The Tour

Book 1: The Tour Series

by Jean Grainger

Genres: Holiday books; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

A charming Irish bus driver. A group of misfit American tourists. One life changing week for everyone on board.

 

USA Today Bestselling author Jean Grainger wants to take you to Ireland.

 

Guide Conor O’Shea has given hundreds of tours, and doesn’t expect this one to be any different, taking take a bus full of strangers through Ireland’s most colorful and iconic locations. 

 

The passengers couldn’t be more different—a Wall Street banker, a man-hunting serial divorcee, a love-hungry cop and a very old lady with an incredible secret—but each wants something, and they all have something to hide. 

 

Conor’s avoided conflict his whole life, but with every stop, his passengers uncover secrets and face truths that will change their lives. 

 

Can Conor continue to watch from the sidelines? Or is he brave enough to face his own problems? 

 

Witty, informative, and with a touch of romance, The Tour is as colourful and turbulent as the wild Atlantic coast. You’ll get an insider look at one of the world’s most beautiful places, as you take a tour you’ll never forget as you navigate the stunning vistas of gorgeous Ireland along with the hearts and minds of a cast of characters who will live with you, long after you've finished the last page. 

 

Can you afford to miss the trip of a lifetime?

Release date: December 15, 2013

Publisher: Jean Grainger

Print pages: 292

Sample

Chapter 1 

 

Conor O’Shea sat on the edge of the king-sized four-poster bed, trying to wake up. The heavy damask curtains hanging in the big bay window admitted not a single chink of light. It struck Conor, not for the first time, how odd it was to feel perfectly at home in any hotel, especially this vast edifice, but somehow he did. 

He padded across the deep-pile taupe carpet to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, power shower completed, he stood in front of the mirror, gazing ruefully at his reflection while he shaved. His silver hair had the effect of making him look older than his forty-five years, he mused, and although people told him it made him look distinguished, he wasn’t quite so sure. As he dressed – black tailored trousers and a cream Ralph Lauren shirt, which contrasted sharply with his tanned skin – he mentally ran through his itinerary for the day ahead. He would have breakfast quickly, just some cereal and a cup of tea, and get the Mercedes mini-coach organised to pick up his passengers from Shannon Airport at seven o’clock. 

Conor often wondered about the wisdom of his fellow coach drivers eating full cooked breakfasts every morning and then munching their way through scones and apple tarts all day during their numerous tour stops. Many of them were so overweight it made their job of loading and unloading heavy suitcases almost impossible. Conor liked to stay fit, and he was also careful not to get carried away with all the free food offered to him and the other coach drivers. 

Today would be a nice easy day; it entailed nothing more than picking up his tour group at Shannon that morning and bringing them back to the Dunshane Castle Hotel. The tour operator, for whom Conor had worked as a driver-guide for nearly twenty years, had strong business links with the five-star castle. As a result, Conor stayed there almost once a week. 

As he walked across the busy lobby towards the dining room, a haughty voice rang out. ‘Mr O’Shea, your post,’ said Ms O’Brien, the head receptionist, proffering several postcards and one letter. ‘Although what gave you the impression that this was your office and that I and the reception staff are your personal secretaries, I cannot possibly imagine,’ she added curtly. 

Conor accepted the small bundle and smiled at Ms O’Brien in spite of her glare. ‘I know that, Katherine. I’m an awful nuisance, and you are all so good to me here.’ 

The two young receptionists gaped at each other, seemingly amazed at Conor’s use of Ms O’Brien’s first name. No one else at the Dunshane would ever dare do such a thing. 

‘And I’m really sorry for the inconvenience,’ Conor continued. ‘But as you know, I’m kind of homeless during the tourist season, so I rely on your unending generosity in keeping my post and other things for me while I’m on the road. I really do appreciate it, though, Katherine.’ 

‘Well, yes. I suppose we have no choice. By the way, Rosemary from your office booked in six more tours, so that means we have a whole summer of being your unpaid PAs ahead of us.’ Ms O’Brien revealed just a hint of a smile. 

