A Christmas Wish

by Lizzie Lane

  She put down her cup and played with the piece of bread on her plate; she didn’t feel like eating.

  ‘If you want to sell it, there’s nothing I can do. It’s in your name.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, shoving more bread into his mouth as he nodded. ‘It’s my name on the deeds, not yours. I’m your husband and what I say goes.’

  Chapter Forty

  Venetia 1938

  Never in her wildest dreams had Venetia Brodie ever expected to end up spending weekends in a lovely house with a wrought iron balcony overlooking the promenade at Clevedon, a West Country coastal town. Her plan had always been to get enough money together for the trip to America. Keen to leave Ireland but not having enough money for the passage to America, she had settled for going to England.

  The boat from Cork had taken her to Bristol, a city she knew nothing about except that a direct service ran between it and southern Ireland.

  The first thing she did on alighting from the boat was to seek cheap overnight accommodation before looking for a job. The only job she was really qualified for was as a domestic servant thanks to the solicitous endeavours of the nuns at St Bernadette’s.

  Thanks to her London origins and Italian mother, her accent was not as thick and broad as some Irish who came over seeking work. She’d heard there were landladies who refused to let rooms to Irish people, so she made a point of refining her speech even more. In order to aid her quest, firstly for accommodation and then a job, she also adopted a version of her mother’s name, calling herself Miss Venetia Bella. Venetia decided it sounded quite exotic and the landlady who rented her a room seemed to think so too.

  ‘You must be on the stage with a name like that,’ said Mrs Flugal, a small, stout woman with glossy black hair held back from her face in a severe bun.

  ‘I would prefer that you don’t give my secret away,’ Venetia whispered in a conspiratorial manner. ‘You know how people gossip.’

  Mrs Flugal beamed at the prospect of being in on a secret. The wrinkles around her eyes almost collided when she winked and giggled like a girl.

  ‘’Tis our secret,’ she giggled back, tapping the side of her nose. ‘I take it, me dear, that you’ve a part in that play at the ’ippodrome.’

  Venetia assured her that her part was better than being the back half of a horse.

  ‘Could you tell me exactly where it is situated? I need to attend there first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Well, my dear, you must ’ave passed it. Out of ’ere, turn right, and then left down over Park Street. The ’ippodrome is just along on your left hand side. Can’t miss it. Grand it is. Really grand. Lovely red plush seats inside and gold and ’lectric lights all around.’

  The room was basic but clean; a single bed, a chest of drawers with bun feet, a chair and a washstand with a bowl and pitcher on top of it. A mirror with a frame stained from dried-out mildew hung over a cast-iron fireplace. A gas fire of reasonable vintage sat in the grate and there was a gas ring on top of a three-legged table set before the window.

  Venetia saw the light switch on the wall and patted it. The room had electricity; how wonderful was that?

  After hanging her hat and coat up on the hook behind the door, she made herself a cup of tea from the few supplies she’d had the foresight to buy en route. There was no milk, but the sugar would give her the energy she needed.

  After taking a sip, she smiled to herself.

  ‘Venetia Bella.’

  She laughed silently. It sounded quite wonderful. Mrs Flugal had thought so too.

  ‘So perhaps you are an actress,’ she said to herself and with sudden nostalgia remembered those childish nativity plays back in Ireland, a country she had no wish to ever return to.

  The idea of being an actress took root; better an actress than a skivvy scrubbing floors.

  The evening was closing in and lights were coming on across the city. Her room was at the top of the house and the house was situated high up behind the city centre.

  A feeling of excitement flooded over her. The whole city swept downhill and her gaze went with it. Rooftops fell like slabs of tilted cake towards the heart of the city and the Hippodrome. Tomorrow she would present herself at the theatre as Venetia Bella, just returned from Italy.

  In between now and then she would practise her vowels and eat the pork pie she’d bought at the same shop where she’d bought the tea. Tomorrow she would be up early, washed and dressed in the smart black dress and checked coat given her by the woman she’d worked for in Cork.

