The Tour Read online

  Carolina was a twenty-eight year old Italian. Never in a million years would she have been interested in Mad Mike who was fat and fifty, had chronic halitosis and a very cavalier attitude to personal hygiene.

  ‘How many have you this week Conor?’ asked Carolina, sighing theatrically.

  ‘Three? Five?’

  ‘Nine,’ Conor replied. ‘I know, I know’ he smiled, reacting to her look of envy.

  ‘The tour operator doesn’t allow any more than ten people in my groups. It’s a very expensive way of taking a tour around Ireland, but people seem to prefer it, plus the fact that we can get to places that the big coaches can’t reach. I know how you feel though. I served my time on the 52-seaters back in the dark ages too, but I fell on my feet with this crowd. I’m my own boss and it’s great.’

  ‘I won’t pretend I’m not jealous Conor! I’ve got forty- seven Italian dentists so it’s going to be a busy week. Oh look, here are some of mine now. I’d better look lively.’

  Conor smiled at Carolina as she went to gather her group who were beginning to trickle through the large glass doors. Soon, he himself was busy dealing with the first of his passengers, their faces registering relief as they spotted Conor holding aloft the welcome card bearing the tour operator’s name and logo. As he directed them to the toilets, the ATM and the newspaper stand, he instructed them to make their way out to the distinctive looking Mercedes coach in the car park, where he would join them as soon as he was sure everyone had arrived.

  ‘Good morning and welcome to you all’ he said, as he gathered his group of nine beside the coach. I’m sure you’re all tired after the long flight, so I’ll just get the bags loaded onto the coach and we’ll be off to the hotel. You can freshen up or have a bit of a rest and then we’ll get together again later on for dinner and have a chat about the great time ye are going to have for the next week.

  ‘My name is Conor O’Shea, and for some sins that you have obviously committed, you are stuck with me driving and telling ye all about our lovely country. If you have been here before and you suspect a bit of Blarney on my part, there’s a small “keep your mouth shut” fee available.” The group laughed and immediately relaxed.

  Ellen O’Donovan’s sparkling blue eyes belied her eighty years. She was fit and healthy, her hair cut in a flatteringly soft style that framed her face. She had often been told that she looked more European than American, whatever that meant. Observing her as she stood patiently, waiting to board the coach, Conor noticed how fresh she looked for someone who had just arrived on an overnight flight from New York. She was dressed in an elegant pair of navy blue tailored trousers and a beige silk blouse; around her neck, she wore a simple gold cross and chain.

  Ellen walked slowly down the centre of the coach and chose a seat opposite a couple. She nodded and smiled politely and then closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She had made it, against all the odds and against the advice of everyone she knew. She was finally here. Ellen leaned back against the plush leather seat, twice the width of the plane seat she had endured for the past six hours. This really was a lovely way to travel, she thought to herself. The dark green coach had large reclining seats facing each other. Between each set of four seats was a table, complete with power points and drinks holders. The halogen reading lights overhead could be adjusted to suit individual passenger’s requirements, while the large coach windows facilitated wonderfully panoramic views of the world outside. The entire interior of the coach was upholstered and carpeted in rich tones of green and gold. At the rear of the vehicle was a compact but perfectly functional bathroom. Under the dash at the front of the coach was a refrigerator, filled with complimentary water and soft drinks. Ellen had never been on a coach like it. Her peace was interrupted by hushed yet urgent whispers from the couple on her left.

  ‘Just turn it off, Elliot, please,’ the woman muttered to her husband. Without glancing up from his laptop, the small, dark-featured man with a distinctive New York accent said: ‘OK, OK, I will, I just need to check something with LA… I’ll only be a minute. Get the driver guy to hold on for me OK? I’m going outside to get a better signal. The connection on this laptop dongle thing is terrible. I’m going to have to use my cell to call ‘em.’

  ‘We can’t keep everyone waiting Elliot,’ she whispered anxiously.

  Undeterred, Elliot was already off the coach, pacing up and down on the footpath, talking animatedly into his mobile phone.

  ‘He is very busy at work at the moment…his company is involved in investment projects. I’m Anna Heller,’ she said to Ellen with an apologetic smile.

