“Ivy! Pssst! Ivy Murphy!” Seán McDonald crept out of the single water closet that served the entire tenement block. He’d been keeping out of sight, shivering in the dark, cold, smelly little space. He checked the area carefully. He didn’t want to get caught again. “Have yeh got me sack?”
“Of course I have.” Ivy stood waiting for the boy to cross the weed-choked slabs. “Didn’t I promise yeh?”
“I’ll take it off yeh when we get closer to your place.” Seán used the bulk of the old pram to hide behind while they walked towards Ivy’s back door.
Ivy was firmly biting her tongue to stop the questions that longed to explode out of her mouth. Seán’s face was sporting a fresh collection of bruises. She sighed sadly. There was little she could do at the moment to help the young lad.
“Here we are,” she stated unnecessarily, stopping outside the door of what had been her old mentor’s home. “Do you want me to wait, make sure yer one’s home?”
“Nah, I know she’s in.” Seán grunted with effort as he removed his sack from the pram. “I saw her going in a while ago. I’ll be fine – you get along home,” he advised like an old man.
“Take care of yourself, Seán.” She shrugged off the depressed feeling that was weighing her down. There was only so much you could do to help your neighbours. She took the few steps necessary to reach her own door.
With a sigh of relief she opened the door and pushed the pram inside. She locked the door quickly and decided to leave the pram standing just inside it for the moment. She removed her wet shawl before undoing the buttons of her old coat. She let both articles fall to the floor and with a sigh dropped into one of the stuffed chairs in front of her glowing black range.
“At least me new second-hand boots protected me feet from the wet, Da.” She’d fallen into the habit of talking aloud to her dead father when she was alone.
She bent to unlace the heavy boys’ work boots she wore, then dragged them off. She pulled her long knitted socks off before wriggling her toes blissfully towards the barely glowing fire.
“I’ll tend the fire and put the kettle on.”
She jumped to her feet. The hem of her black skirt beating uncomfortably wet against the back of her bare ankles made her stop. The ends of her jumper sleeves were wet too. She’d better change her clothes. She’d tucked the boys’ trousers she wore under her skirt into her socks so they’d remained dry and warm. At least she had something to change into nowadays. Gone were the days when she only possessed what she stood up in. She dropped to her knees and, strictly by feel, rooted under the big bed and pulled out her old black skirt and a carefully wrapped cream twin set. Jem was coming over later and she wanted to look decent for him. She shivered while she changed. The room was cold away from the heat of the range.
With her damp clothes in hand, she walked over to fetch one of her two wooden chairs and pulled it closer to the range. She spread her skirt and jumper over the arm of one of the soft fireside chairs before picking her shawl and coat up from the floor. She draped the shawl over the seat of the wooden chair. The heavy old coat was put over the tall wooden shoulders.
With a sigh she knelt to rake out the cooling ash from the grate before dropping dry kindling and small nuggets of coal onto the remaining burning embers. She watched carefully to make sure the fire took before adding more fuel.
“I don’t know where the time is going,” she remarked absently while preparing a pot of tea. “Thank God Halloween falls on a Saturday this year. This year has run away with me. I’ve only ten days to come up with a costume for Emmy.”
When Emmy first came to live with Jem, Ivy had helped out by minding the child after school while Jem was out driving his hackney carriage. Then Jem decided to improve his business and employed men to help with the process. He was home for Emmy nowadays and Ivy didn’t see as much of the little imp as she’d like.
“I suppose I could make a little black cat and a tall hat and dress Emmy as a witch.” Ivy took one of her precious cups and saucers from the shelf. “Emmy’s black hair and green eyes would suit a witch costume, I think.”
The children of the tenements loved Halloween. They could pass their usual rags off as costumes, black up their faces and travel around Dublin taking up a collection. The cry of “Help the Halloween Party!” echoed all around Dublin on the 31st of October. The children collected fruit – apples and oranges and, for a lucky few, grapes – and assorted nuts still in the shell from the people they met around the city.
