Christmas Wish

by Lane, Lizzie

  It was only on my arrival in China that I found the enclosed items amongst her things and posted them immediately to you via a British mail ship.

  Best wishes.

  ‘My sisters were in Ireland! These letters and cards I wrote when I was a child didn’t get to them.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  She bent her head and read the rest of the report sent to Miss Burton from a place called Fair Mount House.

  ‘He was adopted. They’re not allowed to tell me who by. It was a term of the adoption.’

  ‘That’s usual.’

  Magda slumped back in her chair and shook her head. ‘Why didn’t Winnie give this to me?’

  ‘She didn’t want you hurt?’

  Magda shook her head again. ‘She didn’t want me to go off searching for them. The silly woman. I would have come back.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘I think so. She did such a lot for me.’

  ‘Do you hate her for not giving you this?’

  She shook her head. ‘I should, but I can’t. Thanks to my father, my life was a mess. I could have ended up in Winnie’s place with the other girls. Easily! I have to thank her for saving me from that. I suppose I almost forgive my father. He couldn’t help being the way he was. Neither could Winnie. She loved ruthlessly. Very much so,’ she said whilst thoughtfully fingering the letter Daniel had found.

  Daniel knew her well enough to recognise that something was laying heavy on her mind.

  She took out the records of the Fitts’ criminal empire, fingering the lining of each cover. The first one held no secrets, but the second one did.

  ‘A photo.’ With trembling fingers she slid it free and brought it up to face level.

  The girl in the photo had pale skin and big eyes. She was wearing a maid’s uniform and holding a large teapot whilst smiling shyly at the camera. A priest with devilish dark looks was standing next to her.

  ‘She doesn’t look anything like you,’ Daniel said after studying the photograph.

  ‘No. That’s Anna Marie. She looks more like our father I think. Venetia looked like me. Very much like me. We took after our mother.’

  Daniel suggested she’d been working too hard and took the items from her hands. ‘Leave this to me. I can make enquiries. Bob Barton can go where Doctor Magdalena Brodie cannot.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘I’m taking you out on the town. A show and a meal. No arguments.’

  His insistence amused her.

  ‘You’re breaking my arm and I like it.’

  He cupped her face in his hands.

  ‘I prefer kissing you.’

  ‘Don’t let it stop there.’

  He paused, a little unsure of what she was saying or if he was interpreting it right. The right answer to the question he’d already asked her.

  She felt an urge to explain. ‘I feel as though a chapter of my life has finally closed and another one is about to open.’

  He smiled. Kissed her forehead, kissed her nose and finally kissed her mouth.

  ‘If we were to get married, could you learn to love me?’

  ‘Physically or emotionally?’

  She thought she saw him blush.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘We can learn before we get married – if you really want to.’

  Magda’s bed was warmer than it had ever been in her life. Their clothes were scattered over the floor. Normally the ceiling would be spangled with the efforts of the gas-lit street lamps, but not tonight. A full blackout was in force.

  A shrill sound erupted outside just after midnight.

  ‘A siren. Only a practice though.’ Danny’s voice was calm, reassuring.

  Even though the siren wasn’t for real, they made love for a second time, lost in the intensity of feeling for each other as though they had to confirm they were still alive and the world hadn’t yet blown itself to pieces.

  He left her bed sometime after one with a promise that he’d be back before the end of the week once the shifts worked out. Hopefully he would have news for her.

  ‘Though we could do with a miracle.’

  ‘Well, it is Christmas.’

  She didn’t add that this would be their first Christmas at war.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Venetia 1939

  Venetia could not believe what was happening to her. Since coming to Bristol just over a year before, and meeting George Anderson, her life had become like a fairy story. She was grateful to him; she loved him, though there was a part of her she failed to share with him.

  She knew where her twin sister was and accepted the fact that Anna Marie had married Patrick. It no longer hurt, certainly not since George had come on the scene. But Magda. Where was Magda?

