The Tour (13 page)

‘Well Ellen, what a story. Your Dad sounds like he was a remarkable man. To bring you up alone like that, so far from all his family, I’m not sure I could do that now, and those times were so different. Fathers had very little to do with their children, leaving it all to the women. I have vague memories of my own father boasting how he had never pushed a pram, but then my father and yours sound poles apart. Anyway, where do we go from here? I’m happy to help in whatever way I can.’

‘Thanks Conor. I want to try to find the house, maybe see if anybody knows anything about my family there. My father’s younger brother, the one who wrote the letters, was only ten or twelve when we left. I think we lost touch sometime in the nineteen-fifties. I realise it’s probably a wild goose chase but I’d like to try. Even just to be in the village they came from.’

‘I am not a genealogist Ellen, but tomorrow is my day off and I’d be happy to drive you there if that would help. I’m at a bit of a loose end anyhow.’

Tears welled up in Ellen’s eyes again.

‘Conor that would be just wonderful. I was thinking how on earth I would ever find the place on my own. I insist on paying you for your time and the fuel and so on…’

‘Indeed and you will not. It’s no problem whatsoever. In fact, it would be a pleasure. Do y’know what Ellen? This is turning out to be a very interesting tour altogether.’

Chapter 14

Dylan was totally hooked. The trouble was he didn’t know what to do next. He sat at the back of the large pub crammed with Irish people and tourists and listened to Diarmuid and the others as they played their music. Tonight was different to the atmosphere in the pub in Kinsale. More of a concert than a session, but still amazing. The songs were sometimes wild, other times funny. One song in particular completely transported Dylan to another place.

He had never enjoyed anything about school, least of all history, which Dylan regarded as a litany of just one boring thing after another. But when he heard this song ‘Kilkelly’, it made him want to cry. It was based on a true story, the singer said. It seemed to be like a conversation in the form of letters between a father in Ireland and his son in America. All a long time ago. Dylan remembered Conor mentioning something about there being a famine in Ireland, so he guessed the letters referred to events around that time.

The father wrote long letters telling the son all of the news about the family and all the people that the son would have known from home. The son wrote back and sent pictures of his wife and kids, but never returned to Ireland. The song ends with the last letter from the man’s brother, telling him that their father had died. Dylan wondered what it would have been like to have a father who cared so much about you that he wrote every month even though he hadn’t laid eyes on you for years. Dylan’s own father hadn’t stuck around when he discovered that Corlene was pregnant. In fact, Corlene herself wasn’t too sure who Dylan’s father was.

It seems the guy she tried to pin the pregnancy on could not have been the father, for medical reasons, so Dylan had no clue who his father was. He used to fantasise when he was a kid that his Dad would show up, having found out about the existence of his son; that he would take him away from Corlene and bring him to live with him. In Dylan’s fantasy, his father was a shopkeeper who had a nice wife and lots of kids who welcomed Dylan into the family. As he grew older, he realised that the family of his dreams didn’t exist anywhere outside of his imagination and he eventually gave up on the idea. Grandma was the closest he came to having a family, but Corlene didn’t really get along with her mother, and she only ever went back home to visit her when things were very bad in her own life. Every time things got rough, Dylan wished he could up sticks and go stay with his Grandma, but Corlene always moved them on to wherever she could manage to scrounge enough money.

Something was happening here in this little place in Ireland. He could feel it. He really wanted to be part of this world, but he felt that he might as well be a Martian he had so little in common with these people. There was a break in the music and the musicians were chatting to a group of people sitting together near the stage. Dylan remained in his seat, feeling ridiculous. Everyone else here seemed to be with someone and he had never felt so out of place. As he looked into his glass, he heard Diarmuid say

‘Dylan! How are things? Are you on your own? Come over here and meet some people.’

Dylan smiled and gratefully followed the piper.

‘This is my wife Siobhán and one of our daughters, Laoise, and my cousin Sean and his wife Kate. These here are a variety of relations, all on the way back from a funeral in Kerry of an old lady we knew.’

Everyone in the group smiled and said hello. Slightly thrown by such attention, Dylan blushed. ‘Eh…Hi guys,’ he managed to stutter.

They looked like nice people. Diarmuid’s wife was younger than him and kind of hippyish, but she had a very friendly smile.

‘If you’re sitting up there on your own, why don’t you join us?’ Siobhán asked, nudging the teenage girl sitting beside her. ‘Push up there Laoise and make some room.’