  The woman, a widow, had owned a ladies’ outfitters specialising in funeral suits and formal dresses. Venetia had suggested she diversify into smart outfits seeing as nobody else around seemed to be so disposed.

  Her suggestion had worked and she’d ended up being given some of the items that hadn’t sold, including the black dress and the checked coat. She even wore a black velvet hat, which was little more than a huge bow perched on the head.

  ‘Yes,’ she said on seeing her reflection in the mirror. ‘You are definitely Miss Venetia Bella.’

  Her looks had got her all the way to the rehearsal about to take place.

  ‘Italy you say? Well, Venetia Bella, it’s a pleasure to have you on board.’

  Nobody had questioned her about her acting credentials. Her dark good looks had drawn admiring glances from the men involved with the pantomime, and more envious looks from the women already given parts.

  ‘If you could do something for us,’ mumbled the director, the only man who seemed unconvinced that she would suit his high standards.

  Venetia was panic stricken. Besides the nativity plays, the only other parts had been for real; the motherless child, the jilted lover, the wild girl interned inside high walls who’d found herself pregnant …

  The shamed girl! It had to be the shamed girl appealing to her father – or grandfather. Well, she could certainly do that.

  She fell to her knees before Henry Steadman-Jones, the director.

  ‘Please! Grandfather. You can’t send me to that terrible place. I love him. I know he’ll want to marry me, especially when he hears about the baby. We love each other. You have to believe that. We love each other. Please! Please don’t send me away …’

  She began to cry, big loud, convulsive cries, her head thrown back and her hands clenched tightly together. Her whole body collapsed into itself as though suffering great pain. One final sob, and her performance was done.

  The single sound of clapping sounded from the auditorium. Others joined in.

  On hearing the applause, Venetia unfurled her body and gazed with shining eyes at those sitting in the audience. This, she decided, was the life she was destined for. She was no longer Venetia Brodie; she really was Venetia Bella.

  Her eyes met those of the man who appeared to have led the applause. He was older than the others and had the look of money about him.

  Venetia got to her feet, met his gaze head on, bowed and bowed again.

  Ten minutes later, following an intensive discussion with the man who had led the applause, the director offered her a part.

  His thin lips squeezed into a petulant pout, he outlined what he’d been told to offer.

  ‘We can use you in our current production, just an infill part, and then we start rehearsing for the Christmas panto. We’re doing Cinderella this year. Being fair and having already been offered the part anyway, Lula there is playing Cinderella. How would you like the part of principal boy? Two guineas a week to start with seeing as you’re not known in this country. But we’ll bill you as famed actress, Venetia Bella from Italy. How would that be? Once we get you established, we might use you again in other productions and if the public like you – well, your salary could double, even quadruple. Mr Anderson, our sponsor, insists I take you on.’

  Venetia had no doubt as to Mr Anderson’s identity; he’d been the one who had clapped first and clapped the loudest and longest.

  In the months that followed, she refined her
speaking voice even more. A strident speaking voice was required for the part of Prince Charming, the principal boy, and she had no problem delivering this.

  The only fly in the ointment was Henry Steadman-Jones, the director.

  ‘He wanted Emerald Canterbury for the part,’ explained Cinderella in the privacy of their shared dressing room. ‘She’s his boyfriend’s sister.’

  ‘His girlfriend’s sister,’ said Venetia thinking Cinderella had made a mistake.

  ‘No,’ replied Lula. ‘His boyfriend’s sister.’

  She went on to explain that Henry didn’t care that much for women. He preferred boys and the prettier the better.

  ‘You must have come across it in Italy,’ Lula went on.

  ‘Of course,’ said Venetia. ‘Though you have to bear in mind that Italy is a very Catholic country. Things like that are not so open.’

  Lula accepted her explanation without question.

