by Lane, Lizzie
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?’
Magda heard, but she didn’t care. That night she did as she did every night, knelt at the side of her bed and implored God to keep her family safe. Tonight she added, ‘And God, will you please bless Emily Crocker. She may be a whore – whatever that is – but basically she’s a good person.’
Before lying down to sleep, she got out her pencils and paper and the new crayons Emily had given her. She also fondled what was left of the crayons she’d received that Christmas at the workhouse.
They were in the original box along with the original gift tag. The writing on it said ‘To Magdalena Brodie, from everyone at Sycamore Lane Workhouse’.
Chapter Nine
Magda
The following morning Magda raced into Victoria Square barely able to contain her excitement.
Danny was serving a customer so she had to wait – a difficult thing to do seeing as she felt about to explode with excitement.
The first thing she did was tell Danny that she was finally going to school. Her aunt would be in dire trouble if she didn’t turn up. The second thing was that she knew the name of the workhouse.
‘Sycamore Lane,’ she exclaimed, bubbling with excitement.
Danny shoved his stub of a pencil behind his ear and looked thoughtful.
‘I know where that is. We could go there on Wednesday if you like.’
Magda bit her lip. ‘Is it far?’
He grinned. ‘If you’re asking whether it’s too far to walk, yes, it is. If you’re angling for the fare so we can both take the bus, then I have to say no.’
Magda’s face fell. ‘Oh!’
Danny pointed to a bicycle behind the stall. ‘We can go on that. See? I can pedal, and you can ride in the basket. I use it for special deliveries. Be ’ere about eleven in the morning. Sharp! Remember, Bob Barton, the bad blokes’ enemy, don’t stand slackers.’
She arrived on time. Because she was about to start school, her aunt had purchased a few items from the pawn shop. They weren’t that special, but better than what she had been wearing, which she’d now grown out of.
She’d also washed her hair and brushed it until it gleamed. The sash from her old checked dress was frayed at one end, but made a passable headband. On the whole she felt respectable enough to present herself at the workhouse.
She’d also brought some of the letters and cards she’d written in the hope that Miss Burton – the kind lady she remembered – would still be there and able to pass them on.
Danny was already astride his bike waiting for her.
‘Hop in then,’ he said.
By bracing herself against the handlebars and springing from the front wheel on one foot, she just about managed to fit into the basket.
For the most part they kept to the road that flowed with the river, still in the East End of London but further in than Edward Street and Victoria Square.
The leaves on the trees were turning to orange, brown and yellow, raining down on them when the wind blew, the bicycle wheels churning them up like a rustling sea.
The branches of a solitary sycamore were all that remained of what must once have been an avenue.
The brisk wind turned Magda’s cheeks pink. Her hair flew in her eyes. Her gaze remained steady.
There ahead of her were the gates of Sycamore Lane Workhouse. The sign to the right of the gates fixed high on the wall was still there, but it looked dirty and the paint was scabbed.
&nbs
p; Dead leaves were beginning to pile up in front of the gates and what could be seen of the building looked dead and dark.
Danny brought the bike to a halt. For a moment he didn’t say anything.
‘Don’t look too promising.’
Magda nodded mutely. She had a terrible feeling about this but kept it to herself.
Taking a deep breath she heaved herself out of the basket.
After leaning the bike against a tree, Danny stood beside her.
Though the wind blew her hair around her head in a knotted frenzy, Magda did not move.
‘There’s no one here.’
Danny shrugged. ‘Closed down I suppose. I did ’ear they were doing away with them. Horrible places – for the most part.’
‘She was nice. Miss Burton.’
‘Can I help you now?’
Whilst they’d been looking, a figure had appeared behind the padlocked gates.
‘The watchman,’ whispered Danny. To the watchman he said, ‘Excuse us, but we were looking for somebody who used to work here, a Miss Burton. My friend has business with her.’ He sounded very official.
