Fiona

by Gemma Whelan

  “I’m not up to scratch for anything professional, but I’d love to join in an off-screen session, if you don’t mind a rank amateur. I think Dad would be tickled if I got to play with you guys!”

  A little later while they were having a tea break, Fiona asked him privately, “Is there any one piece, even, that you could play, Declan?”

  “You know how awful the violin can be if played badly?” He laughed. “Screeching like a banshee!”

  “I know! But I’ve heard you practicing, and you’ve been playing all summer. I just thought that it would be lovely if you were a part of this film somehow, in an artistic way, too—but especially if we could sneak a bit of the violin in there for Dad. Writing and music were two of his . . . dreams? Remember how he loved to quote the Yeats’ poem, ‘I have spread my dreams under your feet, tread softly, because you tread on my dreams’?”

  “And he cut himself off from both of them?” Declan offered.

  “Yes, or as you said at one point, didn’t have the heart for them anymore because of all the pain. Maybe we can give back a little to him, me with the writing, and you with the violin?”

  Declan nodded. “And what about Mam? Can we make any gestures to her? Her life was us, really, wasn’t it? Her children?”

  “I think she’d be happy, as would Dad, that the two of us are talking, getting closer, treating each other more gently. I don’t think we could give her anything better than that.”

  “I agree. And treating ourselves more gently, too?”

  Fiona grinned in agreement.

  “Okay, good.” Declan thought for a minute. Let’s see, what do you think about ‘The Gypsy Rover?’ It’s always been one of my favorites, and I’ve been practicing it a lot. Do you remember it?”

  “Oh yes!” Fiona beamed and they started to sing together.

  “The whistling gypsy came over the hill,

  Down by the valley so shady.

  He whistled and he sang ‘til the green wood rang,

  And he won the heart of a la-a-a-dy.”

  “Perfect!”

  On the third day of shooting, Fiona had supervised the film crew as they set up their shot of the hideout, faithfully reconstructed to reflect the original. Una sat at the base of the ancient oak tree reading the Alice in Wonderland that Fiona had given her as a present. There was a huge amount of excitement and bustle. The main house and the grounds were chock full of actors, costume and make-up crew, and caterers. When Fiona felt her work was done outside, she went back to the house to work on the script.

  Pam’s computer was installed on the huge oak table in the parlor where a few short months earlier the food had been piled high for her father’s wake. Sean and Fiona worked there and re-wrote or corrected as necessary. Fiona sat herself in front of the screen and typed out some changes in the upcoming scene that she and Sean had discussed. She had just sent the document to the printer when the storm broke. She jumped to her feet and rushed to the window. The skies opened. Thunder crackled. Rain pelted down like sleek miniature bullets. People raced madly in all directions, taking care of equipment and then running for cover to the house. It was organized chaos.

  Fiona stared out the window at the teeming rain. She had a moment of panic and old creeping fear and a streak of sadness as all of the past memories raced through her mind. The eye of the storm, she thought to herself and stared at the leaves of paper as they trundled out of the purring machine. She had a sudden terror of being pulled into that old vortex, where the storm’s violence scattered her thoughts and stirred up the unwelcome past. She glanced out at the cast and crew, Sean at the helm. Most of them were now approaching the house where they would sit in the kitchen and eat scones and drink tea and rehearse until the storm subsided.

  Fiona fought the pull of her inner demons and forced herself to mentally take control of the journey, to face the true eye of the storm. She struggled to find the courage to carve out a scene of triumph from the degradation and defilement and pollution of a child’s innocence. She eyed the computer from her position at the window. Then she marched over and sat down to begin a new scene. She sought out the letters and typed—“Interior—Bedroom, 1964—Night.” Her words were arrows, and she would fashion them and send them out to pierce the barriers of silence. “Nine year old Sheila lies half-sleeping in her bed.” The walls constructed by family and religion and country and culture and history and fear and a self turned in upon itself. “A shaft of light streaks across the bed, and a shadow falls on her upturned face.” Walls constructed to defy the true freedom that must precede all others, the refusal to lie down and stay silent as if it never happened, to strangle the scream and stop its penetration into the future. “She smiles when she sees it’s her favorite uncle.” Fiona pounded the keys as she had many times before in an act of banishment, but now the words, though they strained and cracked and screamed as they expressed her pain, proclaimed that she would not be still, be silent, be forced in. Her fingers flew on wings of exaltation and formed her proclamation, as Time Past slipped and slid and soared into Time Present, carving out words that would move perpetually into Time Future.

  EPILOGUE

  TIME FUTURE

  June 21st, 2008

  The weather held up beautifully, never a guarantee in Ireland in June, but Una had absolutely wanted to be married on the Summer Solstice. She had also chosen to have the ceremony in the village church and her reception on her family’s farm. Fiona and Declan and their families had spent most summers there for the past eighteen years. They had sold much of the arable land but kept several acres around the house which they had landscaped and cultivated.

  “It’s amazing what you’ve done with this place.” Nellie, now seventy-eight, beamed at Declan and Fiona who sat side by side on folding chairs under a white canopy.

  “Well, the decorators did an incredible job in setting up and arranging all the tents,” Fiona smiled. “But we haven’t done too badly over the years, have we, Dec?”

  Declan laughed. “No, I think we can be proud!”

  Nellie gestured towards the small guest cottage around the side of the house.

  “So, who won out this time?” she chuckled.

  Fiona laughed happily. “I believe the bride and her bridesmaids got the prize—as is only right on the night before her wedding! My poor son has to put up with sleeping in the same house as his parents!”

  “And uncle and aunt!” Declan added. “It’s tough on teenagers!”