  Ellen smiled warmly. The woman looked as if she was of German or Scandinavian extraction: she was tall, her blonde hair was cut in a chic bob, and she had perfectly manicured nails. She was dressed in what to Ellen looked like designer gear and she carried a handbag that Ellen guessed had cost an awful lot of money. She looked out the window: Anna Heller’s husband was still pacing up and down outside. He too was dressed in what looked like very expensive clothes, his left wrist brandishing a Rolex Oyster. While he was handsome enough in a way, Ellen thought he was unusually short. An awful lot shorter than his much younger wife. Probably wife number two or number three, Ellen reckoned.

  As she surveyed the assembled passengers, Ellen’s attention was drawn to two women sitting in the front seats, both wearing what looked like hiking gear. Ellen judged them to be in their mid to late fifties. The one sitting nearest the window was tall and wiry, with sharp facial features and a cropped, utilitarian haircut. Her companion looked considerably more feminine, with a more rounded figure and a kind face. The sharp looking woman was glaring at Elliot Heller with barely concealed fury.

  ‘Have you been on a coach tour before?’ she asked Anna Heller pointedly.

  ‘Well em, no…eh, I mean we have taken day trips, when we were on vacation, but we eh...’

  Anna was interrupted mid-sentence by her interrogator. ‘This is my twelfth trip with this tour operator. One of the reasons I travel with them so often is they have a policy of not waiting for latecomers. If a person cannot make it back to the coach at the pre-arranged time, well then they just have to make their own arrangements. It’s not fair on fellow travellers to make them wait for those who are too disorganised or too selfish to be on time.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a good policy I guess’ Anna replied, acutely aware of the implication that Elliot was just such an individual.

  ‘By the way, I am Dr Dorothy Crane and this is my travelling companion Juliet Steele. We are from Des Moines, Iowa.’

  Juliet turned around and smiled bleakly at the rest of the group. ‘Hi,’ she said shyly.

  The next passenger to board the coach was someone Ellen had noticed in the Arrivals area. Like her, he too seemed to be travelling alone. He was, she thought, in his mid- to late sixties, possibly older. He was small and fit looking, longish grey hair flopping onto his face and curling over his collar in a manner which Ellen considered somewhat bohemian for a man of his generation. His skin, leatherlike from lifelong exposure to strong sunlight, was offset by a pair of large brown eyes radiating warmth and intelligence. He was dressed in beige chinos and a dark green shirt bearing golf and country club logo. He sat on the outside of a double seat, smiled and addressed the group in general:

  ‘Hi, I’m Bert Cooper from Corpus Christi, Texas. Wow! It sure is fresh here ain’t it? I left ninety-six in the shade, so this is just great.’

  Everyone except Dorothy Crane smiled and introduced themselves in turn. Ellen looked up as the next two members of the group boarded the coach. One of them, a boy of about sixteen or seventeen, had jet-black spikes of hair sticking out on one side of his head; the other side was shaved tight. His neck featured an elaborate spider’s web tattoo, his face was plastered in white make-up, his eyes lined in heavy kohl pencil. Piercings too numerous to count adorned his ears, nose, upper lip, eyebrows and chin. Hanging from his thin frame was a black leather jacket, decorated with a skull an
d bleeding eyes, and below that, black skin-tight jeans torn to shreds. To complete the look, his wore his trousers tucked into black Doc Martens, which were laced to the knee.

  The woman following immediately behind him seemed to be travelling with him, as, unprompted, the boy heaved her large ‘Chanelle’ bag onto the overhead luggage rack. Ellen saw Anna’s face register the obvious fake.

  ‘Just sit down there, Corlene,’ the boy said in a surprisingly gentle voice, indicating towards the seat he had requisitioned. Corlene, however, had other plans.

  ‘Well isn’t that just perfect,’ she screeched in a high- pitched southern drawl, aiming for the seat beside Bert Cooper. ‘I love a window seat and you obviously want the aisle, so you and I are perfectly suited. I’ll sit inside, and you can take the outside. I’m very flexible.’

  She batted her ridiculously long false eyelashes in what, presumably, she thought was a seductive manner, but, in fact, only succeeded in causing Bert to recoil in terror. His southern chivalry, however, prevented him from refusing her offer.

  ‘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.