Diarmuid’s daughter moved over, creating just enough space for Dylan to squeeze in. She was about seventeen and dressed in black from head to toe. Not exactly his image of an Irish colleen, but he was nonetheless fascinated by her.

‘So,’ she said, sipping a drink, ‘you’re American?’ Dylan nodded.

‘We went to Savannah, Georgia last year. Dad and the lads were playing there for St Patrick’s Day. It was brilliant. We had such craic…’

Registering the look of surprise on Dylan’s face she laughed and explained, ‘Not crack as in cocaine, it’s an Irish word, it means having a good time. It was so much fun compared with being in Ireland for Paddies Day. It’s always feckin’ raining for a start. My Dad said you were at the gig in the church the other day, and that you went to the session in Kinsale too.’ Laoise seemed very confident and very scary.

‘Well your Dad said it would be OK…I didn’t get in the way I hope…I mean…,’ Dylan felt himself blushing again.

‘Nah,’ Laoise replied. ‘It’s just I was expecting you to be different. Dad said you might come tonight. I think he thought I could talk to you, being your age and all that. Anyway, I dunno what I was expecting, but you’re not it anyway,’ she laughed.

Dylan froze, and then quickly realised she was only kidding him, so he laughed too. She was amazing looking, he thought – really short, raven black hair with streaks of violent pink. Her tiny frame dressed in a mixture of black denim and leather, her tongue pierced. On her neck a small tattoo of a treble clef.

‘Cool tattoo,’ Dylan ventured.

Laoise beamed. ‘Yeah it’s deadly I know, but my Mam and Dad went mental when I got it done. You’re supposed to be eighteen to get it done, but I have fake ID. Dad is getting used to it now, but for ages I had to wear a scarf ‘cause every time my he saw it, he went off on one. You’d swear he was a saint all his life the way he went on at me. I mean like, it’s my neck right?

‘I think your Dad is awesome…I’ve never heard anyone play like him,’ Dylan replied, thrilled to be talking to this incredible girl.

‘Yeah he’s grand, I suppose he’d want to be good by now. He’s been doing it like, forever. I’ve been listening to it all my life, so I suppose you get a bit immune to it, you know what I mean?’ Laoise took a sip of her Coke.

‘How do you spell your name?’ These Irish names were a total mystery to him.

‘L A O I S E, but pronounced Lee-sha.’ she said, her mouth full of potato crisps. It was the most beautiful name Dylan had ever heard.

The band had restarted and the singer was calling someone to the stage. It suddenly dawned on Dylan that it was Laoise they were looking for. With a sigh, she got up, shuffled past Dylan and headed for the stage. Without a hint of nervousness, she took the microphone and began singing in a language Dylan couldn’t understand. Diarmuid accompanied her on the tin whistle, her mesmeric voice stilling all conversation in the pub. When the last sad plaintiff notes rang out, the crowd erupted with whoops and cheers and calls for more. Laoise said something to her father, took up a small, blue electric fiddle, nodded to the other band members, and began to play a furious and frantic tune. As the music reached a crescendo, the whooping and cheering erupted all over again, but this time the crowd were on their feet yelling and applauding. Laoise handed the fiddle player his instrument, smiled her thanks for the applause and sauntered off the stage, cool as a breeze. She made for the front door and, as she did so, gestured to Dylan to follow.

The cool air that greeted them was a welcome contrast to the hot and sticky pub.

Laoise lit a cigarette and offered Dylan one. They stood smoking in silence for a few moments. ‘That was amazing,’

Dylan finally managed to say

‘What was? Oh the tune? Thanks.’ As ever, Laoise was unfazed. ‘It gives the lads in the band a chance to have a pint,’ she took another long drag,

‘My Mam goes mad over me smoking though, says it will wreck my voice.’

‘So, are you like, professional now?’

Laoise burst into peals of laughter. ‘Yeah right!’ Me and all the other fifty thousand Irish girls who can carry a tune. Nah, I’ve just done my Leaving Cert and finished school. I just sing a bit with my Dad at home and an odd time at something like this. It’s a tough way to earn a living, music, even if you are out of the ordinary, which I’m not. My folks want me to go to college and all that. I suppose I will, but I really just want to do music.’

‘I think you could totally… be like famous. That fiddle you were playing was amazing,’ Dylan said, really proud of himself that he hadn’t made the mistake of calling it a violin.

