Fiona

by Gemma Whelan

  Fiona swallowed. She thought of Una outside with Frank by the well. Of him walking up the stairs, and she following to spy on him.

  “Maybe Declan’s worried about the meeting with Frank. The last one here was fairly contentious.”

  “Could be.” Julie conceded. “But you two have come to an agreement on that, haven’t you?”

  Fiona nodded. “We should meet before Frank comes over at four, just to make sure we’re clear.” In her own mind Fiona was not happy about giving in to Declan, but it was worth it to get his okay to shoot the film on the farm. She realized that she hadn’t told Frank she was going to go with Declan’s wish and had a jolt of fear that he might put up some road block.

  “You look pale yourself, Fiona. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine Julie. Let me get Declan, and we’ll have our chat.”

  Sean and Una took Julie on a tour of the farm to give Declan and Fiona a chance to talk. Julie had been there before but never had a real tour. And Una was now the expert on the film locations and, with the help of the director, wanted to show off her knowledge to her mother.

  Fiona and Declan were in the kitchen finishing the washing up. Declan was hand-washing a crystal fruit bowl. Fiona was slowly drying the wooden handled knives. She broke the silence.

  “We should make sure we’re both clear regarding the will.”

  “Didn’t we agree on that?” Declan almost snapped.

  “Our conversation was so hurried. I just want to be sure, in case Frank . . . ”

  Declan stiffened. “In case Frank what? Insists you get what you want?”

  Fiona was thrown off guard. Did Declan suspect something? His anger was fierce. Almost cruel.

  “We are the ones who decide . . . ” she continued, and as she spoke she recalled Frank’s urgency about completing the arrangement. Could it be that Frank also wanted to dispel those past memories? Be rid of the site of his violation?

  “I admit,” her voice quavered, “he seems to want us to sell, but he doesn’t have a vote unless we disagree.”

  Declan seemed to back down. “Una loves the house and the farm.”

  Una again. All of Fiona’s fears came coursing back. She had to warn Declan. If anything happened to her niece through Fiona’s negligence, she would never forgive herself. She had just spent her life so far bound up in guilt over neglecting and damaging her little sister, and now that she had been exonerated from any direct responsibility for that death, she felt bound to act to prevent any potential future harm to Una. And she had to release herself from the bondage of these secrets. Fiona realized that she was still holding the knife and that Declan was washing the crystal bowl repetitively. She put the knife down.

  “Declan?”

  “What?” He didn’t sound too inviting.

  “Do you remember a while back . . . I asked you about Uncle Frank?”

  He stiffened. “What about him. Are you talking about the shoulder incident?”

  So, he did remember. “Yes. That. And something else. Something more.”

  She was aware now of Declan tensing beside her, slowing down the pace of the washing. He didn’t speak.

  “He used to come up and kiss me goodnight.”

  “Right, he came to me, too. After Orla died.”

  “And he’d have drink taken; he smelled of whiskey.”

  “I think they drank a lot, all of them, for a while.”

  “And he’d kiss me.”

  “He was lonely. We were all he had left then.”

  “On the mouth.”

  “Near it maybe. He was drunk, Fiona.”

  “On the mouth. He’d cut off my breathing.”

  Declan wasn’t moving now. His hands were on the crystal bowl, still, arrested.

  “And he touched me. Violated me. Every Saturday night. For all of that autumn and winter.”

  There was dead silence. Fiona couldn’t believe she had spoken those words. Aloud. A warm summer afternoon stillness pervaded the kitchen. A faraway buzzing of insects wafted in from across the yard. A gentle breeze lifted the corners of the lace curtains, and they skimmed gracefully across the wooden ledge. Brother and sister were suspended for a long moment in time and space.

  After an eternity Declan spoke.

  “Fiona.” It was like a whisper, hoarse. “Are you sure. Certain?”

  “As sure as I am that you are standing there beside me.”

  “Bastard!” Declan hissed the word. “I remember him, as if he were sleepwalking . . . ”

  “He was my favorite, well, my only, but my favorite uncle.” She managed. “I loved him.”

