Christmas Wish

by Lane, Lizzie

  Dermot Brodie grunted.

  He didn’t sound convinced.

  His son swiped the water away from his eyes, thinking how he could convince the old man that he was a reformed character, deserving to be applauded for his efforts.

  ‘I know I’ve let you down, you and Mother, but I mean what I say. And don’t I have the children to consider, now that Isabella is gone?’

  His father grunted again.

  ‘As soon as I’ve settled the girls, I’ll go back over to England and fetch Magda. After all I can’t expect Bridget to look after her forever. And then there’s Michael – little Mikey. I was thinking he was too young for the crossing, him just a baby and all that. The good folk I’ve left him with will make sure he’s well taken care of until I go back for him too. And then won’t that be grand! The whole family back together again!’

  He glanced at his father’s bearish profile, the white eyebrows, the hair, the grim set of the mouth. He wanted a sign that he’d been believed even though, as usual, he’d somewhat embellished the truth. He’d taken money for Michael and most of that was already gone.

  With little coinage left in his pockets he had no choice but to return to sea. The truth was that he had no intention of bringing either his eldest daughter or his baby son over to Ireland.

  Magda would be all right – she’d be grown soon. As for Michael, well, the Darbys had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. They were without children and he had children in need of a home and a mother. If he delved deeply into his heart of hearts, he might admit to himself that he’d never wanted children. He’d wanted Isabella, his Italian beauty, and the only way he could have her was to marry her; she’d made that pretty plain from the start. He wouldn’t have done it for any other woman, but Isabella. He’d done it for her, the love of his life.

  The town of Dunavon was left behind, the plain, no nonsense facades of downmarket Victorian buildings and squat cottages giving way to hedgerows and fields.

  Damp, cold and frightened, the girls peered out from beneath their covering, cowering together for comfort as well as warmth.

  The sight of so much greenery was new to them; London just couldn’t compete. Anna Marie eyed it with interest, Venetia with dismay. Venetia had liked the shops and bustle of a big city. She didn’t like the look of this at all.

  Anna Marie, however, was beginning to relax. She was still frightened of the old man sitting up front, but if she could only escape into those fields now and again she might forget he existed.

  They turned off the narrow road into one that was no more than a lane, its surface pitted with stones and craters that were presently full of water. They were about to arrive at Loskeran Bridge Farm.

  Their father, sitting up front, locked his gaze on the old farmhouse, the only one of two storeys in the whole area.

  Though better than most, it still looked mean when compared to buildings he’d seen all over the world. Not that he could voice his opinion; his father was a proud man and would hit him down for it.

  Smoke curled lazily from the chimney as though fighting against the rain in its efforts to reach the sky.

  Nothing much had changed since he’d left; the pigs still smelled the way he’d remembered them, the chickens still clucked around the yard, and the few cows his father owned stared at him as they chewed cud in rain-soaked fields.

  Joseph Brodie could always be counted on to put a brave face on things. He could also charm the birds off the trees, or so his shipmates often said, and indeed he believed this to be true. He could charm anybody – with one exception.

  His father spit on the ground before stepping down from the gig.

  ‘I don’t believe a bloody word you’re saying.’

  His son had already alighted, leaving him with the pony and trap.

  ‘My darling Joe!’

  Molly Brodie’s arms were locked tight around the broad back of her favourite son, her firstborn, her lovely boy and the light of her life.

  Dermot grimaced. From the moment they’d received the letter telling them their son’s intentions, Molly had been over the moon, springing about the place sprightlier than she’d done in years.

  ‘You have to give the boy a chance,’ she’d said when he’d voiced his opinion that their son was lying and would leave them literally holding the baby. Not that he minded having his granddaughters under his roof, but they’d be little help around the farm, nothing like a strong son, that was for sure. But was Joe telling the truth? Would he stay and work on the farm?

  Molly had pleaded with Dermot the same way she used to plead when his sons were boys and he’d taken off his belt. Not enough times, in his opinion, but for the most part he’d given in to her – just as he was doing now.

