Chapter Text
November, 1943
Venice, Italy.
Shelagh Mannion kept her head down low as she stepped out of the small café and into the cold winters night. Pulling a brass key out of her pocket she began the task of locking the café door as an ice cold wind blew ferociously, sending a shiver down her spine. Placing her key back into her pocket she tugged her thin coat tightly around her.
For three months Shelagh Mannion lived the life of Bernadetta Espositoin. A young café waitress who moved to Venice after the death of her beloved Fiancé, who was killed in action. She rented a small one bed apartment in San Marco and worked as a waitress at a family run café.
Bernadetta was quiet and kept her head low, as she tried to muddle her way through her life.
Shelagh's new life was courtesy of a secretive organisation, known as Special Operations Executives (SOEs). Having been recruited during her time as a Yeomanry (First Aid Nursing) after a recruiter had learnt of her Italian heritage, and most importantly they had heard her impeccable Italian, somehow managing to switch off her Scottish lilt as she spoke.
After months of intensive training - where Shelagh learnt survival skills, radio transmissions and combat training, as well as many other lifesaving skills, such as evading capture, parachuting, morse code and even the art of disguise - Shelagh was given her new persona. Alongside well forged Italian documents, courtesy of the incredibly skilled forgery department.
For three months Shelagh threw herself into the life of Bernadetta. She endured three months of smiling politely to crude nazi soldiers, who belittled her for their own entertainment. Three months of being quiet whilst cleaning away their crumbs and plates, carefully listening to their secret conversations with her broken German. Three months of noting which checkpoints to avoid, which guards took their checks seriously and what each guard was easily distracted by. Shelagh Mannion was never one for openly flirting, Bernadetta however, she would easily flirt with the young checkpoint officers, discreetly distracting them as they searched through her belongings, which often contained contraband she was moving for the resistance.
It was starting to feel as if she could hardly remember Shelagh Mannion, the confident young woman who moved from Aberdeen to the East End to undergo her midwifery training. Shelagh who grew up in a quiet market town outside of Aberdeen with her mother and Italian father.
She wanted nothing more than to go back home and continue the life of Shelagh, but she knew she was doing vital work here by aiding the Italian resistance and transmitting vital information of nazi plans back to England. In hopes to capture and occupy the city, saving those from the Nazis and fascist regime, that was brutally forced upon them three months ago.
For now she was Bernadetta Espositoin, someone who knew the darkest shadows, the labyrinth of narrow passageways, the neverending tunnels, and the many undetected hiding spots of Venice. She knew of the patrols and their routes. She knew of gondolas and how to move them across the water undetected. But most importantly, she had quickly learnt who to trust, and who not to trust.
Shaking from the cool wind she turned on she feet and moved quickly through the quiet streets, her heels clicking against the cold cobbles as she walked.
Her message for tonight's mission had arrived just before the café closure. A petite woman with olive skin and long brown locks thanked her for her coffee, handing over her empty cup and saucer. Shelagh smiled at her as she took the cup and wished her a good night before turning to the small kitchen, ready to wash the dirty dishes so she could get home to bed.
Removing the cup from the saucer she saw a message had been left. A small piece of paper had been folded and hidden underneath the cup. Her eyes quickly scanned the room, noting she was alone, she opened the note and read.
'Pick up the new agent, Signor Valle. Bring him to the safe house. Giudecca South Jetty. Midnight'
Shelagh sighed inwardly as she quickly folded the paper once again, before placing it inside the dirty cup and walking it over to the sink.
New agents were often hard work. They were nervous, loud and stubborn, and they often made unnecessary risks, making the journey to the safe houses rather difficult. She just prayed that Singor Valle wasn't troublesome, for both of their sakes.
Washing away the cup, she made sure to destroy the small paper note, rubbing it between her fingers under the warm running water, watching as the ink faded and ran with the water, then she watched as the paper slowly broke down into tiny pieces, destroying all evidence as it washed down the drain.
Now she found herself slipping through a narrow passageway between a bakery and the butcher’s shop, where the shadows were thick keeping her hidden.
She paused hidden in the shadows as a patrol car passed by at the far end of the street, the beam of their torch slicing briefly over the cobbles. Shelagh held her breath and waited in the dark shadows until they were gone. The cars engine purred away as it drove, eventually the sound of the engine slowly faded as they continued their search.
Shelagh let out a sigh of relief, she now had time to leave unnoticed as it would be a while until the next patrol car would pass through. Standing tall she took in a steadying breath and continued walking, adjusting her walk, to try and silence her clunky heels.
She continued toward the edge of the street, where a gondola and it's gondolier awaited for her arrival, ready to take her to the collection site.
Patrick Turner stilled his breath as the sounds of a Nazi gunboat barreled through the canal. The waves from the speeding boat thrashed Patrick's tatted old Gondola into the wooden jetty.
He laid in the old broken gondola hiding underneath some old tarpaulin, which had a bizarre aroma of old rotten fish guts and tainted sea salt. His gondolier had gotten him safely across the Venetian Lagoon during a trade movement. He hid Patrick amongst his stock and told him to lay low. Once the Gondola had reached the Giudecca jetty, the gondolier - who was a kind old man called Giovanni - secured the boat and began to pack away his stock into a nearby boat house before coming back and covering Patrick over with the tarpaulin and telling him to lay low and keep quiet until his pick up came for him, a Signora Espositoin.
Patrick cursed quietly under his breath, he had been lying in this old smelly gondola for what felt like hours now. His back hurt and his legs were begining to cramp. He was starting to worry that Signora Espositoin had perhaps gotten herself into a spot of bother. After all this was rather dangerous territory they found themselves in. Sneaking people across occupied Italy was life threatening work.
