She sniffed the air like a hound, checking to see that everything was as she’d left it. She knew every inch, sound and smell of these two rooms. She didn’t need light but Ann Marie didn’t have that advantage.
“You should carry a Vesta case or gas lighter with you when you go out, Ivy,” Ann Marie suggested.
Ivy ignored her friend. It was either that or snigger. Ann Marie meant well but the woman hadn’t a clue. A Vesta case, I ask yer sacred pardon! Ivy shook her head. I suppose I should get a solid-gold Vesta like the lighter Ann Marie carries, she thought. A solid-gold match box – wouldn’t that make the cat laugh?
After locking her door, with Ann Marie’s hand still gripping hers Ivy made her way into her back room. She took the time to guide Ann Marie to one of her two wooden chairs placed at the big kitchen table.
Ivy hurried to light a spill of newspaper from the glowing embers in the range. In moments she had the two gas lamps lit and the fire stirred to a blaze. A warm welcoming glow filled the room.
“So, Ivy Murphy,” Ann Marie put her bent elbows on the table and dropped her chin into her hands, “are you going to tell me what went on around here today?”
“You know, Ann Marie,” Ivy ignored the question, “for only the second time in my life I don’t want a cup of tea – but I’m going to make us a pot anyway. It’ll give me something to do with my hands.”
“You’re making me nervous.” Ann Marie stood and walked over to sit in one of the two large battered, ugly stuffed chairs in front of the black range. “I thought the world would have to end before Miss Ivy Murphy refused a cup of tea.” She watched Ivy bustle around the room in a very un-Ivy-like fashion. She didn’t seem to be able to settle. For a moment it even looked as if Ivy couldn’t remember how to make a pot of tea – an impossibility – but she finally got it made and left the teapot warming on the hob.
“Do you know anything about booze, Ann Marie?” Ivy was on her knees now, her bottom stuck in the air, the top half of her body buried under the brass bed.
“I beg your pardon?” Ann Marie wasn’t absolutely sure she’d heard correctly. Ivy’s voice was muffled by the behemoth of a bed she was currently trying to crawl underneath.
“Does booze go off?” Ivy was backing out from under the bed. “I mean does it go bad or what?”
“I have no idea.”
Ivy used the side of the bed to push herself to her feet. She clutched a clear glass bottle of her da’s precious poitín in her fist. No matter what the circumstance, someone in The Lane always had enough potatoes to make the strong spirit. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to put a drop of this stuff in our tea.” She held the bottle aloft. “Me da always claimed it was good for what ailed yeh.”
“What is it?” Ann Marie asked.
“You don’t want to know, Ann Marie.” Ivy poured the tea then added a few drops of the clear liquid in each dragonfly decorated teacup. “Just get it into yeh.” She held out the cup and saucer to Ann Marie, her eyes daring her to refuse.
“You, Miss Ivy Murphy,” Ann Marie took the cup and saucer with a grin, “will be the death of me.”
“Bottoms up!” Ivy dropped into the chair facing Ann Marie across the range. “If we die tonight, Ann Marie, sure we’ll go together.” She giggled.
“That’s not very reassuring, Miss Murphy.” Ann Marie took a dainty sip of the laced tea. “Sweet Lord!” She felt as if she’d swallowed a burning ember. “That will certainly clear the system of every parasite known to man.”
“So me da always claimed.” Ivy too gasped at the first taste of the liquid in her cup. “Sweet Jaysus! Well, if it doesn’t kill us, Ann Marie, it’ll cure us.”
“As you say.” Ann Marie took a second sip. It went down more smoothly than the first.
The two women sat in silence, sipping their laced tea and staring into the glowing embers of the fire in the big black range. The darkness outside the single window in the room deepened.
“Would you care for more tea, Ann Marie?” Ivy’s voice broke the comfortable silence.
“Thank you.” Ann Marie passed her cup and saucer over. “I’d prefer straight tea this time, though, Ivy. That liquor holds quite a kick. I’m afraid my head is already spinning.”