  She hadn’t told George that whilst supposedly shopping on their last trip to London, she had taken a taxi to her sister’s last known address with the aunt in Edward Street. There was nothing but rubble and burned timbers to see. She’d stood and stared. It seemed as though she’d reached the end of her search.

  ‘This ain’t no place for a lady,’ said the taxi driver as she slid into the back seat.

  She wasn’t really listening and didn’t hear him ask where he was to go next. Her eyes took in the two women watching them from the doorway of the house immediately opposite the burned-out wreck. Instinctively, she knew what they were and although it made sense to speak to them, to ask them whether they knew her sister’s whereabouts, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not because she was afraid of tackling them, but more so because she was afraid that what she’d been told was the truth.

  The time when they’d been children together seemed a lifetime away. Her thoughts went back to that far-off time, the last time they’d been together. Sycamore Lane Workhouse.

  She said it out loud. ‘Sycamore Lane Workhouse.’

  ‘Not there anymore, miss,’ said the taxi driver, presuming she’d been telling him where to go next. ‘Everything got transferred to Fair Mount far as I know.’

  ‘Fair Mount? Would they have records there?’ she’d asked feeling a sudden frisson of excitement.

  ‘Could do.’

  ‘Take me there.’

  A Miss Spangler, a plump woman with thick fingers, looked through their records whilst Venetia sat rigidly, taking in the institutional surroundings of brown walls, brown floors and pale glass lampshades hanging from a high ceiling. The smell of mashed potato and beef stew fought bravely with that of beeswax and carbolic soap.

  ‘Ah,’ said Miss Spangler. ‘I do have an address for your sister.’

  Venetia leapt to her feet. ‘You do? That’s marvellous.’

  ‘Unfortunately I can’t give it to you. Not without the person’s permission. The correct procedure is that I contact your sister first and inform her that you’re looking for her and I can give her your address.’

  ‘Gladly! And my telephone number – my agent’s telephone number and my own. Please. If you could pass it on quickly, I would much appreciate it.’

  Miss Spangler watched the tall young woman with the striking good looks coming towards her. She could hardly believe that this same young woman had spent some time in Sycamore Lane Workhouse. Who would have thought she could rise so far and so quickly? But there, it helped that she’d acquired a wealthy benefactor who had taken her on as a paid companion; at least, that was the story Doctor Brodie had told her when she’d come making enquiries after finding a letter from Miss Burton, a much respected past warden at Sycamore Lane.

  Doctor Brodie extended her hand. ‘Miss Spangler. How nice to see you. Aren’t you a little early for your quarterly check-up?’

  Miss Spangler suffered from diabetes and visited the hospital regularly.

  ‘I have something for you. A lady came to see me who claims to be your sister. I have to say I can well believe it – you look so alike …’

  ‘My sister?’

  Miss Spangler nodded.

  ‘Did she leave an address
where I can reach her?’

  ‘Yes. That and a phone number.’

  ‘It’s yours,’ said George Anderson. ‘All yours.’

  He watched Venetia with glowing affection as she ran from room to room, her pale and pretty floral dress floating behind her. After the Christmas season was over, they were off to London and a West End theatre. She was doing well, and he was proud of her.

  To outside eyes they must appear like May and September, and Venetia as a gold digger, only a mistress and with him purely for the money.

  Those who observed might be surprised to know that their relationship was not purely sexual. She knew about his wife and George knew about her family. He even knew about Patrick Casey and what had happened in Ireland. That was what was so great about their relationship. They’d been totally open from the very start, a fact that had surprised both of them.

  ‘I suppose you could call it our love nest,’ said George, his face beaming with amusement. ‘It’s just for the two of us.’

  Venetia was equally amused.

  ‘Well, you can hardly move me into the house now can you?’

  She looked out of the French doors that opened onto a pretty balcony with wrought-iron balustrade. The sea shone silver beneath banks of clouds all laced with various shades of the same silver.

  ‘This is so wonderful,’ she breathed, hardly able to believe her eyes.