Conor’s twinkling blue eyes always seemed to have a melting effect on her frosty personality, something that was a source of amazement to the other staff. He knew her bark was much worse than her bite and that underneath it all, she actually liked him and appreciated that he didn’t behave in the manner of some of the other coach drivers, who were always drinking and flirting with the waitresses. He was friendly and chatty but never disrespectful, and he genuinely did value all the extra little things the Dunshane staff did for him. Equally, however, he knew how important an asset he was to the hotel; his tour operator employers regularly sought his opinions on the accommodation used, and so it was in the hotel’s best interest to keep him happy. It worked both ways. The hotel staff knew exactly how to cater to the clients he brought them and precisely what standards were expected of them, and they delivered accordingly. If things needed a little tweaking from time to time, Conor usually had a quiet word in the right ear and succeeded in solving the problem. 

He continued into the dining room and was immediately greeted by Anastasia, one of the waitresses. 

‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite communist!’ he said with a big smile. When she didn’t respond in her normal friendly fashion, Conor took a closer look and realised she had been crying. His first instinct was to ask her what was wrong, but he hesitated, in case it was something personal that she might not want to discuss with him. In any event, she had moved on and was busy taking an order from another table, so he took a seat and waited, wondering what, if anything, he should say. Probably boyfriend trouble, he thought to himself. Best keep out of it. 

Among the Dunshane staff, the young Ukrainian was the person he had struck up the closest friendship with. His chats with Anastasia revealed that she, like so many of her countryfolk, had come to Ireland in search of a better life. Conor was surprised when she told him that she had, in fact, worked as a teacher in Kiev but the money she made waitressing in Ireland was twice what she could earn at home. 

Two weeks earlier, in between departing and arriving tour groups, one of the receptionists had told him it was Anastasia’s birthday, so he had taken her out for a meal to cheer her up; she had seemed a bit lonely for home. That evening, as they left the hotel grounds on their way to the restaurant, he had been acutely aware of the looks he attracted from the other drivers. Clearly, they believed there was something more going on between him and Anastasia. Ah, what the hell, he’d said to himself. They always believe that about everyone. 

The female tour guides had an awful job coping with some of those drivers, much to Conor’s embarrassment. For some, the idea that a man and a woman could remain just friends or colleagues was inconceivable. Only last week, Conor had caused a bit of a stir by telling Ollie Murphy to give it a rest as Ollie told one sexist joke after another to an eager audience of drivers whiling away the time in the airport car park as they waited for their passengers to arrive. 

As if Anastasia would be interested in him anyhow, he mused. She was absolutely gorgeous and way too young for him – a mere twenty-five-year-old, he reminded himself. Although she actually looked a lot younger than that with her pixie-crop blond hair and enormous green eyes – reminiscent of Meg Ryan when she first became famous, he thought. 

Anastasia’s work uniform – a cream and gold fitted blouse and black skirt – was markedly different from her dress sense outside of work, which was quite bohemian, hippyish even. During one of their many long chats in recent months, she had explained to him that she loved to make her own clothes. Conor was well aware that they made an unusual pair – Anastasia’s tiny five-foot frame beside Conor’s six-foot-two muscular bulk. But they could gossip all they liked, the lot of them; he didn’t give a hoot what they thought about any of it. He was far too interested in hearing her stories, and he loved to listen to her accent – a peculiar mix of Ukraine and West Clare. Her unique combination of inflections and idioms invariably made him smile. 

‘Hi, Conor.’ She interrupted his reverie and stood beside the table, pen and notepad at the ready. 

‘Ah, Anastasia, are you all right?’ he blurted. ‘You seem a bit…eh…upset or something.’ 

The genuine concern on Conor’s face seemed to have the effect of opening the floodgates. ‘Oh, Conor, I am sorry. Is not your problem. Is just I get phone call this day from my brother. He tell me my mother is in the hospital, but he is cut off before he can tell me more. So now I am all day worried. I think maybe she is dead, or maybe she need me and…’ Her voice broke. 

Conor pulled out a chair and made her sit down, ignoring the disapproving glare from Carlos Manner, the restaurant manager. ‘Ah, God love you…you poor thing. That’s terrible. Listen, why can’t you just call him or one of your other relations and find out what’s happening? That’s an awful worry to have going on in your head all day.’ 

‘Well, yes, but there is no more a pay phone in the hotel, and my mobile plan don’t let me make call to Ukraine. I must wait until after shift to go to internet place in Ennis.’ 

‘Sure, that’s no problem at all – use my phone. I use it to call the States for work all the time, so I’m sure it will manage a call to Ukraine too,’ Conor said, relieved at being able to help his young friend in some practical way. 