Listening out for the footsteps of patrol officers with heavy boots he laid low and reminisced about his old life. Patrick Turner was for now, dead, or at least he would be until he returned to London, if I ever return to London, he thought bitterly.
He was now Eduardo Valle. Born in Rome, and living as an emergency doctor, who had returned to Venice to care for his ageing godmother, or so the papers in his breast pocket said.
He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself. This wasn’t London, this was occupied Italy. Unpredictable, unfamiliar and down right dangerous, he needed to calm himself and get a hold of his nerves if he wanted to live.
A rustle on the jetty behind him made his body tense, his hand slowly reaching for the pistol tucked in his trousers waist band.
“Don’t” a hushed feminine voice warned in flawless Italian, having seen the movement beneath the tarpaulin.
Patrick froze. Was this his link? Or was he in immortal danger?
Suddenly the tarpaulin was lifted from him, in a quick but quiet manner, revealing a young woman.
Patrick stared at the woman before him, she was no local. She had pale freckled skin, honey blonde hair and bright blue eyes, which sparkled from the bright moonlight which reflected off of the calm waters. Her posture was steady and confident, but her eyes darted around them, clearly keeping a close watch for patrols.
“Are you Eduardo Valle?” she asked in a hush voice, turning her attention back to him.
“Yes” he answered quietly in flawless Italian, “You must be my”
“No time for pleasantries” She interrupted, checking the coast was clear "Follow my lead and don’t speak unless I tell you”
Patrick was taken back by her Italian accent, it was good but he was sure there was something else there, English perhaps, or maybe it was something else?
She turned and began walking without waiting for him.
Patrick hesitated only a second before quietly catching up to join her at her side, looking down he lowered his voice “I was told I’d be met by someone named”
“I don’t give names,” she said sharply turning to face him. Then looking into his eyes she softened, “Not out here at least"
Her stride was light as she tried to keep the clip of her heels to the minimum. She walked with purpose, as she led them through the market, using the occasional alleyway or secret passageway to avoid being seen.
“There are patrols around every corner” she warned quietly, “So stay close. If we are stopped you're simply walking me home from my closing shift at the café”
“Got it” he nodded, following her lead.
"Where are we heading?" He asked, as she led them out of the market and through a small lane, full of apartments.
"Le Zitelle, there's a gondola waiting for us to get us over to San Marco" She explained in a hushed voice, "we need to hurry or we'll risk missing it, he can't wait much longer"
Patrick nodded at her urgency and continued to follow her through the shadows.
The sounds of soldiers boots clipping on the cobbles sent a shiver down Shelagh's spine. Tensing up she caught Patrick's wrist and tugged him into the shadows of an archway between two houses.
“Let them pass” she whispered in English this time, her warm breath tickling his lips as they stood pressed together in close proximity, trying to blend into the nights shadows. Patrick finally caught wind of her accent, she was Scottish!
They spoke in German as they walked past, their heavy boots echoing into the silent night as they chatted casually amongst themselves.
Only when they disappeared down another street did Shelagh release him, and the breath she wasn't aware she was holding.
“You’re not from around here,” Patrick observed quietly in English.
“No, neither are you” she quipped.
“True” He paused, “You speak Italian very well"
“I’d hope so" she said with a vague chuckle, “I've had three months serving these bloody Nazis espresso and pastries, gives one a chance to practice”
Patrick blinked in astonishment, “You’ve been here for three months?” he asked in a hushed voice.
She nodded, "Long enough to know my way, and to know who to trust and who to not” She glanced at him, raising her brow “You currently fall somewhere in the middle, until further notice”
He couldn’t help but flash an amused smile.
They wound through a maze of alleys and lanes avoiding patrols until they reached the vast gardens behind Le Zitelle.
"We should still make it" She said, reverting back to her flawless Italian.
Walking through the gardens they came out through an alleyway opposite the canal, where their gondolier was waiting for them in the shadows.
Shelagh nodded in greeting.
"Took you long enough, I was about to leave" The man replied, "a patrol boat as just been through, if we leave now we should be in the clear"
Shelagh flashed the man a grateful smile, before following him to their gondola.
They passed the quiet waters without any issues, and were dropped off down a quiet canal stretch behind the Chiesa di Santo Stefano. Left to make the remainder of their journey by foot.
They thanked the gondolier for his help, before sneaking back off into the shadows as they walked down the quiet lanes unnoticed.
Finally Shelagh let out a sigh of relief as the turned the corner to the safe house.
A single candle flickered in the window, signaling they were ready for the arrival of Signor Valle.
Shelagh gave a knock on the wooden door, she paused for a moment before knocking three more times, giving the agreed upon signal.
The door opened and Shelagh turned to Signor Valle, "This is where I leave you”
He exhaled in relief having finally made it to safety, thanks to her expert skills. She nodded a curt goodbye before turning on her heels ready to disappear back into the shadows.
He caught her hand as she turned, before he could stop himself. “Sorry" he said, releasing her hand, "I never caught your name”
She hesitated, just for a moment, looking into his deep brown eyes she felt herself soften,“Bernadetta Espositon"
Patrick knew that it wasn't her real name. He understood how dangerous it could be if she was heard saying an English name out loud. Anyone could be listening, like she said, you can't trust anyone.
"Eduardo Valle" He replied with a grateful smile.
But before he could thank her she turned on her heels and vanished into the darkness, like a ghost.