by Gemma Whelan
“Yes, Miss Manners. I’ll get working on that right away.”
“Don’t forget to call me back—full report!”
Julie had a doctor’s appointment, and picked Fiona up afterwards. She had Una with her.
“How did it go? Did you have the ultrasound?” Fiona asked when she was in the car.
“Dr. Michael gave me gummy bears and a puzzle book.” Una piped up.
“She delivered Una. They’re all excited about this new baby. I’m fine, thanks.”
“Fiona. Auntie Fiona.” Una tugged at her shoulder from the back seat. “I’m going to have a sister. A little sister!”
“Oh, my God!” Fiona looked at Julie for confirmation. “That’s wonderful, fantastic.”
Julie smiled, happy. “Yeah, we decided we’d like to know.”
“Mom!” Una lost momentary interest in her puzzle. “We’ll have to think up names now. Girl names. You can help us, Fiona! Did you learn to swim yet?”
Fiona laughed. “I’d love to help think up names. But no swimming—anyway I don’t even have a bathing suit.”
“But, but, we’re going to the mall. You can get one—I’ll help you pick one out.”
“I bet you would!” Fiona chuckled. “But today we’re just looking for a dress for me.”
“You could always get a bathing suit, just to sit by the pool, get some sun.” Julie said, as they pulled into the parking lot.
“It’s a conspiracy, isn’t it?” Fiona exclaimed in mock dismay. “You two are in cahoots!”
“Well, let’s see what they have here.” Julie said, as they bundled out into the balmy Los Angeles afternoon.
And so it transpired that the thirty-five year old Fiona, up until that point fairly disinterested in clothes, ended up in the mall on a shopping spree with her sister-in-law and her seven-and-a-half-year-old niece, and no doubt at all about who was in command of the proceedings. Una seemed to know her way around very well and led Fiona through the mall, pointing out the various stores and their specialties. Fiona was dressed in her usual cover-up, long sleeves and a calf-length cotton skirt. She did at least have the sleeves of her shirt rolled up to three-quarter length and the top button open at the neck. Una was looking very fashionable in a blue denim ensemble with matching cap. Julie looked equally fresh in a light summery cotton dress.
“What about this one?” Julie pointed to an olive-green linen sleeveless dress with elegant but simple lines.
“But it’s completely sleeveless!” was Fiona’s first reaction.
Julie laughed. “Why don’t you try it on? And maybe this blue one, it has a little sleeve.”
“What about this one, Mom?” Una had picked out a bright pink cotton dress with tiny straps.
“I don’t know.” Julie was amused. “What do you think, Fiona? Though it’s more casual, good for everyday.”
“You’re joking!” Fiona exploded with laughter. “If you think you’re going to get me to transition from complete cover to half naked in one second flat, you’ve another thought coming!”
“Daddy says that too, sometimes—‘you’ve another thought coming!’ ”
“Okay.” Fiona picked up the two dresses. “And maybe this creamy one?”
“Okay.” Julie said cautiously.
“I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m being railroaded here. That I don’t stand a chance with the two of you!”
‘Try them on, and we’ll see.” Julie laughed.
When Fiona emerged from the dressing-room wearing the olive dress, Julie all but gasped. “You’re a vision! It’s gorgeous!”
“Oh, Julie! My arms. I’m not . . . ”
“It’s fabulous on you, and the fit is perfect.”
“It’s beautiful.” Una chimed in. “You can see what you look like now!”
The sales assistant was equally ebullient. “It’s very flattering. You’re lucky with the lovely tall, slim figure.”
Fiona couldn’t speak. She had a lump in her throat. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a young man eying her approvingly. He was waiting for his girlfriend who was in the dressing room. He gave her a quick smile—obviously he agreed with her female team that the dress was quite flattering.
Julie asked if she wanted to try on the others, and she nodded and disappeared in to the dressing room. Of course, she bought the olive wonder.
