Christmas Wish

by Lane, Lizzie

  The slap that landed on her cheek sent her hurtling backwards against the bull-nosed bonnet of the ex-army lorry, her legs buckling beneath her.

  With a heavy thud that bruised her bare buttocks, she ended up splayed on the running board, her head spinning and stars dancing in front of her eyes.

  A warning finger, stained with the dirt of Ireland and the nicotine of cheap cigarettes, waved in front of her face.

  ‘I promise that this is the last time you’ll play the Jezebel. Wait till I get you home, my girl. You’ll rue the day you were born.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Venetia

  Feeling numb and frightened – not that she’d ever admit to the latter, Venetia sat on the side of the bed, which was nearest the window. From here she had a good view of the yard, the stone barns with their slate roofs, the hens scratching in the weeds and the green fields beyond the wooden fences.

  The far side of the first field was bordered with stunted thorn trees that provided shelter for birds and the small creatures living around their roots.

  The sun was doing its best to peek out from behind a bank of grey cloud. When it did break through, pennies of sunlight dappled the trees, the buildings and the pastures.

  Not that Venetia was quite taking it in. Neither did she quite believe that she wouldn’t be seeing the same tired old scene for some time. Not that she was really seeing it or thinking much about it. She had other things on her mind. Her world was about to change and she was scared.

  She’d heard her grandfather tell her grandmother that it was sure to rain later. In response her grandmother told Anna Marie to go out and get the washing in.

  Anna Marie had told him about the secret place in the wood.

  Her sister had protested that she’d done no such thing, but it was too much to believe that it had happened by pure chance.

  ‘Oh, Neesh, why do you have to be so?’

  ‘You’re jealous,’ Venetia had muttered from beneath the bedclothes and refused to speak to her ever again.

  The sound of her grandfather’s voice boomed from the kitchen, loud enough to break eardrums if she’d been close by. But she wasn’t close by. She was up in her room waiting for the moment she dreaded and, anyway, even when her grandfather was close at hand, he never spoke to her. The taciturn man who spoke sparingly had not said a word to her since the day he’d found her with Patrick Casey. It was as if she didn’t exist.

  She turned her gaze slowly from the window to the battered brown suitcase sitting on the floor at the end of the bed. That same suitcase had been packed with her belongings for the trip to America. But she wasn’t going to America now. Far from it.

  Her eyes filled with tears and she swallowed hard. The prospect of leaving the Loskeran Bridge Farm was harder than she’d ever thought possible.

  Last night Anna Marie had tried to make it up with her.

  ‘It wasn’t me. Honest it wasn’t. Granfer just happened by. That’s all.’

  Venetia had remained silent, her hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. She thought she heard snuffles that might have been sobs from the direction of her sister’s bed.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re going,’ Anna Marie said at last as the old house creaked around them. ‘I’ll miss you. Honestly I will.’

  Venetia was unforgiving. ‘Is that so? I thought that was what you wanted. Me out of the way so you could have Patrick to yourself.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  Venetia could not bring herself to believe her. She was hurting and somebody had to bear the blame. Her sister was first in line for that.

  ‘I said nothing.’

  Venetia turned on her side, pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and didn’t answer. The future scared her. She was going away. She’d said brave words in front of the family.

  ‘Well, it’s time I found my own way in the world. St Bernadette’s is as good a place to start as anywhere, I suppose.’

  She wasn’t feeling brave. On the contrary she was frightened.

  There was no sisterly conversation, conducted in whispers in a darkened room. Only an echoing silence and the knowledge that neither of them was asleep.

  Anna Marie had been instructed to stay out of the way today, the most terrible of days.

  Venetia had not shown any reaction when told she’d been declared out of control and enrolled with the sisters at St Bernadette’s.

  ‘There you will learn general housewifery and domestic science with a view to a placement in service with a suitable family in Dublin or Cork – even in London. Distance matters,’ Father Anthony declared, the man responsible for making the suggestion.

