by Gemma Whelan
Sean opened his eyes—but he let her continue.
“As I read through your version of my story, what you have chosen to adapt for the screen, it’s startling to see my dialogue extracted and streamlined, arranged in a more rarefied setting, somehow purer and fresher. In some cases, you haven’t even changed the words, or the context, but their removal from the cushioned, protected world of the novel lays them bare, more open and vulnerable, somehow . . . ”
Sean was listening intently.
“And when I re-read them in their new place, I find myself inserting in the interstices thoughts and emotions that I had long buried or maybe never even been aware of. That day that I spent recording songs with Dad and Orla, for example, was forever etched in my mind, though I have never heard the tapes since and have no notion if they even still exist. What I had not known or consciously remembered, was the secret connection between my parents, the invisible thread that bound them in sweet mystery and communion, the love they felt for each other. And yes, the way they loved us, me.”
Fiona’s voice was shaking by now, as she started to slip into grief over all the lost opportunities and connections.
“I have to recall these difficult connections, but I get the chance to remember the sweet ones too. Your script has helped me uncover the richness.”
“Of the primal emotion that came from you?”
“Yes.” Fiona’s voice was breaking with emotion. “I had always thought of my novel as a catharsis of sorts, not as a therapy. It is first and foremost a work of fiction. But maybe I brought it to light prematurely, failed to explore too deeply that murky miasma, and filtered it through my own need to consolidate and reject. Now, through this process with you, I’ve had to re-immerse myself.”
“Like a baptism?”
“Like a new baptism.”
Fiona was sobbing gently now, in tune with the ocean. Releasing and starting to pour out her grief.
Sean moved closer and cradled her shoulders as she continued to cry. He reached for her hand. “Maybe with the film you can . . . maybe it will help?”
Through her sobs Fiona absorbed this. “Yes. Maybe. I think I may be ready now.”
After a time, she started to breathe more naturally. She looked at Sean, grateful for his presence. He drew her closer and gently kissed her on the lips. She was surprised, even though she had wanted this, half expected it. She kissed him back. She laid her head on his shoulder, and they sat in sweet silence as the afternoon spread out before them in the secluded cove.
Fiona was feeling quite pleased with herself as she and Sean entered Les and Leonard’s bright office for their meeting the following day. Sean’s kiss still lingered. They were both aware of being in the midst of a delicate process and the need to take it easy, to keep the professional journey on track. At the same time, the spark had been ignited and was very much alive. Fiona also felt encircled by her father’s love, even from beyond the grave, and was absorbing some of the emotions he hadn’t been able to express while he was alive. That glowing confidence, enhanced by her pleasure in her freshly minted fashion, clung to her like a new-wrought skin.
Leonard’s tan seemed to have deepened as the summer progressed, and Les, in contrast, was as pale as ever. They still were dressed within an inch of identical.
“Fiona,” Leonard began in his ebullient manner. “A pleasure.” And Les nodded as if silently echoing this salutation.
“I trust that your summer is going well?”
“And the script is progressing apace and to your liking?” Les finished.
Fiona smiled and looked over at Sean. “Yes. It feels like we are moving forward, working through some spots.”
“And fulfilling well your position as adviser.” Leonard added.
“As cultural attaché.” Les concluded.
Fiona nodded thanks.
“I’m sure Sean has told you that we have taken into consideration . . . ” Leonard began.
“Into serious consideration . . . ” Les continued.
“Your passionate plea to shoot on location in Ireland.”
“Yes.” Fiona acknowledged. “He told me.”
“Indeed.” Leonard took a breath. “We have seriously considered it.”
“And run the numbers,” Les added.
“The budget numbers.” Leonard clarified.
“And we’ve talked with our backers.” Leonard began again.
“Our financial backers.” Les echoed.
“And we’ve presented them with the very arguments you so eloquently presented to us in this very office, not so very long ago . . . ” Leonard again.
“Clear, eloquent and very persuasive arguments,” Les added.
“And have come to the conclusion that we will in fact shoot the film on location.” Leonard.
“In Ireland.” Les concluded.
“Gosh. That’s wonderful!” Fiona gushed. “Thank you.”
“Fantastic!” Sean added. “Thanks, guys.” And he grinned over at Fiona.
“Have you scouted yet?” Sean asked. “Do you have some possibilities?”
Their eyes seemed to twinkle in unison. As always, Les deferred to Leonard to begin the new thought.
“We would like to shoot on your farm, Fiona.”
“The very same farm you were brought up on.” Les added.
“Based on the fact that this story came from you.” Leonard.
“Your imagination.” Les.
“And that your feel for the soil, the earth . . . ” Leonard.
“The terra firma of Ireland, is second to none.” Les.
“For the purposes of our particular story, we firmly believe.” Leonard started again.
“As do all of our backers,” Les continued.
“That this film will be shot on the very location.” Leonard.
“The very farm . . . ” Les emphasized.
“In Ireland.” Leonard added.