“I’ve that much to do I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I don’t know where I’d be if the Lawless family didn’t do most of the busy work for me these days. The money I made from the sale of them baby dolls is still a shock to me.”
Ivy and the Lawless family had dressed a batch of naked baby dolls Ivy had purchased on spec. She’d hoped to make a few bob profit from the dolls but, thanks to a surprise development, the darn dolls had sold for what Ivy considered a small fortune.
“I’m going to drink this pot of tea like a human.” Ivy poured the tea and added sugar and a drop of milk from the tall metal can she’d had filled that day at the local creamery. Then, carrying her cup and saucer carefully, she went and sat in one of the chairs in front of the range. “I went by the creamery today, Da. Isn’t that a kick in the grass? I never did anything like that when you were alive. Yeh had me convinced I wasn’t fit to be seen in public. Well, now you’re gone, if I don’t do things for meself who’s going to do them for me? Answer me that if yeh can, Da.” She sipped at her tea, enjoying the luxury of fresh milk.
Since Éamonn Murphy’s death, life had opened up for Ivy. She had far more cash than she’d ever had in her life before. Éamonn had watched her every move and had been quick to take every penny she made out of her hands. If Ivy hadn’t fought him all the way there would have been no money to pay the rent-man. Ivy’s mother’s motto of “You can eat in the street but you can’t sleep in the street” had been engraved onto Ivy’s soul. She never missed paying the rent – never.
Ivy stood to pour herself a fresh cup of tea. She dropped back into her chair and raised wide violet eyes, eyes shadowed by long, thick black lashes and naturally pencil-slim brows, towards the ceiling. “Hey, Granny, are yeh with me?”
Ivy didn’t find it strange to be talking to the dead. If they answered her back, now that would be strange. Granny had been Ivy’s mentor and friend. The old woman had passed away peacefully of old age. Ivy missed the old woman but it was difficult to grieve. Granny had been ready to meet her Maker.
“I wanted to thank you for making me take care of me hands.” Ivy laughed, looking down at her pale white skin. Her hands were soft, the flesh creamy white, the fingers long and elegant, the nails trimmed and spotlessly clean. Granny would accept nothing less. She’d insisted on teaching Ivy everything she’d learned over a long lifetime. Granny knew more about the various needlecraft skills than most people would ever know. The old woman had been a talented lace-maker and much in demand by the designers and shop owners of Dublin. She’d been paid a pittance for the exquisite work that sold for guineas in the upmarket shops around Dublin. Granny had taught Ivy, by means of a strong clip around the ear, to always look after the skin of her hands. Ivy must never allow her hands to be blemished.
“I’ve shaken more hands since I started palling around with Ann Marie than I ever have before in me life.”
Ivy’s friend Ann Marie Gannon was from a different social class altogether but the two women had formed an unlikely friendship.
“When you were alive, Da, and the boys at home, it was all I could do to keep body and soul together.” Ivy had been the main breadwinner of her family from the age of nine. She’d raised her three younger brothers until each had left home at sixteen, never to be heard from again. “Now I have options.” She smothered a sob. “Wouldn’t that make the cat laugh? I ask your sacred pardon – ‘options’. Who ever heard the like?”
She drank the rest of her tea while
her head spun with ideas about all of those options. She would admit, only to herself mind, that there were days when the thought of all of those options scared her silly.
“Well, this won’t get the baby a bonnet.” She left her cup and saucer on the hearth to be washed later and jumped to her feet. “I need to get doing.”
She banked the fire in the range then left the comfort of the heat with a sigh. She went and brought her pram through to the front room, pushing it over to the work table. She stood and examined the goods resting on her work surface. With quick movements she arranged a row of orange packing crates along the outer rim of the worktable. She sorted through the items she’d collected that day, examining them with experienced hands.
It didn’t take her very long to sort the articles into different crates. Some things, like the cracked and chipped ornaments, she’d take directly to her market contacts, others she’d wash and repair. In some cases she’d refashion or reuse materials. But in every case there was a profit to be made.
