Christmas Wish by Lizzie Lane Page B

up into the face of Bradley Fitts. He was older than her so naturally taller. He also looked more like a man, his clothes natty and not bought off the Jewish tailor who had a stall in the market where he took orders and showed off his cloth.
    He was eyeing her as though seeing her for the very first time – and liking what he was seeing.
    ‘I’m here with my uncle.’
    Even to her own ears she sounded nervous. She knew that was not the way to sound with Bradley Fitts. You had to fronthim out; not easy when he was that much taller, that much broader and flanked by the Sheldon boys.
    Bradley flipped two fingers under the brim of his hat, which sent it further back from his face.
    ‘You’ve certainly grown into a looker, Magdalena. Lovely looking in fact.’
    His eyes swept over her before lingering on her face.
    Magda felt her face getting hot.
    Bradley leaned closer. ‘I don’t like you being ’ere, Magdalena. And I don’t ever want to see you ’ere again. Unless you’re with me that is. Got it?’
    Bradley Fitts wouldn’t know it, but his manner reminded her of Aunt Bridget. From the moment she’d arrived beneath that roof, she’d been bullied, starved, slapped and intimidated. But that was when she was younger.
    Her eyes flashed, her temper flared and she stood up close to him, her anger spitting up into his face.
    ‘Just you listen to me, Bradley Fitts. You have no right telling me what I should or should not do, and who I should be with. You do not own me and you never will. Now get out of my way. I want to see who’s won the last race.’
    Her legs were shaking as she pushed past him to find Uncle Jim, but she felt big and brave.
    Behind her the eyes of Bradley Fitts burned with indignation, following Magda Brodie until she disappeared in the crowd.
    ‘One hell of a brush off,’ said one of his friends.
    Bradley threw him a warning glare. ‘Nobody brushes off Bradley Fitts. I’ll show her who’s boss, just you wait and see. All she needs is a slap or two to show her who’s in charge.’
    ‘Uncle Jim. Do you know where the twins are?’
    ‘Twins?’
    ‘My sisters. Venetia and Anna Marie. And Michael. My ba …’ She stopped. Michael wouldn’t be a baby any longer. ‘My brother too. Do you know where any of them are?’
    ‘Sure. Well, your sisters I do. They’re with my parents in Ireland. Did you not know that?’
    ‘Oh!’
    Magda could hardly believe she was hearing this.
    ‘Oh!’ she said again, her eyes brimming with tears of joy and her hand covering her open mouth.
    ‘How would it be I write the address down for you?’ he said.
    Magda was aware of her aunt’s hard scowl, but she didn’t care.
    ‘It would be very well. Very well indeed!’
    She fetched him a piece of paper and a pencil.
    Uncle Jim licked the end of the pencil. ‘Now let’s see …’
    He wrote painfully slow, forming each letter as a child just learning to write might do.
    ‘There,’ he said, eyeing his efforts with pride. ‘That’s the address of my folk – your grandparents in Ireland.’
    ‘And Michael?’
    He shook his head sadly. ‘Now that I don’t know. Only your father knows that.’
    ‘This stew’s done. Now get everything off the table.’
    Aunt Bridget brushed everything aside, crumbs and bits of screwed-up paper falling to the floor.
    Magda managed to grab the piece of paper and for a moment studied the address. Happiness welled up inside her; she now had an address for grandparents she’d been told by her aunt were dead. The twins were there. Uncle Jim assured her they were.
    That evening he told her tales of his travels and the adventures he and her father had had as boys.
    ‘Right scrapes we got up to.’
    Aunt Bridget had sat there gloomily, pretending to knit a tea cosy. She’d been knitting that same tea cosy for years, brought out to make her look industrious every time Uncle Jim came home.
    It was close to midnight by the time he’d finished, talking twenty to the dozen between