Christmas Wish

by Lane, Lizzie

  ‘Your grandparents must be very worried.’

  Venetia frowned. ‘But we’ve only been away just over a day. How could they know?’

  ‘Well, somebody told them. Someone who knew where you were.’

  The two sisters exchanged a brief glance. Anna Marie’s expression was one of puzzlement but also of relief.

  Her sister was far from relieved; in fact she was dismayed and disbelieving. On reflection she accepted that her first suspicion was right. There was only one person who knew where they’d gone. Patrick Casey!

  The Garda informed them that arrangements had been made for them to go home.

  ‘In style,’ he added. ‘In a motor car no less. And guess who you’re travelling with? Father Anthony, off to take up his appointment as parish priest in your home town. How lucky for you is that?’

  They were told to get themselves ready to travel, use the lavatory and take doorsteps of bread and cheese each, with the police station’s compliments.

  Father Anthony was waiting for them, sitting in the police station reception area, the green wall behind him almost as dark as his black priest’s robe.

  He was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees reading what looked like a prayer book.

  Shoving his prayer book in the hidden pocket of his robe, his youthful face visibly hardened as he got to his feet.

  ‘Ah. The runaways. Shame on you both. The pair of you need horsewhipping. I dare say your grandfather might very well oblige.’

  His words coming as they did after the kinder tones of the police sergeant startled Anna Marie and made Venetia wary.

  He towered over them, the top half of his body similar in shape to a wedge of cheese, his hips so shallow that at first glance he seemed to have room for only one leg.

  Bony cheekbones half hid his eyes so it seemed he was looking at them from over a window ledge. His hair was black and curly. The black moustache looked as though it had been stuck on as an afterthought and plastered in place with wax.

  ‘I’ll make sure they get home safely,’ he assured the constabulary in clipped, superior tones. ‘Though it isn’t quite the way I intended introducing myself to the community – returning errant young girls to a farmyard!’

  The car was a small Ford with spindly wheels and a boxy, compact look about it.

  Riding in Patrick’s father’s old lorry was about the nearest either girl had ever got to riding in a motor car. But a lorry wasn’t a motor car. It was like comparing a donkey cart to a carriage.

  ‘Hold still,’ the priest ordered.

  He sniffed each of them in turn like a dog checking for rats.

  At last he seemed satisfied. ‘You seem clean enough and don’t smell of the farmyard you came from, but wipe your shoes before getting in my car. I don’t want you to get it dirty.’

  Anna Marie was a picture of submissive humility. Venetia looked as though she wanted to hit him over the head with a large hammer. Her eyes flashed at him.

  ‘We only live on a farm, Father. We live in a house, not with the pigs.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ barked Father Anthony, his dark eyes glowing like black coals beneath equally black bushy eyebrows. He turned his back on her, brusquely opening the doors, his movements sharp and premeditated.

  ‘Get in!’

  Even Venetia jumped at his command. Those eyes stayed with her, like she’d always imagined the devil’s eyes would look. Hopefully she would never get to find out.

  ‘Now,’ he said once they were all in the car, the two girls in the back seat, huddled over their luggage, the priest behind the wheel of the motor car pulling on a pair of tan kid gloves, ‘you will treat this car with the utmost respect. This car belongs to the O’Donnell family, big landowners. They have bought me this vehicle out of the kindness of their hearts and their regard for Mother Church. I promised I would take good care of it. I cannot have it sullied by filthy hands making sweaty marks upon the leather seats. And try not to breathe on the windows. Now I would thank you to stay silent and reflect upon your wickedness.’

  Even though they were in dire circumstances, even though it didn’t bear to think about the welcome they would get when they got home, Venetia was not submissive like her sister.

  ‘How would you know if we were wicked? You don’t know us,’ she said, her dark eyes blazing, her hair tossing around her face like a black cloud before a storm.

  ‘Women are wicked. From the time Eve seduced Adam, it has been an incontrovertible fact.’