As they walked out, Una grabbed Fiona and hauled her over to another shop window. “Here are the bathing suits, Fiona. Mom, my bathing suit is all stretched out. One part, you can nearly see through.”
“True.” Julie conceded. “Let’s see what they have.”
They found a cute bikini for Una, and then they all began to look around for Fiona. At least, Julie and Una did. There was a range of styles from conservative to risqué. Fiona immediately thought of a more modest one, but Una fancied a sexy one in vibrant blue with a plunging back and high cut leg. The young saleslady was eager to find Fiona a flattering suit.
“Now I’m thinking you and Una have alerted everyone, and you are all involved in this effort to get me to show off some skin!” Fiona whispered in an aside to Julie.
All three of them agreed on and vetoed exactly the same ones, refusing to let Fiona get away with disguising her body completely.
“You’ve a lovely figure, you should show it off,” the young woman said in that casual manner that shop assistants in underwear stores sometimes have. Fiona turned hot pink, which perfectly matched the bathing suit she was trying on at the time. All she saw was cleavage when she looked down. “I couldn’t possible appear in this in public.”
“The beach isn’t public,” said the young woman with absolute logic. “It’s the beach!”
L.A., Fiona thought to herself, ruefully, and then laughed out loud at her own squeamishness. “All right,” she said. “Maybe I’ll try on the blue one again.” She wasn’t used to wearing such bright colors but had to admit it did look good on her. Of course, she wound up with it. What choice did she have?
“Your daughter’s a little fashion tyrant.” Fiona laughed, as they exited the store.
“Oh, I know,” Julie agreed. “A seven-year-old tyrant with impeccable taste! Except for the hot pink fixation. Can’t wait ‘til she’s a teenager! And—by then she’ll have a seven-year-old sister to shop with.”
EYE OF THE STORM
Excerpt from a novel by Fiona Clarke
Peggy helped me to get all dressed up in the lovely snow-white Communion dress and fixed the veil to my hair with the little tiara. She straightened my socks after I’d slipped them into the white patent leather shoes with tiny red roses on the front. Mam was still away so Peg had made my dress and come with me to buy the shoes, veil and tiara. Now she planted a kiss on my forehead.
“Your Mam would be very proud of you, Sheila. Come down when you’re ready, pet, and we’ll take some snaps to send to her.”
When I was ready and sure I looked lovely, I clasped the white prayerbook tightly in my hands and raced down the stairs to show off my style to everyone. As I reached the last steps, I saw Auntie Maeve coming down the hall from the kitchen. Auntie Maeve was married to a brother of Auntie Rita. She had a big square face, and her hair was set in tiny curls close to her head. In honor of the First Communion, she wore a navy hat with netting around the edges and a navy blue suit with silver buttons. She stopped, looked at me appraisingly and put on a big broad smile.
“What a pretty dress, Sheila. Don’t you look smashing!”
I glowed with the praise and smiled shyly at her. Then I waltzed off into the kitchen to look for Aoife, feeling every inch a princess. I caught a glimpse of myself in the little mirror in the kitchen, and since there was no one there, shyly examined myself and put some stray hairs back into place. It was at that exact moment that I heard the voice drift in from the adjoining parlor and guessed the other relations must be in there, too. The voice was Aunt Maeve’s, and she was speaking in a loud whisper. “Maura and John have such a lov
ely family. Conor is such a handsome boy—all those beautiful curls, and of course little Aoife is a picture.” She paused and lowered her voice even more as she continued. “It’s a pity poor Sheila is so P. L. A. I. N.”
I froze at the kitchen mirror. I stared at myself. A minute ago I had thought I was lovely and saw now that I was only fooling myself and that Aunt Maeve had lied when she said I looked pretty—well, she said I looked smashing, that my frock was pretty. Burning tears began to well up behind my eyes. Now I knew it really was true what Conor always said—that I was ugly. I knew everyone thought he was gorgeous, and I loved Aoife’s beauty and never got tired looking at her. But I didn’t know the real truth about myself until now. I heard the symphony of voices from the parlor and assumed they all agreed with Aunt Maeve. I hated her for saying I was plain and for spelling it out. Was she afraid that I might possibly be within earshot? And did she really think that I wasn’t able to spell a simple word like “plain?”