  George came up to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. He kissed her ear whilst his thumbs stroked the nape of her neck.

  ‘This is somewhere to come back to after the production finishes. I can’t imagine the war reaching Clevedon. The old ladies who live here won’t allow it,’ he added with a grin.

  Venetia laughed, her long cool fingers stroking his.

  ‘It’s lovely. You know, I remember my sister telling us stories about living in a place by the sea when our father came to fetch us. It never happened of course, though it has for me.’

  She sensed George’s tension and his sudden silence. George wasn’t usually silent for long.

  ‘I have a surprise for you.’

  As an older man, George Anderson was apprehensive of what her reaction might be. He knew what his own reaction would be if her family didn’t approve of her being involved with a married man. Yes, his wife was in a mental hospital, but some people still wheeled out the old chestnut, in sickness and in health. As though his wife even noticed he was around.

  ‘You’ve received a phone call from your sister. She’s left her number. I phoned it myself. It’s a hospital. Queen Mary’s Hospital.’

  Her grey eyes seemed to grow lustrous with wonder, as though a great miracle had occurred, but then swiftly clouded with concern.

  ‘Is she ill? Is she sick?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She didn’t say so and quite frankly I didn’t ask. Foolish I know. What do you want to do?’

  ‘She’s my sister. I have to see her.’

  ‘Your understudy could take over your part for a few days. Three hours and we could be in London. If you want to be.’

  She nodded, her throat feeling too tight to talk. At last she managed to speak. ‘I want to. I have to. After all these years I just have to.’

  Patrick Casey had taken great pride hiring a taxi to take them to Magda Brodie’s last known address. It had not escaped his wife’s notice that he enjoyed spending cash. At present they had a nice little nest egg thanks to the sale of the farm, but as she kept pointing out to him, it wasn’t going to last forever.

  The sight that met them as they got out of the taxi was not at all what they were expecting.

  ‘Jesus! Will you look at that?’ Patrick exclaimed, stabbing the brim of his hat with two fingers so that it sat further back on his head.

  Anna Marie eyed the blackened timbers and boarded-up windows with dismay.

  The arrival of a black taxi cab had not gone unnoticed by the girls across the way.

  One of them, a tall girl with pale blonde hair, waltzed in behind them.

  ‘Burned to a cinder. Not a chance of getting out of that fire alive. The police reckoned it was deliberate, though nothing was proved. Related were you?’

  ‘She was my aunt.’

  ‘Oh! Never mind. If there was ever a woman who deserved to go to hell, then she was it.’

  The girl’s tone was far from respectful and Anna Marie couldn’t help responding harshly.

  ‘I never met my aunt, but I do think the dead deserve some respect.’

  Patrick eyed his wife with surprise. It wasn’t often she lashed out with her tongue.

  ‘Sorry I spoke out of turn,’ said the girl, ‘but that poor girl that lived there – Bridget Brodie was a right cow to her.’

  ‘Are you talking about Magda Brodie? Would that be her name?’ Anna Marie demanded.

  ‘That’s right. Luckily she got out before the place caught fire thanks to Winnie One Leg. Winnie used to run this place,’ she said, thumbing the house behind her.

  ‘What?’

  Anna Marie was in no doubt what she meant. Her mind was racing, trying to keep up with the information she was receiving.

  ‘Do you know where my sister is now?’

  ‘Oh yeah! She’s easy enough to find. Lives in a nice place up west – Prince Albert Mews. Winnie left her a bloody fortune. Wish I’d had luck like that. Might not have ended up here if I had. Still,’ she added, her eyes meeting Patrick’s, ‘there are things I might have missed.’

  Anna Marie hit Patrick’s elbow with her handbag. His eyes were out on stalks.

  ‘Has she got a fancy man or is she …? What I mean to say is, what kind of trade … I mean. Is she like you?’

  Patrick interjected. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, my wife wants to know if her sister is a prostitute.’

