by Lizzie Lane
Winnie threw back her head and laughed. ‘An Irish nag, and I think your Uncle Jim would confirm that your aunt Bridget Brodie is both a nag and a mare and that’s the truth!’
‘My aunt hates me and hated my mother. If my mother hadn’t died I wouldn’t be here.’
The child’s grey eyes seemed to fill her face; such a forthright look, her chin uplifted and jutting forward.
‘My full name is Magdalena Brodie. My mother came from Italy where it’s sunny all the time and people sing and dance on saints’ days. I’m not staying here forever. My father will come for me – soon – and one day I shall be a lady.’
Winnie stared in wonder at the sudden brightness in the child’s face. Such a lovely face. Such a lovely child.
In her mind she was already assessing the wealth such a girl could bring to her establishment, catering to the men callers like the other girls. It was, well, worth thinking about.
‘Do you wish to be a lady?’
The dark grey eyes turned thoughtful. ‘That depends. I would like to be clean and have nice things. And be kind to people. And make sick people well again. Yes,’ she said, nodding resolutely.
‘You don’t have to live with her if you don’t want to. How would it be if I had a word with your aunt and got her to agree to you moving in here?’ Her voice was as smooth as oil as she watched the girl with one eye shut.
The girl gave her such a direct look that would be more at home on somebody three times her age.
‘It’s much warmer here and you’re very kind, but my father told me to stay with her and when he comes back he’ll expect me to be there.’
Magda’s strong little chin jerked forward. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t possibly move in here unless she gives me my mother’s Bible. It’s got the addresses of my sisters and brother.’
Winnie nodded slowly. ‘Of course. Would you like some mutton stew?’
Magda nodded.
‘Sit you down,’ said Winnie, the last traces of a Liverpool accent still in her voice.
Magda sat on a balloon-backed chair pulled up to the table whilst Winnie ladled hot stew from black saucepan to white china dish.
Winnie watched as she ate.
‘Is it good?’
Her mouth full of food, Magda nodded and finally managed to mumble that yes, it was good. Very good.
Winnie continued to eye the child, loving the way she smiled at her between each mouthful, finding a strange peace in the joyfulness of Magda’s face.
Some deep-seated instinct told Winnie to ignore her plan to bring the child into her house even though her virginity alone would bring a small fortune. And she knew many men who would pay that fortune, though not yet, not until the girl had become a young woman – fourteen at least.
It had been this way for a long while. Once her own beauty and thus her means of making money had gone, she’d employed the beauty of others to make her a living. This girl was already a beauty. How long would it take to subdue her to the rules of the house – if she could be coerced into submission that is?
Magda, she decided, was strong willed, just as she had been. She found herself wondering whether her own baby daughter would have been so. A sudden tightness seemed to claw at her heart as the painful memory bloomed large and beautiful in her mind.
Reuben Fitts hadn’t cared a toss about their dead child and once he’d seen her hip, damaged as a result of the difficult labour, he’d lost interest.
He’d used her and abused her. Love didn’t come into it, though power and having control over another human being did.
He’d said he’d loved her and that if she loved him, she would lay with other men. But the child had been his though he chose to deny it.
Losing him, losing a baby and losing her living had made her harder and deeper of thought. That was when it had come to her that the twentieth century, with its motor cars, its aeroplanes and other wondrous things, was little different than other centuries. As in the past, women were either servants or chattels and it had to be worse for women who were different. They could opt to be servants all their lives or opt to be wives and mothers, worn out by the time they were thirty and never in charge of their lives. What if she gave them another option?
‘You’re welcome to move in any time you like and free to leave when you like. As my girls will tell you, ’tis safe under my roof. They’re doted on by their gentlemen callers and dressed in the finest clothes – ladies every one.’
Winnie waited, unsure whether the girl was hers just yet, though not sure she wanted her to be. Something else was eating at her. The memory of her baby daughter’s death had never plagued her before as it did now. It had happened such a long time ago, when she was young and beautiful with her whole life ahead of her. She wasn’t that old now, though she certainly looked it. The years had not been kind and some had been downright cruel.
Magda finally finished eating, put down the spoon and rubbed at her full belly.
‘My mother cooked stews like this before she got sick.’
‘Is that so,’ said Winnie, leaning forward, both gnarled hands resting on her walking stick. ‘Tell me about your mother and your family. I’d love to hear all about them.’
At first it seemed as though Magda was unwilling, but then it all came out. Magda told her about her mother, about her absent father and the sisters and brother that she badly missed and the wonderful Christmas that they’d had and would have again.
As she listened, Winnie’s thoughts returned to that dead baby, born in pieces into a harsh, unforgiving world. If the child – a girl – had lived, she might well have been like Magda – not so much in looks perhaps, but lost. Alone. At the mercy of others …
Magda tossed her head. Her look was forthright. ‘My father left enough money with Mrs Brodie to keep me until he comes back. There’s not much left. If he doesn’t come back quickly she’ll throw me out on the street.’
Pushing compassion to the back of her mind, a slow smile crossed the wrinkled old face of Winnie One Leg. ‘Well. We can’t let that happen, my dear, can we?’
