by Gemma Whelan
“Even at such a remove from the sectarianism of the North, yes.”
“Wow! Okay. So, this big confrontation scene here . . . ” Sean opened her novel to the reference, “the show-down.” He glanced over some parts. “Sheila comes downstairs on a Sunday morning, happy after a date with Peter, Dad’s reading The Sunday Independent, Mam’s at the sink cleaning up, the smell of bacon and sausages lingers in the air.”
“Rashers and sausages!” Fiona corrected. “Rashers, sausages and puddings.”
Sean laughed. “I await the pleasure! The rashers are bacon, the pudding—well, maybe I don’t need to know all the details at this point of what goes into pudding.”
“Better that you never find out!” Fiona joked.
“But, I bet it’s delicious! Okay, now, wouldn’t Sheila’s father have known that Peter was a Protestant?”
Fiona nodded. “Of course, he would have known. But that was the way things happened in that household. Sheila and Peter would have dated all summer, and, he would have exchanged a few words with her parents when picking her up, but they just let it slide, until this particular day.”
“And you talk earlier in the chapter about Trinity College. Would that have been a problem, too, for Sheila’s father? That she wanted to go there?”
“Definitely. He didn’t understand why she wouldn’t just go to a Catholic Uni—in fact all of the other Irish universities in the South would have been Catholic.”
“And there’s a ban on Catholics going to Trinity?”
Fiona nodded. “There was a ban for years on Catholics going, but it was the Catholic Church that imposed the ban, not Trinity. They wanted to put the fear of God into Catholics who deigned to pass through those gates of iniquity!”
Sean laughed. “But Sheila wants to go there because of its reputation and the smaller classes?”
“Yes. And, of course, her father questions the whole idea of a girl going to university in the first place. In his book, a boy needs the education because he will be the breadwinner, but a girl was expected to get married, stay home and bring up the children.”
“Her father refers here to Peter as her ‘Protestant Englishman,’ and then he connects him to the Troubles in the North?”
“Exactly!” Fiona jumped in. “It’s the kind of skewed thinking that causes wars to last forever!”
“And this reference here is to Bloody Sunday—that was that year?”
“Yes. It was January 1972. British paratroopers shot into Catholic demonstrators during a civil rights march and killed fourteen people. But the whole thing is typical—not being able to let go of the past. And there’s the whole Irish inferiority complex. We need to stop carrying grudges like that. Stop lumping 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.”
“But her father can’t see that, can he?” Sean asked. “And that’s the crux of the argument.”
“Yes.” Fiona agreed. “And the end of the romance.”
Later, they strolled along the marina, soaking up the sunshine and the buzz of people. Sean sipped his iced coffee. “As I look at the progression of Sheila’s character in the story, it seems like Peter was one of the first people she started to open up to.”
Fiona stole a glance, his intelligent, trusting face, his genuine interest in trying to get to the bottom of the fictionalized universe she had presented to him. She took a long cool drink of water. “Yes. He was the first.” They walked a little further. “I think . . . I . . . had actually begun to develop some self confidence that summer. Nipped in the bud!”
Sean didn’t look at her. He said nothing for a while. “Did . . . you ever see him again, in real life?” he asked quietly.
“After I broke it off we didn’t try to meet—we couldn’t have gotten away with it in such a small place if we’d tried to keep it secret.” She kicked up the sand as she walked. “I was very depressed. I went in on myself. Imagine having to live with such ignorance! Such small-mindedness. Much good the so-called freedom had done for the south of Ireland if their minds were all locked up with prejudice. I felt I had finally begun to live that summer, to really grow and expand, and here were my parents reining me in, trying to confine me inside their world view, to keep me small.”
“And then the boy, your boyfriend, did he go to Trinity?”
