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 as 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 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 to load 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 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 it before they started recounting it. In Patrick’s case, the salient details were: born in South Boston, a true “Southie”; raised by an alcoholic, violent 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 tourist. 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 is 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 can be reasonably accommodated.
Once he had everyone