The man had the looks of the military about him, standing ramrod straight, his cheeks wreathed in old-fashioned whiskers.
‘There’s nobody here. Best you leave.’
His accent was Scottish and as broad as his shoulders.
Danny breathed a heartfelt sigh. ‘I s’pose we’d better.’
Magda ignored him. ‘Please,’ she said, one hand in her pocket, fingering the letters and the cards she’d brought with her, plus a letter to Miss Burton. ‘I was here for a time with my sisters and brother. They went to live somewhere else and I’m desperate to find them.’
The man’s countenance remained stiff when his eyes fell on her.
‘I told you. There’s nobody here. It’s all shut down.’
‘Is there anyone who might pass the letter on to her and the few things with it? I would so appreciate it. I’ve no other family left in the world.’
It wasn’t strictly true. She did have Aunt Bridget, but she didn’t count; a relative nobody wanted.
The man seemed to reconsider.
‘There is a clerk who comes along here to collect the post. I suppose I could pass it to him.’
‘That would be wonderful!’
Magda flashed him her most captivating smile as she handed him the letter to Miss Burton plus the few cards and letters to her siblings. Dear Emily had even provided envelopes, just a few tucked inside the writing pad she’d pushed beneath the door.
‘I put my address at the top of the letter,’ Magda enthused to Danny.
‘Was that wise?’ he said, his voice almost lost in the wind as they cycled back to Victoria Square.
Magda knew what he meant. Aunt Bridget would destroy a reply purely out of spite.
‘I’ll make sure I’m up before her. I usually am.’
Chapter Ten
Miss Burton 1930
‘Rest. That’s what I advise. Plenty of rest.’
Miss Burton fixed the rotund man who had just examined her, with eyes warm with compassion but also bright with intelligence.
‘I’m not a fool, doctor. I know my days are numbered.’
She was lying in the same bed she’d slept in since childhood. Her mother had slept in the next room, though once her father had passed on and she’d turned sick herself, her mother had expected her to share her bed. ‘I’m so cold sleeping alone,’ she’d complained.
For the most part Elizabeth Burton had done everything possible to make her mother’s last years comfortable. However, that did not mean she’d neglected her duty, as she saw it, to those who had far less than the Burton family.
Her father had been a sergeant in the Salvation Army, caring for anyone who was destitute and down on their luck and his wife had done her duty providing solace and soup to those who needed it.
It was always to be expected that Elizabeth would follow in their charitable footsteps, and indeed she had, though rather than deal with the homeless and abandoned, she’d applied for and got a position in the workhouse.
She’d never regretted staying at Sycamore Lane so long. In fact, it had filled her heart with joy to see the sunken faces of starving people fill out as a result of wholesome food and the abandonment of drink.
‘Now promise me you’ll be a good girl and stay there for the rest of the day. No reading. No writing. No doing anything at all. Patience is here to prepare your food.’ The doctor attempted a fatherly tone, which Elizabeth found irritating.
‘I know, I know.’
Being a righteous woman, Miss Burton had not been drawn into telling a lie. If the doctor noticed she hadn’t actually promised a thing, then he made no comment. Like many others, including her sister, Patience, a missionary lately returned from China, he knew her to be strong minded. No matter what he said, ultimately she would please herself.
Patience came clumping up the stairs after the doctor had gone.
‘I’ve brought you a cup of beef tea and some bread and butter.’
Miss Burton often wondered how the Chinese had coped with a woman who clumped about in heavy boots. The fact was that Patience had been born with a deformed leg and wore a calliper. The boots were a necessity; the Chinese, their women hardly able to walk on what was left of their poor feet, must have thought her something of a monster. Not that Patience would have let that worry her. Patience never let other people’s opinions worry her; she marched on determined to do the Lord’s work no matter what.
