Ha'Penny Chance (Ivy Rose Series Book 2)

by Gemma Jackson

  “Give me a minute.” She removed her white apron as she walked, taking the time to drape it carefully over her work. “Wait till I get the lamps lit in the other room – then you can put out the lamps in here for me.”

  She grabbed the precious box of matches from the mantel and hurried away.

  “Where’s Emmy?” she shouted while lighting the two gas lamps in the back room. “I thought she’d be with you.” She grabbed her damp clothing from the chairs and threw everything onto the big bed pushed against the wall dividing the two rooms.

  “Asleep in bed.” Jem pulled the chain on the gas lamps in the front room. He blew gently behind the glass globes to extinguish the flame. He stood for a moment checking the lamps were safely extinguished. “The lads know I’m over here – they’ll keep their ears open for her.”

  Ivy picked the wooden chair up and with a few strides had it pushed under the kitchen table.

  “What time is it?” she called.

  “Late.” Jem walked into the back room, closing the door between the two rooms behind him.

  “I’ll put the kettle on. I’m spittin’ feathers.”

  “You better eat whatever that is I can smell.” Jem looked at the two big soft comfortable chairs placed in front of the range. He wasn’t about to sit there – there would be too much temptation to pull Ivy down onto his knees and forget the world outside.

  “Oh, me dinner, it’ll be ruined.” Ivy became a whirlwind of activity while Jem strolled back into the front room to fetch the second wooden chair.

  He put the chair by the table and sat, waiting patiently while Ivy set the table for her seemingly ever-present tea. He watched as she pulled the charred potatoes and apples from the grate. She brushed the ash carefully from the potatoes, halved them and put them on a small plate, then scooped the soft apple onto the potato and carried the plate to the table. His green eyes followed her as she made the promised pot of tea, her movements quick and deliberate. The tender smile on his face turned into a grin when she dropped into the chair across the table from where he sat.

  “I think it might be a good idea for you to start eating with Emmy and me over at the livery every evening, Ivy.” Jem hadn’t really thought about it before but the good Lord knew he of all people should be aware that it was no fun making a meal for only one person. He’d eaten a lot of meals at the men’s clubs dotted around the city – it was only since Emmy came to live with him that he’d begun planning meals for the pair of them.

  “I seem to eat with you often enough as it is.” Ivy stopped shovelling the soft food into her mouth and looked across at him.

  “So you do.” He stood to fetch the teapot from the black range. He’d things he needed to say to her and he’d better get them said before he got lost in the temptation offered by having her all to himself behind closed doors.

  “You’re in an unusual position, Ivy.” He put a hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing, while he leaned forward to pour the tea. “A young woman living alone, it’s practically unheard of – you know that yourself.” He carried the teapot back to the range, setting it carefully to the back out of the direct heat – the residual heat in the cast-iron range-top would keep the tea hot.

  “It is what it is.” She forced the food past the lump in her throat.

  “Ivy,” he took his seat again and stared across the table at her, “you can’t go on like this.”

  “What . . . ?”

  “You lock yourself away in these two rooms, beavering away while the world goes on around you.” He hated to be the one to put a halt to her gallop but there were things she needed to know.

  “I know what’s going on.” Ivy’s head almost disappeared into her shoulders as she sank down in her chair.

  “If you knew the half of what’s going on around here you’d never have asked Conn to knock on the Johnsons’ door. Declan Johnson has taken over the rent book on his da’s place.”

  “What!”

  “It’s a fact.” Jem wanted to punch something. “He walked into The Lane bold as brass . . . moved back in bag and baggage.”

  “I thought he’d gone to America or Australia or something.” Ivy gaped at Jem. “Has Declan Johnson lost what little mind he has? That Madame Violetta,” she named a well-known local brothel keeper, “still has a price on his head, for the good Lord’s sake.”

