Free Christmas Wish by Lizzie Lane Page A

there.’
    ‘You do? Um. Where exactly?’
    ‘The workhouse. I want to go there and ask them if they know anything.’
    ‘Great. I’ve got the afternoon off, we can both go there if you like,’ said Danny, brimming with enthusiasm. ‘Right. Now which workhouse would we be talking about?’
    Magda looked at him startled. ‘Is there more than one?’
    Danny rubbed at his eyes. ‘I’m afraid so. There’s a lot of poor in London and I did ’ear that a lot of them ’ave closed down. Still, we can always check can’t we – as long as we know the name. Do you know the name?’
    Hearing Danny’s plans had raised her spirits. Those spirits were now dashed. She shook her head, tears of anguish stinging her eyes.
    ‘I can’t remember.’
    They arranged to meet again once she’d had time to think things over. Her new friend was reassuring.
    ‘Memory is a funny thing. You think you’ve forgotten something and suddenly it pops up when you least expect it. It’ll ’appen to you, girl. No doubt about it.’
    Danny was so self-assured she couldn’t help but believe him.
    The day after it really did seem as though things were changing for the better. It began with a loud hammering on the front door.
    Bridget Brodie wasn’t expecting anyone, so assumed whoever it was had got the wrong house.
    ‘Go away. This is a respectable house. You’ll be wanting over the road.’
    Whoever it was took no notice but gave the door another series of knocks that reverberated throughout the house.
    ‘Whoever you are, you’re going to get a piece of my mind,’ snarled Aunt Bridget finally raising herself from her chair where she’d been picking horses from the newspaper for that afternoon’s racing at Kempton Park.
    Head bristling with steel curlers and a cigarette hanging from her mouth, she dragged open the door.
    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 thatnarrowed 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