Authors: Lizzie Lane
Christmas Wish
Contents
Chapter One: Magda January, 1927
Chapter Fourteen: Winnie One Leg
Chapter Sixteen: The Twins 1932
Chapter Twenty: The Twins 1932
Chapter Twenty-One: Magda 1935
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Twins 1932
Chapter Twenty-Three: Magda 1936
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Twins 1934
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Twins 1935
Chapter Twenty-Six: Magda 1936
Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Twins 1935
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Twins
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Twins
Chapter Thirty-Two: Anna Marie
Chapter Thirty-Three: Magda 1936
Chapter Thirty-Five: Magda 1936
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Joseph Brodie 1937
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Magda 1938
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Anna Marie 1940
Chapter Forty-One: Anna Marie 1939
Chapter Forty-Four: Venetia 1939
Chapter Forty-Six: Magda and Danny
Can her family ever be reunited?
Magda Brodie’s world is torn apart when her mother dies in the workhouse two weeks before Christmas.
Her wastrel father arranges for her sisters to be sent to their grandparents, her brother to be adopted, and Magda to live with her Aunt Bridget.
But her aunt holds a bitter resentment towards her, and Magda’s dreams of reuniting her family seem hopeless . . .
Lizzie Lane was born and brought up in South Bristol and has worked in law, the probation service, tourism and as a supporting artiste in such TV dramas as
Casualty
and
Holby City
, which are both set in Bristol.
She is married with one daughter and currently lives with her husband on a 46-foot sailing yacht, dividing her time between Bath and the Med. Sometimes they mix with the jet set and sometimes they just chill out in a bay with a computer, a warm breeze and a gin and tonic!
Wartime Brides
Coronation Wives
My thanks to Mary for being a friend in the habit of providing lemon curd on toast with champagne.
It helps a lot
Magda January, 1927
‘Your Aunt Bridget never had bairns of her own. She’ll appreciate having you come to stay with her. You’ll be happy there. Trust me.’
Although she was only ten years old Magda Brodie knew her father could tell lies as though they were the absolute truth. So many times he’d promised he’d be home from the sea, but didn’t appear; so many times he’d promised his wife Isabella Brodie the world and barely delivered a wage.
Her young legs ached with the effort of keeping up with his long strides. Her heart ached with the pain of being parted from her twin sisters, Venetia and Anna Marie. And when would she hear her baby brother Michael chuckle again?
‘And didn’t you have a good Christmas,’ her father went on as though the memory would help her adjust to a different life away from her siblings. ‘A lovely Christmas.’
She whispered an acknowledgement that was lost against the woollen scarf covering the lower half of her face. Things had been wonderful at Christmas despite her mother dying just a few weeks before.
An elderly lamplighter on the other side of the road wished them a happy 1927.
Joseph Brodie raised his free hand. ‘Same to you, old timer.’ His other hand remained clamped around his daughter’s wrist as though fearing she’d run away if he let go.
‘Got to be better than 1926,’ cried the old man seemingly unwilling to let go of them and be left alone with his task. ‘What with General Strikes and all that. Would never have happened in my young day.’
‘Aye! Let’s hope it’s better for us all,’ said Joseph Brodie without slowing his pace.
‘What about our Anna Marie and Venetia? What about Mikey?’ asked Magda.
‘They’ll be fine. Once I’ve got you settled then I’ll do something about them. I’m waiting to hear, so I am. I’m waiting to hear before I take them to where they’re to live.’
‘I wish it was Christmas again,’ she said. He didn’t appear to hear her or if he did he chose to ignore what she said. ‘I wish it was,’ Magda repeated, breathing the heartfelt words into the thick muffler.
It had been the beginning of a grey, wet November when her mother had taken Magda, her twin sisters and baby Michael to the workhouse in East London. She’d coughed violently between telling them it would only be temporary.
‘Only until your father comes home from the sea. Everything will be better then.’
Nothing was better, and certainly not Isabella Brodie. The cough that she’d had for as long as Magda could remember worsened until she was coughing blood. The decision was made to take her from the workhouse to somewhere called a sanatorium. All this happened in a maelstrom of activity, with people bustling around whilst speaking in low voices and entreating the children to stay out of the way. The latter
was uttered with misted eyes and a shaking of heads.
The wetness of late November departed, December bringing an east wind and grey fog that softened the harsh lines of grime-covered brick and sludge-coloured stone of the East End of London.
The damp fog had a sickly yellow tinge and a gritty taste, suffused as it was with smoke from a million coal-fired chimneys. The workhouse kept the windows closed, the stuffiness inside preferable to the wicked weather outside.
