The Tour

by Jean Grainger

  ‘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?’

  Anastasia looked at Conor with her big green eyes, smiled and nodded. Conor wondered if he should tell her the latest developments and decided it would be good to have another perspective.

  ‘In fact, it’s funny you should ask about all that now. I did love a girl. Years and years ago. Anyway, she chose someone else, my brother, in fact. And well, off they went to America. I never said anything to either of them, but maybe I should have. Anyway, it’s all done now. The thing is though, I got a letter yesterday from the girl …her name is Sinead …the letter came out of the blue. We haven’t been in touch with each other in almost twenty years. In the letter, she was saying she was coming back to Ireland, and did I want to meet up. She has a son now, my nephew, but there’s no sign of Gerry, my brother.’

  Anastasia’s face registered surprise.

  ‘Ah no, he hasn’t disappeared or anything like that. They broke up. Actually, he left her. I suppose he was never very reliable,’ Conor added ruefully.

  ‘What do you want to do? Do you want to see her again?’

  Conor took a sip of his drink before replying, ‘I don’t honestly know Anastasia. I really don’t. There was a time when I would have given anything to have her back, but maybe too many years have passed now. I just don’t know. On top of that, I don’t even know if she’d be interested in me that way at all. Sure, she could be coming back to Ireland for all sorts of reasons that I know nothing about.’

  Anastasia seemed to be weighing up what to say next. ‘Well I suppose you must decide if she is still the only one you love. If she is, then maybe you must see her, and if she is not, then perhaps you can see her and just be friendly?’

  Conor considered this for a few moments. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ll meet her either way. Maybe I’ll have to see her in the flesh to know how I feel about her.’

  Anastasia changed tack, sensing that Conor had said all he was going to say on the subject. ‘I was asked to go back to school where I was teaching before as substitute in Kiev. I got letter from school manager. He offered me more wages and permanent job working with children with special needs if I go back in Ukraine. I think a lot and now with my mother so sick and everything, I think maybe is best thing. I like Ireland and have made so many good friends here but I don’t think there is anything keeping me here. So neither do I know what to do Conor. What do you think?’

  Her large green eyes held his, waiting for his response. ‘Well aren’t we the right pair? Dithering and wondering and trying to decide.

  I don’t kn
ow much about your situation, but I do know this. Anastasia, you are young and beautiful and bright and funny. You can do anything you want to do. Anything at all. What does your gut instinct tell you to do? Anastasia looked puzzled again,

  I don’t know this thing gut instinct? What does it mean?’ ‘It means deep down, what do you want to do? What is your heart telling you?’ Anastasia sighed. ‘My head tells me

  I must go back, there is nothing here for me really…’ she hesitated.

  ‘And your heart?’

  ‘My heart tells me to stay here.’

  Conor smiled, ‘I think the best thing to do is follow your heart. And I’d miss you if you went back. Don’t mind me though, I’m an auld softie’

  Chapter 4

  Conor had the bags loaded and all his charges safely on board.

  ‘Good morning everyone. I hope you all slept well and are fighting fit for the trip ahead of us. This morn…’ He was cut off by the booming voice of Patrick shouting ‘The fightin’ Irish! Ha Ha! That’s us, eh Conor? We taught those Brits a thing or two in the soccer match on TV last night didn’t we? They never learn do they? You can never beat the Irish!’

  Patrick would have continued in this vein, pontificating on Irish history, if Conor had allowed him, but he didn’t. The man’s behaviour was too reminiscent of a particularly memorable occasion a few years before the Good Friday Agreement in 1998 involving the near annihilation of one James O’Leary of Chicago, Illinois in the bar of the Europa Hotel in Belfast, “the most bombed hotel in the world”. On that occasion, Conor overheard O’Leary expounding his version of the Troubles in Northern Ireland at the top of his voice, and offering anyone who would listen his ill-informed and naive solutions. His behaviour would have been only barely tolerated in most Irish pubs in the south, but given that the main audience for this particular speech was the brother of the infamous Mikey ‘Bulldog’ Bull, noted loyalist terrorist, it was one sure-fire way of ending up face down in the River Lagan. It was only thanks to Conor’s diplomatic skills, which were worthy of the most skilled United Nations negotiator, that James O’Leary of Chicago, Illinois managed to escape from that bar alive.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Conor answered Patrick, ‘we had luck on our side, especially when you consider that soccer was invented in England. I must say I think it’s really fantastic that Ireland and England can now play each other competitively without any fuss, year in year out. At long last, thanks be to God, we seem to be managing to put the bitterness of the past behind us for once and for all. We can now truly say we’re moving on, adopting a new way of doing things, no longer constrained by mindless hatred of our closest neighbour. I mean to say, I can’t be blamed for what my grandfather did, so why should some poor Englishman be blamed for his grandfather’s actions? Sure that’d make no sense altogether. Terrible things happened on both sides, I’ll grant you, but living in the past is pointless. That gets no one anywhere, does it?’

  Patrick, clearly taken aback by Conor’s attitude, muttered a grudging, ‘Eh yeah, I guess so.’

  To dispute such worthy and seemingly innocent sentiments would have seemed churlish. Even though he didn’t actually know any English people, and had never even been to England, Patrick’s Irish-American identity was bound up in hatred of all things English. This man Conor’s opinions were not what he wanted or expected to hear from a “fellow” Irishman, but the man’s cheery tones brooked no argument. Plus, Patrick wasn’t at all sure how he would have defended his political views anyway…well not in front of the other passengers in any case, so maintaining a disgruntled silence was his best and only option for the moment.