Chapter Six
Michael 1929
Aubrey and Eleanor Darby looked at each other as though they were the luckiest people on earth.
‘Mr Brodie has signed the necessary papers at long last. As you no doubt appreciate, being a seagoing man, it was difficult tracking him down. But everything is now in order. The child is legally yours.’
Samuel Lehman, the dark small man who had handled their transaction, eyed them from over the top of half-moon spectacles. Not entirely happy with the conditions of the transaction, he considered the middle-aged and childless couple would work out the kindest parents an adopted toddler could ever have.
‘I’ve sent the money to the address Mr Brodie gave me – a sailors’ home in Dover. I must reiterate what I already told you: that you didn’t have to hand over any more money. You could have used a suitable adoption society – and I know that as a man of the cloth you should have access to such organisations.’
‘The money was inherited from my father,’ explained Eleanor Darby. ‘I’m sure he would approve of the transaction. He so wanted a grandchild. We couldn’t give him one whilst he was alive, but now he’s procured one for us.’
Samuel nodded. ‘I quite understand.’
Actually he understood them very well, but what he couldn’t understand was how the father of the child, Joseph Brodie, could have sold his son as one might sell a tract of land, a house or a bicycle.
Samuel himself had two sons and a daughter. He’d never dream of selling any of them; he’d rather sell the blood from his veins than the fruit of his loins.
‘I take it the boy is doing well?’
Reverend and Mrs Darby exchanged looks, joy shining in their eyes.
‘Very well indeed.’
‘And the move?’
‘Excellent,’ said Aubrey Darby. ‘I think we’ve been extremely lucky. Blessed with a child and a move to a new parish in the count
ry. I think God has indeed smiled on us.’
Samuel Lehman came from behind his desk and offered his hand.
‘Reverend Darby. Mrs Darby. I wish you all the luck in the world. May God bless your family. May Michael grow up fit, strong and a credit to you – as I am sure he will.’
As they hailed a taxi, Eleanor Darby squeezed her husband’s hand.
‘I’m so glad that’s over with. Michael is ours now, isn’t he?’
Aubrey Darby opened the door of the taxi so his wife could get in first.
‘Of course he is.’
His wife looked at him with worried eyes. ‘And no one will ever take him away from us? His father has no further claim on him?’
‘Of course not.’ Her husband assured her, relieved though that he had privately instructed Samuel about their change of address and received the gentleman’s assurance of client confidentiality. He had never met Joseph Brodie but the type of man who would sell his own child was probably one ruthless enough to try to extort more money in time. He was glad that he was removing his new family out of Brodie’s reach.
Chapter Seven
Magda 1928
Days of freedom were too few and far between for Magda’s liking. It occurred to her that she could make use of her aunt’s superstitious nature, though that by itself might not be enough. The fact was she had to play on what her aunt had turned her into – a weak, starved, scruffy creature who was getting thinner day by day.
On a night when her aunt had wolfed down a mutton chop for her supper and Magda had eaten precious little all day, she fainted.
She heard her aunt screech. ‘Mary, Mother of God!’
She lay inert. Only when she was sure she had her aunt’s total attention did she deign to open her eyes.
‘What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter?’
Although she could get up if she wanted to, Magda chose not to. ‘I’m … so … hungry …’
‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Get up girl. Get up.’
‘I feel so faint,’ Magda whispered. ‘I think … I’m … dying … and I may curse …’
Her aunt’s eyes flickered with a mix of fear and concern. She was scared. Scared Magda was going to die, scared of what Joseph Brodie would say if she did and just as frightened of being cursed from beyond the grave.
‘There’s a mutton chop left. I’ll cook it up for you. That I will.’
She was off in a whirl of nervous movement, muttering prayers and expletives that cursed Joseph Brodie and the fact that the lard in the frying pan smelled of fish.
Magda lay almost inert, not pulling herself up into a sitting position until she could smell the chop cooking. She wouldn’t care a jot if the mutton was tinged with a fishy taste; she’d enjoy it just the same, but more than that; she’d scored a small triumph over her selfish Aunt Bridget.
‘It’ll have to be bread with it,’ said Aunt Bridget as she sawed away at a day-old loaf. ‘And I’ll pour the juices into it. That should bring her round,’ she was saying to herself. ‘That’ll put her to rights.’
It was undoubtedly the best meal Magda had had since moving in with her aunt.
The Connemara mare, she thought, as she eyed her aunt over the doorstep of chewy mutton and bread soaked in the meat juices.
That night she slept soundly and in the morning her aunt was making tea, scraping dripping onto toast and sprinkling it with salt.
‘Get that down you. Now look,’ she said, holding the carving knife as though it were a sword. ‘I can’t feed you much on what yer father sends me. When he sends it! So you’ll have to scavenge for bits and pieces under the carts and stalls up in the square.’
‘Square?’ Magda said weakly, her movements painfully slow as though she had no energy left in her body.
‘End of the street goes into the square. There’s a bit of a market there. All you have to do is crawl under the stalls and pick up the stuff that’s fallen underneath. Bring back enough to make a stew. Now get that dripping inside you and git going.’
Magda could barely believe what she was hearing; after all this time she was being given a bit of freedom.