  The fact was that Venetia had never come into contact with men who loved men, but this was what was so exciting. Theatre was a new world to her and she was grateful for the fresh start it had given her. There were characters in the theatre as well as on the stage.

  The production was going well and, from the first night, the theatre was packed with jolly people, all enjoying the same old story, the songs, the jokes and the principal boy being a girl, and the ugly sisters being men dressed up as women.

  There was also a comic horse. Just looking at the brightly coloured costume set Venetia laughing. Mrs Flugal had been very concerned that she might end up being its back half.

  Mr George Anderson came regularly to watch her strut her stuff on stage. On Christmas Eve a vast bunch of flowers was delivered.

  Venetia could hardly believe her eyes.

  ‘My word,’ she said to Lula. ‘Where would anyone get flowers so lovely at this time of year?’

  Lula stopped wiping off her stage makeup, turned round and smiled.

  ‘Darling. Don’t you know? Our Mr Anderson is a very wealthy man. He owns a huge house outside Bristol surrounded by acres of grass and trees. As I understand it, it also boasts greenhouses where the most exotic of flowers are grown all year round.’

  ‘And he picked a bunch and sent them to me. Nobody’s ever sent me …’ she paused. As an actress she would have been sent flowers. ‘Nobody’s ever sent me such beautiful flowers as these.’

  ‘Exotic flowers for an exotic flower,’ said Lula. ‘I think you’ve impressed him greatly. Be prepared, my darling girl. Be prepared for offers he won’t want you to refuse.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m ready for marriage,’ laughed Venetia.

  Lula burst into peals of laughter. ‘Neither is he, darling. He’s married, but a charmer for all that. Play the field, darling. Play the field, that’s my philosophy. Be an actress on stage and off. It makes sense in the long run. After all, we won’t be beautiful for ever.’

  Lula had given Venetia friendly advice since the first day she’d arrived. Venetia heeded that advice; after all Lula had the experience. It made sense to listen to what she said.

  At times she felt terribly sad and alone. Playing a part on stage would help fill the gap, but once she left playing she would become herself again.

  Lula was privy to her moods. ‘Have you got any family?’

  ‘Some dead. Some lost.’

  ‘Italy’s a long way away,’ remarked Lula.

  ‘A long way,’ said Venetia, unwilling to expand on her circumstances.

  Lula patted her shoulder. ‘Travel is expensive. What you need is a benefactor to foot the bills. The richer the better and quite frankly, my dear, I think you’ve already found him. See you tomorrow. Take care.’

  She gave her one final pat before leaving.

  Venetia sat silently after Lula had gone, thinking about her father, her mother and Anna Marie. She wondered whether her twin sister and Patrick were happy and whether they’d started a family yet.

  Thinking of that took her mind back to that dark night when she and a wayward nun had said prayers over the body of her stillborn child. They’d buried it just within consecrated ground so that her daughter’s soul would go to heaven and not hang around at the halfway house.

  At the sound of somebody knocking, she knuckled the tears from her eyes.

  When she reopened them George Anderson was standing there clutching a bottle of champagne and two glasses in one hand. In the other he carried a silver-topped cane.

  Venetia looked at him and smiled. Although over twice her age, he was a good-looking man, well dressed and oozing class and distinction.

  ‘I came to ask you if you liked the flowers.’

  ‘They’re beautiful.’ Her voice sounded squeaky. Through misted eyes she studied this man who had opened up a new world for her.

  He wore a dark fedora and evening dress beneath a cashmere overcoat plus white kid gloves. He frowned on seeing that she’d been crying.

  ‘My dear.’

  He closed the door behind him, set the champagne and glasses down, then shrugged off his coat and took off his hat.

  ‘My dear,’ he said again. ‘Is something wrong?’

  She smiled at him through her tears. ‘I was thinking about my family and missing them. What with all this talk of war and everything …’

  When he put his arms around her, she didn’t resist but sank into them, sobbing against his chest. She felt his heartbeat increase.