“Where you were bred and nurtured.” Les concluded.
Fiona was dumbstruck. She was in awe of their ability to actually converse this way, as if they shared a brain, and she was astounded by the unexpected information. “The farm, my father’s . . . the farm is currently . . . my brother and I are co-owners.”
Les and Leonard beamed.
“Great.” Leonard.
“Wonderful.” Les.
“Well, I’ll need his permission of course.”
“Of course!” they said in unison.
“I’m sure he’ll be very impressed by your powers of persuasion.” Leonard commented. “At this point the powers that be are astounded that we ever considered NOT shooting in Ireland,” he continued.
“They are indeed astounded,” Les added, “but pleased, nonetheless, that such a felicitous opportunity presented itself in the guise of the fair author who penned the original story.”
“We got a little friendly rap on the knuckles.” Leonard started
“Metaphorically speaking, a rap on the knuckles.” Les clarified.
“But so long as we secure this situation.” Leonard.
“Shooting on your farm, Fiona.” Les.
“So long as we secure this situation, it’s full steam ahead.” Leonard.
“Green lights all the way.” Les.
“Happily ever after.” They concluded together.
Fiona looked over at Sean. She tried to shift her own brain from her sheer awe at their shared speech and at the weirdness of this duet being played out before her. And she didn’t dare say anything about Declan for fear that it would jeopardize the entire project.
Sean caught her look, then turned back to his two producers.
“Great! Just so we’re on the same page, and Fiona will get the all clear from her brother, the film has to be shot on their farm. Some other Irish farm isn’t a possibility?”
“Oh, Sean.” Leonard began. “You bring us in this talent,” he indicated Fiona.
“And win us over.” Les.
“Us and them.” Leonard ges
tured vaguely in the air.
“Yes, yes, us and them.” Les added.
“And they stipulate that it must be this farm.” Leonard.
“Ms. Fiona Clarke’s farm.” Les.
“And no other.” Leonard.
“No, no other will do.” Les.
“Now, partly this is budget, our budget constraints.” Leonard.
“Our budget constraints, yes,” Les.
“But combined with our awakened sensibility to the value of capturing the essence . . . ” Leonard.
“The quiddity, I believe was your felicitous expression, Fiona.” Les.
“That combination, Fiona.” Leonard.
“And Sean.” Les.
“Fiona and Sean.” Leonard.
“Have brought us to this particular moment.”
Fiona tried to formulate a sentence. Despite her anxiety, she had a funny thought that maybe she could start with half and Sean might help her out and finish for her.
“Do you have a time frame? How soon . . . ?” She began.
“Well, you two seem to be making very good progress on script issues. Sean?” Leonard raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Yes. I’m probably a draft away from finishing. We’ve covered many of the questions I had and you had. Are you really that close to getting crew and all organized?”
“We actually thought that by the end of the month we could have you both on a plane.” Leonard began.
“To Ireland.” Les finished.
“So you could scout, Sean.” Leonard.
“Along with Fiona.” Les.
“So you could scout along with Fiona, using her expertise and knowledge of the terrain.” Leonard.
“And we would finalize the crew and try to get it all rolling about a month out from that.” Les.
“Give or take.” Leonard. “But taking advantage of the summer weather to try and get all exteriors.”
“And hoping, too, that nature will send some summer storms.” Les.
They paused. Fiona felt breathless, as if she were the one who had been carrying on both sides of this strange conversation. She also needed air. And it seemed as if the meeting was over.
“Okay.” Sean found his tongue. “Great, well, thanks. Fiona and I will look at the logistics, look at the calendar?” He glanced at Fiona for confirmation.
“Yes.” She found her voice. “Thanks, thank you both.”
Les and Leonard were beaming again, standing up, extending hands.
“Next time in Ireland perhaps, Fiona?” She nodded.
“We’ll set up a meeting soon, Sean, finalize details?”
Sean nodded. “Yes, I’ll call to set it up. Thanks again.”
And then Fiona and Sean were outside and stepped into the still air. Fiona waited until they had cleared the building to trust herself to speak.
“Sean, he’ll say no.”
Sean didn’t speak right away. He hailed a taxi and bundled them in.
“But, you are getting on somewhat better?”
“I thought we were, but we seem to have regressed. I don’t know why.”
“He’s probably scared of this, too. Have you told him about your shifts in perception?”
“In the portrayal of the brother? No. Of course, I’ve never actually admitted to him that it’s based on him . . . but he knows.”
Fiona was silent for a while. Sean reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’m sure Declan has his own insecurities, too.”
Fiona laughed. “I would have denied that, right, left, and center, about a month ago, but I see that. He still pisses me off, though!”
The taxi was pulling up outside Fiona’s hotel.
“Listen,” Sean began. “I know we need to chat about the film and Declan. You’re probably anxious to set up a meeting with him.”
Fiona nodded.
“Let me know how it goes. Maybe you’ll be able to talk with him tonight?”