  “Fiona. I . . . I think it was totally out of character. I know he was crazy about you—in a healthy way. And after Aunt Rita and the baby died . . . ”

  “And Mam and Dad went to bits, so he had no support, I know. But that doesn’t excuse what he did, does it? He was depressed and drunk and distraught, but that didn’t give him the right to interfere with me.” Interfere was an old-fashioned word. A word her mother might have used. A word woefully inadequate to describe what happened.

  “No,” Declan’s voice was almost inaudible. “No it didn’t.”

  Fiona was struck by her brother’s intensity. He stood immobile, staring at the bowl between his hands. She thought he might crush it. She didn’t move.

  It seemed another eternity before she could speak again.

  “I’ve made some connections.” Fiona found her voice. “I’ve always had these stomach problems, like a knife stabbing me. But they never could find anything wrong.”

  “That’s a symptom—a sign of abuse.” Declan was recovering—trying to sound professional now. “It’s usually . . . it’s triggered by feelings related to the abuse. It’s emotional and psychological, but you can experience physical pain.”

  Fiona nodded. She felt suspended, like the bowl in Declan’s hands. It was strange to be talking to him about this—yet he was there at the time. A room away. And now he stood almost shoulder to shoulder with her.

  “When did it start? Do you remember? October?”

  “Yes—a few weeks after Orla died. And it ended before Christmas. Two and a half months. It could have been a lot worse, couldn’t it? Some children are abused for years on end.”

  Declan looked over at her. “It’s the after effects though, they can be . . . ” And he looked away. He seemed to be in pain.

  Fiona nodded. She knew now. The pain, fear of intimacy, flashbacks, unexplained anger, self-hatred. She thought of her pounding Declan in the barn and wondered if he remembered. She recalled her mad attack on her own apartment, on her belongings. Her wish for annihilation.

  Then Fiona mustered up the courage to continue, to say more. To express aloud one thing she had always speculated about. She had already spoken the unspeakable so might as well push on. She looked over at her brother. Looked him in the eye.

  “I always wondered . . . I always, almost from the beginning, wondered if you knew.”

  Declan did not budge. He stood in front of the sink, the bowl still held tightly, and he stared at it as if he were examining, carefully examining the exact details of the pattern. He stared with an intensity that Fiona recognized. Evasion. She had spent many endless minutes staring at fixed spots, whether moon or imaginary moons, to escape the actual unbearable moment she was living through. She then heard her own voice with an uncanny evenness, as if it were coming from a different body, say to her brother, “You knew, didn’t you? You knew all along!”

  Declan finally raised his eyes, turned, and met hers. She waited for the dreaded answer that she already intuited. Had long suspected. Even before she knew what it was she felt he was guilty of. She waited.

  “I knew.”

  He went on.

  “I think I knew at the time, but I didn’t remember. It all came back to me about three nights ago. After you left. I remembered you asking me about Frank when you came to L.A. first, and then something triggered it. I think it started when you had your
breakdown, over Orla, but I didn’t remember the details, the fact of it, until a few days ago.” He paused. “I was able to bring myself back to those nights. In the wake of Orla’s death. At first I didn’t know what it was, but it didn’t seem right, something about his visits to you seemed off.”

  Fiona steeled herself. “How, off?”

  “He began to stay longer, not too long, but longer than it takes to say goodnight.”

  Fiona waited.

  “And then, one night, he left the door ajar. I heard his breathing, and it was . . . not right.”

  She continued to wait. Suspended. She pictured herself in her bed, the bed she had shared last night with her innocent little niece, the shadow leaning over her, the silver moon, and Declan, awake, in his bed just down the corridor, a few steps away, a world away.

  “But I didn’t know what it was, the discordance. I was twelve. I didn’t have a concept of what it might be, that he might do anything untoward. He was our uncle.”

  She held back. She wanted him to say all he had to say before she let up.

  “I had no words to formulate what I might say, and to whom—to Mam, to Dad? I made up a million sentences. I said none of them.”