“Yep. Simon was his name. We corresponded for a while, then around Christmas time I got a letter from him telling me he’d met someone else. A Protestant girl of course!” Fiona sighed, and then she let out a little laugh. “Maybe it would have happened anyway. I’ll never know. Saved my Dad worrying about having little black Protestants for grandchildren!”
Sean smiled with her. He spoke quietly. “So did you see him when you went to Trinity College?”
“I didn’t go in the end. I elected not to go, went to the national university. I wasn’t ready to bump into him. And maybe I felt guilty of buying into the colonial legacy—that I’d be selling out. So, maybe my father got to me on some level after all.”
Sean pondered this. “Is religion still an issue in Ireland, in the South? Obviously it is in the North.”
“I don’t think you’d meet the same kind of resistance today. Things have opened up. But the North of Ireland is part of the equation. Our history book in school was called March to Freedom or was it March to Nationhood? Can’t remember, but the idea is similar. So much of our history, going back hundreds of years, has been fighting for this thing called freedom. Freedom from something else—in this case from England.”
“And the South is free now—politically free and independent?”
“Right. Since 1922. But that kind of legacy of war and unrest must leave its residue.”
“You mean on the individual?”
“Yes, I mean, can you just wake one fine morning after hundreds of years of fighting and stretch out and say ‘lovely morning, I’m free now, all my troubles are over?’ Maybe all the troubles just start then.”
“Because people have to look at their own lives, day to day.”
“Exactly. And in Ireland’s case, because of partition, there’s still the North. There’s a lot of energy going into fighting for freedom—and in the meantime lifetimes go by where generations have no experience at all of living freely, without fear. Imagine what that does to the psyche of a country, of its people.”
“Like your father?”
“Yes. Like my Dad. His father and uncles were alive in 1916, some of them fought in the uprising. He wasn’t able to shake the prejudices against England, against Protestants.”
“And you were a casualty of the prejudice.”
“True. And then I compounded the hurt by turning it in on myself. It was self-destructive. I see that now.”
“Well, these family dramas don’t resolve themselves overnight. In fact, most probably never do. People just live out their lives and let it all slide.”
Fiona breathed in the fresh air from the marina, the caress of the sunshine, and noticed how much better she was feeling in her own body. She stole a glance at Sean.
“You know, Sean, for someone with such a seemingly calm and lovely upbringing, you have amazing insight into dysfunctional families and relationships!”
Sean laughed. Fiona loved the freedom in his laugh. “Maybe that’s why. Because my family was, for the most part, so easy-going. However, I’ve had my share of tumultuous relationships, too. I haven’t just lived a charmed life.”
“Romantic relationships?”
He nodded. “I wasn’t immune to the attention I got when I hit L.A. It’s amazing how attractive you become when you are directing, or even involved in film or T.V. or commercials.”
“Were you beset by bevies of stars?” Fiona asked mischievously.
“Well, not exactly, but it was a sea change from Berkeley. I had just broken up with my college sweet-heart, Sacha. She headed for New York
, and I headed south. So, I was lonely at first, a bit lost.”
“And ripe for attention from the lovely would-be stars?”
Sean laughed. “I suppose I was innocent, too. I got hurt more than once.”
“They were serious relationships, then?”
“Well, I thought they were serious at the time. I took them seriously. Until I realized what the game was.”
“What game? Hollywood? Dating?”
“It’s connected. Or was in the cases of the women I got involved with. I had to learn to distinguish between real and fake. I became a better judge of character.”
“You don’t sound bitter, though. You seem to have a great ability to bounce back.”
Sean chuckled, “I probably have my hippie parents to thank for that! They really did give us some solid coping skills. At any rate, I was eventually able to take a step back.”
“From relationships?”
“From the wrong ones.” Sean smiled at her. “Just from the wrong ones.”
Fiona had a massive urge to hug him. It was some quality that Sean had to connect without entangling, to be close without being cloying, to allow an infinite space to open up around him, and yet to create an assurance of being safe. To Fiona, at that moment, it felt unbelievably liberating, and she had a mad urge to fly. As if he could read her mind, Sean turned to her, smiling.