  ‘Well, will you look at you now,’ said the kindly woman whom the twins were told was their grandmother. ‘Soaked through. Let’s get you inside and out of those wet things. After that, I’ve mutton stew simmering, fresh bread and our own butter. And a cake. Do either of you girls like cake?’

  That night the girls snuggled up together in a double bed in a room they’d been told was theirs and theirs alone.

  ‘That cake was lovely,’ said Venetia. ‘And so was the stew. I heard our dad say that he’s bringing over Magda and Michael soon. Then we’ll all be together.’

  ‘I like it here,’ murmured Anna Marie, barely able to keep her eyes open. She was so warm, so tired and so full of good food. ‘I like the pony. He’s called Merrylegs. And we’re to call our grandfather Granfer. Gran said that he’d like that.’

  Venetia hugged her sister closer. ‘We won’t be here forever. One day we’ll go back to London. I’m going to ask Dad when he’s going back to bring our Magda and Michael over. I’m going to ask him if I can go with him.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m going to stay here and play with the animals.’

  Venetia said that farm animals were for eating not playing with, but Anna Marie was fast asleep.

  In the morning Venetia got up with the sound of chickens out in the yard and somebody shouting, ‘I told you so, woman. I told you so!’

  She dressed quickly, at the same time hissing at her sister that she was off downstairs to ask their father if she could go to England with him.

  Anna Marie eyed her sleepily. ‘You go. I’ll stay here.’

  Venetia almost tumbled down the stairs in her haste to get hold of her father and ask him to take her with him.

  The warmth of the kitchen, the smell of bread baking and thick slices of bacon sizzling in the pan was like heaven on a damp Irish morning.

  Gran was clattering dishes and pans around and looked upset.

  ‘Where’s my dad?’

  The question was heard by her grandfather as he came in from outside bringing a mist of dampness with him.

  ‘Gone!’

  His boots clumped on the scrubbed flagstones as he made a move to wash his hands before breakfast.

  Venetia, her dark eyes filling with fear for what she was about to hear, stood with her mouth open.

  ‘Is he coming back?’ she asked.

  Dermot Brodie wasn’t listening. He was shaking a finger in front of his wife’s face as she dished up his bacon and eggs, and shouting at the top of his voice.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you so? Didn’t I?’

  Venetia felt her legs go weak.

  Her grandmother saw her and cast anxious eyes at her husband.

  ‘Have a care for the child, Dermot. She’s been through enough, losing her mother and all that.’

  Dermot Brodie straightened and looked at Venetia.

  ‘Your father lied to me, girl. His own father. He never meant to stay. He’s always gone his own way and he’s no different now than he’s ever been. Your father’s gone back to sea. You might see him again, or you might not. Either way it looks as though we’re stuck with the pair of you!’

  Chapter Three

  Magda

  Magda Brodie watched as her aunt locked the front door behind her.
She was off to the pub – to see her friend, as she put it.

  Magda sighed. Her world had become very small seen only via the small windows at the front of the house.

  She had a good view of the grander house across the way where gentlemen callers arrived by taxi or chauffeur-driven car and mostly at night. Only a few came on foot and then furtively, their coat collars turned up as though reluctant to be recognised.

  Sometimes one of the girls living across the road would see her looking out and would wave to her. She would wave back, the small action raising her spirits.

  Sometimes she would see one of the girls talking to an old woman who limped. She saw their eyes stray across to her and knew she was the subject of their conversation.

  On these occasions she shrank back into the gloomy room, fearful lest they tell her aunt that she spent time between chores gazing out at a world that she was forbidden to join.

  There were no books in Aunt Bridget’s sorry abode, except for the Bible kept enticingly high above her head. Magda missed the books she’d once read. They had been borrowed from an old man who kept a second-hand shop on the Fulham Road. His main merchandise had been second-hand furniture. He’d lent her those books in part exchange for her mother’s sewing box.

