The Tour (16 page)

Patrick! How simply champion to see you again.’

As Cynthia ground the gears and jerked the vehicle out into the traffic, Patrick guffawed ‘Jeez, pull a stunt like that in Boston and you’d get arrested.’

Cynthia smiled but looked puzzled ‘A stunt like what my dear?’

They were sitting at a table in the courtyard of Fota House Cafe when a man came to take their order.

‘Cynthia!’ he exclaimed ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming up to town? Roger will be devastated to have missed you. He’s in Ballydehob having his aura cleansed.’ The man’s expression clearly showed just how ridiculous such an outing was in his opinion.

‘Now Charlie dear, don’t be ghastly,’ Cynthia chided. ‘Roge probably just needed some “down time”, as the

Americans say. Speaking of which, I would like you to meet a friend of mine. Charlie, this is Patrick O’Neill, from Boston. Patrick, this is my cousin and dear friend Charlie Langtree.’

Patrick stood up and shook the man’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ Patrick smiled. At last he was getting to meet real Irish people.

‘Roger and I went to the Pride Parade in New York a few years ago,’ Charlie volunteered. ‘What a city! I think we got about five hours’ sleep the whole time we were there. It was amazing! I had to take poor old Roge home after four days. I mean, honestly, he would have gained fifty pounds if I’d let him stay!’

Patrick didn’t know how to respond. He never imagined there were gays in Ireland. This trip was getting weirder by the day. He debated raising the contentious court case where in the 1990s South Boston became the focus of a Supreme Court case on the right of gay and lesbian groups to participate in the St Patrick’s Day festivities. The case was decided in favour of the parade’s sponsors, with the United States Supreme Court supporting the South Boston Allied War Veterans’ right to determine who could participate in the St Patrick’s Day parade. Patrick had, at the time, been against letting the gays march, but something told him that such opinions wouldn’t go down too well in this company. Cynthia was watching Patrick carefully, checking out his reaction to Charlie. He could feel it.

‘I don’t get to the Big Apple that often but I know you’re right. It’s not called the city that never sleeps for nothing, that’s for sure,’ Patrick said.

Cynthia smiled. Patrick had passed the test. ‘So my dear, what do you fancy?’

They ordered seafood chowder and roast beef sandwiches and sat in easy companionship in the afternoon sun. Charlie brought out the most wonderful soup Patrick had ever tasted and, as they ate and chatted, it emerged that Cynthia was not nearly as crazy as she appeared. She actually had quite a good business going, breeding horses.

‘So my dear,’ Cynthia enquired, ‘What does one do in Boston when one is not fighting crime?’

‘Well,’ replied Patrick ‘not much to be honest. I’m just a cop. I guess I should have progressed through the ranks by now, my mother certainly thought so, but I suppose I’m not that smart, and the job I was trained for doesn’t seem to exist anymore.’

As the afternoon wore on, Patrick found himself telling Cynthia about his life, his numerous shortcomings and about the offer he had been made by the Boston PD. She, in turn, told him about the man she had once loved, who it turned out was married all along and everyone knew it except her. How she was the pity of her family and friends for years afterwards, and how after that experience, she wasn’t overly inclined to go down the relationship road again.

As the sun set on the courtyard of Fota House, Cynthia and Patrick both speculated on the fact that it had been a long time since either of them had spoken to anyone so honestly or in such detail about their lives, their hopes or their expectations.

Chapter 18

Conor eased the coach out of the hotel car park with Ellen and Bert as his only passengers.

‘All in a day’s work, eh Conor?’

‘Sure I love this,’ Conor replied. ‘It breaks things up a bit and anyway I’m very interested in genealogy. The trouble with all this family tree research is that a lot of it is down to luck. I have known people over the years who have nearly bankrupted themselves trying to find their people. And I’ve known others who, with very little time or effort, strike it lucky and find out a huge amount. It doesn’t seem fair when that happens but it’s how it is.’

‘I guess we Americans must seem a bit crazy to you, obsessing about people we have never even met,’ Ellen said.

