by Gemma Whelan
“And got me into deep trouble! The manager said I was rude to a guest.”
“Surely he was the rude one. He attacked you and insulted all Irish people!”
“That’s what I said. But I got the speech about being in the service industry and the customer being always right et cetera, et cetera, to which I replied that I was giving in my notice as I didn’t want to work in a place where employees were abused and the manger didn’t have the backbone to stand up for them!”
“God!” Julie gasped, “What did he say to that?”
“He actually switched to being very nice, and he suggested I take a break and sit in on the Irish dance upstairs—the one Jack and Mary were at.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been to an Irish dance. What was it like?”
“It was like a scene that might have taken place in an Irish dance hall in my grandparents’ time. People of all ages, prancing around, some dressed in kilts, and performing jigs and reels and kicking up their heels, spinning like dervishes. It was a throwback.”
“I thought kilts were Scottish.” Julie commented.
“They originated in Scotland and were only really adopted in Ireland around the turn of this century by Irish Nationalists. I’m sure it was connected with the Celtic Renaissance, a huge resurgence of pride in all things traditional.”
“And are the patterns similar to the Scottish ones?” Julie asked.
“Some of the Irish kilts I’ve seen are plain, all one color. But I think that companies have started to manufacture tartans for the Irish-American market, for specific families. But, I saw more kilts at that Irish dinner-dance than I’d seen in my entire life!”
“And the dancing was not what you were used to at home?” Julie asked.
“Not by a long shot. In competitions, yes, but not for recreation. Then, I remember Jack and Mary forced me to dance The Walls of Limerick or something. I protested, but they would brook no resistance!”
“You got more of an Irish experience than you bargained for.” Julie chuckled.
“Much more! It made me think afterwards about why I had come to America, and I knew instinctively that I didn’t want that ‘More-Irish-than-the-Irish-themselves culture.’ Within a month, I had quit the hotel, found a low profile office job, which I later on replaced with my glamorous night cleaning one! I found my cozy little hideaway, began to write short stories and pile them up in my drawer. And now, here I am.”
“You certainly showed gumption, Fiona. You fought your corner.”
“Thanks.” Fiona looked at Julie, sitting across from her. They were getting to know each other. Chatting, like sisters. Interesting that Julie should pick up on her ability to defend herself, to fight when attacked. She herself had remembered that whole experience vividly because it was the catalyst for her escape after she came to America. She saw it as running away, tunneling in. Julie chose to highlight her courage rather than her cowardice. Did she still have that strength and pride? Here she was, ten years later, in Los Angeles, feeling she had managed to escape the hyper-Irishness of the expatriate population of her adoptive city and pushed her own Irishness to a safer remove. And yet, she was again delving back into her past, heading back to the source, wondering if she had missed out on something, and hoping that this time round the journey back in time would both save her sinking career, and finally give her some peace.
EYE OF THE STORM
Excerpt from a novel by Fiona Clarke
I could picture all the girls on folding chairs in St. Killian’s assembly hall. The nuns always sat near the front, and now Mother Assumpta was on the stage behind a lectern in the middle of delivering a speech.
“I’m very pleased that this year two of our St. Killian’s girls have won prizes in the National Student Writer’s 1971 Competition.” She rustled her notes.
“In the category of Best Non-Fiction, the first prize among all the secondary schools in the country goes to Siobhán McHugh. There’s a monetary prize of twenty pounds and a certificate—so Siobhán—could you come up please to the podium?”
There was a huge outburst of applause and congratulations as Siobhán wound her way through the chairs and up the aisle to accept her prize. I knew that Mother Assumpta was shaking her hand and handing her the envelope and the certificate and that Siobhán was beaming. She had a lovely smile. All the girls in her class, 6A, were particularly loud and happy.
“And next, in the category of Best Fiction, the first prize goes to—Sheila Flaherty.”
