A Christmas Wish

by Lizzie Lane

The fact that Patrick seemed to be paying as much attention to her sister as to Venetia cut deep. She had a plan, one she was sure would regain Patrick’s affection.

  Whilst emptying the tea strainer into the sink, Molly Brodie happened to glance out of the window.

  ‘Will you just look at that!’ she exclaimed. ‘It looks as though somebody’s left the gate open to the vegetable garden. Anna Marie, will you chase those chickens off before there’s nothing left? They’re pecking it bare.’

  Her granddaughter was about to say that she was sure it was shut, but didn’t bother. A bit of cool air would be welcome after the heat of the kitchen, and she also wouldn’t mind a moment to think. Was it her imagination or had Patrick Casey’s fingers brushed against hers purposely when she’d handed him his third slice of cake?

  Half a dozen chickens were scratching in the dirt and pecking at the green shoots of late-flowering broccoli.

  ‘Here. I’ll give you a hand.’

  She looked up to see Patrick Casey coming through the gate.

  ‘Close it behind you then they can’t get back in,’ she shouted to him as she tossed one of the hens over the fence.

  For the moment she didn’t question why Patrick Casey had suddenly appeared. She was perfectly capable of dealing with the hens herself.

  The last hen, a dark red one that was almost the size of a cockerel, played an elusive game around the gooseberry bushes at the far end of the garden.

  Patrick bent low to one side of the bushes. ‘We’ll do what the army calls a pincer movement. You go that way. I’ll go this.’

  Anna Marie laughed at his description, but did it anyway.

  The hen tried to crash her way forward away from both sets of grabbing hands. Unfortunately for the hen she was far too big to pass through the prickly canes. Wings flapped and she squawked defiance as Patrick grabbed her, brought her up over the gooseberry bushes and threw her over the fence.

  ‘She’s a bit of a rebel is that old girl.’

  ‘She’ll be a bit of a roasted rebel if she doesn’t start laying again,’ remarked Anna Marie.

  ‘Your cheeks are stunningly pink,’ said Patrick.

  ‘I’m hot. Chasing those chickens.’

  She was speaking the truth. Just for once her face wasn’t flushed because of her shyness but because of exertion.

  ‘Stunning,’ said Patrick with a wry smile. ‘I meant what I said. And what I said to you outside Flynns’ the other day.’ He looked towards the house. ‘I suppose we should go back in now before someone’s told to fetch us.’

  She nodded as her natural bashfulness returned. She was out here, alone with the man her sister was in love with. And she was feeling an emotion she had no business feeling at all.

  Molly Brodie washed dishes whilst Venetia wiped. Usually it was the other way round, but today Molly had insisted. Standing in front of the sink she could see all that was going on outside.

  She had a feeling about Patrick Casey and had decided he was not the man for her dark-haired granddaughter with the flashing eyes. No matter what her husband Dermot thought, she knew the girl would never settle down to farm life or even to life in the local town. There was restlessness there, no doubt inherited from her son, Joseph, and like him she would leave.

  But Anna Marie! Her heart sang at the thought of Anna Marie marrying and staying here, company for Molly in her old age. And grandchildren. Well, that too would be wonderful.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The Twins

  It was a fine August, the sun scorching the fields to gold and the brook at the end of Two Acre field reduced to barely a spit.

  Dermot Brodie had fallen on rough ground and hurt some bones in his foot. The doctor in Dunavon had told him they were broken and there was not much he could do about it.

  ‘They don’t mend. Not those silly little bones that God placed there to join up with your toes.’

  Dermot had muttered that if they were that silly then why have them in the first place. But that was that and there was nothing for it but to employ another labourer besides Mr Smiley.

  Johnnie Devlin was a big man with a strong voice. Dermot considered that a definite advantage when dealing with the cows who were rebellious at the best of times. It also meant that there was less work for the two girls to do.

  ‘One of them might have to earn a bit of a living in town,’ he’d said to his wife. ‘The devil makes work for idle hands to do.’