Ivy then arranged the orange crates one on top of the other, noticing a layer of dust on the floor as she did so. Something else she needed to take care of: she grabbed a broom and began sweeping out her two rooms while she continued to talk aloud to the dead.
“I’ll have to light a fire in this room if I’m going to work in here – it’s freezing. I’m going to bring a branch of candles over to the work top – it seems to get dark so bloomin’ early these days. I suppose it doesn’t help living in a basement but since that’s all I’ve ever known – well, mustn’t grumble. I’ll get a bit of work done on my first bride doll. Although, if I’m honest with meself, I think it’ll be me first and last bride doll. I can’t see meself making any money off the thing, what with all the bits and bobs I’ve had to buy, not to mention all the work I’m putting into the ruddy thing.” The work she was doing on the tiny doll outfit was time-consuming and exacting. It left her with aching shoulders and a headache. She dreaded having to attach all the tiny beads to the gown but could only be thankful she wasn’t one of the women sewing ten thousand beads onto an actual bridal gown.
“I’ll have to talk to the Widder Purcell about getting a goose. I’m nearly out of that goose-fat cream you made, Granny.” Ivy dumped the dust she’d collected into the old biscuit tin she kept for household waste. “I found your little recipe book though. Can yeh believe I can read it for meself? Honest to God, Granny, there’s days when I don’t know meself.” She put her broom away. “The nuns across the way make a hand cream like yours from goose fat. Did yeh know that, Granny?” She didn’t expect a response. “Yeh’d never believe the price they want for the thing. I’d rather make it meself, thanks very much.”
Ivy filled her second-best enamel bowl with hot water from the reservoir in her black range. She’d only had the use of the range since her da’s death and couldn’t imagine ever taking the comfort of instant hot water for granted. With a contented sigh, she shaved curls from a bar of Ivory soap, adding them to the hot water. She dunked two rags in the hot soapy water, tied them to her bare feet and began to dance around the two rooms to clean them.
“Just think, Granny, for the price the nuns are asking for their cream I could buy me own goose. Wouldn’t that be something, Granny, a goose for Christmas? I wouldn’t know meself. I’d get the goose flesh to eat, the fat I need for lots of hand cream, plus the feathers to sell and the bones to make a stew from. Yeh can’t beat that for value, Granny.”
Ivy imagined music playing as she danced elegantly around the room.
“Did yeh hear what Jem was telling me about the radio?” She giggled, amused with her own imaginings. “The state of me and the price of best butter!” She had a mental image of herself waltzing around the two high-ceilinged rooms, feet covered in wet grey rags. Her black second-hand skirt was shiny with age and touched the top of her toes and her hand-knit twin set didn’t match any ball gown she’d ever heard of. “I don’t care.” She shrugged away her dowdy outfit. “I can fancy me chances, can’t I? Imagine being able to listen to music all the time, hearing news from around the world? The wonder of it all, what would it be like?” She grinned broadly, thinking of Jem’s face when he was talking about the radio. She’d be willing to bet the man would buy himself a radio before too long. Jem was losing the run of himself. She shrugged off the thought. There’s many a one would say the same thing about her.
Ivy pulled the wet rags off her feet and threw them into the enamel basin. She crossed to the front-room fireplace, knelt, and with quick experienced moves soon had the fire set. She grabbed the box of matches she kept on the mantelpiece and lit the scrunched paper.
With a tired sigh she stood upright. “The floor needs to dry and I have to wash meself and get out me white apron.”
Ivy wasn’t aware she was still talking aloud. The two rooms echoed around her.
Ivy, her parents and three brothers had lived in these two rooms. One by one everyone had left. Ivy’s mother Violet had been the first to leave. She’d taken the mailboat to England when Ivy was nine years old, never to be heard from again. Ivy’s brothers too had taken the mail boat. She sometimes dreamed her family were living together somewhere else, without her. When her father died Ivy was alone.