  He stopped. He looked at Fiona, and his eyes reflected pain and devastation. She returned his gaze, recognized the pain and felt not a smidgen of sympathy.

  “You coward!” she lashed out. “You lay there night after night in your cozy bed while our uncle molested me a few feet away. You heard him come in, you heard the sounds of his disgusting ritual and you did nothing. Not one thing. Not one bloody thing. You are the one who could have done something. The only one. And you did nothing.”

  “I wanted them to notice.” Declan stated in a dead voice. “I wanted them to know. I kept thinking they’ll come to and be our parents again. I was afraid. And yes . . . I was a coward.”

  “You could have tried—to say something. Gone down to them. Shaken them.”

  “Do you remember them? They were zombies. And the three of them fed each other, made it worse.”

  She remembered.

  “They abdicated responsibility as parents.” Fiona saw that clearly now as she spoke. “At least for that time. And certainly for that endless autumn. They should have been aware. They should have watched out for us. For me. They should have protected me.”

  “And I kept waiting for them to wake up from their dream.” Declan spoke. “To come back to normal. I kept thinking, it will happen tomorrow. One more day and surely they will be back. But I’m not sure they ever did, fully.”

  Fiona slumped into a chair and felt the support of the wood against her back. She looked around at the room, the house. “It’s haunted, with memories. This place is haunted. Do you see now why I want to be rid of it?”

  Declan nodded. He placed the bowl carefully in the center of the table and sat down opposite Fiona.

  “We’ll sell it. I’ll agree to sell it. From the minute I started to remember . . . and now you confirming this . . . horror. I’m so sorry, Fiona.”

  Things were moving very fast. She could hear Una’s voice outside, chatting away to Sean and Julie.

  “We keep changing our stories. About the farm, the inheritance.” She checked her watch. “Frank will be here in about an hour. I really do want to get this over with. Have no more dealings with him.”

  Declan nodded in agreement. “I am totally ready to sell it. If that’s what you still want, I think it would be better all round.”

  Fiona felt a tug at the finality of giving it up. But it was what she had wanted, right from the start, a clean slate. She took a deep breath. “Good. Okay. I’m ready, so.”

  Fiona scalded the teapot, measured out four spoons of loose tea, covered it with a cozy and let it brew. The meeting was due to start in five minutes, and having strong tea on hand was a necessity. Her stomach was in a knot. She had spent the intervening hour walking the land, soaking it up, revisiting her favorite spots, sitting in the hideout. She had wanted to go alone. Sean had driven into Mullingar to see about buying a coffee maker. Declan and Julie were tired and had gone up to their room to take a nap, and Una had gone with them. Despite her lifelong conviction never to breathe a word about her uncle’s abuse, Fiona did not now regret telling Declan. Especially as it confirmed her long held suspicion that he might have known. She did not worry even for a second that the story would go beyond the two of them. Declan’s own complicity would take care of that. Was it inevitable, Fiona wondered to herself, that as she walked over the land, smelled the soil, and even now as she was back in the house and looking out the windows, that she would be overwhelmed as she never had been before, by the beauty of the place and its surroundings? Maybe telling Declan about the abuse had released something in her and made her appreciate as never before the beauty of her former home. Or maybe it was seeing it anew through Sean’s eyes, and Una’s. It was just as nice as Simon’s family home—in a different way. As she took out the cups and saucers, she had the rueful realization that she and her brother now were locked in a diabolical pact, similar to the one she and Frank were embroiled in. They were the keepers of equally unsavory secrets. Bound by equal parts guilt and shame.

  As Fiona was sure that Una was upstairs with her parents, she almost had cardiac arrest when, at that moment, she saw her with Frank outside the kitchen window. Frank had his arm around her shoulder and was showing her the old pump. Una as usual was plying him with questions. Then Fiona saw Frank pat her on the head. All innocent gestures, Fiona told herself as she called them all in for tea and the meeting—albeit a few minutes early.

