Christmas Wish (7 page)

‘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.’

Magda decided that one look at Danny Rossi and the most miserable person couldn’t help but smile, though perhaps with the exception of Aunt Bridget.

‘Is this your stall?’ she asked him.

‘My dad’s.’

‘So you help him out.’

‘For the moment. I have to do what I have to do and this is what I have to do right now. Won’t always do it though. I’ve got plans. Believe me I’ve got plans.’

‘What plans?’

‘Plans to be better than what I am. Plans to be important and useful.’ He winked. ‘And to wear a uniform. I want to be like ’im.’

He pulled a battered novel from his back pocket and flicked his fingers at the lurid cover. Magda read the title.

Barton on the Beat.

‘I read loads of Bob Barton books. He’s a London copper.’

‘So you want to be a policeman?’

‘Shhh,’ he hissed, placing a finger before his lips. ‘Not so loud. Don’t let anyone round ’ere hear you saying that. They’d think me a traitor – selling ’em out so to speak. Still, beats selling fruit and vegetables.’

‘Selling fruit and vegetables is useful – where would we be without them?’

He threw back his head and laughed, which had the effect of sending his overlong hair spreading around his neck like a collar.

Magda frowned as a very serious thought occurred to her. ‘Will you find missing persons, things like that?’

‘You bet I will, though to start off with it’ll probably be just lost dogs. Why do you ask?’

She told him about wanting to find her family.

‘Could you help me find them?’

He looked taken aback. Reading about being a police detective and actually playing the part were two different things.

Magda misinterpreted. ‘I can’t pay you anything so can’t ask you to look for them for me, but if you could tell me what to do, how to find missing people, I would be really grateful.’

‘I’m not a policeman yet.’

‘No, but you will be. And you’re sure to be good at it after reading all those Bob Barton books.’

‘Well.’ He scratched the back of his head as he thought about it. ‘I s’pose it wouldn’t hurt to get me hand in so to speak. Tell you what, let me ’ave a think and I’ll see what I can come up with. Trot along ’ere tomorrow about half an hour
earlier than now. I’ll take my break and we can ’ave a bite to eat together over on the seat there. ’Ow would that be?’

She eyed him warily, wondering if he was making fun or really serious.

‘You mean it? You’re not making fun of me because I’m only a child and a lot younger than you?’

Looking seriously impressed, he shook his head. ‘No. Of course not. Now go on, clear off before I change me mind.’

She thought about asking if he had a pencil she could borrow, but didn’t want to push her luck.

She dashed round the corner into Beatrice Street so fast that she collided with what seemed like a green wall in front of her.

‘Blimey, you’re in a hurry. Been a fire or something?’

Magda looked up into a face that was round as a pumpkin above a dark green jacket and knee-length pleated skirt. There was something youthful about that face, as though the owner wasn’t much more than a child forced through circumstance to grow up too early.

Magda recognised her as one of the girls from the grand house across the road.

‘Looks like you done all right for yourself,’ said the girl, nodding down at the orange string sack.

‘It was all free. From underneath the stall. I didn’t pinch anything and Danny Rossi gave me a pig’s tail. I’m going to make a stew.’

‘Well, aren’t you the one! Going back now are ya?’

Magda nodded and thought how beautiful the young woman smelt. Roses. Flowers anyway.

‘My mother used to wear a hat like yours,’ said Magda, glad of someone to talk to besides Bridget Brodie. Not that she ever talked – not really. Just shouted.

‘Do you like it?’

Magda nodded.

The mustard hat reminded Magda of one her mother used to wear – a cloche she’d called it, but Magda had always called it her tulip hat because that’s what the shape reminded her of – a tulip – a dark red one in her mother’s case, not mustard like this one.

‘Your name’s Magda, innit?’

Magda nodded. ‘It’s short for Magdalena. Magdalena Brodie.’

‘Mine’s Emily. Emily Crocker. I’ll walk back with you if you like. That sack looks a bit heavy. Wanna hand?’

Magda shook her head and cradled the sack in her arms.

‘Looks a nice lot you’ve got there. Bet you got everything you wanted.’

Magda chewed her lip. ‘Everything except a pencil. I really do need a pencil. And some new crayons if I could get some, but I can manage with my old ones though they are a bit worn down.’

She didn’t add that even if she had located a pencil, she hadn’t any money to pay for it.

‘Is that all? I think I could find you one. You live over in the house opposite with that old …’

‘Connemara mare.’

‘Oh. So you already know what we all call her. Old cow if what I heard about her is right. Been carrying on with the landlord of the Red Cow, and ’im with a sick wife upstairs and likely put away before long.’

‘What does that mean? Carrying on?’

‘Well,’ said Emily taking a deep breath. ‘It’s like skipping with somebody else’s skipping rope when you don’t have their permission to use it.’

Magda eyed her, open mouthed. ‘Shouldn’t she be confessing all that to the priest?’

Emily burst out laughing. ‘Well, I should think it would
give the old priest something to entertain his quiet moments.’

Magda laughed with her. It just seemed the right thing to do.

‘I’ve seen you looking out of the window,’ said Emily. ‘Don’t go out much do you?’

Despite her threadbare appearance, Magda held her head high. ‘My aunt wouldn’t let me but I will do from now on. I pretended to faint from hunger so she told me to go out and find some food for myself. She told me my father hadn’t left enough to feed me on. Mind you, she makes sure she don’t go hungry.’

‘Yeah, and she gets that for free, down at the Red Cow, food and drink for services rendered,’ Emily said with a laugh. ‘So. What do you want the pencil for? Writing to somebody are you?’

It all came flooding out. Magda told her about her family and how they’d last been together at Christmas last year. She also told her about the letters she wrote regularly on sausage paper and her plan to make her own Christmas cards to send to her siblings.

‘I can’t really send them because I don’t know where they are without their addresses. But I thought I could keep them for when we do eventually meet up.’

Emily smiled down at her. ‘I think that’s a lovely idea. I’m surprised that old …’ She checked herself. ‘Your aunt …’

‘It’s all right. You can call her an old cow or the Connemara mare. She calls you tarts. Sluts and whores who sell their bodies to men that they might fornicate with them in unholy nakedness.’

Emily’s jaw dropped. ‘Bloody hell. Sounds like a sermon from the pulpit don’t it. And like the pot calling the kettle black. Reckon it don’t matter if I call ’er names then does it?’

Magda shook her head. ‘What does fornicate mean?’

Emily burst out laughing.

‘It’s something men think they’re good at.’

‘But they’re not?’

Emily was still grinning. ‘No, they just like to think they are.’

‘I’m glad to have somebody to converse with.’

‘Converse? Well, that’s a long word.’

‘I like words. I’m glad I’ve spoken to you. Because I haven’t been out of the house, I haven’t spoken to anyone else in ages. I thought I might never be able to speak again, but I have and that’s good.’

Emily cocked her head to one side and her face was all smiles.

‘Don’t ever lose your voice, girl. You’ve got a pretty voice. Different than what I ’ear round ’ere. I thought you’d speak a bit Irish like yer aunt, but you don’t.’

‘My mother was Italian. She was careful how she spoke English because she wasn’t born to it.’