more second of this life apart. I don’t have much, but what I have is yours. You are beautiful, amazing, funny and kinda crazy and I love you so much I can’t even tell you.’

  He held her hand and dropped onto one knee. Taking his ring from his pocket he said ‘Cynthia, will you marry me?’

  Cynthia’s eyes filled with tears and, as she put on the huge ring on her finger, she said, ‘Yes I will. Right now if possible.’

  There have been many great kisses in history but everyone who stood in the courtyard that day and cheered for the happy couple was sure that Patrick and Cynthia’s embrace was the most passionate they had ever seen.

  They left the café, having drunk the bottle of champagne that Charlie had insisted on opening, and they headed for Cynthia’s uncle’s house near Kinsale. As they walked into the large, dusty hallway, an ominous scurrying could be heard as the rodent population made way for the guests.

  Cynthia put her arms around Patrick’s waist and looked him in the eye, which she could easily do, as she was almost as tall as him.

  ‘Patrick, is this really happening? I am having to pinch myself to believe it. You see, I invited you here but… I must admit to you now that I didn’t really have a plan when I did. The thing is you see that I…’ Cynthia blushed a deep red.

  ‘I suppose one had better be honest…I did have a rather misguided affair many years ago as I told you, but it was never well…properly…consummated as it were. I have never been with well...a man... before. Well, I mean I have been with men, in their company as it were, but not in the…in the sort of…well…bed sense…if you understand me and so I am not sure what …if indeed anything…one is actually supposed to do… oh Lord, you must think me ridiculous,’ she finished in a state of acute embarrassment.

  Patrick for the first time in his life felt no anxiety. ‘Cynthia sweetheart, I am so honoured that you would consider me at all. Let me tell you something. I’ve spent the past forty years or so terrified of girls. I was scared that I couldn’t live up to their standards and have them screaming with multiple orgasms or whatever it is guys are supposed to do. Hell, I even bought a couple of women’s magazines over the years to try to figure out what they wanted from me. The results were nothing less than disastrous I gotta tell you. In the end, I just gave up. It seemed I either came too soon or else couldn’t get it up at all. I was a mess. So, the last time I was in a potentially intimate situation with a woman was some time in the 1980s, and after that terrible experience, I swore off sex for good. So here we are. You may not be any Mata Hari but guess what? I’m no Casanova either but it’s just us here. Nobody’s taking notes or making comparisons. So what do you say we just go upstairs and relax and talk and see what happens? No pressure OK?’

  The lines of worry that had creased Cynthia’s face disappeared as she took Patrick’s hand and they climbed the stairs.

  Chapter 24

  Bert sat in his room and kicked off his shoes. What a day! What an eye-opener it had been to learn all about the history of this island. He’d been so distracted and enthralled by all of that, he’d barely had time to think about the real reason why he was in Ireland in the first place. The tour had never been anything other than a cover for his real plans. Now, however, the entire project had been catapulted into the back seat as a result of all this other stuff going on. Insofar as he had had time to give it much attention, he had come to the conclusion that no on
e individual in the tour group had emerged as a candidate just yet, but he wasn’t unduly concerned about that. There was still time to spare. He badly needed a nap but decided instead to power up his laptop, to check in with the others for a few minutes, see how things were going. Smiling as he keyed in his password JUTUS. He checked who was online: Chin Li, Harry and Ibrahim. Good, he thought.

  “Status report?” Bert typed. “In process,” replied Harry.

  “Delivered. Awaiting next,” responded Ibrahim.

  “Nothing yet,” replied Chin Li.

  Bert turned off the laptop and was asleep in less than two minutes.

  Chapter 25

  Ellen O’Donovan sat in the small parlour off the kitchen as she and Sean pored over piles of old photos. In her hand she held a small black and white photo of a young woman smiling at the camera. It was her mother. Ellen knew how fortunate she was to have such a precious thing, given that cameras had been a rare enough commodity in Ireland at the time. This particular photograph carried the name of a photographic studio in Cork on the reverse side.

  ‘I always knew you’d come back y’know,’ Sean said. ‘I don’t know why exactly, but I just had a feeling that somehow you weren’t finished with us.’

  ‘I don’t have very much information really. All my father told me was that my mother died and that shortly after that he brought me to the States. When he died, I found some letters that you had written to him. That’s how I knew to come to Inchigeela. I’d like to know more about my father…about what happened…if you’re prepared to tell me.’

  Sean settled back into his easy chair and fixed Ellen with a penetrating gaze.

  ‘Of course my memory isn’t what it used to be,’ he said, ‘and God knows it was all a long time ago now. I was only ten years old when the two of ye left, but I’ll do my best to give you the full story. In as much as I know it anyhow.’

  He paused, staring into the fire for a few moments, before continuing.

  ‘Tom was involved with the IRA, the old IRA I mean, not that shower of criminals – the Continuity IRA and the rest of them – that exist nowadays. Well, I suppose Mammy and Daddy were like most people around here that time. They didn’t like the British being here. They didn’t like the way they treated the people, but they thought the best thing to do was to try to stay out of that whole business as much as they could. “Keep your head down, work hard and mind your own business.” That’s what they always used to say. Michael was the eldest of us three boys, and ‘twas acknowledged that he would be getting the farm. I suppose it wasn’t fair, looking back on it, but that was how things were done around here for hundreds of years. So, we just accepted it.

  ‘As I’m sure you know, the tradition in a lot of Irish families at that time was that one brother would be sent for the priesthood. I think maybe Mammy harboured some notions in that direction for Tom, but if she did, she got nowhere with them because Tom had no interest in the church at all. I mean he went to mass and all that…the same as everyone else…but he didn’t show any signs of interest in the priesthood anyway.

