Christmas Wish (8 page)

Emily nodded carefully as though she were thinking deep thoughts.

‘I can find you a pencil,’ she said at last. ‘How about I pop it over to you when the old cow’s gone to the pub?’

‘She locks the door when she goes out,’ Magda said, her tone not so merry as they got closer to the gloomy house in Edward Street.

‘Never mind. I can pass it under the door to you. How would that be?’

In her mind’s eye, Magda visualised the ill-fitting door.

‘The gap beneath the door is big enough to push a pencil under.’

‘Big enough to push a bit of decent paper and card under too? Paper for your letters, card for your cards.’

Magda was staring into the street, her stomach churning.
Her steps slowed. She really didn’t want to go back into that house, but the Bible with those addresses inside was there.

Seeing the stiffening of Magda’s face, Emily slowed her steps too.

‘How come you’re not at school?’

Magda hunched her shoulders and heaved a big sigh. ‘She won’t let me go. She won’t let me read either. Says all I’m fit for is to scrub floors. Mostly her floors. But I’m working on getting her to let me go to school. There has to be somebody who can make her let me go, don’t you think?’

Emily Crocker narrowed her eyes. She had a mind to interfere, but no doubt Winnie One Leg would tell her to mind her own business. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see Winnie now, trying not to be seen but there all the same, sneaking a peek out of the window.

‘Leave the pencils and stuff with me. I can find something a bit better than the paper used to wrap sausages. Bit smelly,’ she said, her dark eyes shining as she wrinkled her nose.

Despite the cold wind and her grumbling stomach, Magda suddenly felt warmer.

‘That would be lovely. Really lovely. Thank you.’

True to her promise, Emily Crocker waited until she saw Bridget Brodie on her way to the Red Cow. Her lips were red, her cheeks were rouged and she was wearing a fur coat that Emily reckoned really belonged to the invalid landlady of the Red Cow.

‘Look at ’er,’ she said to the other girls. ‘Done up like a dog’s dinner. And she got the nerve to call us slappers!’

‘Fur coat and no knickers,’ said her best friend Betty Cooper and went back to fastening a sequin-covered hair net over her crinkly dark hair.

‘I’m no expert, but I reckon that kid should be at school,’ said Emily. ‘I weren’t going to say anything because …’

‘It’s none of your business,’ said Winnie One Leg.

‘I knew you’d say that,’ muttered Emily. ‘I’m nipping over there in a minute to shove this under the door.’

Winnie peered at the pencil and paper and sniffed. ‘Can’t do no harm. Just make sure the Connemara mare’s left the end of the street before you do it. You know how she is; any excuse to call the rozzers.’

‘Shouldn’t we be calling somebody out to sort her – you know – the people who deal with child welfare?’

Winnie One Leg didn’t respond straight away. She was looking across the street, aware of a small shadow impairing the light from within.

‘Very likely,’ she said thoughtfully.

The girls exchanged shrugs and pulled faces. Winnie had something on her mind. Winnie could pull strings.

By the light of a street lamp Magda saw Emily Crocker sprinting across the road as fast as her court shoes could carry her.

Magda pulled the draught excluder – no more than an old stocking smelling of her aunt and stuffed with newspaper – away from the bottom of the door.

A cold draught came in first. Her eyes opened wide with delight as not one but three pencils were pushed underneath it, rolling around on top of a piece of stiff white cardboard and a writing pad. To her great joy an unopened box of crayons came in behind it.

It didn’t matter that the cardboard looked as though it had once been part of a shoe or shirt box. It didn’t matter that she’d have to cut the bits of card into shape just as she had the butcher’s paper. She had everything she wanted.

Wiser than to leave it downstairs in case her aunt returned unexpectedly, she went upstairs and replaced the butcher’s paper beneath her pillow with some of the card.

After cutting and folding a piece of card in half, she drew a fat robin on the front and wrote ‘Merry Christmas’ across the top.

What to write inside took more thought. Whilst thinking about it, she coloured in the robin; brown feathers, a red breast, black dot eyes and little yellow legs. Making the white background look like snow was more difficult, but patches of blue crayon seemed to work.