There was another great round of applause from the gathering and the beginnings of a murmuring. Mother Assumpta continued. “There is a certificate and, again, a money prize of twenty pounds,” she announced. “Sheila, you may come up and accept your prize.”
The murmuring grew in intensity as everyone looked around for me. Then a voice piped up, it was Anna Smith at the back. “I think she’s sick, Mother,” she ventured. The Reverend Mother was clearly taken aback. “Gracious, she couldn’t be sick,” she exclaimed. “I spoke to her just this morning to make sure . . . ” And she had. Very nicely, on the Q.T., she told me I’d won the award and that she looked forward to presenting it to me. I was letting her down, too. “Well . . . ” She recovered. “We’ll give this to her later, but let’s have a big round of applause for Sheila in her absence.”
The cheers and applause traveled through the assembly hall and down the corridor to the bathroom where my sixteen-year-old self knelt on the tiles of the bathroom floor, having just thrown up. I had heard Mother Assumpta’s speech over the microphone and was mortified I wasn’t there. My face was drained of all color, and I thought my stomach was about to explode. I knew by now that my stomach problem didn’t really have anything to do with food or digestion, unless it involved trying to swallow praise I never felt I deserved. I heard the wave of applause die out and another spasm caused me to lean over the toilet bowl with dry heave. I curled up in a ball on the tiled floor, eyes wide open, and lay there, feeling the cold hard stone pressed against my cheek.
CHAPTER TWELVE
PRIDE
“In a dark time, the eye begins to see.”
THEODORE ROETHKE
Fiona and Sean sat by her pool under a large umbrella. It had become their regular meeting place.
“Are you enjoying the pool?”
“I love it, sitting by it. I can’t swim, though.”
“What?” Sean seemed surprised—as if he thought everybody knew how to swim. “Well, if you wanted to, here’s your chance to learn. A pool in your very own backyard.”
“I think it’s too late,” Fiona added, as she picked up her sun hat.
“I’m a great teacher, by the way,” he replied, coaxing.
“I’m not sure I could learn, honestly.” Fiona told him. “I’m dead afraid of the water.”
“Well, if you change your mind . . . ” Sean added. And he left it open.
Sean turned to the script and his notes.
“I’m trying to get a grasp on the boarding school sequences. I think they will be interesting to American audiences as we’re just not that familiar. Was it the usual thing for boys and girls? Or did that depend on background? How usual was it for someone of Sheila’s background to go away to school?”
“It wasn’t that common, especially in rural Ireland. She was one of three girls in her class who went. She won a scholarship which paid her way—I think that even made her Dad a bit proud of her.”
“Isn’t it normal to be proud? I do have a big question mark here—pride? That seems to be a running theme.”
“I suppose we were indoctrinated, and it’s hard to cast that off. It wasn’t okay to be proud, it was sinful. Our parents thought we would get a swelled head.”
“And was it desirable to go away to boarding school? I get the impression that Sheila is conflicted? She wants to get away from her brother, from Conor. And from her family, to some extent. Yet, I think she misses them, and they miss her. I personally can’t imagine going to live awa
y from home at twelve or thirteen. And maybe that’s a big cultural or maturity issue?”
“There were all sorts of reasons for going away to school. The most common reason parents sent their children was to develop good study habits and be more successful. Sheila suspects that her parents want to get her out of the house. That they favor Conor.”
“And why didn’t he go?”
“Conor? Well, because the local boys’ school he went to was excellent, but the local girls’ school had a poor academic record.”
“So, Sheila’s parents had her best interests in mind then. Wanting to give her a good education?”
“You could see it that way. I just think that her confidence was so eroded at that point that she imagined the worst—saw it as a kind of abandonment.”
“Was it dreadful? Lonely? Did she mind it? And did she stay all through high school?
“Five years, yes, until the Leaving Certificate—high school graduation. And in terms of lonely—it was mixed. There was a certain freedom, friendships with girls, but then distance from family.”