‘No, I can’t say I ever felt like that about it. I think every person needs to know where they came from, and that need gets stronger as we get older. I think when we’re young we never think of dying or the generations before or after us, but that changes as life goes on, and we all realise we are part of something bigger. Here in Ireland we’re lucky. We take our heritage for granted. Most people can easily go back at least two or three generations, but I can’t imagine what it would feel like not to know, not to have any inkling of what your grandparents or great-grandparents were like. Maybe not even know their names. So no, I don’t think it’s mad at all. In fact, what I can’t understand is why so many people
don’t
want to know. I’m amazed all 44 million Americans who claim to be of Irish descent don’t come back here
desperate
to find out where they originated from!’

‘Well my story is something I’ve been thinking about for a long time,’ said Ellen slowly. ‘I always wanted to come back but my father never showed any interest in returning, so I suppose I took my lead from him. I think, like a lot of Irishmen, he wasn’t too comfortable talking about his feelings,’ she said with a smile.

‘Well, I don’t think that’s just a problem with Irishmen,’ Bert joked. ‘My wife regularly used to tell me that she got more emotional talk from our old skinny cat than she did from me. Maybe it’s something to do with working on the land. It’s a kinda quiet job, so you don’t get too good at all that jibber-jabber talk. Most American men are not like Doctor Phil you know.’

All three of them laughed.

Around noon, they stopped for a break near Glengarriff As they sat and chatted over coffee and walnut cake, Ellen thought Conor seemed quite distracted, constantly checking his BlackBerry, something she’d never see him do before.

‘Conor, I don’t mean to pry, but if there’s something you need to do or deal with, please don’t let us stop you. I really hope I haven’t put you out by dragging you away today.’

Conor shook his head, ‘Ah no Ellen, it’s nothing like that. I’m sorry, I know I’m like a teenager today, glued to the phone.’ He decided to do something he rarely did, on the basis that Ellen and Bert seemed like very genuine people and maybe they could advise him.

‘I just have a bit of a situation going on and I’m not too sure how to deal with it.’

‘Well between myself and Bert here, we have a combined age of about two hundred years, so we might be able to help if you want to tell us.’ Ellen said encouragingly.

‘The thing is I’m in the middle of a bit of a dilemma at the moment,’ Conor said. ‘You see there’s this woman…well anyway she and I were friends years ago, and I really thought back then that it might have turned into something. But anyway it didn’t. I think she knew how I felt about her but she was dazzled by my younger brother, Gerry. I can’t blame her. All the girls were mad about Gerry.’

He paused, sipped his coffee as the atmosphere filled with a slight tension. Ellen wondered what kind of girl would turn down the very handsome and also kind and charming Conor. Bert was wondering what revelation was coming next.

‘Anyway they took off for the States, and I stayed. I never said anything to her or to anyone else. I thought maybe she would be good for Gerry, settle him down a bit. My father left us when we were kids and my mother died when he was twelve and I was fifteen. So, I kind of took over the rearing of him. He was always too restless and he got into trouble a lot. I might as well be honest, it broke my heart to let her go, and I nearly said something, but in the end she made her choice. The thing is, she got back in touch the other day, and she wants to meet up with me again. She has a child now, well he’s a teenager, and she has cancer herself, and I’m all she has in the world it seems. I did write a few times over the years but they never replied so it’s all news to me now. I just got this email from her a few minutes ago.’

Conor handed his phone to Ellen who read,

Hi Conor,

It’s so great to talk to you again. It feels like nothing has changed really does it? I could always tell you anything. I remember that about you. I wonder what you look like now, I’m a bit scared about you seeing me to be honest. This bloody cancer is playing havoc with my looks J. Seriously though, it’s such a relief to me to know that Conor Jnr will have someone when I’m gone. I’m so looking forward to reconnecting as they say here. I hope I won’t sound like one of those returned Yanks! Remember that guy who used to come back to Passage West when we were kids and how we laughed at him with his faucets and highways? Anyway I’ll be arriving next Friday into Shannon and I was thinking I could check into the hotel you stay at? I can’t wait to see you,

All my love xx

Bert observed Conor as Ellen questioned him about the woman. He had seen him leave the hotel in Clare a few nights earlier with another young woman and it looked to him like they were a couple. The way the young woman looked up at him seemed to indicate it was definitely more than a friendship. So, he was surprised to hear about this new woman. Conor struck him as a very honest guy who wouldn’t mess people around. He hoped this woman from that past wasn’t trying to take advantage of his kind nature.