  Their grandparents regarded him with great respect and remarked how wise he was for one so young. They were also apologetic about Venetia’s behaviour. To think that she’d left the priest’s house to fornicate – for they were sure she had.

  Father Anthony had condemned Venetia for her behaviour, but accepted Molly and Dermot’s apologies and their plea for his advice.

  The priest prided himself on his social connections, dropping names here and there that sounded grand, though the Brodies wouldn’t know them at all. They merely accepted their place in life and that he knew better than them.

  ‘Should all go well and Venetia mends her ways, there’s a chance I can place her with Dublin relatives of my benefactors, the O’Donnells. The Findley-Adams family live in Queenstown.’

  Venetia didn’t give a hoot about the status of the Findley-Adams family, but her heart had lifted at the mention of Queenstown, the gateway to the Atlantic crossing.

  She’d learned long ago that the trans-Atlantic liners sailing from England and Europe to America called in at Queenstown. That was indeed the reason why she’d had Patrick take her there in the first place.

  She often wondered how things would have been if only she and Anna Marie hadn’t been discovered, though with hindsight she should have known her sister would probably back out of the plan.

  But if there was a chance of getting to Queenstown, by herself if she had to, then she would play along with the plan to go to St Bernadette’s.

  Patrick Casey had denied any promise to marry her, though her grandfather had warned him that if he’d left her in the family way, then he’d have no choice in the matter.

  ‘I’ll stick a pitchfork up yer ass all the way to the altar,’ Dermot Brodie had declared.

  To Dermot’s surprise, Patrick’s father had disagreed with his old friend’s statement and said that the choice of bride should be down to his son alone.

  ‘I’ll not force him into marrying the girl simply because she was free and easy with her charms.’

  Dermot Brodie had considered his old friend’s attitude as a slur on the family’s honour and an end – at least temporarily – to their friendship.

  Venetia had heard it all whilst sitting like stone in the gig outside the ramshackle barn the Caseys used as builders’ store and garage for the lorry.

  The two older men had stood glowering at each other, hands clenched as though about to throw a fist at each other besides the odd insult.

  ‘Then I have no more to say to you,’ said Dermot Brodie.

  ‘Nor I to you,’ replied Roger Casey.

  They’d been friends all their lives and now they weren’t speaking.

  But it’s not my fault, Venetia told herself. It’s Patrick’s fault. And perhaps Anna Marie’s.

  Once she knew that Patrick had dismissed the idea of them marrying, the prospect of going to St Bernadette’s wasn’t so bad – not if it eventually got her to Queenstown.

  And she would not say goodbye to her sister, of that she was sure.

  A soft knocking sounded at the bedroom door before it opened. She assumed it was Anna Marie.

  ‘I’ve no wish to speak to you.’

  She looked up surprised to see her grandmother’s sad eyes regarding her with nothing but love and affection. Her blue eyes, the same blue eyes that her sons had inherite
d, were kindly.

  ‘I wanted to say goodbye and say how nice you look.’

  Venetia murmured her thanks. The blue spotted dress was the best she owned, though in all honesty she’d worn it many times before.

  ‘I’ve got my coat,’ she added, nodding at her coat lying beside her on the bed, its deep rust colour warmed by a sudden splash of sunlight.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat before you go? It’s a long journey.’

  Venetia shook her head. The very thought of eating anything made her feel sick.

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  Her grandmother nodded and seemed to be eyeing the dull brown pattern of the floor rug. ‘Understandable that you’re nervous … under the circumstances …’

  At the sound of a motor car they both turned to face the window.

  Father Anthony had been gifted the Ford motor car in perpetuity by his wealthy sponsors and made full use of it, gadding about all over the countryside. He could also be seen outside the parish house washing it at least twice a week.

  Molly Brodie shook her head. ‘That car! I’ve heard those people who gave him it are very rich indeed.’