“Sheila! Where are you, dear?” Aunt Maeve chimed, as sweet as you like. “Come and get a picture taken with your brother and sister. Where are Conor and Aoife?” she asked in a somewhat quieter voice.
I didn’t budge. I was still glued to the spot.
“Sheila! Sheila!” That false voice rang out again and unfroze me from my stuck position. “Sheila, where are you child?”
And I fled, as fast as my seven-year-old legs could carry me, taking my broken self straight out to the solace of the treehouse.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
(FIRST) COMMUNION
“The true mystery of the world
is the visible, not the invisible.”
OSCAR WILDE
Fiona and Sean sat on the patio of the restaurant, and the waters of the bay lapped gently onto the shore.
“Angel. Is that her real name?” Fiona asked, between bites of succulent crab.
“Oh, yes! It’s actually her given name, but perfect for a Berkeley hippie. Her parents were Iowa farmers, Irish father, German mother, I think they were hoping she would be more the angelic type.”
“And is she not?” Fiona savored the promised crisp Chardonnay.
“Oh, she’s wonderful. A real dynamo—just not at all religious, like her folks. She soaked up the Berkeley counter-culture of the 60’s, Haight Ashbury, People’s Park, the whole nine yards.”
“And your Dad?”
“It’s funny,” Sean took a mouthful of crab, “my Dad was the one from Berkeley, and he met my Mom in his hippie stage, but then he became more conservative—well, more than her anyway!”
“Did they bring you up as hippie kids?”
Sean laughed. “Kind of. My sister, Adair and I were dragged to every peace march and rally—and we loved it. My parents divorced when we were teenagers—Adair is a year older than me—but my Dad just moved down the street, and they’re still great friends, so we just got an extra house to go to!”
“That simple? Can it be that simple, really?”
“I’m not saying every second was perfect. But, yes, really. They explained to us how they had changed and that they still respected each other and so on, but weren’t going to live together any more.”
“So, you weren’t traumatized?” Fiona noticed how the wine sparkled in the evening light. “You can see that I expect everything to be a trauma!”
“I think it’s just the combination of the different personalities and cultures in our household, Fiona, and circumstances. My Mom got pregnant when she was eighteen—Adair’s thirty-five now. Ten months later I was born, then they got married—all in that order! But she and Dad are still close friends. I know it might sound a bit crazy. And we did have friends whose parents divorced, and they were put through the ringer.” Sean paused a minute. “I guess we were lucky.” He took a few bites. “Do you like the crab?”
“Oh, it’s amazing. Just melts in your mouth. Does this restaurant get it directly from the fishermen?”
“Yeah—just off the pier there. When we were growing up, my parents got crab fresh from the Berkeley pier for special occasions. They had an Oscar party and a Tony party every year. They set up big tables, and we’d pick at crab, dip it in melted butter, eat artichokes and fresh fruits—and of course watch the awards.”
“Is that how you got interested in film?”
“Probably.” Sean savored a big piece of crab. “We went to the PFA—Pacific Film Archives—and all the art houses in Berkeley. But, I started in theatre, was very involved in drama at Berkeley High.”
“It’s like another world. An enchanted world full of light.”
Sean laughed openly. “I love it—how it sounds to you! I hope I’m not talking too much? Our pact was that I do all the talking, but we don’t have to stick to that.”
Fiona laughed. She felt bubbly and clear like the wine. She usually drank red, but the white was cool and cleansing to the palette.
“No, I’m happy.” And she was.
“By the way, you look wonderful. That dress really brings out the green in your eyes.”
“Thanks.” Fiona glowed.
