by Gemma Whelan
When Fiona emerged from a long, languorous shower, she approached the new clothes spread out on the bed. After meeting her own approval in the satiny champagne bra and pants set, she selected a form fitting pair of mulberry cotton shorts. A crisp, nicely tailored short-sleeved shirt several shades lighter than the shorts completed the outfit. Fiona donned the new white leather sandals and then brushed her hair back and up, opening up her face. She fancied her hair was golden—maybe it had brightened up in the sunshine? She straightened her posture, let her spine float up and her tall frame seemed to stretch by a few inches. She went back to the bed, had another look at the photo of her First Communion day, and saw one on the next page of her Aunt Connie with navy netting over the tiny curls. Hmm, she’s not much to write home about in the looks department, Fiona chuckled to herself, and closed the album shut. She had another peek in the mirror and gave herself the seal of approval. Just the thing for a script meeting with a handsome director.
A meeting was scheduled with the producers, Les and Leonard, in a week, so Sean wanted to tie up some loose ends and clarify some script issues.
“They seem in really good form, so maybe they are shifting on the location thing,” Sean told Fiona. “Don’t get your hopes up, but we’ll know soon.”
As Sean opened up his script and her novel, Fiona experienced a strange sensation of both floating and falling at the same time. The more she delved into the story, and the task of translating these words and actions into images, the more she fell, like Alice into the well of her childhood. She was continuously amazed at Sean’s insight into events that she had written about, ideas he had extrapolated from her script but envisioned through a different lens. From their first meeting, it had been clear that Fiona judged her main character, her own alter ego, Sheila, very harshly. She also had a decidedly negative slant towards Conor, who was Declan in the novel. Sean had the ability to look at the same situations and come up with different conclusions. This, combined with her own personal insights, and the occasional glimpses into her father’s diaries, nudged Fiona towards a shift in perception.
“Fiona, do you remember that day we took the bike ride?”
“Feeling like a fraud?”
“Yeah.”
Fiona pondered a while before continuing. “Sean, did you know that George Bernard Shaw’s wife left money in her will to teach the Irish the rudiments of social conduct?”
“What? Now you’re pulling my leg!” Sean chuckled.
“I’m not. It’s true. She left something like four hundred thousand pounds to help abolish from the lives of Irish people the social defects of shyness and some other things—inarticulate conversation, I think.”
“Is this connected to thinking about Irish history?”
“I think so. It’s the legacy—shyness, lack of confidence, inferiority—speaking for myself anyway. And, Sheila.”
He nodded. He scribbled some notes.
It occurred to Fiona that she still didn’t know if he had a girlfriend.
“I’m trying to grasp this connection between Sheila’s personal life and the political and cultural currents in Ireland at the time, the 1960’s and 70’s. I’m getting to the Peter chapter.”
Fiona nodded.
“And Les and Leonard are especially interested in this relationship—it’s the love interest after all!”
“Of course!” Fiona smiled, but she was nervous.
Sean jumped up. I’ll go get us a couple of ice cream cones first. Any preference?
“Anything with chocolate or nuts or caramel.”
He flashed a smile and was gone.
Fiona knew that Sean was giving her a respite before launching into the Peter episode. She absent-mindedly slipped off her sandals, shifted over to the side of the pool, and dangled her toes in the cool blue water. She thought over their conversation about journalism and fiction, and reading to Una from Alice in Wonderland came into her head.
“Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end? I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time? I must be getting somewhere near the center of the earth.” She stared into the blue of the pool thinking of her own journey. “I wonder if I shall fall right through the earth?”
“Penny for your thoughts!” Sean’s voice aroused her from her reverie. “Oh, but you’re already being paid for those, aren’t you?” he joked.
Fiona noticed his tanned, muscular legs, the khaki shorts and sky-blue t-shirt. His freckles seemed to get deeper each day. “Yes—under contract to share them!” She half joked back as she reached for her ice cream.
“Only the professional ones,” Sean insisted, “if there is such a thing.”
Fiona considered before responding quietly. “Not in this case, I don’t think.”
Sean slipped off his sandals and sat down beside her at the pool. He didn’t comment on her admission. “Hope peanut butter and chocolate is okay?”
“Perfect!” She licked off the top peak which was already starting to melt. “Mmm, delicious.”
“I was thinking of journalism and fiction—going back to roots, and of Alice in Wonderland and falling through the earth.”
“And Eye of the Storm?” Sean took a big gulp of ice cream, saving it from slipping of the edge of the cone.
Fiona nodded. She dangled her feet. She made small circles with her toes as she used to do at the seaside when she was a child, standing in the wet sand at the edge of the water, never venturing in any further. She savored every bite of the ice cream cone, licked her lips, made a wider circle in the deep blue water, and then she spoke to Sean, almost inaudibly.
“I want to swim.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to learn how to swim.” Her voice was louder now, more certain. She looked right at him. “You offered to teach me.”