  ‘We haven’t been seducing Adam,’ Venetia replied hotly. ‘We just wanted to go to America.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to America,’ he stated as he turned the steering wheel, his black eyes seeming to dart everywhere in case some errant sinner – or a tinker in a donkey cart – dared to bar his way. ‘Has it not occurred to you that your thoughtless actions worried your family?’

  Anna Marie, already regretting following her sister’s suggestion, hung her head and began to cry.

  The priest was unsympathetic. ‘Mop up those tears. You do have a handkerchief I suppose.’

  Anna Marie got out the screwed-up mess that was her handkerchief and began dabbing at her eyes.

  Tight lipped and boiling with rebellion, Venetia sat stiff and upright staring straight at the back of the priest’s head. The priest had a pink boil at the base of his neck, which she stared at, willing it to burst and seep pus into his white starched collar.

  It could well have been that the priest felt the force of her angry look because suddenly those coal black eyes met hers via the rear-view mirror.

  If she’d been wise she would have looked away, perhaps even hung her head and sobbed like her sister, but that wasn’t her way. Only the sudden thought that those might indeed be the eyes of the devil in that mirror made her look away.

  Trees, cows and dark brown fields behind unkempt hedgerows lurched each time the priest crunched the gearstick. The towns and countryside they were travelling through became more and more familiar.

  Venetia thought of her grandfather’s anger, her grandmother’s relief; she also thought of Patrick. Why had he so easily betrayed her?

  Anna Marie sat silently looking at the passing scene but seeing nothing. There was a terrible empty feeling in her stomach as though she’d not eaten for a week. She was dreading getting home and, more importantly, dreading the consequences of their running away.

  The closely packed shops of Dunavon High Street passed in a blur of blandness. Even Venetia was beginning to feel nervous. Soon they would be home and facing the music – if it could be called that, though music was far from what they were likely to get. Venetia shivered at the thought of it.

  Eventually they turned into the stony lane that led through the fields to the farm.

  The lane was uneven and littered with tufts of coarse grass and potholes big enough to bathe a pig in.

  The priest muttered under his breath as the car bumped along, tilting from one side to the other depending on the position and depth of the potholes.

  Ahead of them a large pool of water had formed across the breadth of the lane.

  Father Anthony took one look at it, muttered his disgust at such a barrier being put into his path and stopped the car.

  ‘We’ll get out here. You’ll have to carry your own luggage.’

  ‘We’ll get our feet wet. And we’re wearing our best shoes. They’ll be ruined,’ Venetia stated defiantly.

  Father Anthony slammed his hands down on the steering wheel.

  ‘I’ll not contaminate the O’Donnells’ car with mud and cow shite.’

  Having never heard a priest use the same word for manure as their grandfather, the two girls exchanged surprised looks, Venetia only barely managing to stifle a giggle.

  Father Anthony sent her a piercing look via the mirror. ‘Wipe that stupid grin off your face and get out. And don’t forget your luggage.’

  Anna Marie retrieved her brown suitcase and Venetia the canvas bag that her f
ather had brought home from the sea.

  Bundling his cassock waist high, Father Anthony picked his way around the edge of the puddle then stood waving his arms, ordering them to get a move on.

  ‘Don’t dawdle. If I can do it, you can and I haven’t got all day.’ He pulled back his sleeve. The face of a fine wristwatch flashed into view then was gone again.

  Another present from the O’Donnells thought Venetia. And didn’t the priest realise that his hands were free so it was easy for him to skirt around the puddle?

  Venetia cursed the fact that she was wearing her best Sunday shoes that had two-inch heels and were made of black suede. They were already taking in some of the water that could not be avoided.

  ‘Come on. Hurry up.’

  No doubt impatient to deliver them, he began walking backwards. Not all that he was walking through was plain, ordinary mud.

  ‘He’s stepped in a cow’s pancake,’ murmured Anna Marie. ‘Do you think we should tell him?’

  ‘No! It won’t be us to blame for sullying the O’Donnells’ car. Serves him right for holding his head so high as though there were a stench of shit under his nose.’