  ‘But only to lend,’ he’d said to her. ‘Might have a paying customer with a library one day.’

  She’d loved those books; fairy stories and adventures, books full of magic, beautiful princesses and honourable princes. And there were always bad fairies and witches, though none of them frightened her, not like her Aunt Bridget.

  In the absence of books, she made up stories about the young women in the house across the road, the old lady, the gentlemen callers.

  The girls were captive princesses, all waiting for the right prince to answer the right riddle. So far none of the gentlemen callers had answered the riddle correctly, which was why all the princesses were still there, none of them leaving on a white horse with their favoured Prince Charming.

  As for the witch, well, there was no doubt who that was and she herself was the most beautiful captive princess of all, subject of a wicked curse and sealed in a cold dark prison.

  Spring came and the weather turned warmer. The girls opposite were wearing prettier dresses of all different colours. They looked like butterflies. Sometimes they looked very happy. Sometimes they looked sad or tired of the world at large, but at least they were free to come and go, Magda thought, and for a while she envied them.

  It was a sunny morning, a fresh breeze blowing dust and paper along the street, when Magda saw the dark side of the life of the girls across the road.

  One of the girls was shouting and screaming, hanging onto a man for all she was worth. When he pushed her, she fell to the ground, her hands curling protectively across her belly.

  The older woman, the one Magda viewed as the Fairy Godmother in her story, came out of the house.

  She couldn’t hear the words clearly, just enough to know that the younger one was being encouraged to leave the man and go into the house.

  The girl, who looked quite plump to Magda’s eyes, shook her head, her hair flying wildly around her face.

  She lunged at the man, trying to hold onto him. He pushed her again, this time so violently that she fell backwards and fell full stretch on the ground.

  Then he kicked her.

  Magda covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes wide with horror.

  Other women came out of the house to help the injured girl inside. They disappeared. Only the older woman remained, her face like marble, staring in the direction the man had taken.

  The old woman caught sight of Magda watching from her puny window and shook her head again as though sharing a sad thought before retiring.

  A few days later Magda saw two men arrive in a hearse. A long black car like this had taken her mother away to the cemetery. Had the man pushed the girl hard enough to kill her?

  One of the black-clothed men in the hearse went into the house with something tucked beneath his arm.

  The man in black came back out, his head tilted forward, eyes fixed on the tiny white box he carried. That’s what he’d taken into the house, though covered then. Now it was obvious. The parcel beneath his arm had contained a tiny coffin.

  She saw the women dabbing their eyes as they followed the hearse. There were only three of them, the mother of the child, another girl supporting her and the Fairy Godmother.

  Seeing the small coffin Magda’s thoughts turned to her baby brother. Was he still alive?

  When her aunt rolled in from her favourite drinking haunt, her face redder than usual, her clothes dishevelled and her breath smelling of brown ale, Magda dared ask her about contacting her family.

  ‘I could write to them,’ she said hopefully, glancing up to where her mother’s Bible sat on the high shelf.

  Aunt Bridget slumped heavily into a chair. ‘Your father didn’t leave enough money for feeding you, my girl, let alone writing letters. Heat up that stew. You’ll get no pampering here. Not in this house.’

  Magda sighed. Food was mostly thin soups, stews and hunks of bread thickly spread with pork dripping or plum jam.

  Not that Aunt Bridget denied herself a decent meal; pigs’ tails, ox tongue, lamb chops and pork sausages. She devoured them all, the scraps left to the child whose big eyes were beginning to look even bigger in her heart-shaped face due to lack of sustenance.

  Aunt Bridget fell into a deep sleep, her head back, her mouth open and emitting a full-bodied snore.

  The steam from the soup misted the windows.

  Whilst her aunt lay snoring in the chair, Magda wrote the initials of her sisters’ names with her fingernail in the condensation. Then she wrote a large ‘M’ for Michael.

  ‘I miss you,’ she whispered. ‘I miss all of you.’

