A Christmas Wish

by Lizzie Lane

  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.’

  Normally she would have busied herself somewhere else in the house whilst he ate and take her lunch once he’d left the kitchen.

  She stood there feeling flustered, unsure what to do.

  He gestured at the table. ‘Well, come on, girl. Get yourself a sandwich and keep me company.’

  Recognising that his manner had made her nervous, he shook his head and indicated the teapot with an ink-stained finger.

  ‘A pot of tea is for sharing; don’t you think Anna Marie?’

  Father Anthony made her nervous. He was arrogant, abrupt and had a habit of talking down to people. Even if he hadn’t been a priest, she didn’t think he would have had many friends.

  ‘I heard you singing,’ he said once she was sipping her tea and eating her sandwich, trying not to chew too loudly or swallow too quickly. ‘You have a fine voice,’ he said to her. ‘Will you sing to me again?’

  ‘Here?’ The very suggestion of singing in front of him made her knees shake.

  ‘Well, of course,’ he said, sitting back in his chair as though her singing to him was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Your fine voice is a gift of God. So why not sing to his representative here in this parish? Your voice could be your fortune, Anna Marie. Take my word for it. But eat your bread and cheese first. There’s no point singing on an empty stomach.’

  She did as he told her, the food as tasteless as chalk in her mouth at the prospect of having to sing afterwards. The tea also was doing nothing to ease the dryness in her throat.

  As she ate she became aware of his eyes on her.

  ‘You’re nothing like your sister. Not so talkative. But I can talk for Ireland you know, though only when in the right company. Now take the O’Donnells. Finbar O’Donnell is a man of learning and recognises the same in others. We have grand conversations, Finbar and I. Grand conversations!’

  His face positively shone with pretentious pride that he knew such people and regarded himself as being their equal.

  It could well be true; after all they were the family who had bequeathed him a motor car.

  Anna Marie swallowed the last of her tea, though goodness knows she’d taken long enough about it. The moment could be put off no longer; she had to sing.

  ‘Well, stand up, girl, so I can hear you properly.’

  The chair scraped back as she stood on shaky legs. Keeping her gaze fixed on the pot shelf just behind his head, she began to sing ‘Ave Maria’.

  ‘No. Not that. I’ve heard enough of that to make me wish Schubert had never been born. Sing “The Flower of Killarney” again.’

  She swallowed first, folded her hands in front of her, and began to sing. As she sang she kept her eyes on a big cast-iron pot immediately above his head.

  The notes finally fell away and still she stared at that pot.

  ‘That was fine. Very fine indeed,’ said Father Anthony.

  When she looked at him, he was smiling up at her, hands clasped together.

  Every workday after that the priest insisted she take her midday meal with him and sing to him afterwards.

  The study where he wrote his sermons was still off limits for cleaning without his say so. Weeks passed and not once did he condescend to let her in there.

  ‘It must need a good dusting by now,’ she told Leah, a friend who had gone some way to filling the void left by her sister.

  ‘Wait till he’s out. Go in and give it a good do then,’ Leah advised. ‘Who knows what he’s hiding in there,’ she said with a mischievous grin.

  Patrick also advised the same and this after he’d asked her grandfather’s permission to court her.

  Dermot Brodie had seen the shy glances they gave each other and placed no obstacle in their way. His opinion was that this granddaughter was totally different to her twin sister and could be trusted to behave herself.

  ‘I’d like this one to get married before long. That’ll be one off our hands and no reason to worry,’ he said to his wife.

  Molly was not so certain it was a good idea, but conceded that he was right about Anna Marie’s character. She was no rebel, that much was for sure.

  In the meantime Anna Marie continued her job at the rectory. It came as something of a surprise when Father Anthony asked how would she like to extend the two half days to two whole days?

  ‘With your grandparents’ consent of course,’ he counselled her. ‘I wouldn’t want Dermot to think he didn’t have a say in this. I’ll give you a note confirming as such so he knows you’re not following your sister’s lying ways. Now how would that be?’

  His proposal filled Anna Marie with alarm.

  ‘I’d prefer not to do it,’ she told her grandmother. ‘I’d prefer not to work there at all. I prefer to work here on the farm every day.’

  ‘Well, you’re the funny one,’ exclaimed her grandmother. ‘Most girls would jump at the chance. It’s an honour, almost. And what’s more, Father Anthony says that you do a good job. In fact he told me that you’re the best domestic help he’s ever had there.’

  The fact that he valued her so came as something of a surprise – at least on the housework front.

  ‘And I have to sing to him,’ she exclaimed as though it were somewhat improper.

  ‘Oh my! I knew you had the voice of an angel, but to be asked to sing in the presence of a priest. I presume he has you sing “Ave Maria”?’

  Anna Marie shook her head. ‘No. Popular tunes.’

  ‘Well,’ said her grandmother, looking somewhat surprised. ‘Some popular tunes are very pleasing. And very proper.’

  Anna Marie resigned herself that her protests had fallen on deaf ears. On the contrary, the fact that the priest actually requested her to sing pleased them no end.