  ‘Venetia!’

  Venetia hissed back. ‘He used the word shite and he’s a priest and meant to lead by example, so why can’t I?’

  The girls held back. Their grandfather took off his hat before shaking the priest’s hand. Their grandmother seemed to bob a little curtsey.

  As though he were a king of Ireland rather than a priest.

  Venetia determined that she would never bow and scrape before the likes of Father Anthony, a man who would have her walk through water and ruin her best shoes whilst loaded with luggage.

  After apologies were given for troubling him and thanks for his kindness in bringing them home in a fine motor car, their grandfather beckoned them with a dirty, gnarled, wrinkled finger.

  ‘Over here. The pair of ye. You’ll thank Father Anthony for bringing you back and apologise for putting him through so much trouble.’

  Both girls flinched, Anna Marie more so than her sister.

  Dermot Brodie’s eyes glinted like particles of ice beneath his shock of snow-white hair. He smelled and looked like a man of the earth, his corduroy trousers tied at the knees to stop the hems being muddied by his boots.

  His soulful expression had come about through disappointment as much as from age. Both sons had fled the farm choosing instead the dangers of the sea. He’d loved them greatly and them leaving had scorched a hole in his heart. The hole had been plugged with unspoken sadness for the dead one and contempt for the one who still lived.

  He eyed his two granddaughters; twins, though no one looking at them would guess that. His heart had leapt with joy when Joseph had left them here. Anna Marie looked so much like her grandmother had once looked with her big blue eyes and dark blonde hair. Soft and gentle too. Whereas Venetia … Fiery and dark. A girl that could easily be led astray.

  He had no doubt as to who had been the instigator of them running away. Venetia. It was always Venetia.

  Even though female, he’d thought they’d have knuckled down to the lifestyle he wanted for them – the same one he’d wanted for his sons. But there was still time to mould them to his wishes, and he would mould them yet!

  He watched with narrowed eyes, as with bowed heads, they muttered their thanks and their apologies.

  In Anna Marie’s case the action was one of genuine humility. Not so her twin sister. He knew that beneath that submissive action defiance blazed in her eyes.

  Dermot Brodie knew his granddaughter well. Venetia acted the part of the prodigal daughter, but in her heart nothing had changed. One way or another, she would still leave here.

  Anna Marie had only one wish above all others and that was for Father Anthony to stay for tea. Dermot Brodie was not a man to be crossed, even by his own family. Even as a child he’d scared her with his big frame, square shoulders and loud voice. The moment Father Anthony left the true reckoning would begin.

  Two planks of wood were placed over the puddle so that the priest could regain his motor car without needing to crease his robe.

  The lane being narrow, he backed the motor car all the way down, bumping along in an even more disorderly fashion than when he drove forward. Even from this distance the sound of the shrieking engine put their teeth on edge.

  The chill blue eyes left the retreating vehicle and turned on the girls.

  A whiff of masculine sweat drifted from the armpit of Dermot Brodie’s shirt as he raised his arm and pointed his finger.

  ‘Into the house!’

  Anna Marie scurried ahead of her sister, suitcase banging against her side. Venetia took her time, her face expressionless and half hidden behind the canvas kit bag.

  She knew very well what was to come, but this was just one incident in her life and would soon be over. Things wouldn’t always be like this and besides the blame didn’t really lie with them.

  When she got hold of Patrick Casey he’d get the sharp edge of her tongue. First things first. There was her grandfather to be reckoned with. So how about confessing?

  The farmhouse kitchen smelled of cooked food and lately skinned rabbits. Their little bodies were laid out, stripped of skin, which was spread out separately ready for scraping and drying.

  Venetia took a deep breath and began her confession.

  ‘Granfer. I’m sorry. It’s my fault not Anna Marie’s, but you see, I don’t like animals and she does. Do you think I might get a job somewhere in town or as a lady’s maid at the big house?’

  A heavy hand connected with her face.