“I’m looking at the descriptions of the nuns here,” Sean flicked through Fiona’s novel, “and the costume designer would probably like to talk with you about specifics. If you had any photos, that would be great.”
“I do, actually. I have some photos of when I went to school—they were still in full regalia then!”
Sean found the place he was searching for. “Here it is—‘A bevy of nuns walked two by two down the driveway, chatting to each other. They were covered head to toe in black and white, layers of flowing black skirts, stiff white chest plates like armor, and helmet-like head-dresses. The shiny black rosary beads attached to the belts jangled as they walked.’ I like the military connotation!” he laughed.
Fiona laughed too. “Yeah, and the black and white. Our favorite joke—‘What’s black and white, and black and white, and black and white?’
Sean chuckled, “I don’t know . . . newspapers fluttering in the wind?”
Fiona exploded in laughter. “Good try. No, a nun falling down the stairs!”
“Ha! I’m sure you have quite a collection!”
“They’re well buried by now, but that one popped in my mind!”
Neither of them spoke for a while, or mentioned the common threads between Fiona’s experience and Sheila’s. Sean continued, “I think that was one of the chapters where I felt the bond between Sheila and her mother in the novel.”
Fiona looked at Sean, who scribbled a few notes from time to time, but mostly just listened. “You’re reading very closely between the lines, Sean.”
He smiled. “It’s my job. I get an entrée into an amazing array of lives.”
“And then you get to bring them to life on screen.”
“Yep. As best I can.” He paused a moment. “So, what about the other girls? Were they sad, lonely?”
“Oh, we had a right lot of moaners in my school! For the first few weeks every term half of the dorm would cry themselves to sleep every night. I don’t think I wrote that in the novel, but it might make a good scene in a movie!”
“And did you see your parents often, did they come to visit? Were you homesick?”
“They didn’t come too often. But I was fine with that. I enjoyed the feeling of independence.”
“And did it live up to its reputation in terms of academic rigor?”
“It did, yes. At that time, late 1960’s, it was not common for anyone I knew to go on to university. The sons of the teachers, maybe. Many farmers’ sons would leave school early. Girls often got married right out of school or did a shorthand and typing course and looked for an office job. Nursing was a popular choice, or primary teaching, or the bank. They were considered good steady pensionable jobs.”
“But you went to university, and, in the novel, Sheila does, too.”
“I gave her the benefit of my experience! But, in truth, I probably wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t gone to boarding school, so it really was a stepping stone.”
“Right.” Sean looked over his notes. “I’m still confused about Sheila’s relationship with the parents. Maybe I’m grappling with the pride issue—but I think I understand that a bit better. The disconnect.”
“Do you mean between Sheila and her parents or an internal thing?”
“Both, I think. I hear what you’re saying about not being able to express pride. Yet, in Sheila’s case, it seems implicit in the way her parents relate to her that they are actually proud but don’t know how to articulate that.”
“Really?” Fiona was fascinated. She remembered Mrs. Connelly’s telling her at the wake that her father was proud of her, and it was clear, too, from his diary. “And you see that in my novel?”
Sean nodded. “Yeah, it’s there. You wrote it!” he laughed.
“Do you have a background in therapy?” she asked, semi-seriously.
Sean laughed happily. “No, just in theatre! I was an actor and then a theatre director, before working in film. I’ve worked with playwrights on new scripts and surprised them by bringing up things they had written into their own work.”
“The unconscious at work, I suppose. My brother would like that!”
“Brothers are another thorny issue in the script. Sheila’s brother . . . but why don’t we save that for another meeting. If it’s okay with you, I wanted to look at the stomach thing that Sheila has. The recurring symptoms.”
Fiona took a deep breath. More and more she felt like she was preparing to dive into a deep pool and she didn’t know how to swim.
“She has these tests at school, but they don’t reveal anything.” Sean began.
Fiona nodded agreement. She remembered the medical exam very well. Sr. John’s kind eyes peering through her horn-rimmed glasses. The birdlike nose and the ever-so-slight dark thin moustache on her upper lip. “All the tests came back negative.”