“If you’d still like that swimming lesson, we could fit one in before the water gets too cold.”
Fiona thought about it for precisely four seconds. “Okay. Race you back!”
“You’re on!”
They both turned on their heels and started to run, like little children, back in the direction they came from.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CONNECTION
“Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their environment and especially on their children, than the unlived life of the parent.”
C.G. JUNG
In the realm of swimming, Fiona made rapid progress and improved both her stamina and technique. She had been having lessons with Sean almost every day before their script meetings, and, as her confidence increased, she perfected her strokes and soon traversed the width of the pool. One morning, feeling emboldened, she took the leap and swam all alone for the first time. Skimming through the water, she felt free and light and liberated, like a silver dolphin. As she emerged from the shower and dried off, the telephone rang, and she raced to pick it up.
“Mama mia!” Pam’s laughing voice rang out. “I think that’s the first time in living memory that you picked up a phone call from me on the first ring! What gives?”
Fiona laughed and sunk into an armchair in the lounge. “Maybe it’s because I feel so exhilarated after swimming.”
Pam had obviously taken a sip of coffee and almost choked. “Excuse me? Did I hear right the first time? You, Ms. Terrified of the Water, swimming?”
“Well, I used to dip my toes in . . . so I wasn’t afraid of the water per se . . . ”
“Right! Good one! That will get past the shrink. Hey . . . I hope you’re not going to lose all your charming neuroses—we don’t want you too perfect!”
Fiona laughed as she dried off her hair. “You’d love my bathing suit, Pam. Did I tell you that Sean is the one who taught me to swim?”
“Really? Would that be Mr. Sean Collins, ‘he’s the director and I’m just a client’ Mr. Sean Collins?”
“Hold on now! It’s a professional relationship, but we are developing a friendship too. It’s strictly platonic.”
“Except that he gets to see you half naked! Do you think I just came up the Liffey on a bicycle? To borrow one of your own fine expressions!”
Fiona giggled and wiggled to wrap her robe around her. “It’s nothing like that, really. I do like him I admit, and I’m nearly certain he doesn’t have a girlfriend from what he said yesterday. Anyway, we’re making progress on the script, you’ll be happy to know. I’m making . . . adjustments.”
“Any word on locations yet?” Pam inquired.
“We have another meeting coming up with the producers, and we’re hoping they’ll agree to shooting in Ireland, at least the outside locations.”
“Is your home, the farm, a possibility for that?”
“No way, Pam! Declan would have a conniption. We’re doing better, I think, the two of us, but we’re locked on the issue of selling or not selling. I wouldn’t even want to be in the position of having to broach the topic.”
“Well, there’s no shortage of farms in Ireland! So hopefully it will work out. It sounds like it’s been good for you, kiddo. This process.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start. It still feels new and raw in some ways, but it will be great to get the film made, get past this chapter . . . ” Fiona spotted the covered computer, “and hopefully get back on track.”
“Well, the film will give you some mileage with our guys here for a while, so you’re good.”
“And with you?”
“My professional, agent me?”
“Yep, that one!”
“Yeah, you’re good with her too. If films are successful they tend to have a long tail . . . multiple openings, videos, resurgence of interest in the original if it’s an adaptation, et cetera, et cetera.”
Fiona drew in a relieved breath. “Good. Well, let’s hope. I’ll ring you after the meeting. By the way, speaking of ringing, I had a flash on the phone thing.”
“You’re antipathy towards them, you mean?”
“Yeah. I told you that my Dad left me his diary? A big thick one. Well, I read a snippet last night about something I’d completely forgotten. The very first telephone call we ever got in our house was from the hospital to my mother, telling us that Orla had died.”
“Oh, Fiona, that’s horrendous. No wonder you can’t stand them.”