  ‘You’re bound to be worried about them, seeing as the Italians are batting for the other side.’ He held her away from him, took out his pocket handkerchief and advised her to give her nose a good blow.

  The sound of her blowing her nose was accompanied by the popping of the champagne cork being pulled from the bottle. He filled both glasses and handed one to her.

  ‘I think you could do with this. Now. Take a good sip.’

  She did as ordered, the bubbles pleasantly bursting beneath her nose.

  ‘Drain the glass.’

  Eyeing him from over the rim, she again obeyed his instructions.

  ‘Now I will ask you again. Did you like the flowers?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You didn’t?’ He sounded surprised. ‘I thought they were beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, I mean no. They were beyond liking. That’s what I meant.’

  He nodded at the glass, which was once again brimming with bubbles. ‘Drink it all.’

  George Anderson took the glass from her hand, set it down on the table and drew her into his arms.

  ‘There, there,’ he said, patting her back before his hand caressed her chin and lifted her face to look up at him.

  She studied the gaunt though handsome face, the deep-set eyes that were gazing into hers, the warmth of his body, and the beat of his heart.

  It came as no surprise when his lips met hers. He kissed her gently, held her lightly as though she might break if he pushed for more.

  Yet he wanted more. George Anderson had fallen for the girl he knew as Venetia Bella the moment he’d set eyes on her. In time she would be his, but her trust in him must be cultivated. There would be no forceful seduction, no demands on her time or her body.

  This relationship, he’d decided, should be based on mutual trust and respect if it were to last. And he wanted it to last.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Anna Marie 1939

  ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ Anna Marie Casey muttered.

  Her eyes followed the last of the furniture being loaded into the back of a van. The new owners of the farm were absentee landlords living in England and had purchased the basic things; bed, cooker, etc., but not the newer items that she and Patrick had bought themselves.

  A manager and his family were being installed to run the farm so the furnishings were being kept simple, which suited Anna Marie fine. She had not wanted to sell all her lovely things and had hoped to keep some, but Patrick had insisted.

  ‘The cost of shipping that stuff, it isn’t worth bo
thering.’

  Behind her back he’d written to a cousin in London who owned a grand house – his words – where they could have rooms until they got on their feet.

  Anna Marie visited Father Anthony at the outset, telling him of her concerns for Patrick’s plans.

  ‘I love everything about the farm. I don’t want to go, Father, but my husband won’t listen.’

  To her surprise, Father Anthony had taken hold of both her hands and his face had come so close that for a moment she’d thought he was going to kiss her.

  ‘Anna Marie. Lovely, lovely, Anna Marie,’ he said, his eyes burning into hers. ‘I must admit I will truly miss you, but it is your duty to be with your husband. You promised to love, honour and obey him. I would stress the last. If it is his wish that you live in England, then that is where you must live. Obey your husband. It is what a woman should do.’

  She had felt her eyes filling up with tears. Her little chin trembled when she nodded.

  ‘I shall miss your singing,’ he said to her. ‘But there you are. All good things must come to an end.’

  On showing her to the door, he patted her buttocks. She pretended she hadn’t noticed. After all, he was a priest and couldn’t possibly mean anything by it, but somehow she wasn’t feeling so accommodating as she’d once been. Perhaps the move to London had something to do with it.

  How would Venetia handle this, she asked herself.

  ‘Lay his hands on me? And him a man of the cloth who’s supposed to be celibate.’ She’d have likely slapped his face too.

  The thought of the priest’s expression cheered her up no end. Yes, Venetia would do that. But she wouldn’t. Even though she knew his behaviour was dishonourable, she hadn’t the courage.

  Outside she looked up at the leaden sky and sighed. Her priest had spoken. Her duty was to be with her husband.

  Her only consolation was the address in an old Peek Frean biscuit tin she’d found in a dusty cupboard that Patrick chopped up for firewood. The tin had once belonged to her grandmother and held a number of letters and even a few Christmas cards and a postcard sent from Belgium by her grandfather in 1915.