“Did I tell you, Fiona, that I did a school project on Ireland when I was in middle school? It must have been . . . 1969, and a group of us did a class presentation on the civil rights march in Northern Ireland.”
“You’re not serious! Really? I did this big school journalism project on that at the time, too.”
“The Troubles!”
“Characteristic Irish understatement, a bit of a euphemism, I’d say! It always made me think of ‘sorry for your troubles!’ What kind of project did you do?”
“I think this was social studies class, maybe international history—not sure. We divided up the research, trying to figure out the Protestant/ Loyalist versus Catholic/ Nationalist split. Do I have that right?”
Fiona nodded as she picked through her spinach salad.
“I remember we got newspaper clippings of the civil rights march. Was it the previous year, in 1968?”
“Yes, with Bernadette Devlin.”
“So, was that big news in the south of Ireland at the time?” Sean asked.
“It was huge. There was enormous sympathy for the Catholic population. And my Dad was a fervent Nationalist, so he went crazy.”
“Did you agree with him, with his view of things?”
“I did basically. I was just starting to think about politics then. I was about fourteen. The march was broken up very violently by the R.U.C.—the Royal Ulster Constabulary . . . ”
“—which was the Northern Irish police force, right?”
“Right.” Fiona confirmed. “Then later the British Army was called in, and the following year the I.R.A. began its bombing campaign . . . and the rest, as they say . . . is history.”
Sean poured more wine.
“And still going on. Do you follow the Irish news over here?”
Fiona nodded. “It’s tragic really—it’s a game of reprisals. And people are continually fearful.”
Sean nodded. “I always thought it had similarities with the Israeli-Palestinian situation.”
“Definitely. The long history, simmering hatreds, differences ostensibly about religion but really about power. Then people get entrenched in their own views of course. Just like people do in personal conflicts.”
“Yeah. We’re a bit of a mess, aren’t we!”
“The human race?” Fiona smiled. “We certainly are. I thought of pursuing journalism as a career for a while, but that didn’t last.”
“You know, I did too, briefly, but abandoned it in favor of fiction.”
Fiona laughed. “I did too, I suppose. But I think it helped me see that history isn’t a thing of the past—because I was living through it at the time. And I loved how I could journey back to the root cause of an event and trace its future progression out of that inchoate stage.
“I bet you would have made a great journalist.” Sean extracted the last piece of crab. “I think I’ve exhausted all the possibilities with this f
ine fellow!”
Fiona laughed. “Me too. We didn’t leave much!” And she took another sip of wine. “You know, I did work for a while as a journalist. It was my first job, after college. Oops, we’re talking about me!”
“But a word about the novel has not crossed my lips! And Sheila doesn’t have anything to do with journalism, does she?”
Fiona laughed. “No. So it’s safe. My career was fairly brief anyway, and way too secure. My mother was terrified I’d end up in the North and get killed by a sniper, but mostly I did reviews, first of restaurants actually, then books and theatre.”
“And how would you rate this restaurant?”
“So far, A plus! For food, service, and ambiance!”
“So far?”
“Well, we haven’t had dessert yet!”
“Good point. Can’t rush to conclusions. Let’s rectify that immediately.” And he looked around to catch the eye of the waiter.
The next morning Fiona laid the rest of the packages from her shopping spree on the bed and started to open them. Her new dress had been a great success, gave her a strong sense of being present in her own body. And Sean liked it.
But, as she looked at the other items, away from the encouragement of her female co-conspirators, she began to have doubts. She looked at the bathing suit skeptically. And weren’t the shorts just a teensy, weensy bit too short? Well, she’d have a shower and try them on in the privacy of her room. If she didn’t feel comfortable, she didn’t have to wear them. You’re such a wimp, Fiona! she told herself.
She spotted the old family album that she had brought back from Ireland. She put it on the bed with all of her new clothes and opened it up. She stopped at a picture of herself on the day of her First Communion—a sad little girl looking right at the camera. She wasn’t able to avoid the camera that day, but she hadn’t managed to smile.