  The woman stared at her. ‘I suppose you won’t want to make her acquaintance if she is. I know your sort. You’ll only want to speak to her if she ain’t fallen on hard times and had to sell herself. Well you’ll get no joy from me. Go and find out for your bloody self!’

  Longing to get away from the place and this rude woman, Anna Marie dragged at Patrick’s arm. ‘We’re going there. Right now.’

  ‘Prince Albert Mews,’ Anna Marie barked at the cab driver.

  ‘We don’t know what number,’ said Patrick. His feet were aching and he was beginning to get short tempered. Although searching for Magda had been his bait to get his wife to move to London, he hadn’t really expected her to take it so seriously.

  ‘We can ask,’ muttered Anna Marie feeling more purposeful and useful than she’d felt for years. ‘We haven’t come all this way to be put off now. We can ask.’

  Having had no luck in Edward Street, Anna Marie and Patrick arrived at the local police station hoping they might know the number of the house in Prince Albert Mews where her sister lived – if she lived there at all.

  They bustled in, Patrick huffing and puffing impatiently because he’d much rather be in the pub with his cousins and relatives. It was said that if anyone poked their head round the door of this particular London pub and shouted, ‘Is there anyone named Casey in here?’, twenty-five voices would answer in unison. Police stations were not a place the likes of him felt comfortable in.

  Since moving to England, Anna Marie was not quite the timid little person she used to be. She marched into the police station as though she were a duchess and the lower orders were only there to do her bidding.

  ‘I’m looking for my sister. She lives in Prince Albert Mews but I’m unsure of the number. Her name’s Magdalena Brodie.’

  The police officer behind the sliding shutters looked at her over the top of his glasses. He had silver hair and his uniform barely stretched across his belly.

  ‘I need to know who you are before giving out such information. And even then, I have to get permission I think …’

  ‘Rubbish. Magda Brodie is my sister. I’ve been told she lives at Prince Albert Mews but have no number and no matter what door I kno
ck on round there, nobody seems to be at home.’

  ‘Of course not. They are gentlemen of means with jobs in Whitehall, and professional people who keep long hours and arrive late home.’

  Anna Marie heaved an impatient sigh. ‘Now look. If I wanted a report about how people live their lives around there, I would have asked you for one. All I want is my sister’s full address. And I don’t care what she’s done. No matter if she’s broken the law, she’s still my sister!’

  The police sergeant looked confused.

  Behind her, Patrick muttered an expletive under his breath. His wife could be downright embarrassing nowadays.

  ‘I hardly think she’s done that,’ said the sergeant. ‘Seeing as she’s engaged to a very well-respected police officer. And her being a doctor and all.’

  ‘A doctor?’

  Anna Marie was astounded. She’d been led to believe that her sister was a scarlet woman. It seemed this was miles from the truth.

  ‘So. The address?’

  Queen Mary’s Hospital for the East End sported a barrier of sandbags around the main entrance and crosses of sticking plaster over the window panes in case of bomb blast.

  Apart from that everything was pretty much the same; it was still busy, still smelled of carbolic and antiseptic.

  Sister Betty Flanagan sent a ward maid to go and fetch Doctor Brodie.

  ‘Tell her it’s an emergency.’

  The woman brought in by ambulance had bright red hair. At one time it might have been exuberant, but damp with sweat it now resembled a close-fitting hat around her head.

  ‘She’s been screaming all the way here. Her neighbour said she’s been in labour for days,’ said the ambulance man.

  Sister Flanagan pushed him out of the way so she could better inspect the newly arrived patient.

  The woman’s face was pale and she was delirious. Best thing to be, thought Sister Betty if you’re in that much pain.

  She looked up to see Doctor Brodie fast approaching. She looked like a girl, though she insisted she was twenty-eight. Somehow Sister Flanagan couldn’t quite believe that. She looked so young it made her wonder whether she’d lied about her age, like the soldiers during the Great War. She wouldn’t be the first.