  ‘At the time, we all worked on the farm together – children, women and all. There was no machinery much really, so almost everything had to be done by hand. Tom was great with the animals – strong as a horse. Tom and Michael never really hit it off though – they were too different I suppose. Michael was like my father in temperament – quiet and kept himself to himself – whereas Tom was always mad for a bit of action. As a young fella, he’d do anything for a laugh. He was great craic, always in trouble in school for all the pranks he played on the master, Badger Buckley. Even though he was a right divil, people liked Tom. He had a good heart,’ Sean paused again, and looked down at the photographs as if considering where to go next with his account.

  ‘After Tom had left for America, you wouldn’t believe the number of people who called up to the house with stories about all the fun they’d had with him. The old people in the parish had the best yarns. Tom loved old people and he used to spend hours listening to their stories about the old days. He had a great respect for them. But be that as it may, the big problem was that himself and Michael rubbed each other up the wrong way. Michael believed in hard work and not much else, and while there was no denying that Tom did work hard on the farm, Michael always thought he was too giddy, always thinking of mischief, mad for the bit of divilment. Anyway, one night there was a bit of a row between the two of them, the way brothers can have a go at each other sometimes. In the finish, it was decided that Tom would be better off working somewhere else.

  ‘Mammy was mortified, of course. To see one of her boys going looking for work and there a fine farm at home. But there was nothing to be done about it. After the fight with Michael, Tom was determined to go. Mammy was always worried about what the neighbours would think – sure what woman isn’t? Tom got a job in Kiely’s shop in Macroom, pulling and dragging stock mostly. They were delighted with him because he was a big strong lad and well used to hard work. He loved it, meeting everyone coming in and out of the shop and hearing all the news, and it seemed after a while that the new arrangement suited everyone.

  ‘Now at that time, even though we’re only fourteen miles from Macroom, most people only went to town once a month, if even that, so all the carry-on with the Auxies wasn’t that obvious to us. Tom saw a lot more of it, of course, because he was working in town. He passed them every day. He used to come home with stories about how they would push old people off the footpath, how rude they were to everyone. I remember one night he could hardly eat his dinner, he was so vexed. The story was that there was an old man who used to come in from Coachford direction to town, selling eggs. He was a harmless auld fella God help us…just trying to keep going the same as ourselves, and he had a word for everyone. Well, one day he had to go into the shop for a bit of twine to put around his bag because it had burst and he was afraid he’d drop the eggs. He left the bags of eggs outside the shop…everything was safe in those days…nothing would be robbed from you, and he got the bit of twine from Tom. Anyway, they had a bit of a chat and when the poor man went out he was fierce upset. Some soldier had stood on all the eggs and was laughing at the poor old man trying to save them. You might think that in the grand scheme of things that wasn’t much, but for Tom it was the thing that turned him. He couldn’t bear to see the way good hardworking people were humiliated by the British, and so that night he joined the IRA.’

  Ellen sat mesmerised. The image of her father as an IRA man was very difficult to reconcile, but she was in no position to contradict her uncle’s story. Though she sometimes had trouble understanding his West Cork accent, she hung on his every word.

  ‘Mammy and Daddy had no idea about Tom’s activities at first. And, if they had, they’d have tried to put a stop to it for definite. Anyway, after a few weeks, they must have copped on that something was up. The thing they noticed was that Tom had started hanging around with the O’Driscoll boys and everyone knew they were up to their necks in the IRA. Their father had been put in jail for anti- British activity and they were following in his footsteps. They were from town and I suppose ‘twas them that recruited Tom really. He spent a lot of time with them and came home later and later in the evenings, sometimes even in the early hours of the morning. Daddy was very upset but, as usual, it was Mammy who was left to deal with it.

  Daddy was like Michael; he didn’t say much. I remember her begging and pleading with Tom not to stay out late. ‘You’re only looking for trouble,’ she’d say to him. But she might as well have been talking to that wall over there, for all the good it did. Michael got stuck in him then, when he wouldn’t do as Mammy asked. But he wouldn’t listen to him either, so in the end, Michael said that Tom would just have to move out and that was that. He said he didn’t want his family drawn into anything just because Tom wanted to be a hero and play soldiers. I remember that night so well. I was only a child, sitting at the top of the stairs listening to this fight going on. I was crying
because I didn’t want Tom to leave. He was great to me, always playing football with me or bringing me sweets on pay day. That happened in July, 1919, I suppose.

  ‘Well he left anyway, but before he did, he promised me he’d take me to the mart on the next big fair day. I loved going in to see all the cattle being sold and Tom would get me a bottle of lemonade and sweets and we’d stay out all day. He went to stay with the O’Driscolls in town, and while he was there I suppose he took a shine to Bridget. She was the only daughter of the house. I thought she was lovely. She had a great big, gutsy laugh that everyone around here used to find kind of infectious. That’s my strongest memory of her, always laughing and joking and everyone around her smiling. I suppose that’s why herself and Tom got along so well. She was small and dark with curly hair and a bit wild from having only brothers around her. Her mother died when she was young, so she wasn’t brought up too ladylike, if you know what I mean. She wasn’t rough or anything, no, no, no, nothing like that. She was just a bit of a tomboy I suppose. She used to play with me whenever they would collect me and take me on days out. Tom and Bridget were very good to me, so they were, the two of them.’

  Sean stopped to take a sip of tea. ‘I suppose you must be thinking will he ever get to the point of the story?’ he smiled.

  ‘I can never express how much hearing all of this means to me,’ Ellen responded. ‘I want to try and remember every detail, every word. You can’t imagine how often I’ve dreamed of this moment. Actually, that’s not really true. Because I never dared to believe anyone would be able to tell me anything after so long. I really thought finding a headstone in a graveyard would be the highlight of my trip. So, please Sean, if you‘re not too tired, go on…tell me more.’