At last she opened up the card, picked up her pencil and wrote simply but sincerely.

‘To my sisters, Venetia and Anna Marie and my little brother, Mikey. I’m missing you very much. I can’t send this card today cos I have no stamps and don’t know where you are. I will keep it safe until I can give it to you. Love, Magda.’

‘You need to make a list,’ said Danny. ‘A list of the facts as you know them and the people connected with the last time you saw your family.’

They were sitting on a bench in the middle of Victoria Square sharing Danny’s cheese sandwiches.

Magda swallowed the very tasty piece of bread and cheese she’d been chewing.

‘The facts?’

‘Like your old man leaving you with your aunt. That’s a fact. Likewise ’im going off to sea. That’s a fact too. Then there’s the money he’s supposed to be sending – or not sending as the case may be. How does she receive it? Does it come through the post? Is there a return address? Or does somebody deliver it direct into her hands? Or does she collect it from somewhere or somebody? That’s the facts you’ve got to find out.’

‘That seems very wise.’

Danny looked pleased. ‘It’s the way Bob Barton does it. Set out the facts and deduce the evidence.’

‘I see.’

Danny passed her another sandwich.

‘Once we’ve sorted that out, we think about the people most likely to know the whereabouts of your sisters and brother – that’s besides the old witch you live with. Right?’

She nodded. ‘There’s Uncle James. He might know. I’ve not met him yet.’

‘I’ll make a note of that.’

Danny flicked the bread and cheese crumbs off the piece of paper on which he’d written his analysis of Magda’s situation.

‘Next I think we need to make enquiries at the workhouse you were in. They might have some idea.’

Magda swallowed and set her sandwich down. Suddenly she didn’t feel like eating.

‘My mother died there.’

He patted her hand then gave it a squeeze.

‘There were nice people there too. I remember a lady. Miss Burton. She was kind to us. She told me that normally we would have had to go to the orphanage, but seeing as it was Christmas she arranged for us to stay there until our father came to fetch us.’

‘And last but not least, we come to your father,’ said Danny after ticking off the former deduction. ‘Is there some way of finding out what ship he was on?’

Magda shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

Daniel glanced around him as though afraid of some menacing presence overhearing what he was about to say.

‘I’ve had a word with somebody in the know,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘He reckons that if you know the name of the ship or even the shipping company, they will let relatives know the name of the ship said relative has signed on. This last course of action is only to be resorted to if all the others run up against the buffers. I mean, there’s a chance your aunt receives the money through a shipping company. If that’s the case, then we’ve got ’im cornered.’

Magda sat quietly thoughtful, her sandwich lying untouched on her lap.

‘I’m not sure my father sends any money and I’ve heard Aunt Bridget say that she never knows from one week to the next what ship Uncle James is on, so it would be the same for my father.’

‘Ah!’

‘I need to go there.’

‘You do? Um. Where exactly?’

‘The workhouse. I want to go there and ask them if they know anything.’

‘Great. I’ve got the afternoon off, we can both go there if you like,’ said Danny, brimming with enthusiasm. ‘Right. Now which workhouse would we be talking about?’

Magda looked at him startled. ‘Is there more than one?’

Danny rubbed at his eyes. ‘I’m afraid so. There’s a lot of poor in London and I did ’ear that a lot of them ’ave closed down. Still, we can always check can’t we – as long as we know the name. Do you know the name?’

Hearing Danny’s plans had raised her spirits. Those spirits were now dashed. She shook her head, tears of anguish stinging her eyes.

‘I can’t remember.’

They arranged to meet again once she’d had time to think things over. Her new friend was reassuring.

‘Memory is a funny thing. You think you’ve forgotten something and suddenly it pops up when you least expect it. It’ll ’appen to you, girl. No doubt about it.’

Danny was so self-assured she couldn’t help but believe him.

The day after it really did seem as though things were changing for the better. It began with a loud hammering on the front door.

Bridget Brodie wasn’t expecting anyone, so assumed whoever it was had got the wrong house.

‘Go away. This is a respectable house. You’ll be wanting over the road.’

Whoever it was took no notice but gave the door another series of knocks that reverberated throughout the house.

