Christmas Wish Read Online Free PDF Page B

the newspapers and the pieces of butcher’s paper in which her aunt’s supper had been wrapped.
    The misted window panes, the butcher’s paper, and even the box containing it, had given her an idea.
    Being careful not to make a noise, she slid each piece of paper out of the box and smoothed it flat. Those that were too smeared with blood, she put back into the box. She was left with two good sheets that weren’t too crumpled.
    Sucking in her lips, she eyed each carefully. They’d do very well for writing paper and would give her something to do during the day. And not just letters. She thought about that last Christmas they’d been together.
    Miss Burton at the workhouse had received lots of Christmas cards decorated with snow scenes, jolly snowmen or red-breasted robins. The kindly Miss Burton had let her look at one that she’d received. Inside it had said ‘Merry Christmas’.
    Magda glanced over her shoulder to make sure Aunt Bridget still slept soundly. The open mouth, the dribble running through the hairs of her chin along with the recurring noises, declared that she was.
    Magda folded both sheets of paper in half, then in half again. There were scissors in the dresser drawer. Again she had to be careful, easing the stiff old drawer out of its cavity bit by squeaky bit.
    By the time she’d finished, she had four pieces of paper from the two sheets. These she folded in half, flattening them again as best she could. Sucking in her bottom lip, she eyed the creamy coloured paper, and the wrinkles that were still there though not so obvious as they had been. They were not as stiff as proper shop-bought cards, but she told herself that her sisters and little brother wouldn’t mind that. It would be good to hear from her and that was really all that mattered.
    A snort from Aunt Bridget made her start and hug the pieces of paper to her chest. Nothing would give her aunt greater pleasure than guessing her plan and throwing the lot into the fire.
    ‘We’ll be having none of that,’ she would sneer. ‘No writing in this house.’ Indeed, Bridget Brodie did not own a pencil, let alone a book.
    Leaving her aunt sleeping, Magda stole up to bed, hid the paper beneath her pillow and said a little prayer.
    ‘Please God, I’m going to write letters, a diary and make cards for my sisters and brother. I can’t remember their birthdays, so I’ll just make Christmas cards if that’s all right with you. Those old crayons from the workhouse are a bit worn down but will do for the colouring in. As for the writing, well, I would prefer to write with a pencil. Please, God, I need a pencil.’

Chapter Four
The Twins 1929
    Molly Brodie glanced out of the kitchen window, saw the pony and trap turn at the end of the lane, and watched until it was out of sight. The girls had been living with her and her husband for nearly two years now and she was enjoying their company, more so when Dermot was not around. He was growing older and grumpier, disappointed with his sons and dissatisfied with the world at large. Molly enjoyed having her granddaughters to herself.
    ‘Right,’ she said, turning round to her granddaughters. ‘It’s time for us girls to have some fun.’
    The twins exchanged looks of excitement and giggled, Anna Marie’s face turning pink because going behind her grandfather’s back was always a little frightening.
    Eyes bright with anticipation, Molly Brodie bent her head to the gramophone and, after winding it up, placed the needle onto the edge of the record.
    ‘Charleston!’ she shouted gleefully and proceeded to dance. The girls joined in. This, they’d discovered, was their grandmother’s secret sin. She loved to dance. She’dalways loved to dance, so she’d told them.
    ‘But your grandfather thinks it’s heathen because it came from America some years ago and although all those Irish people have gone over there and say how grand it is, he doesn’t think anywhere can be as good as Ireland.’
    It had