  “Nonetheless, the man’s back and by all accounts up to his old tricks.” Jem felt embarrassed colour stain his cheeks. Declan Johnson kept a stable of ‘wives’ he made money from. The local brothel keepers didn’t look kindly on anyone taking business away from them. “He’ll bring trouble to The Lane, Ivy. You and I both know that.”

  “Declan Johnson is the last thing any of us need.” Ivy felt the food she’d just eaten roil in her stomach. “Are the men not going to do anything?” The men of The Lane used their fists and hobnail boots to make troublemakers see reason.

  “He’s got a couple of big bruisers he’s paying to protect him.” Jem stared at the table top. In this day and age, it was every man for himself. “You need to talk to Billy Flint, Ivy.”

  “Jem, I can’t believe it’s you saying that!”

  “You think I don’t notice you checking over your shoulder every two minutes? You think I don’t know the danger you’re in walking around the streets of Dublin with money rattling in your pocket?” He forced himself to remain seated even though he wanted to shake the stubborn woman until her teeth rattled. “You can bet that Declan Johnson is keeping a close eye on your comings and goings.” He waited but Ivy remained silent. “I can’t be everywhere, Ivy. You need to talk to Billy Flint.”

  “I’m not going to pay protection money and that’s that, Jem.”

  Billy Flint was rumoured to control certain aspects of the Dublin street trade. It was said that he had his hand in the pocket of every man in Dublin.

  “I’d like me job paying that man for doing nothing.”

  “You’re a hard-headed woman, Ivy Murphy.” Jem pushed his hands through his hair. He bit his tongue on the words that wanted to come out of his mouth. She’d been paying her da for doing nothing most of her life. But he knew if he said something like that to her she’d be over the table trying to scalp him. “You have to take better care of yourself. There are a lot of people who care about you. We wouldn’t want to see anything happen to you.” He took a deep breath for courage. He’d been thinking about this ever since Declan Johnson showed his ugly face back in The Lane. “We’ve been walking out for a while now, Ivy. You know I think a lot of you. We get along okay. The thing is, if we were to marry, I’d have the right to take care of you . . . protect you.” He could almost taste the silence that followed his words.

  “Ah, Jem, I’m an unnatural woman.” Ivy reached across the table and took his two hands in hers as she admitted to her failing. Her large violet eyes were shadowed and serious as she stared into his green ones. “It’s usually the man dragging his feet when the word marriage is mentioned. Any woman in her right mind would be trippin’ yeh up and dragging yeh before the altar of God. I know that, Jem.” She squeezed the hands she held. “I appreciate yeh, honest I do. I would never be tempted to marry any man but you if that was me hope. It’s not you, Jem, it’s me. I don’t think of a new frock and cake when you mention weddings.” She shook her head, fighting tears. “I just see problems.”

  “Ivy, being married means facing your problems together.” He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. From his own point of view it wasn’t an ideal time to mention marriage. He hadn’t everything in place yet. He’d wanted to have more to offer her before he mentioned getting wed.

  “Where would we live for a start?” She was enjoying having her place to herself. She was able to leave her stuff sitting out around the place. She could allow the dust to gather while she took care of her business. Did worrying about something like that make her even more of an unnatural woman?

  “Ivy, six people lived in these two rooms,” he said quietly. “I could build
extra rooms under the eaves in the livery if it came to that. It’s not what I wanted to offer you, I admit that, but something has to be done. It frightens the life out of me watching you walk around the town unprotected.” He knew it was unfair but when Ivy married him she would be seen as his property, and a man would think twice before touching a woman known to have a strong man to protect her.

  “You have Emmy to think of . . .”

  “You know as well as I do that Emmy would be thrilled if you were to marry me,” Jem interrupted. “You can’t use her as an excuse.” He felt his heart sink. Had he made a mistake? Did Ivy not want to marry him?

  “Jem!” Oh, God, she’d hurt his feelings. The last thing she wanted to do. He was a good man, one of the best, but she’d so much to think about, so much to get done. She had plans for her own life, stuff she wanted to do while she was free to do it. Was that too much to ask?