‘Whoever you are, you’re going to get a piece of my mind,’ snarled Aunt Bridget finally raising herself from her chair where she’d been picking horses from the newspaper for that afternoon’s racing at Kempton Park.

Head bristling with steel curlers and a cigarette hanging from her mouth, she dragged open the door.

The man standing there was slight of stature, had sharp features and the expression a wasp might have when it felt the urge to sting.

He wore a bowler hat, a dull beige trench coat and smelled of mothballs.

With an air of authority, he brought out a leather-bound folder from beneath his arm.

‘Mrs Brodie? I’m Mr Archibald Campion, inspector for the local school board. I understand there’s a child in here that is not attending school. I trust you can give me a good reason for her non-attendance at Prewett Lane School?’

Aunt Bridget’s jaw dropped like a two-pound iron and her metal curlers rattled as she opened her mouth to splutter a lie.

‘You’ve been misinformed. There’s no girl …’

The lie might have gone on if she hadn’t realised that Magda was standing behind her, just visible in the gloomily drab interior.

She gave it another try.

‘Sure, it’s my niece and she’s only here for a short while until her father comes back from the sea.’

The school inspector fixed her with shrewish eyes that
narrowed beneath hairless eyebrows above a long, hooked nose.

‘That’s not what I’ve been told, Mrs Brodie and I will caution you here and now that you will be summoned to court if you continue to keep the child from school. Now if you will please confirm her name …’

‘Her name’s Magda … as if that’s important …’

‘Very important. In fact from information received, I understand that her full name is Magdalena Brodie and that her mother is deceased. Is that right?’

Bridget Brodie’s mouth gulped open and shut like a fish out of water.

She did not give in easily to intimidation, but people in authority were the notable exception. They were better educated than her, better dressed and spoke as though their tongues were laced with honey. They also had the law on their side.

‘Are you listening to what I’m saying, Mrs Brodie? The school term starts next Wednesday. Be sure that she’s there. In the event of non-compliance, we would have to seriously consider taking the child into care and looking to you for the cost of her keep, that’s besides fining you for disobeying the law. Now what’s it to be?’

Magda heard it all, relishing her aunt’s discomfort and the wonderful news that she would be going to school. Her aunt dare not defy the School Board.

A chance glance across the street, and she saw the gleam of faces bobbing in and out of focus. Her quick little mind worked it all out. God bless Emily Crocker.

‘Do I have your assurances, Mrs Brodie?’

‘Yes sir. Of course sir.’

‘Good. Just so we understand each other. Next week, without fail. And woe betide any shirking on your part.’

Once she’d agreed that Magda would attend the local school, the door was eased, creaking, back into its opening.

Bracing herself for what she knew would come next, Magda took slow backward steps towards the darkest corner of the room.

Bridget Brodie turned from the door, crouching like a cat about to pounce on a defenceless sparrow. Fingernails of chipped red polish clawed at her shoulders, gripped her and shook her like a cat does a mouse. She was shaken so violently, it felt as though her brains were spilling out of her ears.

‘You ungrateful brat! Went behind my back, did ya! Went and reported me to the school board, did ya!’

The room was filled with her screaming voice.

Magda kicked out in protest.

‘I didn’t tell anyone.’

‘Where’s my cane?’ Bridget yelled. ‘Six of the best, for you my girl. Six of the best for telling lies about me …’

‘No! You’re not caning me for something I did not do. Now let me go, you Connemara mare!’

Aunt Bridget’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.

‘You little heathen! What was that you called me?’

Magda kicked at her shins.

‘Animal!’ screamed her aunt.

Magda backed away. ‘How could I tell anyone? I’ve not been out of this house until now and then it’s only to run errands or pick up the leavings from beneath the market stalls, or fetch half a pound of scraps for Captain.’

Captain was Aunt Bridget’s cat. Not that he always got all the scraps the butcher gave her. They tasted fine in a stew. The cat made do with mice.

Bridget screwed up her face until her eyes were mere slits beneath her brows.

‘I’ll find out who told on me. Mark my words! And when I
do, they’ll be for it. I swear that by Mother Mary herself. D’ya hear me?’