The very thought of going outside gave her new strength. Her blood flowed to her legs, which before had felt weak as though her bones had turned to mashed potato.
Just as she was thinking that she needn’t come back at all, Aunt Bridget caught hold of her arm.
‘In case you’re thinking of doing a runner, remember the other brats and your mother’s Bible. It’s under lock and key. I’ve hid it.’
It was true. The old cow – or old mare according to Winnie One Leg, had recently hidden the Bible. Magda couldn’t – wouldn’t – leave until she had that in her hands.
The wind was cold and Magda threw back her head and took great gulps of air. Freedom. What a heady taste it was!
Edward Street came out into Beatrice Place, which in turn came out onto Victoria Square. The whole area was awash with people ebbing backwards and forwards in an endless tide. And the noise! The noise was lively and seemed almost to warm the very air.
At the centre of the square was a small park enclosed by green painted railings – nothing much more than a lawn, a few bushes and a couple of benches.
Two shops, a barber and a haberdasher, were on one side of the square and a pub was at each corner. One of them was the Red Cow, much frequented by her Aunt Bridget. The other, the Coopers Arms.
All around the park, squashed between the buildings and a sliver of road, were all manner of stalls run by barrow boys, all shouting out for custom whilst tossing a cabbage from hand to hand or, in the case of the man selling fish, a whole herring.
For a moment she stood in wonder drinking in the colour, the noise and the cheerful smiles and nods of loud-voiced men and demanding women.
So engrossed was she, that she was only faintly aware of someone watching her.
‘Hey little lady. Can I interest you in a pound of Cox’s?’
The boy who addressed her was a few years older than Magda, with dancing blue eyes and hair that was thick and dark and curled over his collar. He was tossing a small apple from one hand to another.
An older man was at the other end of the stall serving a fat woman in a tight-fitting coat and a battered old hat.
The boy saw her look at the stuff beneath his stall; the discarded cabbage leaves, the escaped potatoes and carrots, some bruised and unfit to be sold.
Despite her hunger, Magda’s pride got the better of her. No way would she become a beggar, scrabbling on all fours in front of the dark-haired boy with the dancing eyes.
‘Off for a pint, Danny,’ said the older man on the stall with him, pulling his cap more firmly onto his head.
‘Safe in me ’ands, Dad. Safe as ’ouses in me ’ands.’
The boy’s father ambled off in the direction of the Red Cow. Once he was safely out of sight, Danny called her over.
‘You look as though you could do with a plate of King Edwards,’ he said to her.
‘King Edwards?’
‘Spuds. Taters. In fact by the looks of you, it’s more than spuds you need.’
He glanced in the direction his father had gone, the apple still in his hand. ‘If you can catch this, I won’t say a word if you take what you want from beneath the stall. ’Ere, you can even ’ave a sack to put it all in. And I’ll add a bit to it. Nearly the end of the morning and we leave ’ere at one. No point letting it go to waste is there?’
He lifted up a sack that looked to be made of orange string.
‘Well?’ he said.
Her eyes fixed on the apple. When he threw it, she caught it easily.
His grin was wide. ‘There you are. Take what you like.’
He threw her the sack. She caught that too. She could have bitten into the apple straightaway, but she didn’t. The thought of all the discarded vegetables turned into soup made her mouth water but her stubborn pride held her back.
‘Come on, little ’un. I’ll
give you a hand.’
‘I’m not that little.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Eleven.’
‘I’m nearly fourteen, so to me you’re only a little ’un. Nice little ’un though,’ he said with a grin.
His grin was so reassuring that she didn’t hesitate then to scrabble around with him beneath the stall.
Cabbage leaves, potatoes, carrots, onions, turnips and cauliflower – it all went into the sack. So did some fruit, though only items that hadn’t got too squashed.
He got out from beneath the stall before she did, but before she popped out, his face appeared again, hanging upside down. He had something in his hand.
‘Pig’s tail,’ he said to her. ‘My old mum makes a nice stew with a few of these.’
She crawled out and faced him. He was rubbing the pig’s tail against the zig-zag pattern of his Fair Isle pullover.
‘It got pinched by a dog from the butcher over there, but I chased ’im off. Was going to give it to me old mum, but she wouldn’t like the fact that the dog ’ad it in ’is mouth or that I picked it up from the ground. Fussy, my old mum. I ain’t so fussy. I’d eat it without a second thought. You ain’t so fussy, are ya?’
He winked at her.
His cheek made her smile.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘You ain’t a beggar. You’re too pretty and speak too nicely to ever be a beggar.’
‘P’raps I am for now. You have to do what you have to do,’ she replied. The words fell out and she suddenly recalled where she’d heard them before. They were her mother’s words. Thinking of her made her eyes sting.
The pig’s tail was shoved into her bag and Danny followed it up with a couple of oranges.
She felt shy thanking him. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘I’m only kind to people I like. Any time you’re down ’ere, you come and see me. Danny Rossi. Always ’ere, girl. Every day.’
‘Isn’t that an Italian name?’
He looked surprised. ‘Yeah. Now ’ow would you know that?’
‘My mother was Italian.’