  She watched thoughtfully as she eyed the motor car winding its way up the track to the farmyard, preferring to face that than the dismay in her granddaughter’s eyes.

  At last she turned from the window and addressed Venetia. ‘This is all very unfortunate, but do your best and you might gain something out of the whole sorry affair.’

  Venetia tried to stop her chin from trembling. She had meant to appear disdainful of this parting to the bitter end, but now it came to it she was less so.

  Courage having flown, she flung her arms around her grandmother’s neck. ‘I’ll miss you.’

  Her grandmother winced and then returned the unfamiliar hug. Hugging and showing affection didn’t come naturally to the Brodie family; more’s the pity, she thought.

  A work-worn hand patted Venetia’s back.

  ‘I’ll miss you too, my darling. I’ll miss you too.’

  On the instructions of her grandfather, nobody stood outside the house to wave her goodbye; her punishment for being so wayward, wild and disobedient. Obey the family, you stay with the family. Disobey and there’s no place for you.

  Then I won’t look back and I won’t be coming back. I’ll look straight ahead to the fine time I’m going to have once I get that liner to America. That was her decision.

  Of course there was the little matter of being interned in St Bernadette’s where she would be trained in domestic service for up to a year, perhaps more, but she chose to gloss over that. It wouldn’t last for too long and if she kept focused on her intentions, the time would pass quickly.

  However, she couldn’t help being curious as to what this place would be like. Father Anthony would know.

  She stole a glance at him long enough to notice that his brow was furrowed, his shoulders hunched over the wheel and his hands gripping it as though the car would fly off into space if he dared let go.

  She decided to be contrite. That way she might find out something.

  ‘I expect they’re a bit strict at this place, but it’s for my own good I suppose. And I am regretful of my behaviour, Father. Honestly I am.’

  My, she thought. I sound like my sister.

  Father Anthony pressed his thin lips firmly together before bestowing her with a response.

  ‘And how are we to know whether you’re sincerely repentant, Venetia Brodie? How are we to know?’

  ‘Oh, but I truly am, Father. And I hope that Patrick Casey is too. That I do.’

  His response was angry.

  ‘That’s enough of laying the blame at his door, Venetia. ’Tis you who was the temptress; you the harlot who bared her body and led him astray. You should be ashamed of yourself and rightly so. In time I trust the nuns will beat the lust out of you. And I would thank you here and now not to attempt your wicked wiles on me. In that regard I’d rather you kept silent until I deliver you into the good grace of the nuns. And the sooner the better. A quiet life where you can reflect on your sins. No outside influences. No radios or nights watching American films with those half-dressed film stars and their swearing, drinking men!’

  Venetia opened her mouth to say that the last thing she’d had in mind was to tempt him. He was a priest. She would never do anything so wicked. As for American films … how did he know what American film stars wore? How did he know that the characters in those films swore and drank?

  She took a longer glance at his profile: handsome maybe – as a marble statue is handsome, but just as cold. His close proximity had become distasteful.

  She turned her head, more to hide her frightened countenance than to watch the fields and woodlands they were passing.

  The interior of the car, the priest and even the passing landscape, seemed to be closing in on her. Her stomach heaved. Her head began to ache. Her head flopped against the cool glass of the car window.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Not in my car!’

  He swerved the car quickly to the side of the road, almost driving up onto a bank of wildflowers, waving in colourful splendour.

  He pushed her out so fiercely, that she landed on all fours, snagging her stockings in the process.

  Not caring about stockings, priest or anything else, she heaved the contents of her stomach into the long grass, thinking as she did so that the flowers didn’t deserve to be blighted so. It turned out to be such a little amount, hardly likely to be noticed yet it had felt much more.

  She closed her eyes and wished she didn’t feel so bad. Fancy being frightened enough to be sick. She’d prided herself on never being afraid of anything. But you’ve never been sent away from home before, she told herself. And you’ve never been sent to St Bernadette’s. No wonder you’re feeling sick.