‘Thanks, but you are a session virgin,’ Laoise laughed. ‘I’m OK, but there are hundreds like me. If you went up to Milltown for the Willie Clancy Summer School in July, you’d see what I mean,’

Dylan looked at her, astonished that he could feel relaxed around someone as cool as Laoise.

‘Well, I know I don’t know much about it. Hell, I was calling that thing you were playing a violin until yesterday, but if I could play like that, man I sure would be happy,’ he said with a grin.

‘Why don’t you learn?’ Laoise asked as if it were the most logical thing in the world. ‘I’m doing a beginner’s course on the Irish harp, starting next Monday in Cork. I always wanted to play it but my Mam says the house is coming down with musical instruments and we’re not buying any more. But my Dad got around her, so I start Monday. I can’t wait. They have all kinds of courses there – fiddle, banjo, box, anything really. You should check it out.’

Stamping out her cigarette, Laoise continued: ‘The teachers are really good there. There’s a guy called Ger Murphy teaching box, they call him the Ceilí King, and a fiddle player called Vince Milne, the guy is a total legend. You could learn to play better no bother. My Dad’s best friend, he’s the singer and the guitarist in the band, well he’s called Tim and he’d give you any help you needed if you want to carry on with the guitar. All the lads are really sound and they love to see young lads and girls playing.’

Dylan loved the sound of her voice, as well as the fact that she made it all sound so easy. If he hadn’t seen a session for real he wouldn’t have believed her. He knew you got nothing for nothing in this world. But in this music scene, here in Ireland, the same rules just didn’t seem to apply.

As the band were loading up the sound equipment into the back of a white van, Diarmuid suddenly appeared behind them.

‘I sincerely hope that wasn’t cigarette smoke I saw a second ago.’

‘Nah Dad, you’re just getting fuzzy eyes in your old age.’ ‘Well better not have been Miss. Your mother could well pull the plug on the harp thing if she thinks you’re acting the maggot, d’you hear me?’

As he turned towards Dylan, Laoise stuck her tongue out behind his back.

‘Well Dylan,’ he said, ‘we’re off now. I hope you had a good night and that my daughter didn’t try to lead you astray.’

‘Definitely not,’ Dylan replied ‘and thanks for inviting me.’

Just before she climbed into the van, Laoise grabbed Dylan’s wrist and, using an eyeliner pencil, wrote a phone number on his upturned palm. Diarmuid pretended not to see. The van reversed out, and as he walked up the street in the direction of the hotel, it slowed briefly and he heard Laoise’s voice ring out ‘Hey Dylan! Don’t be a stranger!’

Dylan walked back to the hotel having had the best night of his life. Ever.

Chapter 15

At breakfast the next morning, Conor announced: ‘Well folks, today you leave the nest. I know some of you have plans and some are just going to take it easy but whatever you do today just enjoy yourselves. We leave early tomorrow morning, so I want everyone tucked up in bed by ten tonight do ye hear me?’ Conor wagged his finger as the group chuckled. ‘Seriously, folks have a great day and my mobile is on if you need any help. But the petty cash fund won’t stretch to bail, so try to say on the right side of the law OK?’

Dorothy Crane threw her eyes to heaven and muttered, ‘Must he continue with these inane attempts at humour? It really is most tiresome.’ If any of the group had heard this particular aside of hers, they pretended not to have done.

Bert planned a quiet day reading the
Wall Street Journal
and the
Washington Post
. It was time he started thinking about his new project. Bert had been having a blast up to this point, and while his fellow passengers were a motley crew for sure, most of them were getting on very well together. It was always hard to blend in with this type of situation, but he was very adept at coming across as open and friendly without giving away too much. He never told lies; he just never told the whole truth. Whenever he set about choosing a new project, or a new location, one of his priorities was to ensure his own invisibility.

He had seen a documentary about Ireland and was impressed. They had real get up and go; they tried to fix things themselves rather than wait for handouts. Whenever he thought about the welfare situation in the US, it nearly drove him crazy. The Irish, on the other hand, were not a nation of whiners. They had faced such adversity in their long and turbulent past but yet, the world over, they had a reputation for being fun-loving and friendly. Sure, you had to wary of some of them, especially in the construction business, but overall he liked them. But, he was retired now, and his son ran the company very efficiently, so he didn’t have to worry about that anymore.