  Behind her, Aunt Bridget let out a resounding snore that almost woke her up.

  Magda froze. The moment of fear passed. The snoring continued unabated.

  The fire was as mean and smoky as ever and there was no point in piling on any more coal. The coal itself was contained in a pine box to one side of the grate. A cardboard box holding newspapers and bits of kindling sat the other side. The kettle, its spout black and its handle grease-covered, hummed like a pet cat on the hob.

  Magda shivered. No matter the time of year, the house was damp. It paid to keep moving about in order to stay warm. Even in bed Magda shivered beneath the thin, smelly blanket that Bridget had rejoiced in telling her had once covered a horse.

  She eyed the cardboard box, the newspapers and the pieces of butcher’s paper in which her aunt’s supper had been wrapped.

  The misted window panes, the butcher’s paper, and even the box containing it, had given her an idea.

  Being careful not to make a noise, she slid each piece of paper out of the box and smoothed it flat. Those that were too smeared with blood, she put back into the box. She was left with two good sheets that weren’t too crumpled.

  Sucking in her lips, she eyed each carefully. They’d do very well for writing paper and would give her something to do during the day. And not just letters. She thought about that last Christmas they’d been together.

  Miss Burton at the workhouse had received lots of Christmas cards decorated with snow scenes, jolly snowmen or red-breasted robins. The kindly Miss Burton had let her look at one that she’d received. Inside it had said ‘Merry Christmas’.

  Magda glanced over her shoulder to make sure Aunt Bridget still slept soundly. The open mouth, the dribble running through the hairs of her chin along with the recurring noises, declared that she was.

  Magda folded both sheets of paper in half, then in half again. There were scissors in the dresser drawer. Again she had to be careful, easing the stiff old drawer out of its cavity bit by squeaky bit.

  By the time she’d finished, she had four pieces of paper from the two sheets. These she folded in half, flattening them again as best she could. Sucking in her bot
tom lip, she eyed the creamy coloured paper, and the wrinkles that were still there though not so obvious as they had been. They were not as stiff as proper shop-bought cards, but she told herself that her sisters and little brother wouldn’t mind that. It would be good to hear from her and that was really all that mattered.

  A snort from Aunt Bridget made her start and hug the pieces of paper to her chest. Nothing would give her aunt greater pleasure than guessing her plan and throwing the lot into the fire.

  ‘We’ll be having none of that,’ she would sneer. ‘No writing in this house.’ Indeed, Bridget Brodie did not own a pencil, let alone a book.

  Leaving her aunt sleeping, Magda stole up to bed, hid the paper beneath her pillow and said a little prayer.

  ‘Please God, I’m going to write letters, a diary and make cards for my sisters and brother. I can’t remember their birthdays, so I’ll just make Christmas cards if that’s all right with you. Those old crayons from the workhouse are a bit worn down but will do for the colouring in. As for the writing, well, I would prefer to write with a pencil. Please, God, I need a pencil.’

  Chapter Four

  The Twins 1929

  Molly Brodie glanced out of the kitchen window, saw the pony and trap turn at the end of the lane, and watched until it was out of sight. The girls had been living with her and her husband for nearly two years now and she was enjoying their company, more so when Dermot was not around. He was growing older and grumpier, disappointed with his sons and dissatisfied with the world at large. Molly enjoyed having her granddaughters to herself.

  ‘Right,’ she said, turning round to her granddaughters. ‘It’s time for us girls to have some fun.’

  The twins exchanged looks of excitement and giggled, Anna Marie’s face turning pink because going behind her grandfather’s back was always a little frightening.

  Eyes bright with anticipation, Molly Brodie bent her head to the gramophone and, after winding it up, placed the needle onto the edge of the record.

  ‘Charleston!’ she shouted gleefully and proceeded to dance. The girls joined in. This, they’d discovered, was their grandmother’s secret sin. She loved to dance. She’d always loved to dance, so she’d told them.