  The three of them sat at the huge oak table in the parlor. Frank had some papers and copies of the will, in case they needed to check or clarify the language. He was asking Declan about his trip, his work, complementing him on his lovely daughter. Fiona was pouring the tea and trying to steady her breathing. She wondered if Declan had any suspicions at all about Frank abusing other children. Or if he also had compartmentalized the story so that it was an isolated incident. Fiona tried to banish the thought from her mind. She had to focus on the business at hand. Even if Frank might have a propensity to abuse someone else, well, Una specifically, this deal they were going to finalize now would also remove Una from Cregora because the property would be sold to someone else, a stranger. After the meeting with Stanley tomorrow, Frank’s main reason to be here would be removed.

  “I think Nell and I have convinced Sean that we would be wonderful extras in your film, Fiona. And we’ll help to scare up a gaggle of the locals—as long as we don’t have any lines, we’ll be grand!”

  Fiona made an effort to steady her hand as she poured the tea. She handed a cup to Frank who sat across from her, and Declan who sat beside her.

  “Grand. Thanks.” Frank added two spoons of sugar and stirred. “Will we start then? Formally I think I have to ask each of you what you want. And we’ll take it from there if we need to have a discussion. We’ll start with you, Declan.”

  Declan cleared his throat. When he spoke his voice was frayed. “Yes . . . I want to sell it. I . . . want to sell both the house and the land.” Fiona thought he was going to cry.

  Frank looked surprised, but happy. Relieved. He positively beamed. “Good, Declan. Good lad, yourself. I see you’ve had time to think it over. Good man. I think that’s a very good decision. A wise move.”

  Frank turned next to Fiona. Of course it was a forgone conclusion that she would say yes and they could wrap up the meeting. It struck Fiona that Frank’s question was similar to that of the priest at a wedding, asking the bride and groom separately if they agreed to take the other as their lawful spouse. Unexpectedly for Frank, Declan had answered yes. So there would be no foreseeable impediment to this marriage.

  “And you Fiona?” Frank beamed at her. She saw him across the table from her and then saw him as he leaned over her in the bed, covering her mouth, smothering her, stealing her childhood. “Can you tell us what you want, Fiona?”


  “Yes.” Fiona answered. And Frank loomed over her again, and she saw the moon, the sliver of the waning moon.

  Frank smiled and looked at her happily.

  “Yes,” Fiona continued. “I’d like to keep them. To keep both the house and the land.”

  She couldn’t let Frank get away with it. Declan really wanted to keep the land, and she was, moment by moment, regretting that she had ever considered giving up this precious place.

  Both Declan and Frank were in shock. Declan looked at her with concern. “Fiona, you meant ‘No,’ right? You want to sell it?”

  Frank was recovering. Perhaps thinking also that her response was a mistake, that she had simply misspoken.

  “No. I know what I said. I want to keep it. And you do, too, Declan. You want to keep it.”

  Declan was flabbergasted. “Well, yes. I mean I did until we talked, but . . . ”

  “We can’t let him force us into making a decision we will regret for the rest of our lives. I won’t give him that power.”

  Declan stared at Fiona. Frank floundered. “Are you talking about me, Fiona? You know it was your father who gave me this power, but it was only to help you out. I only need to use it if . . . ”

  Fiona flashed on his touching Una. His hand over hers at the well, his shoulder around hers, his patting her on the head. And she imagined a long line of little girls behind Una. Girls without names or faces. Girls she didn’t know.

  “You’ve already abused your power over me far too much, Frank, and I will not stand by and let you do it all over again.”

  “I don’t know what . . . ”

  “Yes, you do. You know exactly what, and if you force me to say it, I will.”

  Frank looked panicked now. He turned to Declan. “Declan, can you calm her down, can’t you tell . . . ”

  “Declan was there, too, Frank. He remembers. Do you want me to call him officially as a witness?”

  Frank looked to Declan again, like a man drowning, desperately seeking a safety net.

  “It’s true, Frank. I was there, in the next room. I only wish I’d had the wherewithal to do something. Like fucking kill you!”