‘But why now? Do you think she wants you to take over rearing her son? That’s a big ask from someone you haven’t seen for twenty years’ Ellen observed.

‘That’s the thing Ellen. I don’t know. Maybe she has become too sick to take care for him, or for herself. Or maybe she just has had enough of waiting for Gerry to turn up and has just decided to come home.’

‘Do you think she is coming back for you?’ Ellen asked him pointedly.

Conor winced. He wasn’t used to answering such questions about his personal life.

‘That is something else I don’t know,’ he admitted ruefully.

‘It’s not my business I know,’ interjected Bert, ‘but I happened to see you the other night with a woman leaving the hotel. I assumed you and she were together? Where does she fit into all of this?’

‘Ah no, that’s just Anastasia. She’s my friend. In fact, she’s the only other person I’ve talked to about this whole thing.’

‘And what does she think?’ asked Ellen

‘She didn’t know what I should do either. Though she has been kind of strange lately anyway. I think she might have relationship troubles of her own,’ Conor sighed. ‘I’m grand at fixing other people’s problems, but not so great when it comes to fixing my own.’

‘Well,’ said Ellen quietly, ‘for what it’s worth I think you should tread very carefully with Sinead. I don’t know her of course, but she did let you down once before, and in my experience people rarely change.’

‘Ah Ellen, maybe you’re right but it wasn’t really like that. I mean if you met my brother you’d understand. Anyway enough about me. I’m sure it will all work out, it always does. Now, let’s get you going on your adventure shall we?’

As Conor turned the key in the ignition he said, ‘I think the best place to start is in the village of Inchigeela and see if we can locate the exact house, that is, assuming of course, it still exists. You say your father had two brothers, one older and one younger who stayed in Ireland, so there’s is a good chance that one or both of them may have stayed in the Inchigeela area and may even have family there. The brothers on your mother’s side are worth checking too. Let’s just go there and see what we can turn up.’

Ellen smiled. ‘My father was born in 1898. Even the great genes of the O’Donovan’s didn’t last beyond a century. In fact, my grandmother died soon after he left and my grandfather died some time during the Second World War, as I recall. My father’s younger brother, Sean, wrote to tell us.’

‘Did your uncle tell you anything else about the family in those letters?’ asked Bert.

‘Not really. He married and had children. There was a photo. Remember those old square ones with the scalloped edges? Well, we got one of those in a Christmas card one year and I think the people in the photograph may have been Sean’s family. He would have been born around 1913. He was just a child when we left, so roughly thirteen years younger than my father, maybe even more. He became a schoolteacher, and I think that’s perhaps why he was better at writing letters than anyone else in the family. I’m not even sure my grandfather could read and write. My father’s oldest brother, Michael, worked the family farm, but I don’t think he ever got in touch, or at least if he did, those letters don’t exist today…’

Ellen’s voice trailed off as she lapsed into a reverie about all the questions she wished she had asked her father before he died.

‘Can you remember when that photo arrived?’ Conor asked. ‘You see, if we knew, or if we could guess, the ages of his children then we might be able to find some birth records in the parish record books. But you would need a rough idea of the date to look under. Otherwise, it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.’

Ellen paused and tried to remember

‘Well, the date on the back of the photo is 1942,’ she said, drawing the photograph out of her handbag.

Bert leaned over. ‘Can I see?’

‘Sure,’ she replied, handing it to him. ‘The funny thing about it is I think one of the girls in that picture looks just like a picture my Dad took of me when I was that age.’

‘Have you any clue why they lost touch?’ Bert asked. ‘A dispute of some kind maybe?’

‘I don’t know, but I don’t think so. My Dad just wasn’t much for writing letters. Even when I moved away from home, I only got the occasional postcard from him. I don’t think anything happened between him and Sean, just that he was never that good at staying in touch and I guess Sean died and that was that. I know everyone says this, but I wish I could turn back the clock and just ask my Dad so many things about Ireland, and what happened here all those years ago. I don’t know what it is I expect to find in the village of Inchigeela. All I know is that I’ve wanted to go there for so many years…you are both so kind. I mean, this is probably a wild goose chase.’