  It felt uncomfortable to be sitting across the table from him. Her respect for a priest, ingrained from an early age, was too deep-rooted for conversation, at least on her side, to flow easily.

  As for Father Anthony, he was kind enough, quite attentive at times and that in itself was discomforting. He asked her a lot of questions about how she might be missing her sister, was she courting a lad, and was it anyone he knew. Blushing profusely, she denied that she had a sweetheart and didn’t know of anyone who might be interested in her. The fact that Patrick was sweet on her, she wanted kept from him. After all, he was the one who had driven her sister to St Bernadette’s.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said to her.

  She’d done as ordered, raising her calm blue eyes to his face.

  Reaching across he’d taken her chin between forefinger and thumb.

  ‘Just as I thought. Anna Marie Brodie, I’ll warrant those eyes of yours have the lads round here gasping to get closer to you. Mark my words; you’re the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood.’

  He’d let go her chin though it felt as if the imprints of his thumb and finger had left it burning, as though touched by hot cinders.

  She continued to make him tea and a sandwich at lunchtime and afterwards she would sing to him.

  The conversation kept returning to sweethearts.

  ‘I do hear that young Patrick Casey is interested. Has he attempted physical contact as he did with your sister?’

  Anna Marie felt as though her face had burst into flame.

  ‘No,’ she muttered, and wished she could go home – right now – and never come back.

  ‘Ah! Such a pretty girl like you. I don’t believe it.’

  In her mind she thought about Patrick Casey, a calmer young man with
out her sister’s fiery influence.

  Her grandfather and Patrick’s father had made up their differences. Venetia’s wild ways were blamed for leading Patrick astray, but as no harm appeared to have been done on his part, and Venetia was in a place where she must mend her ways, the old relationships were easily patched up.

  Patrick sought her out and they talked a lot, mostly of what was happening locally and how about she go with him to the pictures.

  Venetia was rarely mentioned and only by Anna Marie. Patrick did his best to skirt round the subject and when asked outright whether he missed her, he admitted that Anna Marie herself was the one he had in his sights.

  ‘Give it time. Give it till you’re eighteen or so and we can think about marrying.’

  ‘Two months’ time.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  He’d looked taken aback at her birthday being so near.

  Anna Marie thrilled at the thought of Patrick being in love with her – for surely he was as was she with him. On the other hand she also felt guilty. Wasn’t she stealing her sister’s man?

  She put this to Father Anthony after they had eaten and she’d sung yet another popular air. At his request she’d also sung ‘Falling In Love Again’.

  ‘I do like a husky voice on a woman. Have you seen the film?’

  She replied that, no, she hadn’t been allowed to see The Blue Angel, and she was surprised that he had. Rumour had it that the star had been scantily clad. Venetia, who had a thing about film stars, had told her so.

  For a moment the classic lines of his face seemed to stiffen, though the look in his eyes leaped like the flames of a fire.

  ‘Do you love him? Do you want him? Do you really want to marry him and do you really know what marriage means? Have you considered the physical side and your duty to your husband?’

  There were too many questions for her liking and, blushing profusely as she always did when his conversation went in that direction, she shook her head, her gaze dropping into her teacup.

  He got to his feet and stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders.

  ‘Anna Marie. You are so young. So innocent, but your body is ripe for a man. That it is.’

  She felt his breath brushing her hair as he sighed deeply, his palms hot and moist through the thin material of her blouse. She closed her eyes and nervously bit her lip. His fingers opened and closed over her shoulders. It felt good yet she knew it was wrong, especially when his fingers began to slide down towards her young breasts.

  She got up so quickly, the back of the chair nudged the priest backwards.

  ‘I’d better get on or I’ll never get everything done,’ she stammered, her face on fire. She backed away from him and grabbed a broom, not exactly a weapon, but she could fetch him a hefty whack if she had to.

  She had to get away from him, not just his closeness, but this kitchen, this house. Her grandparents would never believe her if she told them. There was only one person she could confide in who would believe her.

  Patrick listened to her as she related what had happened.

  ‘You have to tell someone,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘He’s a priest. He can do no wrong. Nobody will believe me and, remember, he’s got the backing of rich people – those O’Donnells he’s always on about.’

  Some days later she broached the subject of going back to two half days per week. ‘There’s not enough for me to do,’ she said to him.

  ‘Ah! But there is. Mr and Mrs Malone will be calling on me regularly for afternoon tea. They’re visiting once a month. They’re great people, the Malone family. They believe in using their wealth for the greater good, supporting the Catholic Church in its good deeds. I suggested we meet up once a month with other members of the local parochial council to discuss the progress of their favourite projects. I shall require you to make sandwiches, bake a cake and serve tea. I presume you can do all these things, Anna Marie? After that we’ll look again at whether there’s enough for you to do here. How would that be?’

  She found herself unable to argue.

  The day of Mr and Mrs Malone’s visit was only a week away. She told herself that she could survive until then.

  He summoned her to his study the week before, the first time she’d ever been invited to enter.

