The Tour (12 page)

Her thoughts were interrupted by Bert’s Texan drawl. ‘Excuse me Miss Corlene, would you like some candy?’ he said, offering her a paper bag containing a variety of sweets. Corlene turned on her brightest smile, her scarlet collagen-enhanced lips (funded by husband number four) contorted into what she thought was a combination of coquettish charm and suggestive allure. Maybe all was not lost. ‘Why Bert, that’s really kind of you but I’m sweet enough. Thank you for thinking of me though,’ she fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Are you enjoying the trip Bert?’

‘I most certainly am Ma’am. It’s real pretty and the people seem great.’

Corlene deliberately let her leg rest against Bert’s and applied some pressure as she spoke.

‘Oh yes it’s lovely, but I get so lonely sometimes. You must be the same, travelling alone…’

Bert realised this was his opportunity and if he didn’t take it now he could find himself in real trouble with this woman.

‘Well y’know Miss Corlene, I’m real lucky like that. I don’t ever get lonely. I was very happily married for forty- one years. My kids and grandkids are wonderful. I got enough money to keep me comfortable and I’ve handed over the running of the company to my son and daughter. I thought what’s the point of holding onto stuff when I don’t need it? I’m sure you feel the same. It’s all for the kids in the end anyhow, so now I’ve just got a small pension and I live in a one-bedroom apartment. Take the bus everywhere and, as I said, I have things just the way I want them. Nice and simple and easy. I’ve no interest – and no point – in changing my life at this late stage.’

Bert’s innocent brown eyes looked straight at Corlene. While his speech seemed innocuous enough, Corlene realised for the first time that Bert was a tough guy, making it clear he wasn’t going to be taken for a fool. He knew her game and in a gentlemanly and diplomatic way he was telling her in no uncertain terms that she was wasting her time.

Recovering her composure she replied, ‘Well Bert, it seems like you got life all figured out.’

I’m no quitter, she added silently. That old Texan might be off the list, but there are plenty more fish in the sea.

The day passed pleasantly, as the group continued to bond under the unobtrusive but effective guidance of Conor. They visited wonderfully atmospheric Celtic ruins, early Christian churches and strolled through the Gaeltacht village of Ballyferriter. A Gaeltacht was an area of the country where Irish was spoken Conor explained while they shopped for their picnic lunch on the island.

Walking back to the coach, Conor joined in the conversation between Patrick and Bert.

‘I’m tellin’ you Bert, one guy came into the little store there and said ‘dig a ditch’ and the guy behind the counter answered him by saying, ‘dig a squirrel ditch’!’

Bert laughed out loud. ‘What the hell is a squirrel ditch?

And why would you need to dig it?’

Conor guffawed, ‘What those fellas were saying is an Irish greeting, our form of hello, if you like. It means God be with you, and the reply is “God and Mary be with you. Dia Dhuit agus Dia is Muire agat”. Nothing at all to do with squirrels I’m afraid!’

‘Well I dunno about that Conor. It sure sounded like squirrel ditch to me.’

The trip out to the island fulfilled all their expectations and they marvelled at how people had managed to live in such an isolated place in harsh winter conditions. The weather was glorious, and it seemed to most of the group that they were as close to heaven as it was possible to get. As they spread their picnic on the grass, Conor told them stories of the writers and poets who had come from the island and he read them poems and stories, including a short extract from some famous book in the Irish language. While the words sounded strange to their ears, there was a wonderful musical quality to the language. As they lay on the grass, curlews and gulls circling overhead and the wild Atlantic pounding the cliffs relentlessly below them, each member of the group was lost in his or her own thoughts. When, eventually, Conor insisted that they make their way back to the pier to get the boat to the mainland, it was with great reluctance that they gathered up their belongings.

Dylan fell into step with Conor and Ellen.

‘Thank you so much Conor.’ Ellen said. ‘What a wonderful experience you have given us. You know, there are expensive spas and wellness centres all over the world, but I think sitting there on the grass, listening to you read us those poems and stories, well, no money could ever pay for that.’

‘When the weather cooperates here, which is hardly ever I might add, it’s the most special place on this earth and it makes my job very easy.’

