The Tour (7 page)

He found himself a corner table and made himself comfortable. A thin waitress with unnaturally black hair and a very pointy nose appeared, and, in heavily accented English, asked him what he would like to order.

‘Well Miss, what would you recommend for a returning Irishman?’ he asked jovially.

‘Specials are on board, everything else is on menu, it is all good,’ she replied brusquely, clearly impatient to take the order.

A bit chastened by her attitude, he asked for fish and chips and a pint of Guinness. Patrick had hoped to be served by an Irish colleen, all freckles and smiles, not this vicious looking creature from behind the Iron Curtain. But, hell, he was determined not to let anything, certainly not that sour broad, spoil his vision of his homeland.

The pub began to fill quickly, and soon there wasn’t a single free table to be had. As he was tucking into his beer battered fried fish, he heard a voice say:

‘Excuse me, I wonder would you mind awfully if I sat here? There don’t appear to be any more free tables.’

Patrick looked up to see a tall, bizarrely dressed woman with wild hair smiling down at him.

‘Of course,’ he responded enthusiastically, ‘I can recommend the fish too, it’s really great.’

‘Well I might just order that then,’ she replied, ‘though I usually have a salad. My name is Cynthia Jeffers by the way, and
you
are?’

She stared at him, one hairy eyebrow raised inquisitively. ‘Patrick O'Neill, Boston, USA at your service ma’am, delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he added with a flourish. ‘I’m here on a tour of the old country. My folks came from Ireland, so I’m settling in just fine here. Are you on vacation too?’

‘Gracious no! I wish I was. I live here, well not here exactly, further east, County Waterford. Do you know it?’ and, without waiting for an answer continued,

‘My aged uncle died recently and, as he had no children of his own, I’m rather afraid that dealing with his affairs and sorting through his impedimenta seems to have fallen to me. Old Uncle Herbert was a nice but totally dotty old goat. Daddy and Mummy despaired of him, forever chasing the stable hands and trying to goose the maids, but of course fairly harmless really. His house is just outside the town here. I’ve been working on his stuff all day, so I really deserve a nice meal and a glass of wine! God knows the last time anyone cooked anything in his kitchen. An ancient local woman came in once a week but, apparently, he was being a bit frisky even with her. I think she used to just look in, check that he wasn’t dead and then leave again. The place really is in the most
dreadful
state. The vicar’s wife called around earlier – a mousy little thing, but she means well one supposes – with a pot of rhubarb preserve. But I felt I deserved something a bit more substantial to eat. So,
here I am
.’

She had a tinkling, girlish laugh, which belied her odd appearance and her age, which Patrick guessed was mid- forties or thereabouts. He examined her closely as she spoke to the scary waitress. She was wearing what appeared to be men’s shoes, albeit in a small size, purple woollen panty hose with several holes, and a caftan dress of the type favoured by hippies in the 1970s. Her hair was a tawny blonde colour but seemed badly in need of a comb.

When she had finished placing her order, Patrick said, ‘Wow Cynthia, you sound like you’ve had a busy day. By the way, did you say you grew up here?’

He was confused. Her accent sounded English – like one of the Royal Family if the truth be told –but she had said, or had implied, that she was Irish.

‘Oh yes, we live at Kilgerran, near Dungarvan. Daddy wouldn’t ever leave but Mummy has never missed a season in London. She dragged me along a few times but in the end, she just gave up. She claimed the reason I never made a good match was because Daddy insisted on confining my social life to the local fellows. I do rather enjoy going back to the mainland occasionally, catching up with school chums and so on, but not to live, gracious no! The hunting is gone for a start. In addition, England now is so full of dreadful jumped-up types with lots of money. But I mean to say, who are they? An old school pal of mine had to sell their seat to a used car dealer! His ghastly wife is buying up everything she can find in Laura Ashley. Mummy nearly choked when she heard. Oaklands had been in the Gore-Patten family since
Agincourt
.’

Patrick was mystified. Although Cynthia spoke English, he had absolutely no idea what she was on about. Still, something about her made him want her to keep talking.