  “I have to get back over the road.” Jem released her hands, pushed back his chair and stood. He’d said what he’d come to say. If the woman didn’t want to marry him, well, there was nothing he could do about that. He wasn’t going to sit here and beg.

  “I don’t want us to fight, Jem.” She too stood and simply waited to see what he would do. Had she ruined their friendship?

  “Ivy,” Jem sighed deeply while stepping around the table and pulling her into his arms, “I don’t know what to do with you, woman.” In a lot of ways he agreed with her. Neither of them was ready yet. It would be better if he had more time to build up his business but life went on no matter how hard you tried to plan your way.

  “Give me a bit of time, Jem.” Ivy stared up into his eyes. “Please!”

  “You can’t take too long, Ivy.” Jem bent his head towards her lips. “I’m only human.” He took her lips in a deep, devouring, kiss. The passion that flamed between them almost singed his skin. He couldn’t continue to hold and kiss her like this then turn to walk out the door. It hurt too much and he was afraid that one of these days the temptation to throw her down on the nearby bed would overcome him. He would not dishonour Ivy like that. She deserved better.

  Chapter 5

  Ivy turned over in bed and slowly awakened to the muted sounds of the tenements around her coming to life. She felt as if she’d only just closed her eyes. She’d tossed and turned half the night again. Every time she closed her eyes lately she’d see Jem’s hurt face when he made his offer of marriage. It had been almost a week and she still hadn’t come up with an answer. Why wasn’t she dancing in the streets with joy? What was wrong with her? She sighed deeply, wanting to just pull the covers over her head and escape her problems by falling back asleep.

  She lay there, reluctant to take that first step out of her warm cocoon and into the cold she could feel biting at her nose. She imagined she could hear women shouting at their menfolk and older sons, trying to get them out of bed. The women employed by the local factories would be yelling abuse and threats as they tried to prepare for the day ahead. She knew the younger children in the family managed to somehow sleep through the noise around them. They too would be awakened soon to get ready for school. For the fortunate few the sound of raking coals would mean heat and perhaps a bowl of oatmeal gruel to start the day.

  The tenement day began in relays. First the men, on their way down to the nearby docks hoping to find some kind of work, would march their hobnailed boots out of the cobbled courtyard. The female factory workers crept around the place. The homeless men sleeping rough, wrapped in newspapers on the inner staircases, would start to scratch and stretch, hoping for a cup of tea and perhaps a chunk of bread to fill their aching stomachs. There were very few gainfully employed men living in the tenements.

  Ivy looked through the almost pitch darkness of her room over at the glowing embers of the coals in her black range. She was living high on the hog in comparison to most of her neighbours. She had a sheet on her bed and even though she’d felt guilty she’d kept the last lot of torn and tattered blankets she’d collected on her round. She’d repaired the holes with the invisible mending Granny had taught her. She didn’t know herself these cold mornings. Too many mornings she’d awoken to ice forming from her breath through the night. To be able to afford to keep the fire burning night and day was an unimagined blessing she’d never take for granted.

  She threw the blankets back and sat up shivering – even with the fire burning low all night the room was cold. She searched under the bedclothes for her knitted slippers. Keeping articles of clothing in bed with you through the night kept the items warm at least. She pulled the slippers over her feet and bravely stepped out of bed onto the freezing cold floor.

  “Right.” She rearranged her ‘poor man’s pyjamas’ over her shivering body. The long loose hand-knit jumper she’d pulled over her head was still in place but the bottom jumper, her legs forced through the arms, was adrift. She settled the bottom jumper as well as she could. It was uncomfortable with the neck opening hanging between her knees but she needed the heat.