  She entered nervously, half afraid of its dark woods, dark colours and shelves filled with gilt-edged tomes on religion, missions and Catholic lessons.

  ‘Shut the door behind you, and let’s begin,’ he said as he sat behind a desk the size of her single bed at home. ‘Now I know you can make tea and sandwiches. Though cut them thinly for these people, Anna Marie. None of your generous slices of bread cut as thick as doorsteps. These are gentlefolk. They’re refined and like refined things. And on that note …’

  His hooded eyes looked her up and down. The colour rushed to her cheeks. She dropped her gaze to the toes of her black leather shoes – sensible shoes – the heavy kind she wore for working in.

  ‘You can’t possibly serve Mr and Mrs Malone in that getup. Do you have something more suitable you could wear?’

  In her mind’s eye Anna Marie fingered the few clothes she happened to own, finally settling on the only dress she thought suitable.

  ‘I do have a black dress, Father. It has a white lace collar and cuffs. It’s my church dress so I’d have to wear an apron over it so I wouldn’t get it dirty – greasy and all that.’

  Father Anthony looked thoughtful. ‘I wouldn’t want you to do that. Your church dress should be kept for Sundays and mass, not waiting on me and my friends.’

  He pronounced the words, ‘my friends’, with something approaching the same deference with which her grandmother spoke of the Pope.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he said, looking her over again as though he had every right to be measuring her up that way. ‘Father Joseph’s old housekeeper kept her maid’s uniform upstairs in the closet. I should think it were your size. I believe it was only worn when the archbishop was paying a visit. How about you take a run upstairs and try it on. It might be a bit big for you, but I’m sure a girl like you is handy with a needle and could put it to rights in no time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anna Marie, blushing more furiously than ever. All she really wanted was to go back to the original arrangement. The truth was that Father Anthony, with his thick dark hair and his hazel eyes, made her feel uncomfortable. He’d actually said to her that if he were not a priest, but a young man of the parish, he would be her sweetheart in no time at all! No priest had ever said anything like that to her before.

  However, there was nothing she could do but fall in with his plans.

  She brushed against the aspidistra as she climbed the stairs, the feathery touch of its leaves making her shiver. Or was it something else? A feeling of apprehension and a general dislike for this big old house with its dark wallpaper and heavily curtained windows.

  A window of coloured glass depicting the Virgin Mary cast colours over her face and the landing in front of her.

  She looked up at the gently lowered eyes, the enigmatic smile, and heaved a huge sigh. This house felt so enclosed, like a prison, and the priest and even the Virgin Mary, like a jailer.

  The room once occupied by a housekeeper held a single cast-iron bed, a chest of drawers with bun feet and a washstand with spindly legs and a blue and white jug and basin.

  The wardrobe was of heavy oak, but plainly made in country style and very early Victorian. Prepared for the smell of mothballs and faded clothes, she opened the wardrobe door.

  To her relief there was no such smell and the single black dress looked far more up to date than she’d expected it to be – in fact it looked almost new.

  The dress was black and along with it were a starched white linen apron and a small cap with black ribbons to tie it on with.

  Anna Marie laid the items out on the dark pink eiderdown covering the bed and sniffed again. The outfit didn’t smell of anything; not mothballs or that m
usty smell when something is left forgotten. Her first impression had been correct; in fact it smelled quite fresh.

  She smiled at the thought of wearing it and how smart she would look and Father Anthony had advised her to try it on, so try it on she would.

  Carefully unbuttoning the back of the dress, she laid it out on the bed ready to put on. Her own dress, once she’d taken it off and laid it out too, looked shabby in comparison.

  She was wearing little beneath her woollen dress, a warm affair and fit for the job she was doing.

  Underneath she wore just a pair of cotton drawers that she’d trimmed with lace herself, and a thin vest that drooped at the front so her breasts kept popping out.

  The vest was scruffy, she decided, too scruffy to wear under something as crisply clean as the maid’s outfit.

  Pulling the vest off over her head, she flung it onto the bed. As she stretched to pull the dress over her head, she caught sight of herself in the mirror attached to the inside of the wardrobe door.

  She’d once envied Venetia her more developed figure and had considered her own puny and almost boyish. But no more. Her breasts were round and firm, at least the size of oranges and just as good a shape. She smiled at her reflection; she hadn’t exactly caught up with her sister, but what she had was attractive and pleased her.

  The buttons were at the back of the dress and not that easy to do up, but she managed. After the dress came the apron. Sliding the wide ties around her waist she tied them a bountiful bow in the small of her back.

  Her reflection was pleasing. Now for the cap.

  Scraping her hair back behind her ears, she finally crowned herself with the pretty little cap.

  Her eyes sparkled at the sight of her own reflection. Father Anthony would be pleased with how she looked. She was sure of it. His visitors too would be impressed.

  Father Anthony gave her a few minutes to go into the room and find the clothes.

  Still sitting where she had left him, he now looked up at the ceiling hardly able to contain his excitement.

  She was so pretty, so innocent, like a spring flower, or an unblemished Madonna.

  He patted his chest as he counted to ten, aware of the thudding of his heartbeat.