‘So you went to school in England?’ Patrick tried again. ‘Naturally, I mean it’s what one does, isn't it? Though thankfully Daddy lost a packet at Ascot the year I was to go to that finishing school in Switzerland. Saved me from that
horror
due to lack of funds. One can only imagine how
ghastly
that would have been. Arranging flowers and designing interesting table settings, dear me no, definitely not for me! Though that’s another reason, Mummy claims I didn’t manage to make a good match. No, after that, I came home and a jolly good thing too! Honestly, Mummy and Daddy are simply hopeless. So, I took over the estate. It’s doing well now. I have a frightfully clever chap over from New Zealand of all places, a genius with the geldings! Oh, hark at me blathering on... I’m so sorry. I haven’t spoken to a single human being all day!’

Patrick just gazed at her mesmerised. He was sure of one thing. Never in his fifty-six years had he met anyone like Cynthia. She might as well have been speaking Arabic for all he understood, but God she was highly entertaining.

As they enjoyed their meal and ordered more drinks, the conversation flowed. Her tales of her Uncle Herbert and a DNA test for paternity had him wiping his eyes in mirth. The loveliest thing about her, he thought, was the fact that her humour and chatter was effortless. He was amazed when he checked the time to discover that the pub was about to close. When they were ordered to move outside by the Stalinist waitress who was busy mopping the floor, he had a brainwave.

‘Y’know Cynthia, our group is staying here again tomorrow night and we’re supposed to visit a fort tomorrow, but I’d be happy to skip the tour and come and help you sort out your uncle’s house if that would help? It doesn’t seem right you having to do it all on your own. And you know I’m a member of the Boston Police Department, so you’re quite safe.’

Patrick wasn’t quite sure what he was doing but he knew he really wanted to spend some more time with this bizarre but compelling woman.

‘Well Patrick that is really extraordinarily kind of you. If you’re sure I wouldn't be imposing on your holiday, I’d be delighted with the help. Though I hope you aren’t squeamish. It is in rather a state.’

‘After thirty years in the Boston PD I think I’ve seen it all.’

As he walked Cynthia back to her very dirty and battered Volvo station wagon, they shook hands and arranged to meet the following morning.

Chapter 7

Juliet Steele was unpacking her bag and taking in her surroundings when Dorothy’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

‘It says here that you can avail of an early bird special in The Fishmarket Restaurant if you order before six-thirty. I have booked us a table for six-fifteen.’

Juliet groaned inwardly; they had only eaten lunch at three and she wasn’t remotely hungry. On the other hand, she knew better than to argue with Dorothy when she was in money-saving mode, which was all of the time. Juliet thought she had never met such a penny pincher as Dorothy in her entire life. She would have much preferred to wait until eight o’clock and have something small in one of the local pubs, and maybe absorb some of the atmosphere of this charming seaside town. The prospect of an empty hotel dining room with only the sound of a ticking clock to break the silence filled her with dread.

She thought again, how much Larry would have enjoyed being here in Ireland. Being from landlocked Iowa, the ocean fascinated him. What she wouldn’t do right now just to be able to sit on the terrace of one of the local hotels overlooking the harbour, order a glass of wine and have a leisurely chat with her dear late husband. She had never admitted to anyone that she spoke to Larry every day, in case they thought she was crazy.

Suddenly, a new sensation washed over Juliet, and she heard herself say, ‘Actually Dorothy, I’m not really hungry. I think I’ll pass on dinner if you don’t mind. I might just go for a walk to stretch my legs after that long bus ride today. I’ll see you later.’

Her heart was pounding as she reached for her jacket, but she made the fatal mistake of making eye contact with her travelling companion.

‘Don’t be ridiculous Juliet,’ Dorothy said with weary disdain, ‘you can’t just go wandering off on your own. Anyway, Ireland is a very expensive country. If we don’t eat here and avail of the special offer, we will probably be ripped off in some fancy spot up the street.’

Reluctantly, Juliet placed her jacket on the bed. ‘I’m sure you’re right Dorothy.’

‘Well then, let’s go down now. And remember, we must stock up at all the included meals, take anything portable, so that we can have snacks in the evenings, when meals are not included. That way we can eat in the room and we won’t overspend,’ she said emphatically.

As they took their seats in the empty dining room, a waiter approached with the wine list. ‘Good evening ladies. Can I get you a drink while you browse the menu?’