  ‘Speak when you’re spoken to. And that’s the way it will be from now on. Not a word from either of you. And no going out of this door into town or anywhere else without my say so or that of your grandmother. Disobey me and you’ll get a good thrashing. Is that clear?’

  The blow had stung. She felt the heat of it tingling deep into her flesh. She did not move; did not blink and did not answer.

  ‘Answer me. Is it clear?’

  The shadow of his hand, raised between her and the light from the window, fell over her face.

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Anna Marie began to sob again.

  ‘And you?’

  Anna Marie nodded, her hair falling forward to hide her face, her shoulders moving in time with her heaving sobs.

  Venetia glanced at her sister, then at her grandmother. Molly Brodie was watchful, her hands tucked behind the bib of her apron. She made no attempt to meet Venetia’s wide-eyed plea.

  Their grandfather was far from finished. That thick, gnarled finger, the end yellowed by nicotine, the nail black with dirt, was straight as an arrow, pointing into one twin’s face then the other.

  ‘You’ve put everyone through a lot of trouble, and I’ll not have it. Not so long as you’re members of this family. You’ll both stay under this roof and work on this farm until the day you’re married.’

  He turned to his wife. ‘Cane!’

  The old oak dresser Molly Brodie was standing next to was adorned on each shelf with her best plates – willow patterns inherited from her mother. There were two drawers beneath those shelves, one holding cutlery for dining use, the other holding carving knives and table linen.

  It was neither of these that she opened, but ducked for the porcelain knob of the cupboard nearest her.

  Anna Marie gave a little yelp of alarm.

  Venetia’s mouth hung open as her eyes followed the course of the cane from her grandmother to her grandfather.

  ‘Bend over. The pair of ye!’

  Venetia eyed the thin cane, no thicker than a riding whip. Beside her Anna Marie’s sobs became noisier and she was shaking with fear as she bent over the big old pine table where they ate their meals.

  This was too much to bear. They were sisters, twins, and would always protect each other. Venetia sprang between her sister’s backside and the cane.

  ‘No. Don’t beat he
r, Granfer. It’s not Anna Marie’s fault. It’s mine. ’Twas me that persuaded her.’

  She saw him jerk the cane to shoulder level, gasped and covered her face.

  She heard her grandmother’s voice. ‘Dermot! Not her face. Please!’

  Venetia gradually lowered her hand enough to peer over it, almost wetting herself with fear. The cane would have left a scar if he’d used it. Thank God her grandmother had interfered. It didn’t happen often.

  Her grandfather pointed at the table. ‘Get out of me way and bend over next to your sister. Now!’

  Venetia touched her sister’s shoulder as she bent over the table beside her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  Again and again he brought the cane down on one sister’s rear then the other. The clothes they were wearing did little to soften the blow. It still stung.

  Dermot Brodie’s voice boomed around the low-ceilinged room.

  ‘Humiliating! That’s what it was. Humiliating.’

  Each word was uttered on the fall of the cane. Venetia counted six for each of them. She half guessed that her grandfather had laid the cane more heavily on her backside than on her sister’s. She hoped for Anna Marie’s sake that it was so.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you both,’ he said at last.

  Rubbing her backside with both hands, Anna Marie straightened. She was red faced and sobbing fit to burst. Venetia had stuffed her knuckle into her mouth, biting on it to stop from crying out. Once it was over, she stood expressionless and stubbornly refused to show any sign of emotion.

  Dermot Brodie noticed.

  ‘My God, look at her. The girl deserves six more.’

  He reached out to grab her.

  ‘No!’ Molly Brodie stepped between the man she used to love and one of the grandchildren that had made such a difference to her empty life. ‘They’ve both had enough. They’re only girls, Dermot. Just silly girls. And that cane’s a nasty thing. A relic of the past.’

  His heavy brows turned heavier, his expression that of a man who believes he’s always in the right. It wasn’t often that Molly stood up to him, but she was doing it now, willing him to do as she asked with the most pleading of looks.