  Venetia was in the pantry, patting butter with wooden paddles. The pantry, a cool place of stone shelves and meat safes, was adjacent to the kitchen.

  She’d listened to most of their conversation wearing a glum expression and lamenting the fact that life had treated her so unfairly. At least in London she’d have a proper job and be free to do as she pleased. The picture houses; that’s where she’d spend most of her time. Perhaps also a pub or two. Anything but be isolated with nothing but pigs and chickens for company.

  Her ears pricked up at the possibility of her or Anna Marie obtaining a job in town.

  The plan that had been festering in her mind suddenly seemed accessible. She had to be the one who took a job in town. Any job! And anyway, wasn’t Anna Marie the one who enjoyed working on the farm?

  All the same, she had to tread carefully and appear nonchalant about the prospect.

  The cows were bellowing out in the yard as they were steered in for milking. Johnnie Devlin’s booming voice was audible above it all.

  ‘Listen to that,’ said Venetia. ‘He’s got a louder voice than the cows. They respect him. They never respected me. I bet he won’t get half the kicks that I got. But then, I was never that good at driving cows. Our Anna Marie was better at it. The animals like her. I’m sure of it.’

  Her grandmother raised her head from lathering a leg of pork with ground sage and breadcrumbs.

  ‘The loud voice is on account of his deafness. He was with the artillery during the Great War. Stood too near to the guns so he did.’

  Venetia had heard this before, but it didn’t hurt to hear it all again.

  ‘Is there anything for me to do here? I’ve finished peeling the potatoes and I’ve mixed the mash and peelings.’

  ‘You can weed around the pea sticks. There’s bindweed growing up with the plants.’

  ‘I did that this morning.’

  No one had noticed that Venetia had got up earlier than anyone this morning and gone through both routine and other tasks in double quick time. The quicker I work, the less there seems to do she’d decided and was pleased with herself for thinking out such a plan.

  ‘Best ask your granfer if he’s got a job for you then. Unless you’d care to dust and polish upstairs.’

  ‘I’ve done that.’

  Molly Brodie eyed her querulously. Venetia had never been the most willing of the twins around either the farm or the house. Her head was always in a dream, that one; just like her father.

  ‘Are you up to anything?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Of course not,’ said Venetia. ‘It’s just that there isn’t enough to do around here – not girls’ work anyway. As for the cooking, well, Anna Marie is best at that.’

  Her grandmother jerked her chin in acknowledgement. Anna Marie did indeed like cooking and baking. Nobody could deny it.

  With a sigh of finality, Molly Brodie patted the leg of ham, the skin and flesh now totally encased in her special mixture.

  ‘There’s enough to do around here for now what with Christmas coming up, but after that … well.’

  She eyed her granddaughter as though making up her mind whether to tell her what she and Dermot had already decided.

  ‘Your grandfather and I think it might be a good idea to find you a little job in town. Something to keep you occupied and out of trouble until you get married.’

  ‘Is that so? Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure we can manage without you, or sure we can trust you?’

  ‘Well. Both I should think,’ Venetia gasped.


  It was hard not to sound enthusiastic, but getting a job in town fell in nicely with her plan.

  The fact was that Patrick spent a lot of time at his father’s place of business in town, mostly alone in the workshop doing bits of carpentry or mending something that had gone wrong with the lorry.

  All she had to do was be in town by herself, impossible most of the time, but if she could only get a placement – perhaps in a shop; perhaps doing a bit of cleaning in one of the grand houses on the hill behind the high street.

  She helped her grandmother wrap the ham in a large piece of muslin, tie it at one end and hang it from a hook in the pantry.

  ‘There’s enough for you to do until Christmas what with the butcher wanting chickens and ham, but after that … well … let’s see what comes along, shall we?’

  Anna Marie held open the gate to the field as Johnnie Devlin, the cowherd, drove the cows away from the milking parlour and back out into their field.