“We’re a pair of lightweights.” Ivy felt her own head turn when she stood up. She’d added very little of the poitín to their teacups. She couldn’t imagine how her da had managed to guzzle the stuff.
“Are you ever going to explain what went on out in The Lane today to me, Ivy?”
“It’s a feckin’ mess, Ann Marie.” Ivy passed the refilled cup to Ann Marie before taking her own seat again. She didn’t feel capable of even thinking about the problems the discovery of a contagious disease would bring to The Lane. She’d have to handle whatever came . . . only . . . not tonight. Still, Ann Marie was concerned and deserved an explanation.
“I’ll tell yeh a story.” Ivy smiled sadly, remembering the game her da had played with them that started with those words. “When I was about six or seven years old,” she sat back in her chair, “before my mother left home . . .” Ivy’s life was divided into two sections, before her mother Violet deserted the family and after, when the fate of her family rested firmly in Ivy’s hands. “It wasn’t the first time the do-gooders came to call but it’s the first I remember.” She closed her eyes. “I didn’t understand the entire situation at the time. I only knew The Lane was in an uproar.”
“Ivy . . .” Ann Marie hated to see her friend hurting. She reached across and touched Ivy’s knee gently, reminding her that she was not alone.
“Our neighbours – the Keegans – a lovely family . . .” Ivy felt tears roll down her cheeks. She wouldn’t be drinking that feckin’ poitín again any time soon. It left yeh feelin’ all soft and sentimental. “I knew the two youngest girls. Maura and Molly were around my age so we played together in the courtyard. We sat together on the stairs listening to the storytellers. Molly loved storytime almost as much as me.”
“What happened?” Ann Marie prompted when the silence in the room was almost touchable. She didn’t know what this story had to do with the happenings in The Lane today but Ivy obviously needed to tell it.
“Mrs Keegan had a bad fall in Grafton Street.” Ivy didn’t know if she remembered the facts or if the story had grown over the years. “They took her to hospital. She’d broken her foot and needed to be in a plaster cast. When Mr Keegan went to visit his wife, to see what was going on . . .” Ivy took a deep shaky breath, “the do-gooders came, supposedly to look after the children. They decided that the two older ones could be left alone but they took Molly and Maura away with them. They were going to take care of them, they said, until Mrs Keegan was back on her feet.” The situation in The Lane today had brought up memories Ivy would prefer to forget.
“Mr Keegan went mad when he got back from the hospital and discovered what had been done.” Ivy remembered the shouting and screaming. “He went to the convent and demanded the return of his children but was turned away.” She had to stop to swallow the tears that clogged her throat. “The neighbours got involved. Me da went to the priest and asked him to help.”
Ann Marie sat silently, waiting for Ivy to continue in her own time.
“The two girls were never seen around here again,” Ivy offered eventually. “Mr and Mrs Keegan have never stopped trying to find the two girls. It’s because of them we know what happens to the children that are taken from The Lane.”
“What, Ivy?”
“Molly and Maura were separated and sent to Canada,” Ivy said. “The do-gooders insist that the two girls are living with loving families. The girls, the do-gooders claim, have been placed with wealthy couples that want children.”
“The family know at least that their children are loved and well cared for,” Ann Marie offered quietly. She could understand wanting to take young children out of the abject poverty of The Lane. It broke her heart to see the children running around in badly fitting clothing, the
ir feet naked and blue from the cold cobblestones.
“Oh, Ann Marie, grow up!” Ivy almost snapped.
“I beg your pardon!” Ann Marie said. It was obvious that she’d once more missed the point.
“I’m sorry.” Ivy remained silent for a moment. “I overheard my mother and me da talking. Me da thought the same as yourself.” She remembered the scorn in her mother’s voice. She’d never heard that disdain directed at her da before. Her mother reserved that tone for the people of The Lane. “It was my mother’s considered opinion that the children taken from The Lane would be sold into a form of slavery.”
“I can’t believe that, Ivy,” Ann Marie gasped.
“Think about it for a minute, Ann Marie – you’ve seen something of it yourself.”
“I most certainly have not.”