‘Conor, you are so kind.’ She smiled faintly. ‘But even you cannot afford cost of calling Ukraine on mobile phone! No, is OK. I will call later in internet place.’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Conor said, handing her the phone. ‘Sure I’m loaded! I’m only doing this job for the craic!’ He was glad to see another hint of a smile creep across her tear-stained face. ‘Now, go on over there to that quiet corner by the window and ring your brother. I’m sure everything will be grand. OK?’ 

Anastasia relented and took the phone. A few moments later, she was talking to someone and seemed, from her body language at any rate, to be reassured, although Conor had no clue what she was saying. Just then, he spotted the manager heading in her direction. As Carlos passed the table, Conor put out his hand to stop him. ‘She just has something urgent that she needs to deal with at home in Ukraine,’ Conor said quietly. ‘She’ll only be a minute.’ 

Carlos Manner was an imperious little man with slicked-down hair and perfectly manicured nails. Always immaculate in his appearance, he had the air of someone who slept in a straight line every night wearing a pair of perfectly ironed pyjamas. His clipped South African accent never ceased to grate on Conor’s nerves. 

‘With all due respect, Conor, I think it is my concern if a member of my staff is attending to personal business on hotel time,’ he intoned as he made to move towards Anastasia. 

‘Carlos,’ said Conor quietly but firmly, ‘just give her a chance to finish her call. I’m sure the place won’t go up in flames without her for five minutes.’ 

Carlos winced at Conor’s use of his first name but realised that he couldn’t win against him. They both knew that if Carlos took it up with the general manager of the hotel, he would be overruled instantly. He would be told that Conor was a valued business associate of the chain and that he must be accommodated whenever possible. Carlos turned on his immaculately polished heel, seething with resentment. 

A few moments later, Anastasia returned and handed Conor his phone. ‘Thank you so much, Conor. You are so nice. My brother say she is OK, little pain in the heart. She must stay in the hospital for some more days, but it is not really serious. Oh, I am so better now! I would be all day worried if I could not call.’ She smiled gratefully. Then, lowering her voice, she added, ‘Is Mr Manner mad now?’ 

Conor knew the staff detested the prissy little man who found fault with everyone and everything. ‘Not at all, no. He was just wondering if you were OK. I told him you were. Don’t worry your head about it. Now I’m off to pick up my group, but we’ll be back for dinner tonight, so I’ll see you later. And I’m really glad your mam is all right.’ Giving her an encouraging wink and a smile, he left the dining room, breakfastless but feeling none the worse for it. 

As he walked towards the coach park, he reached into his pocket for the pile of post that Katherine O’Brien had handed him earlier. The postcards were from people who had been on his tours earlier in the season, thanking him for making their trip so enjoyable. A letter, postmarked Philadelphia, lay underneath a sheaf of postcards. Conor recognised the handwriting of the person who had scratched out his old home address and replaced it with the Dunshane Castle forwarding address. He stopped and stared hard at the envelope. There were only two people in America who would know his old home address in County Cork. Neither of those people had been in touch with him in well over twenty years. He ripped open the envelope, certain that the letter was from Sinead and not from his brother Gerry, who had appalling handwriting. Heart thumping, he read. 

 

Dear Conor, 

I know it must seem like a bolt out of the blue hearing from me after so long. I don’t really know where to start. I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch before, but maybe you’ve heard from Gerry. I don’t know. I’ve not seen him in years. Things didn’t work out with him, as you probably know. It all seems so long ago now, you and me and Gerry, in Passage West. Anyway, I’m writing to tell you that I’m coming home. Well, that is, we are coming home, young Conor and me, your nephew. He’s seventeen. I know I should have told you when he was born, but anyway, here it is. I have a son, named after his uncle, and we are a one-parent family. Gerry knows about Conor. I did have his address at one point, and I wrote to him telling him he had a son, but apart from a postcard acknowledgement, I never heard from him again. I often think if I’d stayed in Ireland instead of coming to the States with your brother, things would have worked out better, but I guess that’s all water under the bridge now. We had some fun times, though, didn’t we? 

Anyway, I’d love to get back in touch with you. My email address is [email protected]. I’m sure Ireland has progressed into the age of technology by now! 

Hopefully talk soon. 

Lots of love, 

Sinead xxxx 

 

Conor sat in the coach. He had never expected to hear from her again. He had sent Christmas cards and things over the years but had never received a reply. Gerry was his only sibling, and their parents were long since dead. Despite Conor’s best efforts, the two brothers had lost touch. The idea that maintaining contact between them might have achieved something positive caused Conor to feel even more guilt and pain. He had loved Sinead, more than he had ever loved anyone before or since, but she had chosen the better-looking brother, Gerry, and that was that. It was wrong to want your brother’s girl, even if he had seen her first. 