Fiona hadn’t planned this. She was going to override the fear. Maybe it was the memory of the lonely child at the seaside, not able to go in, listening to the squeals of laughter and delight of the other children in the ocean. Maybe it was the painful memory of the teenager crouched in the bathroom stall, unable to accept an award, feeling unworthy of being honored. Or, the girl who was afraid of making any new friends for fear of losing yet another person she loved. Now she was going to do something about it.
Sean seemed a bit taken aback, and a shyness came over him. “Sure. O.K. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
EYE OF THE STORM
Excerpt from a novel by Fiona Clarke
I had barely sat down to my breakfast that Sunday morning when Dad lowered his Sunday paper and started in on me. “You were out very late last night; I heard the car pull in.”
It was a statement, didn’t really call for a comment, and I was trying to decide if I should offer one when Mam came to the table carrying a pot of tea, nestled in the cozy.
“She’ll only be young once, John.”
I flashed her a big smile of thanks, cut myself a chunk of Mam’s brown bread, lathered it with butter and strawberry jam and poured a cup of steaming tea. Dad raised his newspaper in front of his face and grunted a sort of disapproval. I had an awful feeling he wasn’t finished, and boy, was I right! No sooner did I get the second bite of bread into my mouth than he resumed in the same solemn, admonishing tone.
“I don’t recall, by the by, you telling me that your young man was a Protestant.”
“You never asked me, Da,” I offered by way of reply, trying to keep it light.
He lowered his paper ominously. “I’ll have no lip from you, young lady! Now, back to this Protestant Englishman of yours.”
“His name’s Peter, and he’s not English.”
“I’m well aware of his name, and he might as well be English.”
“His family has been here forever.” I protested. “Hundreds of years.”
“So have the boyos up in the North and look what they’re doing to our country. Joining the police force with the pretense of defending the people, and, behind it all, they’re in ca
hoots with the British army.”
“Surely you’re not blaming Peter for the R.U.C.! It’s not his fault.”
“Not directly, maybe.” His newspaper was strewn across his lap now. His face was red and he leaned forward in his chair. “But if he lived up there in the North, whose side do you think he’d be on? If he was in Derry a few months ago, who do you think he’d be rooting for?”
I was flabbergasted. It sounded like my father was blaming Peter and his family for Bloody Sunday. Even Mam couldn’t let him get away with this.
“John. It’s not fair to put something like that on the Rawlings. They’re a very nice family. I can’t imagine they’d countenance such a thing.”
“They may appear to be nice but deep down people don’t change their stripes. I don’t care how long their forbears have been here in our country, they got their land and title over the suffering of the native Irish, and then they lord it over us. As if they were better than us.”
“They don’t think they’re better than us.” I protested. “You can’t keep carrying on grudges forever, or we’ll never get anywhere.”
“Is that so?” Dad asked sarcastically. “And should we just forget all the injustice and carry on as if nothing had happened? And pretend that what’s going on in the North has nothing to do with the British and their deep-down hatred of us. Should we just forget our history because the Rawlings are very ‘nice’ people?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” I was frustrated. “But you can’t lump everything together. Every English person, or every Irish Protestant whose ancestors were English, doesn’t hate Ireland or even want to keep the North as part of Britain for that matter.”
“Of course they do!” My father erupted. He had worked himself up into a state.
“They’ve spent hundreds of years trying to kill our language and our religion. They succeeded with the language, but we outfoxed them by practicing our religion in secret and making it stronger, and sending our sons to France to be trained as priests, and bringing them back in disguise. Now you want to go and dilute that religion which your ancestors have been fighting to defend for over 500 years—you want to go and weaken that by associating with a Protestant. Well, I won’t have it.”
“What?” I was struck by the hardness in his voice.
“I forbid you to see him again. You’ll tell him he can’t see you. I hope I make myself clear.”
“What do you mean?” I started to choke on the bread.
“I mean precisely what I said. I forbid you to see him again.”
“But, I love him.” I blurted out. “We love each other! It makes no sense to blame Peter for all of our Irish misfortunes.”
My father harrumphed. “Love, ha! It’s little you know about love at your age. Wait ‘til you have a couple of babies and he doesn’t want them to be brought up in the proper Catholic faith. Then you’ll have a problem on your hands.”
I was devastated. “You knew from the get-go that he was a Protestant—you never said anything.” I looked over pleadingly at Mam for support, but she wasn’t siding with me now.
“I’m sorry, love,” she said, and she did sound a bit sorry. “We thought it was a summer romance—that it would blow over. I’m sure you’re very fond of him, but it’s my duty to stand by your father, and I know he’s only thinking of your own good.”
“But I can’t stop seeing Peter.” I protested.
“You’ll do what you’re told while you’re under this roof, lassie,” my father barked.
“And you’ll thank your father for it in later years, Sheila,” Mam added, trying to attenuate the hurt. “It’s hard enough to make a marriage work without starting off on the wrong foot with someone from a completely different background.”
“Find yourself a good Catholic chap,” Dad chimed in for good measure. “We don’t need any Protestants in this family.” And he gathered the sheets and raised his newspaper back in front of his face like a ship’s sail floating up on its mast.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
(FIRST) LOVE
“The words that enlighten the soul are more precious than jewels.”