Dylan liked Ellen and Conor the best of the group, so he had the confidence to contribute his own opinions. ‘This country is totally awesome,’ he said with enthusiasm. ‘When my Mom said we were coming to this island place, I was like, totally bummed out, but especially today, I can, like hear, where the music comes from. There’s this tune, called ‘The Lonely Sailor’ or something, and it’s like the sound of the sea, with birds and everything, it’s awesome.’

Conor smiled at Dylan’s turnaround. ‘Would that tune be called ‘The Lonesome Boatman’ maybe? It’s usually played on a tin whistle?’

Dylan clicked his fingers ‘Yeah dude, that’s it…’ he marvelled at the older man, ‘Is there anything you don’t know?’

‘God Dylan, there’s so much I don’t know about everything. You just got me on a good day.’

Back at the hotel Conor checked his BlackBerry. He deliberately hadn’t looked for a reply to his email since he sent it because he still wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear. As he opened his email he instantly spotted Sinead’s name among the long stream of messages.

Hi Conor,

Great to hear from you! I was worried when I didn’t hear back, I didn’t know if you just didn’t receive my letter or, worse, you received it and didn’t want to get in touch. As I said in the letter, I’m coming home with my son Conor. We’re arriving this weekend into Shannon. Conor is really excited. I’ve been telling him all about Ireland and about his Uncle Conor, so he can’t wait to meet you. I don’t really have a plan as such, as it depends on some things. There’s no easy way to say this dear Conor, but I have cancer, and it’s not looking good. I just need to be at home. I don’t know how things are going to go, but I do know that the happiest I have ever been was all those years ago in Passage West. My family and I haven’t spoken for years. They hated Gerry, as you know, and well, that’s all water under the bridge now. They did try to see young Conor, but we don’t need them and their ‘I told you so’s’.

Anyway, I’ll hopefully see you soon!

Lots and lots of love,

Sinead xxx

Chapter 13

The more Ellen got to know their driver and guide, the better she liked him. She realised how much work he did behind the scenes trying to help each of them in different ways, and all the while he maintained his constant good humour. He seemed to have great knack of allowing the group to do their own thing. He never got in the way but he seemed to be instantly available if he was needed. He was relaxing in the lobby of the hotel with a cup of coffee and
The Irish Times
after the group had dispersed for dinner when she approached him.

‘Excuse me Conor. I’m really sorry for interrupting you.

I’ll only keep you a minute if that’s alright?’

‘No problem Ellen, sit down. Can I get you a coffee?

There’s plenty in the pot. I can just ask for another cup.’ ‘Well if you are sure, that would be lovely. Thank you.’

Conor gestured to the young waitress, who produced another cup almost instantaneously.

‘I’ll get right to the point Conor. There’s a free day tomorrow, and I have something I need to do alone. I will meet you all back in the hotel in the evening. It’s just that I didn’t want you to worry about me …put me on a missing list.’

Despite her voice and equally gentle approach, Ellen tended to present things in a way that indicated the matter was already decided. But that didn’t mean she didn’t expect objections and questions to whatever it was she was presenting. She was very pleasantly surprised when Conor replied ‘Righty-ho Ellen that’s perfect. Thanks for letting me know. The next couple of days are relaxed ones anyway. Is there anything I can do to help you, or have you it all under control?’

‘Well actually, I was going to ask the front desk, but maybe you could suggest someone. You see, I need a car and driver for the day. Do you know of a local taxi firm or chauffeur service that I could use?’

Conor thought for a second. ‘Well Ellen, I’m sure I can sort something out. If you could tell me where it is you want to go, I could maybe organise a price for you too. It would be cheaper I’d say to do it that way. Cheaper than per mile on a taxi meter anyway. But if you would rather keep the destination details to yourself, well then that’s fine too. Whatever suits you.’

‘I guess I want to go to…well this might sound crazy, but I am not that sure. It’s a long story and I’m sure you don’t have time to…’

‘Ellen’, he said, ‘I have all night. I was going to go into town to a nice quiet little pub I know and have a bite of dinner, maybe even a pint, and do the crossword. If you would like to join me and tell me some, none, or all of your story, then I would be delighted with the company.’