  Just for a change in soggy, wet Ireland, the night was fine and clear. There was a threat from frost but as far as Anna Marie was concerned, it was a small price to pay for an inky sky sparkling with stars.

  She mentioned that the cows were noisy tonight. Johnnie remarked in his loud voice that they must know it was Christmas.

  ‘The night when our Lord was born,’ he added. ‘I bet you loved Christmas when you were a bairn.’

  She was about to agree with him, when a thought suddenly struck her. She couldn’t remember how it had been when she was small, at least not before that last Christmas when they’d all been together; Magda and Michael, besides her and Venetia.

  Try as she might, she just couldn’t recall anything before that. Everything had ended and begun with that last family Christmas.

  Tilting her head back, she looked up at the stars. They were so clear, so bright it felt as though if she reached up she could grab one and bring it down to earth; put it in her pocket; wish upon it.

  The last option was by far her favourite and she knew exactly what she would wish for. She would wish to see her sister and little brother again. It didn’t matter that Magda might have sinned in the sight of God and her grandparents. They were still sisters; they would forgive and forget and still love each other; she was sure of it.

  Venetia too had made a wish. Although she had prayed for Magda and Michael – silently of course in case her grandparents might be listening – she had her own Christmas wish and all to do with Patrick Casey.

  She’d closed her eyes and crossed her fingers in the time-honoured way of making a wish – Christmas or otherwise.

  ‘A job. I want a job to get me out of this bloody place.’

  There was a warm glow around the fire in the farmhouse kitchen, but there was also work to be done before its heat could be fully enjoyed.

  Cows still needed to be milked, hens fed and eggs collected over the Christmas period. The weather was cold but re-entering the warmth of the old farmhouse was pleasurable. A crisp winter and a warm hearth. What could be better?

  My Christmas wish, she thought to herself, though I have to wait for the result until the New Year.

  The first sign that Venetia’s wish was likely to come true happened on the first Sunday of the New Year.

  As they were filing out of church it was mentioned that Father Anthony, the young priest who had collected them from Queenstown, was in need of someone to clean for him two days a week.

  Mrs Moran, grandmother of the same Moran who had a boar named Boris, had been housekeeper at the parish house for as long as anyone could remember. Close to eighty years of age, she’d declared that she was getting too old to do the heavier work. Someone was needed to help out for two days a week. It was her daughter who mentioned it to Molly Brodie.

  Molly voiced the offer to her husband. ‘Like a blessing from heaven. I wouldn’t think she’ll get up to anything sinful in Father Anthony’s house.’

  For a moment Dermot Brodie’s doughty eyebrows dropped enough to obliterate his ice-blue eyes. ‘If she does she won’t be coming back here. Mark my words on that.’

  Christmas came and went and January saw heavy falls of sleet that were trying hard to be snow.

  The weather was of no concern to Venetia Brodie. Her chance of freedom in sight, she began counting the days to when Mrs Moran gave up her two days a week and she took them over. A date was fixed. All she had to do now was to let Patrick in on her plan.

  Days on the farm passed more slowly than ever, the brightest day being when Patrick and his father came to build a new stone wall, which would enlarge the yard outside the milking parlour.

  Anna Marie tried not to notice that Patrick had arrived, or at least give no sign that she was taken with him. He belonged to her sister. That’s what she kept reminding herself.

  Venetia connived to spend most of her time out of the house and in the barn, sometimes scratching for things to do. All the time she waited for the opportunity to get closer to him, to speak, even to touch him if she could.

  Grandparents as watchful as ever when Patrick was around, she sat frustrated on a bale of straw, kicking her heels and feeling badly treated by them that should love her and therefore let her have her own way.

  Anna Marie was pitch forking fresh bedding out for Merrylegs, the pony that pulled the gig. Once that was done she filled the feed bucket with corn for the hens.

  She was thinking deep thoughts. ‘Have you ever wondered why our father never writes to us?’

  ‘He can’t be bothered?’

  ‘Or he can’t write. I mean, even a little note would have been lovely. Just a line or two says it all, don’t you think?’