Gerry was always a bit wild, especially after their mother died, and Conor had become accustomed to taking care of him. Gerry had a reputation for being a useless layabout who felt the world owed him something, but Conor always believed that was because Gerry was orphaned at a young age. Conor’s policy at the time Gerry took up with Sinead was to let on that he was thrilled. After all, it wasn’t as if there had been any understanding between himself and Sinead. They had only gone out a few times. 

Before Gerry and Sinead became an item, Conor had decided that she was the only woman for him; he had even confided in Gerry about his feelings. Gerry hadn’t intended to hurt him – he knew that. It was just that Gerry always behaved like a child; if he saw something he wanted, he just took it. Conor knew that he should have declared his feelings to Sinead sooner. While he was dithering, waiting for the right time to tell her how he felt, Gerry had snuck in before him. 

Conor had always believed Sinead was well aware of how he felt about her, yet she still picked Gerry. Maybe she thought she could make Gerry happy since no one else could. It seemed from the letter, though, that it all went wrong anyway. Did he want Sinead back in his life now, he wondered, after all this time? He really didn’t know. A huge part of him was excited at the prospect of seeing her, having the chance to say…well, what? What could he say? What he should have said twenty years ago? And she had a son. That meant Conor had a nephew. It was a lot to take in. 

 

Chapter 2 

 

‘Conor! You look well,’ said Carolina Capelli, giving him a kiss on the cheek as she and her fellow tour guides waited for their groups in the arrivals area at Shannon Airport. 

‘Carolina! How are you? Who are you with this week?’ 

‘Mad Mike Murphy.’ She threw her eyes to the heavens. ‘I’m over the moon.’ 

‘Oh God help you! You’ll have your work cut out for you so!’ Conor chuckled. 

‘I think I sorted him out last week when he was helping me into the coach by grabbing my bottom. I told him I was going to speak to his wife, explain how helpful he always is to me the next time she came to drop him off. He nearly died.’ 

Conor laughed. Carolina and he had both had the misfortune to meet the scary, chain-smoking Mags Murphy. ‘No more than he deserves,’ Conor said. ‘I reckon she’d murder him if she found out, though.’ 

Carolina was a twenty-eight-year-old Italian. Never in a million years would she be interested in Mad Mike, who was fat and fifty, had chronic halitosis and possessed 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 fifty-two-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 him holding aloft the welcome card bearing the tour operator’s name and logo. He directed them to the toilets, the ATM and the newspaper stand, then instructed them to make their way out to the distinctive 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 you 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 you 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, and her hair was cut in a flatteringly soft style that framed her face. 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, and 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. She 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 drink holders. The halogen reading lights overhead could be adjusted to suit individual passengers’ requirements, and 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 left the coach and paced 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,’ the woman said to Ellen with an apologetic smile. 

Ellen smiled warmly. Anna looked as if she was of German or Scandinavian extraction. She was tall, her blond 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. 

Ellen 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, um, no… Uh, I mean, we have taken day trips when we were on vacation, but we, uh –’ 

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 prearranged time, well, then they just have to make their own arrangements. It’s not fair to 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, her face betraying that she was 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 and had longish grey hair that flopped onto his face and curled over his collar in a manner that Ellen considered somewhat bohemian for a man of his generation. His skin, leatherlike from seemingly lifelong exposure to strong sunlight, was offset by his large brown eyes that radiated warmth and intelligence. He was dressed in beige chinos and a dark-green shirt bearing a 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 about sixteen or seventeen years old, 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, and 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 and bleeding eyes, and below that, black skintight jeans torn to shreds. To complete the look, he 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 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. ’The name’s Bert.’ 

‘I’m Corlene Holbrooke, originally from Ashton County, 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 noticed her geographical error, she gave no indication. Ellen considered responding 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-blond head of hair featured a good two inches of blackish-grey roots. She had possibly been good-looking fa few years ago, 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, and 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 to 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 in loading 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’d 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 their story before they started recounting it. In this Patrick’s case, the salient details were: born in South Boston, a true ‘Southie’; raised by a violent alcoholic 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 tourists. 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 was 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 could 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 9:30 a.m. In the meantime, you might like to make a note of my room number – it’s 409. 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 drove through 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.