Ellen’s face broke into radiant smile. ‘Well Mr. O’Shea’ she laughed ‘If you are sure I’m not intruding on your private time, a dinner and a pint sounds just what I need.’

‘I can see I have a hardened drinker on my hands so. Mind you, with a name like yours, it couldn’t have been any other way.’

‘Ms O’Donovan,’ he said, standing up and offering her his arm and embarking on what was to become a most extraordinary evening.

Settled in the corner seats of Murphy’s Pub and Restaurant, Ellen sipped on a glass of stout.

‘This really is a good drink. I’m not much of a drinker but I could develop a taste for this’.

Conor took a gulp of his pint. ‘Well, actually, it’s probably just as well you never had it at home. The breweries export this all over the world. I don’t know what they do with it when it gets there, but they seem to make a right pig’s ear out of it. Maybe it’s the water or something. Whatever, the thing about stout outside of Ireland is that it’s something that shouldn’t be inflicted on anyone.’

Ellen smiled ‘Then I guess it’s right that I should have waited till I got to Ireland to consume my first pint of Guinness.’

The ordered bacon and cabbage with potatoes and, as they waited for their food, they chatted generally about the trip. Conor was careful not to discuss any individuals – a policy that had served him well for many years.

‘So,’ Ellen began, ‘are you sure you want to hear this?’ ‘Fire away, I’m all ears.’

‘Ok then. I was born on the 18th of December 1920. My name is a West Cork one I know, so no prizes for guessing my Irish connections. What might surprise you though is that I was born in the Parish of Inchigeela in County Cork.’

‘I know it well’, said Conor.

‘My father brought me to America when I was a few weeks old, after my mother died. In childbirth I believe. He remarried a few years later and they had a son, my stepbrother, but that marriage broke up. I stayed in touch with my brother and his mother, but she passed away from breast cancer in her early fifties. I think she really did love my father but it was never going to work really. It seems my Dad could never really fully commit to the marriage.. I remember Diane, that was her name, saying years ago that he must have loved my mother so much he couldn’t let her memory go. He would never talk about it or about his life before coming to America. I tried asking him many times about my mother and his family back in Ireland, but all he ever said was that we were Americans now and the only way to get on in America was to be American and leave the past behind.’

Conor nodded encouragingly.

‘My father avoided anything to do with Irish organisations and even when discussions started about Irish neutrality during the Second World War, or the Troubles in the North, he would never engage. Despite that, I found the subject fascinating and my whole career was spent researching and teaching the story of this little island. He was always encouraging and supportive of me but he never offered an opinion or asked me anything about it. I didn’t even know if he ever read my books until after he passed away. Then I found one I wrote about 1916 and it was so well thumbed it was almost falling apart. Yet never a word to me about it, I …’ Ellen’s voice faltered.

‘It seems that there was some correspondence between him and his Irish family over the years though but he never mentioned it to me. When he died, I found a pile of letters and Christmas cards in a box in his apartment. The address on the letters was Inchigeela, County Cork and they were from Sean, my father’s brother. The letters were just newsy ones, announcing births and deaths in the parish and things like that. I’d really hoped, when I found them they would tell me more. I know my father had an older brother, I think he was called Michael because I remember one time when my stepbrother and I were playing with an old coat we had found in a wardrobe, he came in and told us we should find something else to play with, because that coat was special. He told us that my Uncle Michael had given it to me to keep me warm on the way over from Ireland. I remember saying to my father “we don’t have an Uncle Michael”, to which he replied “Yes you do, but he lives back in Ireland, and he can’t come to visit because it’s too far away to come without a coat.”’

Ellen smiled at the memory and her eyes welled up.

‘I don’t want you to get the impression my Dad was a cold man, far from it, but something must have happened here, perhaps the death of my mother, that made it so painful for him to recollect. He was such a good and loving father to me and my brother. He did everything for me. I often think what it must have been like for him, with a baby, all on his own in a foreign country. I don’t know why, but I feel like there’s something I don’t know about the story. I just want to go there. Maybe see if I could find my mother’s grave. I’ve been thinking about it for years. Ever since he died, to be honest. But I’ve never felt really ready until now.’