  She trembled her way by touch and familiarity to the big black range. Her seeking fingers easily found the twisted paper she’d formed and laid out the night before. In almost total darkness she crossed to the glass-covered gas lamps set in the wall. She removed the glass domes from both lamps before returning to light the paper from the glowing embers of the fire. A quick flick of her wrist on the chain-pull released the gas and soon both lamps were burning brightly.

  With a relieved sigh she crossed to the tall, blue flower-decorated porcelain chamber pot that stood in one corner of the room, concealed by a curtain hung on a string. She’d spotted the chamber pot or ‘po’ on her round. It had been dumped in a backyard and ignored for years. The tall po’s had fallen out of fashion after the Merrion Square houses had changed to indoor plumbing. She’d brought the po home on her pram then spent hours scrubbing it clean. The heavy knee-high porcelain chamber pot made a nice change from a metal bucket. She took care of her bodily functions while frantically trying to plan her day.

  “I’ll have to try and get a load of stuff ready for the market tomorrow. At least it’s a Thursday and I have the whole day to meself to get things sorted. I’ll have to try and shift as much stuff as possible at the Tuesday and Friday markets next week. I don’t know how I’m going to get everything needed done. The dealers round the markets will be looking for stuff they can sell for Christmas. I’ll be able to get rid of most of the stuff I have ready to shift. God alone knows when I’ll be able to get back to my usual routine. It won’t be long before I’ll be out selling those Cinderella dolls.”

  She stood with a sigh and drifted over to her bed, picked her black-knit shawl from the bottom of the bed and threw it over her shoulders.

  “I’ve that much to do,” she sighed.

  She filled the black kettle with warm water from the reservoir on the range and set it to one side on top of the still-warm range. She dropped to her knees and began taking care of the most important morning chore, cleaning out the fireplace and getting the fire burning brightly. She did it with relish, remembering all the mornings she’d shivered with cold and hunger. Those days were in the past. If she had anything to say about it she was never going back there.

  “I can’t be neglecting me own little world, no matter what Jem Ryan says.”

  She scooped the hot, red-sprinkled ash out of the range pit, dropping it into the old biscuit tin she kept for that purpose. She was making a conscious effort not to think of Jem. If she just kept herself busy maybe everything would turn out all right. She ignored the little jeering voice in her head whispering that hiding her head in the sand exposed her rear end for a swift kick.

  The fire was burning brightly in the grate when Ivy pushed the big black kettle into place over the flames. She was worthless until she’d had her first pot of tea of the day. She filled an enamel bowl with water and took a large cake of kitchen soap sitting on a cracked side plate from a shelf on her kitchen dresser, then carried both over to the ta
ble sitting against the wall leading to the back door.

  She stepped over to the big iron bed and pulled the well-worn long black skirt and hand-knit twin set she’d worn yesterday from under the bedclothes. The outfit would do her well enough for the day. She’d cover everything with the apron that was almost a uniform for the women of Dublin. The apron, a long dark cotton sleeveless wraparound affair would cover her from neck to ankles.

  The big black kettle was spitting steam from its spout when she turned back with her chosen clothes over her arm. She dropped the clothes on one of her kitchen chairs and hurried over to fill her metal teapot and sit it back on the warm range top to brew. “I’m losing the run of meself,” she said, pouring the rest of the water from the kettle into the enamel bowl sitting on the kitchen table. She refilled the kettle before sitting it well back on the range. She moved her teapot away from the hottest part of the range and left it warming on the back of the range top.

  In an automatic gesture she took the special tool hanging by a string over the range and lifted the hot cover from the water reservoir to check the water level. She replaced the top with a sigh. She needed to fetch more water from the single freestanding outdoor tap that was the only water supply for the tenements.

  “This getting washed and dressed every morning doesn’t half use up me water supply.”

  Ivy had only recently been able to wash and dress herself in comfort every morning. Unlike the majority of the people living in the tenements she no longer slept in her clothes. Having lived most of her life with her da and brothers underfoot, privacy to take care of her bodily needs was a newly treasured gift.