She took two potatoes from the orange box shoved into the high cupboard Granny had insisted on giving to her before she died. She scrubbed the potatoes before pushing them into the hot ashes sitting in the grate. Two apples joined the potatoes. Ivy grinned, brushing off her hands. The food would cook slowly while she worked. The grub would see her through till tomorrow. She washed her hands, carefully removing every speck of grime.
With everything she needed to hand, the fire she’d just lit in the front-room grate burning brightly at her back, Ivy sat in her front room, now covered from neck to ankle by her pristine white apron, just like Granny had taught her. She’d pulled one of her two hard chairs into the room and up to the long bench that served as her work space. She had a brace of candles close to hand. She also had her best basin filled with hot soapy water nearby. She could not afford to stain the tiny white garment. A simple pinprick could cause blood to soak into the delicate fabric. She’d had a headache for days embroidering the tiny white stitches onto the white fabric. It looked wonderful, she couldn’t deny it, but she’d prefer not to have to do the work all over again, thank you very much.
She slowly unfolded the white fabric that wrapped the skinny rubber doll. The tiny dress she kept wrapped up with the doll was an actual copy of the gown that a society bride, Miss Bettanne Morgan, would wear to the wedding that was already the talk of the town. Ivy had gone hat in hand to the hoity-toity designer of the bridal gown and begged to be allowed copy his design. She’d thought the limp-wristed designer would faint at her daring. She’d had to promise to keep the design secret. It was only her closing argument that she did not mix in the same social set as the future wedding guests that clinched the deal. It was ironic, Ivy thought – the Morgan twins, two women who lived in the splendour of Merrion Square surrounded by servants, had been contributing to Ivy’s household funds for years. They just didn’t know it.
“Who would have thought me round would lead to this?” She turned to the fire and made a long paper spill from the stock of newspaper she kept in an orange crate by the side of the fireplace. She lit the spill from the fire and used it to light the candles she’d placed on the table. She needed the additional light to clearly see the intricate white-on-white needlework.
She’d already cut the white satin fabric for the doll’s dress – sewing the gown together would be the last thing she did – and the embroidery that mantled the tiny gown was complete. She still needed to embroider the tiny copy of the veil that would trail behind the bride. She intended to sew the miniature beads onto the dress that evening – work that was intricate and time-consuming.
Time passed as Ivy became absorbed in the intricate work. At a hard rap on the outside door she screamed in fright and threw her arms in
the air. The chair she’d been sitting on wobbled at her sudden jerk. She’d nearly stabbed herself with the needle.
Chapter 4
Ivy’s heart was racing, her body shaking. She’d been so intent on her work she hadn’t been aware of time passing.
She looked around the room, blinking in surprise. Outside the range of the now-sputtering candles it was black as pitch. How long had she been sitting here working? She sniffed the air. She must have burned her food to a cinder.
“Just a minute!”
She couldn’t see her hand in front of her face outside the light from the candles. The fire she’d lit to keep the room warm was almost out.
She crossed the room carefully, following the light from the dying fire. With quick efficient movements she took another piece of paper from her supplies, put it in the fire and set it alight. She removed the gas globes from the two gas-light fixtures set into the fireplace mantel, then pulled the chain releasing the gas into the two lamps, touched the burning paper to the wick and immediately had the blue flame hissing and burning brightly. She replaced the glass globes over the blue flames with a sigh of relief. Now she could see what the heck she was doing.
She carefully blew out the candles before walking over to the single window that overlooked the cement well at the bottom of the stairs that led down to her basement rooms from ground level.
“Jem, you scared me out of me growth!” she shouted before opening the door to her friend. “Me heart is still somewhere around me mouth.” She stood holding open the door, glaring.
“I told you I’d be calling in to see you.” Jem ignored Ivy’s dramatics. He pushed her gently back into the tiny hallway and back into her own front room. It was impossible to close the front door with Ivy standing in the way.
Ha'Penny Chance (Ivy Rose Series Book 2) Page 3