Although the two sisters were united in doing good works, they were distinctly dissimilar in looks. Elizabeth Burton was tall, her hair the consistency of candy floss and coaxed into a cottage-loaf style. When up and about she favoured twinsets, a single set of pearls at her throat, a present from a young man she’d once known who’d been killed by the Dervishes in the Sudan. Patience wore her hair cut short, an odd array of linen blouses and big skirts and a wedding ring on her finger. Her husband, Charles Armitage, an American pastor, was still out in China. She would be rejoining him once she’d collected funds from the good folk at the Baptist church and a few Methodist businessmen that she knew.
‘You’ve received some letters and cards,’ said Patience once she’d set the tray on the bed just as she liked it, and fussed with the curtains until they too suited her. ‘I’ve got them here. Mr Collier, the clerk from Fair Mount House, brought them.’
Fair Mount House was a shelter for those who had nowhere to go. With the demise of Sycamore Lane Workhouse, it was stretched to capacity. It was Mr Collier who went to pick up any stray post arriving at the old workhouse.
With the aid of her spectacles Elizabeth Burton studied the envelope. ‘This is a child’s hand. And look at these cards. Christmas cards drawn in crayon. Yes. A child. Well, how delightful.’
Patience handed her the letter opener, a lovely thing she herself had brought back from China. The blade was of ivory, the handle inlaid with tiny flowers made from mother of pearl.
Patience stood by, not asking the contents of the letter, but curious anyway.
‘The letter too is from a child,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Her name’s Magdalena Brodie. Her mother died. She stayed with us for a while, over Christmas in fact.’
‘You recall this child?’
Patience sounded surprised. So many children, so many families had passed through Sycamore Lane when her sister was principal there.
‘I do indeed. After her mother died, the whole family should have gone to the orphanage, but it was Christmas. I just couldn’t do it. I let them stay. After Christmas their father, a seaman of unreliable character, came to fetch them. This girl, Magdalena, was sent to live with an aunt. She’s asking if I know the whereabouts of her twin sisters and her baby brother and can I pass on her letters and cards to them. She explains that there are more but didn’t wish to burden me with too many. She’s had no word of the whereabouts of her family and no contact with her father.’
She watched as the daylight gradually died. Autumn was coming to a close. A few leaves clung to the tree outside her window. Soon even these would be gone and so, my dear, will you, she thought to herself. Even though Patience bustled around expressing her confidence that God would see her through, never mind Doctor Jones, for all his good intentions.
Whatever time she had left, she was going to put to good use. No matter what the doctor had said about no reading and writing, she had read a letter and now she was going to write a few.
‘Are you going to drink that beef tea or do I have to spoon feed you?’
‘Of course I will. It looks and smells quite delicious. Do you think while I’m consuming this delicious repast, you could fetch me my writing slope from the study? There’s a few letters I need to write urgently. Can you do that?’
Waiting until Patience had clumped halfway down those stairs, Elizabeth took the soup and poured half of it into the plant pot beside her bed. Two hyacinth bulbs were planted in the pot. She hoped she would smell their intoxicating scent before she died.
By the time Patience returned, she’d drunk most of the remaining beef tea and eaten one piece of bread and butter.
‘I don’t think I can manage any more,’ she said, handing her sister the tray.
Patience noted the remaining slice of bread and butter and the dregs of the beef tea.
‘Well. You’ve managed something. Not much though, Elizabeth.’
‘I’ve done much better than yesterday.’
‘That wouldn’t be difficult. Yesterday you ate nothing,’ Patience reminded her – as if she needed reminding. Eating wasn’t something she needed to do.
Elizabeth gratefully accepted her writing slope, and even if her thin legs ached a little under its weight, she determined to bear it. A young girl’s hopes and dreams depended on the letters she was about to write to be given to Mr Collier, the very good man who collected the letters and kept the records and archives of Sycamore Lane Workhouse. All being well, he would send them on, one to Ireland, one to the Reverend Darby and one to be sent to Miss Magdalena Brodie.