Christmas Wish Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Lizzie Lane

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Magda January, 1927

  Chapter Two: The Twins

  Chapter Three: Magda

  Chapter Four: The Twins 1929

  Chapter Five: Magda 1929

  Chapter Six: Michael 1929

  Chapter Seven: Magda 1928

  Chapter Eight: Magda

  Chapter Nine: Magda

  Chapter Ten: Miss Burton 1930

  Chapter Eleven: Magda

  Chapter Twelve: Magda 1931

  Chapter Thirteen: Magda

  Chapter Fourteen: Winnie One Leg

  Chapter Fifteen: Magda 1935

  Chapter Sixteen: The Twins 1932

  Chapter Seventeen: Magda 1935

  Chapter Eighteen: Magda

  Chapter Nineteen: Magda

  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: Venetia 1935

  Chapter Thirty-One: Venetia

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Anna Marie

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Magda 1936

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Venetia

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Magda 1936

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Magda

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Joseph Brodie 1937

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Magda 1938

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Anna Marie 1940

  Chapter Forty: Venetia 1938

  Chapter Forty-One: Anna Marie 1939

  Chapter Forty-Two: Magda 1939

  Chapter Forty-Three: Magda

  Chapter Forty-Four: Venetia 1939

  Chapter Forty-Five: Venetia

  Chapter Forty-Six: Magda and Danny

  Copyright

  About the Book

  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 . . .

  About the Author

  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!

  Also by Lizzie Lane:

  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

  Chapter One

  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 be
en 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.

  When she opened her eyes again nothing had changed. The weather was still bitingly cold though her father, Joseph Brodie, strode along as though the day was fine and a bitter wind was not beating into their faces.

  The small girl at his side would only come to know when she was older that confidence was her father’s shield against the world and the guilt within him. He was ripping the family apart, but Joseph Brodie was a selfish man who people – especially women – found easy to love. Besides that, he was not a man ever to admit that what he was doing was wrong.

  She saw the grim surroundings, the alleys piercing between terraces of dirty red brick houses, the smell of dirt, drains and smoke from chimneys. It was hard to be brave. She didn’t feel brave. She felt helpless.

  Finally she found her voice. ‘When will I see our Venetia again?’

  ‘In time. In time.’ His response was curt though bright as though everything in the world was lovely.

  His grip on her hand tightened. Perhaps he suspected she had it in mind to run away, but she was a child. It was in her nature to love those close to her, to trust her father just as she had her mother.

  ‘When will I see my sisters and brother again?’

  ‘When things are better. I’ve told you. All the details of where they’ll be living are in yer mother’s Bible. Still, you saw them at Christmas. Despite everything you had Christmas together. Now wasn’t that a good thing?’

  Magda had to concede that it was. The family had clung together and she’d tried her best, as the eldest, to reassure them that everything would be fine.

  ‘When you come home again, will you buy that house by the sea that our mama talked about where we can all be together?’

  ‘Is that what she told you?’ He sounded more than surprised; perhaps a little taken aback.

  ‘Yes. And we’ll all live with you, together, and next Christmas I shall cook us all Christmas dinner with a turkey – or perhaps a chicken,’ she added, changing her mind because he might think a turkey too expensive. And after all, if he was going to buy a cottage by the sea, wouldn’t that be better than a turkey? And houses cost money. Her mother had told her so when she’d questioned why they lived in two cold rooms in a shared house.

  She swiped a hand at the tears clinging to her lashes, her fingers cold despite the thickness of her knitted mitten. The New Year had blown in bitterly cold with the threat of snow.

  The sky was no more than a ribbon between the cramped roofs and crooked chimneys of the narrow streets they trod. She noticed that some windows in the tiny houses still had paper chains or pretend snow, no more than bits of cotton wool stuck to the panes. A few more days, perhaps only hours, and the real thing would start to fall. It was that cold.

  Every so often her father, Joe Brodie, would glance at her, see that she was far from happy, and then commence to tell her how grand things would be when he once again returned from sea.

  ‘And I’ll buy you a dolly with eyes that close and she’ll be wearing a pink dress.’

  The rag doll she was carrying beneath her arm was the one thing connecting her present with her past and had been given to her by a kindly neighbour some years before. This year’s Christmas present had been a colouring book and some crayons. It was stuffed into the paper carrier bag that swung from her father’s left hand along with the few bits of clothes she owned.

  The cobbles were slippery underfoot, the afternoon fast turning into a wintry twilight.

 
Magda shivered. She was the eldest so her father had told her to be his big brave girl and to be an example to the little ones. Being brave, she’d decided, wasn’t easy and she didn’t like this place he’d brought her to. At least the workhouse had become familiar territory even though she had only resided there for a few months.

  Despite the biting wind, Magda raised her head, narrowing her eyes as she took in the drab surroundings with increasing dismay. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of old drains, decay and dirt.

  ‘Dad. I don’t like it here. This place stinks.’

  Though her mouth was muffled by her scarf, her voice was clear.

  Her father shook his head, refusing to admit that things were bad because that’s the way he was. The arrangements he’d made for his children suited him and that was all that mattered. He was blind to anything else.

  ‘Now, now, Magda my girl. You’re overreacting. It’s poor but honest around here and your aunt will be good to you. You just see. Everything will be fine, my girl.’

  Her mother had come from Italy, a place, she’d told Magda, where the sun always shone.

  Joseph Brodie had sailed into Naples and charmed the dark-haired, dark-eyed young girl into marrying him. With his melodic voice, his broad shoulders and his dancing blue eyes, the handsome Irishman had stolen her heart away. ‘Love at first sight,’ she’d said to her children in her lilting voice before a sad look had come over her features. ‘I loved him despite all his faults, his many faults, and I love him still.’

  The fact was that for all his charm, Joseph Brodie was feckless; there was no way he could settle down to a life with a wife and children, tied to the land. He reckoned the sea was in his blood. The fortune he’d promised his bride never came their way.

  Isabella Julieta Brodie had worked at anything and everything she could to keep a roof over their heads and bread on the table. Eventually the hard work and starvation rations had caught up with her. Eventually they were turned out of their lodgings and sent to the workhouse. Though the diet was basic it was better than they’d had and her mother had promised there were better times to come once she was back on her feet. ‘Especially when your father comes home. We will all be happy then.’