“It helps that I know, I think. Though I must have been getting better already. Witness today and your call! I don’t think I could have processed it all overnight. I must tell Sean today as he probably thinks my telephone thing is wacky.”
“Do you meet with him every day?”
“Not, but several times a week. Today we’re having our meeting over a picnic on the beach.”
Pam sputtered again. “My God! I can’t safely drink a simple cup of coffee here! You meet on the beach?”
Fiona exploded with laughter. “No, we’ve never done this before. I think we’re celebrating our progress.”
“Sounds suspiciously like a date to me! Is there food involved? Drink? Bubbly?”
“Sean said he’d pick up something. Yes, there will be food. I doubt we’ll be drinking, though. It’s late afternoon.”
“No rule against it that I know of! Hey, you’re the Irish one, do I have to tell you that? I think I’ll require a report before the meeting tomorrow! Hey—client here, gotta go. Don’t do anything that I . . . you know.”
Fiona’s first ocean swim that afternoon was frightening at first, no boundaries. She and Sean had found a quiet cove where they laid out a rug and then went in for a swim. After a while, Fiona started to swim out away from the cove, further and further. She was aware of Sean’s watchful gaze as she continued on. Then she waved to him, turned around and swam back. She was out of breath but exhilarated as they both dried off.
“That was daring,” Sean pulled his sweat shirt over his mop of blond hair.
Fiona shivered and laughed. “I had to get out of my depth some time! Though I nearly drowned when I tried to wave!”
Sean uncovered a bottle of champagne, mixed it with orange juice and poured. “Mimosa?” he offered Fiona a glass. “I know it’s a bit profligate, but it is a celebratory marker—and the OJ is to keep us on our toes for the meeting!”
“Is it really a celebration?” Fiona thought of the high stakes if the film fell through.
“We don’t know what Les and Leonard will say yet, and their backers could put the kybosh on the idea.”
Sean handed her a slab of
brie on a crispy baguette. “My meetings with them have all been positive. They’re happy with the direction the script is going in, and the speed. So, I’m hopeful.”
“And celebrating in advance?”
Sean laughed and took a hearty bite of bread and cheese.
“Actually,” Fiona joined in the laughter, “it’s a good policy, I like it!”
They ate for a while in silence. Fiona savored the spicy salami and jet black Greek olives and listened to the ebb and flow of the waves.
“Has it really been worth it, Sean?” She asked eventually. “To bring me out here? Pay for me?”
“I couldn’t even begin to measure, Fiona. I’ve got an immensely clearer picture of the characters and situations and a host of background details I couldn’t possibly have come up with alone. And I’ve really got a handle on most of the characters, an increased dimensionality, a softening.”
Fiona smiled. “Me, too!”
“From the process? Looking at it from a different angle?”
“Yes. All of that, and you, your delicate touch.” Fiona was embarrassed. She had meant it metaphorically. To cover she rushed on. “And my Dad’s diary. Did I mention it?”
Sean shook his head. He filled a fresh glass for each of them.
“My Dad left me his diary. It’s not that extensive. But I think it’s lovely, and I’ve been reading through parts of it. As a matter of fact, he has a bit that I read a while back on the tape recording scene you were asking me about?”
Sean nodded. He lay back against a rock and closed his eyes. Fiona sipped her mimosa.
“His account really brought me back to that time when my Dad was recording on his old reel-to-reel player.” Fiona went on. “It crystallized for me as a magic moment of connection between my parents. The thing is, Sean, reading my Dad’s diary has brought home to me that your screenplay, which has distilled the story down to pictures and dialogue, has captured the essence of many of these moments. But I don’t remember writing them into the novel.”
Sean didn’t respond, so she continued.
“I think now, from this perspective, that the novel formed in a frenzy, burgeoning out of control until it reached a bursting point. And then I expelled it without ceremony and left it to its own devices. Of course, I didn’t know you were going to come along and get your hands on it!”