Free The Tour by Jean Grainger Page B

same time and just start playing. It was awesome!’ His eyes shone with enthusiasm, ‘There is this thing like a bagpipe but it’s not and it makes the most incredible sound, like I dunno, I can’t describe it.’
    He suddenly became aware that everyone at the table was looking at him and he stopped talking, embarrassed once again.
    ‘Were they uilleann pipes I wonder?’ asked Conor ‘Was the fella squeezing them with one arm and covering holes on the pipes with his fingers?’
    ‘Yeah,’ Dylan replied, but much quieter this time, ‘that’s it…that’s the name. There were some other guys playing violins and guitars too.’
    ‘Lord save us Dylan, don’t leave the fella with the violin hear you…in this country that’s called a fiddle.’
    ‘Oh OK, I’ll try to remember that,’ Dylan replied, smiling for the first time since the conversation had begun.
    ‘My son is a very talented musician,’ Corlene announced to the table. ‘I mean to say, he would have to be, my whole family is very creative. My niece won the beautiful baby contest at our state fair three years running. I myself, of course, am no stranger to the catwalks either…,’ she smiled coquettishly at Bert. ‘I have done some photo shoots as well. Swimwear, lingerie, that sort of thing…if anyone wants to see them I could bring them on the coach tomorrow…the photos I mean… not the lingerie hahahahahahaha,’ she finished raucously.
    The faces regarding her display were a mixture of disapproval and horror. Some of them gave their coffee their undivided attention to avoid looking at the long false eyelash that had escaped from her overly made-up eyes. It had already slipped half way down one cheek and looked set to progress even further.
    ‘So Conor,’ said Ellen, anxious to distract them all from the disaster, ‘Are you from around here?’
    ‘I am actually Ellen,’ Conor replied. ‘I was born here in County Cork, about twenty miles from Kinsale.’
    ‘And do you get home much?’ she went on.
    ‘Not much during the season, to be honest. I work tours back to back from around March to November.’
    ‘And is there a Mrs Conor?’ Patrick asked with a wink. Conor smiled. ‘Tis easy knowing you’re a cop Patrick!
    But to answer your question, no, I’m not married.’
    Corlene cast another lingering glance at Conor. He was very attractive, she thought, no doubt about that. He obviously worked out and his colouring didn’t look Irish. His particular combination of tanned skin, blue eyes, shock of silver hair and tall, muscular frame made him quite unusual looking and he attracted attention. She was a keen people watcher and had registered that he never seemed to notice the admiring glances he received, especially from women. He was a bit on the young side though, plus he was only a bus driver, so he wouldn’t make enough to keep her. With regret, she dismissed the idea of a potential conquest.
    Conor arranged for them all to meet for dinner that evening in the hotel. In the meantime, as he had a few hours to himself, he drove to the town of Passage West. While manoeuvring the coach down the main street, he was hit with that a familiar feeling of wanting to get out of there as fast as he could.
    The village consisted of one street, which split in two around a public square. On a hill, overlooking the town sat a Catholic Church with a Protestant one tucked behind it. The defunct St Mary’s girl’s primary school, with boarded up windows dominated the main street. It had been replaced by a newer, more modern building outside the town. There was one small shop, a children’s playground and five pubs. Although he had grown up there, it didn’t feel like home to him. His father, Jamsie, like many of his generation, had left to find work in England just before Conor’s eighth birthday. From that day on, he never returned once to visit his wife and two young sons. Conor had heard rumours years ago that his father had remarried in