  Dr Ellen O’Donovan looked out at the scenery, wearing a wry smile. Poor old Patrick, she thought, typical of men she had known all her life in South Boston. She mentally addressed him: Patrick, the Ireland you are looking for just doesn’t exist anymore, if indeed it ever did. But what of the Ireland Ellen O’Donovan was looking for? Did that exist? She wondered. She knew a lot about the politics and history of this beautiful but turbulent island, both from her father and from her lifelong study of the Irish question. If only she knew as much about her own story, she mused for about the thousandth time. She had done a lot of research on the Internet, but thus far, her efforts hadn’t amounted to much. Apart from some general information, and the Census records, which told her a little about her Irish ancestry, she still faced many unanswered questions about her family background.

  Ellen had spent her career teaching history at a tough Boston high school. She had a master’s degree in Irish history, another on the history of the British Empire, and she had written her doctoral thesis on the international political and cultural role of the Irish diaspora. Her work had been published in numerous journals and she was the author of two books. Throughout, her interest in Irish history remained personally motivated rather than something she pursued in order to advance her career. The world of academia had never interested her. She loved teaching teenagers and, despite the school’s reputation as a mere holding centre for the state penitentiary, her students never treated her with anything other than the greatest respect. In fact, she had the peculiar honour of being the only member of the one hundred-strong staff never to have been a victim of any kind of crime. She was known both personally or by reputation by all the likely perpetrators; they deemed her off limits, and so she lived happily and peacefully in one of the most disreputable neighbourhoods in the United States.

  Juliet sat back and relaxed, taking in the beautiful scenery. She was enjoying herself, although if she were being really honest, she would have to admit that she had been dreading the trip. Dorothy had kind of railroaded her into it and Juliet had found herself signed up and booked before she knew what hit her. What had started out as an innocent conversation after church on Sunday, about how she had been looking at a friend’s holiday photos of Ireland, had somehow ended up with her agreeing to accompany Dorothy on a trip to Ireland.

  Since her husband Larry’s death the previous year, Juliet had found herself quite tearful and quite incapable of dealing with any kind of confrontation. Dorothy had somehow decided that what Juliet needed was someone to take the lead. In everything. It wasn’t even as if she even knew Dorothy all that well. They attended the same Episcopalian church, and they knew each other enough to make small talk at the odd social event, but that was about it. Juliet recalled her friend Monica, who served with her on the church flower arranging committee, telling her that she needed to be careful, she shouldn’t allow Dorothy to take advantage.

  On the one and only occasion that Juliet had actually been invited inside the front door of Dorothy’s house, she had been quite horrified at the lack of photographs, paintings or anything even vaguely personal or homely about the place. Clinical was the term that came to mind. The only evidence of Dorothy’s hobbies or interests was three large glass cabinets displaying dead butterflies, each one labelled with their correct Latin names, and a fourth cabinet filled with different species of fungi, also correctly labelled with their full Latin names.

  Juliet contrasted Dorothy’s sterile house with her lovely home in the leafy suburb of Carlisle, outside Des Moines. The house that she and Larry had bought as a young couple was still her home; she loved the area for its lovely walks, green open spaces, friendliness and relaxed pace of life. She and Larry had planned to move somewhere bigger when they had a family, but since they had never been lucky enough to have children, they stayed put in their cosy, three- bedroom bungalow. Juliet loved interior decorating, and she worked hard to make the house a happy haven for them both. Chintz-covered sofas and easy chairs filled her sunny living room, the walls of which were covered with photographs of nieces, nephews, friends and dogs. Juliet knew that she and Dorothy were a mismatched pair, to say the least.

  She missed Larry desperately. He would have loved Ireland, looking at all the old castles and ruins in this green country. Her life would never be the same again; her loneliness was profound and seemingly endl
ess. She felt so vulnerable and alone. Logic told her that running away on a vacation wouldn’t mean a vacation from her grief but, foolishly, she continued to hope that it might. She was facing retirement soon and was quite at a loss to know what to do with her life. Larry’s brother Joe and his wife Lainie had bought a condo in Florida and had asked her if she would consider moving down there too. The winters would be easier to take certainly, but she just couldn’t summon up the energy to do it. Maybe if they’d had children, she thought, things wouldn’t seem so quite so hard, so pointless.

  Dorothy Crane sighed heavily as Conor joked about the prolific love life of some long-dead chieftain. Honestly, did the man think she had paid good money for some kind of stand-up comedy routine? The rest of the group were laughing like drains, which showed just how inane they were. She glanced at Juliet, who seemed lost in thought. Mooning about the departed Larry again, for God’s sake. She would speak to Juliet later; tell her that it wasn’t fair to keep going on about him, as if he was some kind of saint. Dorothy could barely remember the man, other than as a kind of do-gooder type, always collecting for some charity or other. She was glad she had never married. Never understood people’s need to have others stuck in their business.

  Dorothy’s father, a pathologist, had died the previous year, but you didn’t see her moping around the place like it was the end of the world did you? A severe man who did not believe in showing affection to anyone, including his only child, he had been widowed at an early age, when Dorothy was not yet four years old. While Dorothy was growing up, he ensured that his dead wife’s name was never, ever mentioned, and, as far as Dorothy was aware, there were no known photographs of her in existence. He had resisted all efforts from his wife’s family to maintain contact with the child and, eventually, after several thwarted attempts, they gave up. He sent Dorothy away at the age of five to be educated at an exclusive girl’s boarding school; despite spending twelve years there, she made no real friends. Occasionally, a kind teacher would try to break through her forbidding coldness and self-containment, but never with any success.