Christmas Wish (43 page)

‘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 knock 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.

‘Apparently she’s been in labour for days,’ Sister Betty explained.

‘Oh Lord.’

Magda saw the red hair before she’d seen the face. The woman lying in agony was her old friend Susan.

At first Magda thought the very worst. ‘Susan,’ she said, bending low so that only her old friend could hear her. ‘Did you try to get rid of it?’

Susan’s face contorted with pain before she answered. ‘No. I want this baby. I want it, Magda.’

Magda heard the urgency in her friend’s voice and believed her. She did not question why this one was so important. She had an awful feeling she might know the reason. A diphtheria epidemic had taken many children from East End homes. She wasn’t going to ask Susan if her children had succumbed to the devastating disease; but guessed she already knew the answer.

Magda felt Susan’s stomach and followed it up with an internal inspection.

‘Can you tell whether me hat’s on straight,’ Susan quipped, wincing even as she made the joke.

‘Just lie quiet, old friend. I can feel the baby’s feet. Both engaged.’

‘Whoops!’

Susan grimaced again.

Magda did her best to reassure her. ‘It won’t be the first baby to present feet first.’

The truth was that it wouldn’t be easy, but as luck would have it by the time they got to the delivery room, the child had finally positioned itself half decently. They were in with a chance.

‘Presenting bottom first,’ she said to Susan. ‘But I think I can turn it round.’

To Sister Betty, she said, ‘Forceps I think. Let’s get this baby born then we can all get home in time for Christmas dinner.’

The woman wearing a fur coat marched determinedly through the reception area of Queen Mary’s Hospital. She was escorted by a middle-aged man who had the look of wealth about him. His hair was grey, his bearing distinguished. Every so often he encircled the woman’s waist with a protective arm, almost as though he were signalling that he would protect her against all comers.

A few of the medical staff thought that face, the glossy hair, the dark grey eyes were familiar.

The building was far from immaculate, dark brown walls swallowing the meagre light from the conical shades hanging from long brown wires.

Someone had made the effort of putting up a few paper chains and a cut-out sign saying Merry Christmas.

The sound of carols being sung could be heard from the side wards where medical staff, from cleaners to doctors, were doing their best to spread some seasonal cheer.

‘Excuse me.’

The big man in the handsome clothes had taken off his hat and was addressing one of the nursing staff.

‘Do you know where we can find Magdalena Brodie?
Excuse us, but we’re not sure whether she’s a patient or a nurse. We think possibly the former.’

The nurse looked from the handsome man to the glamorous woman. ‘I think you mean Doctor Brodie.’

Venetia shook her head. ‘That can’t be her,’ she murmured. ‘Doctors are men – mostly – aren’t they?’

George looked amused. ‘In Ireland there might not be too many women doctors, but I think you’ll find they’re a growing strength around here.’

Venetia’s jaw dropped. To think that her sister was a doctor. Certainly not the scarlet woman her grandparents had forbidden her to mention.

‘Is she here?’

The nurse frowned. ‘I’m not sure if she’s still here. She was supposed to go off duty at six. But I’ll check for you if you like.’

Venetia said she would be most grateful.

She stood waiting, shifting from one foot to the other. What if her sister didn’t want to see her? What if Anna Marie had been in touch and told her the shameful episode of her going to St Bernadette’s. She might also know about the baby.

Suddenly she got cold feet.

‘George. I think I should go.’

He looked taken aback, but being a sensitive man and desperately in love with the vivacious Venetia Bella, he gave in to her every whim.

‘Whatever you want to do, sweetheart. Whatever you want to do.’

By the time Magda came out from the delivery room, having helped Susan bring a fine baby boy into the world, her visitors had left.

‘Did they give a name?’