Sean kissed her again, lightly. As if they were still at the stage of saying hello.
“Ring me anytime, this afternoon or late tonight, don’t worry about the time, okay?”
Fiona felt nervous, as if her future was hanging in the balance. Sean squeezed her hand reassuringly. “And I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay, later.” And with a wave Sean was off in the taxi.
Fiona rang Declan at his clinic.
“No, absolutely not!” He was livid. “Why can’t they find another farm? There are hundreds . . . ”
“Well, budget for one, budget’s a big factor . . . ”
“I can’t help you, Fiona. I feel very strongly about this.” Fiona detected a waiver in his voice.
“But, it wouldn’t inconvenience you. You don’t have to be there.”
“That’s your argument for trying to persuade me to sell the farm. Saying it has too many associations. Well I don’t want our family home imprinted on celluloid, especially with your story, your version . . . sorry, I need to go here. We can talk about it tonight.”
Fiona’s head was swimming. Her entire career was back in jeopardy again. It was already being kept afloat by virtue of her work on the film, but if that fell through, Pam could not be expected to keep her on. Friendship, or no friendship. And ironically, Fiona thought, the stakes were even higher now. In addition to her career being on the line, she had created a whole new family network, was weaving genuine relationships with Julie and Una, and that would all collapse if she broke irretrievably with Declan over the film. And then there was Sean. She knew she was falling in love with him. Acknowledged it now. Wanted it and dreaded it at the same time. Here she was starting to gain some semblance of self confidence, and it terrified her that she would be tested again in love and would fail. Fail again. Fiona recalled her reading to Una about the Cheshire Cat in Alice.
“‘Cheshire Puss,’ she began, rather timidly . . . ‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to walk from here?’ ‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat. ‘I don’t care much where,’ said Alice. ‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you walk,’ said the Cat. ‘So long as I get somewhere . . . ’ ‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk long enough.’ ”
EYE OF THE STORM
Excerpt from a novel by Fiona Clarke
We are all gathered round the open grave. The day is gray and gloomy, befitting a funeral, and the tiny white coffin is perched at the edge of the gaping pit.
“As angels hovered o’er the earth this blossom met their eyes.
So wondrous fair they marked it out,
As fit for paradise.”
Mama starts to sob. Dada shuffles from one foot to another. Conor looks like he’s crying but trying not to. I am wooden. I cannot cry. I feel like I am dead. I want to be.
The priest continues.
“O Lord, Thou gavest her to us to be our joy,
and now Thou hast taken her away from us.
We give her back to Thee without a murmur,
though our hearts are wrung with sorrow.”
I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. I want to say “No! We don’t give her back!” I stand there, petrified, as the coffin is lowered into the ground and more prayers are said. Someone starts to shovel earth, and it falls like lead with a deafening thud. People move slowly towards us to offer condolences and then start to drift away. We stay.
Later, Dada makes a move to get us going. He takes my hand and draws me gently, but my feet have sprung roots down into the soil. They connect me to my dead sister.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RE-CONNECTIONS
“When the soul wishes to experience
something she throws an image of the
experience out before her and enters
into her own image.”
MEISTER ECKHART
At Declan’s house that evening, Fiona found herself in a heated argument with her brother. The memory of Sean’s kisses lingered as a balm and a fearsome memory trace. She was exultant and terr
ified. She had to first sort out her tangled family web, she had to finish this film and salvage her writing career. She had to banish Frank from her life and her mind forever.
There were papers strewn all across the dining room table and words flying about the room.
“Why should I agree to letting you shoot on the farm if you’re going to libel me?” Declan almost shouted at her.
“I think you’ve been in this litigious society too long,” Fiona shot back. “Everyone wants to sue everyone else.”
“I don’t want to sue you,” Declan replied, trying to keep his voice even. “I want to try and sort out this mess.”
Fiona was mollified by his tone and sensed his insecurity. She herself was developing an ever more labyrinthine notion of their past. She felt that things were being pushed up to the surface but hadn’t yet gained the momentum to break through the barrier to some sort of clarity. She also didn’t know whether she could trust her brother. Every time she felt she was beginning to understand more of the underlying tensions between them, she resented the fact that she might be prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. She didn’t understand her compulsion to needle him.
“You don’t really know what you want to do either about the farm, do you?” she asked.
Declan pondered this. “I suppose I don’t,” he admitted. “On the one hand I want to keep it, take Una and Julie there to visit, and on the other—I just want to say goodbye, clean slate.”
“So let’s agree to sell it. Put it all behind us.” Even as she said this, Fiona had a rush of panic over letting the farm go. “But not before we shoot the film; I have to shoot the film there.”
“But why?” Declan asked. “Why can’t it be somewhere else, some other similar location?”
“Well, I told you on the phone, budget for one. And authenticity.” Fiona felt as if she was hanging desperately on to a lifeline. “The script has changed, Declan. The character of the brother is . . . well . . . not as harsh now. Can’t you see your way to agreeing to let us shoot there?”