  “She’s something else, that daughter of yours, Declan.” Nellie’s eyes followed Una as she mingled with her guests. “Turned out very well—all of your children turned our very well, mind you, for Americans!”

  “Well, thanks, Nellie! I’m sure we appreciate the compliment, don’t we, Declan?” Fiona giggled. “Of course, it’s probably the three months every year they spend in Ireland that does it. Keeps them civilized!”

  “Yeah,” Declan continued the joke, “I’d say they wouldn’t stand much of a chance otherwise. They’d be right little heathens!”

  “Not to mention that they’re actually more Catholic than either of the two of us.” Fiona added. “I thought it was supposed to be the other way round, the young ones rebelling!”

  “Now, you show your face once in a while down at the chapel, Fiona, don’t you?” Nellie commented. “You say the odd prayer, yourself?”

  “I do when I’m here, Nell. I like the peace and quiet in the chapel. And I feel close to Mam and Dad and Orla there. I wouldn’t hold your breath for canonization, though!”

  “Well, God Almighty, I should hope not, colleen!” Nellie laughed heartily. “We have enough saints to keep us going, I’d say, without adding you to the roster. Look now, here comes the beautiful bride and her entourage!”

  Una swept in, a vision in white, followed, in a flash of sapphire blue, by her seventeen-year-old sister Niamh, and Fiona and Sean’s daughter Nessa.

  “We’re going to start the dancing soon, Dad. Are you ready?”


  “Isn’t the first dance with your husband? I believe I’m second fiddle today!” Declan joked.

  “Marcel’s all ready for our dance. Just checking on you. You and Mom can dance together during the first one, if you like. Are you going to dance, Nell?”

  “Well, I haven’t stepped out much since Ignatius passed away, God rest him. But, if I were to get a nice offer from a fine gentleman, you’d never know, I might accept!”

  “I’ll see if I can find my brother,” Nessa offered. “He’s kind of hopeless, but we practiced a bit together for today. Just so we wouldn’t make a holy show of you, dear cousin!”

  “Why, thank you, I’m sure!” Una joked back.

  “If you can pry him away from Nicole!” Niamh smiled.

  “I thought he was with his father, getting help with the DVD recorder?” Fiona started to look around for Fintan. Nessa laughed. “Well, he was, Mom, but then he was lured away by the beautiful French maiden!”

  “And who is Nicole, when she’s at home?” Nellie wanted to know. “Surely he doesn’t have a girlfriend already, does he? What ages are you two now, Nessa, is it fourteen?”

  “Fourteen and a half, Nell.”

  “Oh, lordy lordy! Seems like the other day you were just born, same year Frank passed away. Lord have mercy!” And she crossed herself.

  Fiona and Declan shared a quick glance. It all seemed like ancient history now.

  “You’re our only hope for a bit of longevity in the gene department, Nellie!” Declan joked.

  “It’s true, Nell,” Fiona laughed. “Poor Declan and I feel lucky to have made it to our fifties! So hang in there for us, will you?”

  “Now, does it look like I’m going anywhere? Shur, I’m not even eighty yet. My father lived to be a hundred and one!”

  “Is that true, Nellie, for real?” Nessa was fascinated.

  “True as I’m sitting here, macoushla. And strong in mind and body ‘til the end, he was. Swore by the drop of Irish whiskey and a good pipe every now and then. Now, there’s a character for one of your novels, Fiona—a right divil he was, too!”

  “We should sit and chat about him someday, Nell. Maybe during our teatimes?”

  “Not that you’re short of ideas. I can hardly keep up with all your books these days.”

  Fiona laughed. “I’m always on the lookout for new ideas!”

  Sean arrived just then, sat down beside Fiona and took her hand in his. “One minute I had Fintan in my sights, next minute he’s vanished.”

  “Well, it’s a bit early for haystacks this time of year, or is it?” Una joked.

  “And what do you know of haystacks, my innocent daughter?” Declan joked back.

  “Father, I’m a married woman now, quite experienced. Which reminds me, I’m going to look for my husband. I think he’s talking to Mom. And don’t forget your violin. I talked Fintan into playing with you!”

  “Now he has someone he wants to impress!” Nessa added impishly.

  Una gave big warm hugs to them all and swirled away.

  “We must follow and serve our lady!” Niamh proclaimed dramatically as she grabbed Nessa’s hand and dashed off after Una. They caught up with her, each took one of her arms, and the little covey flounced off, laughing and giggling, into the crowd.

  “Bless them. They’re like sisters, aren’t they, the three of them?” Nellie murmured.

  Fiona and Declan exchanged another glace and smiled. He reached out and squeezed her hand quickly.

  “Am I missing something about Finn?” Sean asked.

  “I wouldn’t worry!” Fiona laughed. “He’ll be fine. They’ll all be fine. It’s a beautiful midsummer’s day. A perfect day for a wedding.”

  “Nothing would do for our Una except the Summer Solstice.” Declan added.

  “She wanted the longest day of the year, when the sun is at its zenith, so she could stretch out her happiness.” Fiona offered.

  “The old wisdom was that the sun stood still on the solstice.” Nellie told them.

  “ ‘At the still point of the turning world.’ ” Fiona remembered T.S. Eliot. “ ‘Neither from nor towards.’ ” She continued softly. “ ‘At the still point, there the dance is.’ ”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Gemma Whelan is an Irish-born theatre director and educator. After moving to the San Francisco Bay Area, she directed more than sixty stage productions and was founding artistic director of GemArt and Wilde Irish Productions. Gemma is also an award-winning screenwriter and film director. She graduated from Trinity College, Dublin in English and French, and has graduate degrees from University of California, Berkeley in Theatre and San Francisco State University in Cinema.

  Gemma Whelan lives in Portland, Oregon.