  Father Anthony ushered her back into the car, pushing her into the front seat, slamming the door behind her though not before winding the windows down.

  ‘You stink. I don’t care if you freeze to death; I’m having the windows open.’

  Just the presence of Father Anthony sitting next to her was suffocating enough, so the open windows were welcome. She turned her head to face the rushing air, not caring how cold it was. It was only July and although the weather was not that warm, it certainly wasn’t likely to freeze her to death.

  The rest of the journey passed in silence. Not once did she attempt to speak to him, make any comment about his car or the passing scenery, or ask questions about the place they were going to. She didn’t care what it was like. All she wanted was to endure this ordeal and pass through unscathed on the other side.

  The fresh air helped clear the fuzziness in her head and her stomach seemed to have settled down though she didn’t think she would ever be hungry again.

  Even when the high stone walls and the iron gates of St Bernadette’s loomed up before them, Father Anthony made no comment that they had arrived at their destination. He got out of the car and pulled at a length of ornate cast iron hanging to one side of the gate, then got back in. Somewhere far off there was a jangling sound and beside her the rasping of day-old stubble as the priest stroked his chin.

  A black-robed nun appeared, a circlet of iron keys hanging from one hand. She nodded at the priest before thrusting a key in the lock and pulling in the gate.

  ‘Get out.’

  The sudden instruction startled her.

  ‘Well, go on. Get out. You can untie your suitcase yourself. You’re not helpless,’ snapped the priest.

  She’d expected Father Anthony to come in with her, though she hardly relished his company. A miserable man, she wondered whether his celibacy might have something to do with it. Not natural, she thought, for a man not to have relations with a woman.

  Without his help, she took her suitcase from the back seat. Her attention went to the nun; like the priest, celibate. But at least she might be happier, she thought, and threw the
nun a smile.

  ‘Hello. I’m Venetia Brodie. I think I’m expected.’

  The returned smile was tight, if it was indeed a smile at all.

  ‘Good afternoon, Venetia Brodie. I am Sister Consuela. Come in and don’t dawdle. I’ve no time for dawdlers.’ The nun’s tone was brisk though not unfriendly.

  ‘I’ve no intention of dawdling,’ Venetia replied. ‘I’m glad to be here.’

  ‘Well, that will be a first,’ said the nun looking surprised.

  The gate shuddered and rattled in its iron frame as it was slammed shut. On the other side of it, Father Anthony backed his car onto the road, swung it round and drove off. He didn’t wave. He didn’t look back, but Venetia didn’t care about that. In her mind she was both geographically and effectively halfway to Queenstown. She was here and the sooner she was out of here again the better, though she wouldn’t go back to the farm. Never. Not ever.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Anna Marie

  Anna Marie took over the job of cleaning the priest’s house, polishing the brasses, doing the laundry and even pressing the young priest’s clothes.

  It was a bright October day and she was singing ‘The Flower of Killarney’ as she cut bread and cheese for the priest’s lunch. The sun was warm on her hair, the sky was blue and dried leaves driven by a brisk wind rattled against the window panes.

  She got to the line, not so fair as she, when suddenly she realised she was not alone.

  Father Anthony was standing in the doorway wearing an expression of rapt attention.

  For a moment it seemed her tongue was wrapped round her teeth, but at last she found her voice.

  ‘Are you ready for your food now, Father?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, seeming to come out of a daze, his abrupt manner returned. ‘I’ll just go and wash my hands.’

  By the time he came back, his food was ready and waiting.

  Anna Marie poured him his tea from a large brown pot and as usual left him to help himself to sugar.

  ‘Two sugars, please Anna Marie. It’s as well you get to know what I like. I intend inviting people to tea here to discuss parochial matters. I’ll need you to help me with that, so we might as well get to know one another better. To start with, you can pour a cup of tea for yourself. Keep me company and help yourself to some bread and cheese.’