“So, the nuns are puzzled.” Sean added.
“Yes.” Fiona continued. “She clearly has some problem, some recurring pain.”
“And she’s not the kind of girl to imagine things.”
Fiona shook her head. “No, so the best they can surmise is that it’s some sort of nerves—a nervous stomach. They advise her to eat slowly, digest her food well and to go easy on herself.”
Fiona remembered her resolve to try to keep her stomach calm. Not to worry the nuns. And as she remembered this moment of her younger self, trying to hold her world in her center, the adult Fiona had a sudden stab of pain in her stomach. Sean’s voice broke in on her recall.
“Are you all right? Fiona?”
She heard him as if through a long tunnel, and then she felt a shadow over her and a blow to her abdomen as if someone had punched a hole in her middle. On the screen in her mind, she saw the night face of Uncle Frank and fought, in vain, the urge to double over with the contraction. She pressed her hands to her stomach to try to relieve the pressure, as Sean sprung up and moved over to her. Was this the locus of her chronic stomach problems? The ones where tests revealed nothing because in fact there was nothing physical? Just psychic scars of violation?
Sean’s arm was around her shoulder. His voice was worried, comforting. “Fiona. What is it? Can I get you something?”
Fiona pushed hard with her hands and crouched, bent over the edge of the chair until the pain had passed. Of course, Sean must know that there was an obvious connection between her own experiences and those of her fictional character Sheila. The novel, however, had no mention at all of abuse, and Fiona had no intention of bringing it up, as it was not necessary to elucidate the script. Sean gave her hand a comforting squeeze and returned to his own seat. Fiona felt herself tearing up at the tenderness of the gesture and struggled to regain her composure.
“Ghosts?” Sean asked simply.
She nodded. “They seem to be everywhere.”
They sat in silence for a while, and Sean began to put away his notes.
“How about I take you to dinne
r tonight, and I talk about myself, and you can eat the best fresh crab on the coast and enjoy . . . say . . . a crisp Chardonnay? Not one word about the script!”
Fiona smiled. “Off the clock?”
“Most definitely off the clock!”
When she returned to her hotel room after her meeting with Sean, Fiona decided she would perform what for her was a radical act—initiating a phone call simply to talk. Friendship 101. Make a connection.
“Wow, what are you wearing?” Pam demanded.
“What do you mean, what am I wearing? It’s just a dinner. He’s the director, I’m a client.”
“Baloney girl! Well, that may be true, but just in case. He IS pretty cute. Is he single?”
“I never asked him, Pam! You’d think I was thirteen!”
“Look. Sure, it may be just a business dinner, though as you said you are specifically not going to discuss business, so I guess it’s NOT a business dinner!”
Fiona exploded with laughter and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
“My hair really is a mess, and I don’t have anything vaguely suitable for an L.A. dinner, whatever that is.”
“Flesh, that’s what it is. Sun and exposure and some nice flesh! You need to get out this afternoon and get a trim and something less frumpy to wear.”
“What! You’re saying I’m frumpy??”
“Now that I have your ear, and a safe three thousand miles between us, I can say yes, absolutely, you’ve been covering up that great body for far too long. Cregora chic is definitely out.”
Fiona nearly choked on her laughter. “Don’t blame Cregora. I’m sure there’s lots of high fashion there. I lower their standards.”
“Okay, now seriously. If I was there I’d haul you out—is there someone you could take shopping with you? Someone with good taste?”
“You really are pushing it! Okay, I suppose I could see if Julie is free, my sister-in-law. She’s a smart dresser.”
“Good, call her right away. And this is not for Mr. Collins, necessarily. Remember that. God, I wish I had found out if he was single. I know he’ll have his pick of beach babes and screen-weight actresses—minimum ten pounds underweight, but, hey, you’ll have something nice to wear for a real date when it comes!”