Magda asked when they could see their mother again, but was told that the disease spoiling her mother’s lungs was highly contagious and the sanatorium discouraged visitors, especially children.
Halfway through December, when snow had fallen, melted, and froze again over an iron-hard ground, a kindly lady at the workhouse had called them into the kitchen. The workhouse kitchen was a warm place where great copper pans bubbled away on a big black range, the steam smelling of good things to eat.
The woman had gathered the four of them around her, Magda with her baby brother Michael in her arms. Her sisters Venetia and Anna Marie had stood so closely together it seemed they were joined at the hip and shoulder. In fact they were twins, though Venetia had dark, Mediterranean looks like Magda and their mother, and Anna Marie was fair and blue eyed like her father.
‘I’m sorry to say that your mother has passed away.’
Three pairs of innocent young eyes had stared back at her, baby Michael, uncomprehending of the family tragedy, gurgling with laughter.
Anna Marie, always a little more sensitive than the others, had been the first to cry. Unwilling to show weakness to strangers, Venetia had hung her head.
Magda’s bottom lip had trembled whilst her dark grey eyes studied the top of Michael’s head.
‘Is our father coming to fetch us? Will we be with him for Christmas?’
Her voice had been small, but steady when she’d asked the question.
The kindly lady, who had dedicated her life to helping the less fortunate, placed a hand over her chest as though she’d been struck with a sudden pain.
She’d explained to Magda that the workhouse only catered for children when they were part of a family. It was customary for those with absent parents who could not be traced to be placed in a home for abandoned children.
The kind lady, whose name was Miss Burton, couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor mites. It wasn’t normal procedure, but she had come to an abrupt conclusion.
‘I tell you what, my dears. You can all stay here while we try and locate your father to tell him of this tragedy. Now how would that be?’
Magda had been forthright. ‘We will only stay until our father comes to fetch us and have us all live together. That’s why he went away on ships. To earn enough money to buy us a nice house by the sea. That’s where we’ll live.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Miss Burton had responded, her generous heart touched by the child’s trust in the absent parent.
‘Is our mother going to be an angel?’ Anna Marie had asked, her blue eyes like china saucers in her heart-shaped face.
‘Yes. And just in time for Christmas,’ Magda had answered with a determined set of her jaw, her little head held high.
At Christmas there had been presents for all the children, and a festive feast of sorts including a slice of chicken, crisp roast potatoes, plum pudding, and jelly and blancmange just for the children.
‘This is the best Christmas ever,’ Venetia had proclaimed, her dark eyes bright with excitement and her mouth full of pudding.
Magda’s first inclination had been to say that it couldn’t be the best; not with their mother lately buried. But on reflection she’d decided not to. Instead she’d said, ‘When we’re rich and living by the sea, we’ll have the best Christmas ever. You just see if we don’t.’
‘Promise?’ Anna Marie had lisped, having just lost a front milk tooth the night before.
‘Hope springs eternal,’ her sister had responded. She didn’t know where she’d read that, but it sounded good – and certainly hopeful.
The twins had been given a game of snakes and ladders for Christmas. It was whilst the three of them were playing the game, Venetia declaring hotly that it was her turn and that her sisters were cheating, that a shadow had fallen over them.
Tall, dark and smelling of black tobacco and sea salt, her father had finally arrived, his presence as big as his body and the smile on his bluff and bonny face.
‘Your father’s home from the sea,’ he’d proclaimed. ‘So how are my darling kids?’
The dice had rolled with the counters across the game board as the twins jumped to their feet, throwing their arms around him with such gusto that he staggered backwards.
Only Magda had held back, half fearing it was a mirage and he would vanish if she dared acknowledge that he was there – finally there.
‘Our mother’s gone to be a Christmas angel,’ Anna Marie had declared once she’d unwrapped her arms from around his waist.
Her father had looked down at Michael who looked back at him warily, not sure at all who this strange man could be.
‘Son,’ their father had said.
He had made no attempt to pick the baby up.
‘Magda,’ he’d said finally, turning to her once he’d brushed the twins from his side. ‘My. How you’ve grown. Aren’t you going to give your old dad a hug, now?’
Young as she was, she’d heard his warm regards every time he came home from the sea and made excuses to their mother as to why there wasn’t much money for all his efforts.
Once he’d realised he was not going to get the welcome from her that he’d had from the others, he took her to one side and told her of where she would be living now that her mother was dead.
Whilst she was still trying to take it in, he had said to her, ‘Magda, you have to be brave. For the little ones’ sake, you have to be brave, my girl.’
Even now his words jarred. She closed her eyes and thought about making a Christmas wish. Her wish was that her father had never come home and that she was still with her sisters and little brother.