  She looked up from what she was doing to see her sister staring at her as though she’d said something terribly profound.

  ‘I’ll feed the chickens today.’ She grabbed the bucket of corn from her sister.

  Anna Marie looked at her in amazement.

  ‘I thought the chickens made you sneeze.’

  ‘That depends.’

  Anna Marie saw her sister look to where Patrick and his father were taking down the stone wall. The lorry was parked between the wall and the barn where she and Venetia were sorting out animal feed. For a moment her sister disappeared and seemed to take a while reappearing.

  Anna Marie sucked in her breath. Her sister could be wild at times, but in this instance she really should be careful.

  Her attention switched to the house. Her grandmother, barely five feet tall and as round as a turnip, was feeding wet laundry through a mangle, the water splashing over her black stockings and her working boots.

  The mangle turned more slowly then stopped altogether as Molly Brodie’s blue eyes followed the provocative sway of Venetia’s hips.

  When Venetia veered away from the pigsty, the turning of the mangle resumed, Molly Brodie assured that her granddaughter was not heading for Patrick Casey.

  Aware that she was being watched, Venetia had purposely headed between the barn and the lorry where the hens were pecking in the earth.

  Anna Marie watched with her heart in her mouth. For a moment her sister disappeared behind the lorry, which was now between her and the pigsty. There was no chance of her having a private conversation with Patrick. He was too far away.

  She was up to something; Anna Marie was sure of it.

  Venetia scattered the corn too quickly so it fell in great heaps. The chickens fell onto it in great heaps too, fighting and clucking with indignation.

  ‘Done!’ Venetia exclaimed.

  There was a jaunty air to the way she sauntered back, head high, shoulders back and a definite spring to her step.

  Anna Marie’s blonde eyebrows almost met when she frowned. Her blue eyes were full of puzzlement. Something was going on here. She hadn’t had time to scatter a whole bucket of corn, yet it appeared she had and was heading back and looking mighty pleased with herself.

  ‘Here,’ said a smiling Venetia swinging the bucket at her so she had no choice but to grab it.
She strode off with her hands in her pockets and whistling a saucy song.

  Bucket bumping against her side, Anna Marie ran after her.

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘I’ve fed the hens, of course,’ smirked Venetia with a toss of her head.

  Just for once, Anna Marie bridled at her sister’s dismissal.

  ‘Don’t treat me as though I’m a fool. You didn’t go out there just to feed the hens. And anyway, judging by how fast you came back, you left the corn in a mountain, you didn’t scatter it as you should have done.’

  ‘They won’t mind. It’s corn. What should I do, hand it to them on a silver plate?’

  Anna Marie persisted.

  ‘Gran was watching. If she thinks you’ve been talking to him …’

  Venetia’s huge dark eyes were like candles glowing in the dark. Her complexion, usually so creamy and unblemished with the kind of blushing Anna Marie was plagued with, had a rosy hue.

  ‘I couldn’t talk to him could I, you silly goose. He was with his father on the other side of the truck. I couldn’t talk to him.’

  Her sister eyed her warily, not sure whether she was being duped or not. From where she was standing it seemed indeed that she couldn’t possibly speak to Patrick.

  ‘You did something …’

  She said it slowly, her eyes scrutinising her sister’s face for some kind of explanation.

  Venetia lifted herself onto a pile of straw and giggled. ‘Promise you won’t tell on me?’

  ‘On the Blessed Virgin …’

  Venetia’s expression turned taut.

  ‘No. On our mother’s grave. I know you’d swear on the Blessed Virgin and then likely confess your sin to Father Anthony. Swearing on our mother’s grave is a different matter.’

  Anna Marie bit her bottom lip as she always did when she was undecided or nervous. She felt both at the moment, weighing up whether she should swear, a thing the church said they should never do under any circumstances, and nervous because she wasn’t sure she wanted to share her sister’s confidence; doing so might well get her into trouble. She’d gone through enough beatings thanks to her twin.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to know.’