“I suppose you think young Davy, your aunt’s boot boy, is leading a full and exciting life?” Ivy snapped. “The lad sleeps in the fireplace and is treated like a dog by every passing servant. You didn’t even know he existed until I took you into the servants’ quarters.”
There was a long wounded silence between the two women, their awareness of the differences in their social standing almost a living presence in the room with them.
“I’m sorry.” Ivy took a deep calming breath. It wasn’t Ann Marie’s fault that life was unfair. “I’m sorry, Ann Marie, that was uncalled for. It’s just sometimes I get angry about ‘me station in life’.” Ivy mocked the words she’d heard all of her life.
“After the happenings of this day, Ivy, I can’t blame you for needing to lash out.” Ann Marie had never felt so helpless in her life.
“It’s still not fair, Ann Marie, but then who ever said life was fair? It seems to me I have more understanding of the difference in our station because of my mother.” Violet Bruton had married very far beneath her own station in life. Her family had cut her off completely, refusing to acknowledge either her marriage or her children. “Perhaps that’s why I’m not willing to settle. The people of The Lane accept their lot in life. I can’t, Ann Marie. I simply refuse to be treated like a piece of substandard trash.”
Ann Marie was lost for words.
“I shouldn’t take my frustration out on you, Ann Marie. Today knocked the stuffing out of me.” Ivy stood to take care of the range while she spoke. “I can’t bear to think of young Seán being locked away. He’ll never accept the separation from his mother. And the thought of what the do-gooders will do to Ginie Johnson will keep me awake at night.”
“How can I help, Ivy?” Ann Marie was completely out of her depth and she knew it.
“I wish I knew, Ann Marie.” Ivy fought the tears that wanted to fall. What was the use of crying? “I wish I knew.”
Chapter 22
Ivy cut through a tunnel that led to the service area of the tall buildings that lined Fitzwilliam Square. This lane would be her last stop before turning around and making her way home by a different route.
She felt all at sixes and sevens today. Jem was still insisting that she should talk to Billy Flint. He seemed to believe that your one, Betty Armstrong had a strong ‘in’ there and could introduce Ivy to the man. He’d offered again to go with her to see Flint but she couldn’t bring herself to make that move.
“Afternoon to yeh, Ivy!” Curly called out as Ivy pushed her pram past his hut.
“Hello, Curly, how’s yourself?” She knew she really didn’t have time to visit but it cost nothing to be polite.
“Can’t complain, Ivy – the rain’s keeping off – so, can’t complain.” He stood up from his perch on an upturned bucket and leaned out of his shed. “That pram is riding terrible low today, Ivy. You need to do something before the auld thing collapses on yeh.”
“I’ll do that.” Ivy wasn’t really paying attention to the old man’s words – her mind was buzzing with things she had to get done.
“Have yeh time to stop for a mug of tea?” Curly asked. “Moocher wants a word with yeh. He’s out walking his beat but he wants to talk to yeh.”
“I can’t stop, Curly.” She was chasing her own tail today.
“Moocher says that well-dressed fella is hanging around the lanes again today.” Curly stepped out of the hut and put his hand on the handle of her pram. He could see she was ready to run off. “Moocher is worried – he says the fella only turns up the days you’re passing. You need to keep your eyes open. The fella could be up to no good. Shout out if you need us.” He stepped back into his hut. It was too cold to stand outside for long.
Ivy heard the words the old man said but she didn’t take them in. She’d so much to think about, so much to do. The days were passing so quickly. It was almost time for her to start selling her Cinderella dolls. Every time she stopped to think of that her stomach knotted.
That The Lane was still under close scrutiny by the local health authorities didn’t help matters. The nuns had, as she’d feared, taken it into their heads to visit every single dwelling in the tenements. To top everything off, there was still no news about Seán and Ginie. The Johnsons had disappeared into official hands and that was all anyone could discover about the situation.
The servants of Fitzwilliam Square knew to watch out for Ivy every Wednesday. It didn’t surprise her to see someone further along, stepping onto the packed earth of the lane that ran along the back yards of these houses. It was probably one of the under-maids – with a bit of ribbon or lace she wanted Ivy to sell on for her. Then the figure disappeared and Ivy turned her pram into the nearest back yard.