‘Em yes pl…’ said Juliet.

‘No thank you, just a jug of water please, not mineral water now, tap water is fine,’ Dorothy dismissed the young man peremptorily.

‘You didn't want a drink did you? It’s probably plonk sold at Grand Reserve prices anyway. Better stick with the water. Oh look, they do a starter platter for two, let’s order that.’

Juliet looked at the menu. The starter platter was all shellfish, which she didn't like, but well since she wasn’t hungry anyway, what the …

The dinner progressed with the two women eating in silence, the only interjections coming from Dorothy who criticised the hotel, the staff, the bus, Conor, generally finding fault with just about everything. This latest stream of complaints grated on Juliet even more than usual. Fortunately, no one else could hear them, so at least she was spared that embarrassment.

While Dorothy rattled on, Juliet recalled one of her friends from church telling her a story about how Dorothy had managed to wangle a free holiday by way of compensation for the litany of complaints she had lodged with one particular tour operator. Juliet wished she had to nerve to stand up to Dorothy and be allowed to do her own thing, but the prospect of confronting her speaking her mind was just too daunting. She knew that at the first sign of conflict she would dissolve into floods of tears.

En route to the room after their dreary dinner, Juliet gave herself a pep talk. Come on Juliet, you’re a grown woman and
she
is not in charge. Just be
assertive
. As Dorothy was putting the key in the door – Juliet was never allowed to take the key in case she lost it – she heard herself say, ‘I’m just going downstairs for a little while Dorothy, I need some fresh air.’ Before Dorothy could object, she took off down the corridor, all the while fighting the urge to giggle at her audacity. I don’t know what’s got into you, she said to herself delightedly. Deciding to make the most of her temporary freedom, she headed to the hotel bar and ordered a glass of wine. Glancing across the bar, she spotted Conor sipping a coffee, frowning slightly as he concentrated on a newspaper crossword. She didn’t know whether she should interrupt him or not. Maybe he was trying to unwind; on the other hand, she didn’t want to appear rude.

‘Hi Conor, I won’t disturb you but I just wanted to say how much I’m enjoying your commentary on the coach. It’s really interesting, all the history and everything. I don’t know how you manage to remember it all.’

Conor looked up from his paper, ‘Ah Juliet! No Dorothy with you I see?’

Conor had seen women caught up in this type arrangement many times before. As ever, he was mystified as to why a nice woman like Juliet would be friends with such an old battle-axe as that Dorothy one. But, as he reminded himself, his job was to drive the coach and keep them happy, not enquire too deeply about what was going on.

‘Em no… She…she’s in the room. I just came out for a walk and thought I might just have one glass of wine since I’m on vacation…’ Juliet’s voice trailed off.

Conor smiled. ‘Of course you did. You
are
in Ireland after all. Do you want to join me or would you rather some peace and quiet? I won’t be insulted if you want to be on your own?’

‘Well if you’re sure you don’t mind I would be happy to join you.’

‘So, have you and Dorothy been friends for long?’

‘Well, yes and no I suppose. I know her through our church, and when my husband died, she suggested that we take a trip together. And so, I guess, here we are.’

‘You must get on great so, to say ye went on holidays together,’ Conor prompted.

He was intrigued by this woman who, when away from her companion, wasn’t nearly as mousy as he had originally thought.

Juliet smiled sardonically.

‘I guess so. Though to be honest, I sometimes wonder what, if anything, we have in common. Dorothy is very well travelled and well read. She’s actually a university professor in some kind of science, but to be honest I’m not sure exactly what. So, she’s kind of hard to please I guess. She’s very definite about what she does and doesn’t want, and usually gets her own way in the end. I tend to go with the flow a bit more.’

Conor considered the various aspects of Juliet’s predicament.

‘Well Juliet, I’ll tell you something I’ve observed in my amateur studies of human behaviour, well …on my coach tours anyhow, for the past twenty years. You can please some of the people some of the time, but not all of the people all of the time. To my mind, people decide either they are going to have a great time or a miserable time and there’s very little anyone can do to change it once they have decided on that. I hope you decide you are going to have a great time, and that you don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks.’