HAZRAT INAYAT KHAN
Sean and Fiona sat by the poolside. They had taken to calling it their “office.”
“I’ll want you to talk to our production and costume designers about the dance hall scene, but I’d like to know now about the music that was played in Ireland at the time. That wasn’t mentioned in the book.”
“Let’s see, I remember Rod Stewart was very popular—“You wear it well,” Fiona started to sing, then Sean joined in with her. “A little old fashioned, but that’s all right.” They laughed.
“Speaking of ‘wear it well,’ Nellie, my Dad’s cousin, made a lot of my clothes. I remember at one of my own dances, I had this lovely frock—dress, she made. It was a deep blue with a defined waist-line and dark velvety trim around the neck, and it was a good few inches above the knee—as was the style in the 70’s.”
“Oh, I remember well! And hot pants, were they in, in Ireland?”
Fiona laughed. “Yeah! And all the rage, too. They were actually more comfortable than minis. Nellie made me a gorgeous lavender pair once, but my Dad wasn’t too keen! You could pass that on to the costume department.”
Sean took some notes. “Great! So, I guess we were listening to some of the same songs. What about ‘American Pie?’ ”
“Yes! Don McLean.” Fiona started to sing. “Bye, bye, Miss American Pie . . . .Drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry . . . ”
Sean joined with her. “And good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singing this’ll be the day that I die.”
“Of course, I only know the first few lines or so of every song.” Fiona laughed.
“Me too! What about Irish singers?”
“Well, there was Dicky Rock and Brendan Bowyer, they were big. In fact Brendan Bowyer might still play around the U.S. Maybe in Vegas?”
Sean nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen ads for him. Wasn’t there a dance he created . . . ?”
“The Hucklebuck!” Fiona jumped up and started to do a version of the dance as she sang. “Now, here’s a dance you should know . . . baby when the lights are down . . . oh, hey . . . rock your baby in . . . et cetera, et cetera.” She sat back down. “You get the idea!”
Sean laughed and clapped. “You’ll have to teach me. And we’ll have a designated singing night sometime, compare notes! Okay, to the tricky part—let me see if I can get a bit better understanding of the religion issue. Protestants and Catholics.”
“The Great Divide!” Fiona added. “There was a big mystique about Protestants. This was the early 1970’s, nearly everyone was Catholic and we didn’t mix. Protestants almost always lived on big estates, with hunting lodges and servants’ quarters and gamekeepers.”
“Sounds very posh.” Sean was taking notes.
“Yes and no. A lot of structures were falling down, and the owners couldn’t afford to keep them up. Masonry crumbling on pillars and window sills in need of paint—that kind of thing. But they were elegant eighteenth century stone mansions, built in the grand manner—with high ceilings and classical columns, bounded by acres of parkland, usually exquisitely landscaped.”
“And these were the original homes of the Anglo-Irish?” Sean asked.
“Right. They were the remnants, really, of the landed gentry in Ireland, a testament to the time the English came and took away the land from the Irish and ‘planted’ it with their own. Of course, that was hundreds of years ago. The present owners, who inherited both the land and the system of land tenure it represented—to them it was probably ancient history.”
“But not to Sheila’s father?”
“No, definitely not to Sheila’s father!”
“Before we get to that. What about Moira? In the novel, Sheila says her accent is ‘Catholic?’ ”
Fiona nodded. “It’s a bit tongue-in-cheek. Moira would have had a very strong country accent, whereas Sheila
and Conor would have definitely an Irish accent but not as broad, and Peter and his parents would speak in a way that was considered more posh. More British. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah. I think so. It probably equates some to the Southern accent in the U.S., often associated with less cultured or educated—though of course it’s not true.”
“Same in Ireland. We’d jokingly call it a bog accent! We got elocution lessons in boarding school, and the nuns tried to get us to speak in a more ‘refined’ accent, tone down any strong regionalisms.”
“Like Eliza Doolittle!”
“I suppose—something like that. I wonder if Shaw got the idea for My Fair Lady from his wife? Or, vice versa, if she got that notion of trying to wipe out the defects of inarticulate speech from the Irish, from his play?”
They laughed. Then Sean referred to his list. “Okay—back to location. Since we’re hoping Les and Leonard will let us shoot in Ireland, I want to get a sense of where to scout. Do you have any preference regarding what area or county would work best for the story?”
“I think anywhere in the East or South—Leinster or Munster—you’d find the right kind of farm and village. The topography is quite different in the West of Ireland.”
“Great. I think I have a good idea of the farm. But in this chapter with Peter, he and Sheila spend a good deal of time in and around the village that summer.”
“Yes. They had their picnics on a grassy bank by a little stream that was easy cycling distance from the village. Spent a lot of time browsing in the local village bookstore. The village itself doesn’t need to be much more than a long narrow street—book shop, a clothes shop, a haberdashery, bakery, a tea shop, a pub or two, school, chapel, dispensary. The kind of place where, if you blink when you’re passing through, you could miss it!”
“And everyone would know everyone else’s business?” Sean asked.
“Oh, most definitely. And a Catholic/Protestant romance was a big gossip item.”
“Even in the South?”