These houses had short walled yards that insured privacy to each dwelling. She walked slowly past the servants’ outdoor ‘necessary’ – sometimes one of the younger servants hid in the toilet waiting to pass on items they wanted her to sell. Today no one stepped out. She continued on past the cement-block hut that was used for storing coal and household supplies – it was locked tight.
She was startled to see Mrs Quinn the housekeeper suddenly appear in the open back door of the house in front of her. Mrs Quinn never came to the back door – it was beneath her dignity. Ivy always dealt with one of the maids at this house.
“Here, Ivy.” Mrs Quinn shoved a thick newspaper-wrapped parcel into Ivy’s hands. “I haven’t time to talk.” Then she whispered, “Young Hetty from next door left a message . . .” The message had been passed along to the housekeeper as was only right and proper. “They’re needing a word.” She slammed the door in Ivy’s face, leaving her staring open-mouthed at the tightly shut wooden panel.
“What the heck was that about?” Ivy wondered aloud to herself.
She turned and went back down the yard. She stepped out onto the alleyway that connected the back yards. For a moment she imagined she caught a glimpse of the man Moocher had warned her about. She stood for a moment to check, then when she saw nothing further she wanted to kick herself. She went on her way, shaking her head in disgust at her own foolishness. She’d be jumping at her own shadow soon.
“Ivy, I’ve been watching for yeh – I thought you’d never get here!” Hetty Allan stepped out into the alleyway. She grabbed Ivy and, almost pulling her arm out of its socket, pulled her into the yard of the house where she was employed and towards the back entrance.
“So I see.” Ivy tried to shake her arm free. “Will yeh let up, Hetty – you’re going to pull me arm off!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Ivy,” Hetty wailed. “I’m that nervous.”
“What’s wrong?” Ivy could see that Hetty was upset. It wasn’t like the placid woman Ivy knew. Hetty had come up from County Cork to work in this grand house. She’d been here for about six years as far as Ivy could remember. The gentry who owned these big houses didn’t employ Dubliners, fearing they’d be murdered in their beds by a people who refused to recognise their place.
“It’s old Nanny Grace,” Hetty whispered with a frightened glance over her shoulder. She’d thought she’d caught a glimpse of a gent following Ivy. It must have been her imagination. The good Lord
knew things were so up in the air at the minute nothing would surprise her.
“What about her?”
The old woman had been a part of this house since before Ivy’s mother was born. She’d been kind to Ivy through the years, making sure she was given the clothes her young charges grew out of. Ivy’s brothers had been dressed like little toffs thanks to old Nanny Grace. Ivy wouldn’t forget that.
“She wants to talk to yeh,” Hetty whispered.
Poor Hetty, Ivy thought. She couldn’t be more than eighteen. She’d come to Dublin a fresh-faced farm girl but the years of service had taken the flesh from her bones and the bloom from her cheeks. She was now pasty white and painfully thin. “She wants to talk to yeh in private, Ivy.”
“All right,” Ivy said, simply for something to say.
“She wants to talk to you, Ivy, up in the nursery.” Hetty stared, waiting for the penny to drop.
“What?” Ivy barked. “Me, go in there – me, go upstairs – in there?” She felt lightheaded, her blood tingling with nervous excitement. She’d never been past the back door of any of these houses.
“That’s what Nanny Grace wants.” Hetty, now that she had Ivy in her hands, felt almost weak with relief. She’d been so afraid she’d miss Ivy. The woman went down these back lanes at a speed that would frighten the horses. She’d been keeping watch for what seemed like ages but it had been worth it. She’d promised Nanny Grace she’d deliver Ivy Murphy up to see her and by God she was going to do just that.
“What’ll I do with me pram?” Ivy wasn’t willing to leave her well-stocked pram parked out for anyone’s hands to riffle through.
Ha'Penny Chance (Ivy Rose Series Book 2) Page 18
