Through Streets Broad and Narrow (Ivy Rose Series Book 1)

by Gemma Jackson

  GEMMA JACKSON

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2013

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  E-mail: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  www.poolbeg.com

  © Gemma Jackson 2013

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  1

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-84223-614-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the Author

  Gemma Jackson, a Holy Catholic Irish girl from Dublin, left home for the first time at seventeen – to see what was out there. With no money and the best education the nuns could give, she set off on her worldwide ‘adventures’. To a great extent, she’s still adventuring.

  Gemma has worked her way around the world, taking whatever work was legal and available. She has herded sheep in Devon, been air hostess to the Shah of Iran and written speeches for a TV evangelist.

  Gemma’s motto is: ‘I’ll try anything once. If I don’t like it I won’t do it again.’ She has one child.

  Through Streets Broad and Narrow is Gemma’s debut novel, a fictional amalgamation of the stories she grew up hearing of the The Lane in Dublin.

  Acknowledgements

  I have to give thanks to the people who populate my world, starting with me da Patrick Jackson who convinced me as a child that the Dublin Horse Show was put on to celebrate my birthday. Sure what did I want with a present when the biggest event of the year was put on just for me?

  Me ma, Rose Jackson, who taught her children the world was their oyster – get out there and look for the pearl and light a candle while you’re about it.

  My daughter Astrid, who got the short end of the stick having me for a mother. Thanks for the oceans of tea you’ve brewed and served to me. Thanks for shouting at me to “stand and stretch”. I got a good one when I got you.

  The strangers I’ve met on my travels who took me in, educated and nurtured me until I left on the next stage of my adventure. I’ve passed through so many lives and learned so many weird and wonderful things on my travels. The world is a great place.

  The people at Poolbeg. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for allowing me to tell my stories and see them in print. You can have no idea of the wonder and joy you’ve brought to my life. Paula Campbell and Gaye Shortland, two ladies who have earned their places in heaven having to deal with me.

  Words of wisdom for my daughter Astrid McCorkle without whom this book would not have been possible.

  As you pass through life pain is inevitable.

  Suffering is optional.

  Anon

  Chapter 1

  The sound of her own teeth chattering woke Ivy Murphy from her uneasy sleep. She had a crick in her neck and every bone in her body wanted to complain. Ivy didn’t know if the aches she felt were the result of her uncomfortable position in her battered fireside chair or her shenanigans in the street earlier. The Lane had celebrated the brand-new year with a lively street party.

  Ivy didn’t drink alcohol but she’d been the first to start dancing and singing. To someone unused to celebration it had been a wonderful way to greet the year 1925. She’d been giddy with happiness until she’d returned home.

  Ivy stared in the general direction of the battered clock ticking away on her mantelpiece. She had no idea how long she’d slept. She’d been waiting for her da to come home, praying he had a few coppers left in his pocket.

  “Stupid woman,” Ivy muttered, trying to stand.

  It was pitch-black and cold, the fire in the grate having died completely. She couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. By feel and familiarity she found a couple of matches and pulled the chain on one of the glass-covered lamps situated on the side of the mantel. She struck the match off the mantelpiece and held the tiny flame to the gas jet. The light flickered weakly. The gas supply coughed and sputtered. A sure sign indicating the need for more money in the gas meter.

  “Da, are you home?” She kicked the black knitted shawl she’d used to cover her knees away from her. The darn thing was wrapped around her ankles. She stumbled, shivering in the cold predawn air. “Da, where are you?” She held her arms in front of her as she made her way to the second of the two rooms they called home. She pushed the heavy wood door ajar.

  “Da, it’s black as pitch in here.” She sniffed the air like a hound. Her da smelt like the bottom of a barrel after a night on the tiles. “Da!” she shouted again even though she knew the back room was empty of life. “Where in the name of God did yeh get to, Da?”

  Ivy longed to collapse on the floor and scream like a banshee.

  “It’s past four in the morning. Where can he be? The pubs are all closed,” she sobbed.

  Last night, not for the first time, Éamonn Murphy had cleaned out the jar she kept her housekeeping money in – the rent-money jar was empty too. Thanks to her da’s two-finger habit, Ivy always checked her cash before she went to bed. There wasn’t a penny piece to be found in the place. Her da had waited until Ivy joined the street party before stealing the money and disappearing with his drinking cronies.

  The sound of footsteps coming down the entry steps had Ivy spinning around towards the window of their basement flat. It wasn’t her father: the footsteps were steady. Ivy froze for a moment. Should she blow out the gas lamp and pretend she was asleep?

  “Miss Murphy! It’s Officer Collins, Miss Murphy.” The soft words were accompanied by the rap of knuckles on the entry door. The Murphys were fortunate in that their basement rooms had a private entrance, a luxury in the tenements. “Miss Murphy!”

  “Officer Collins!” Ivy opened the door, trying to make out the features of the man standing in the concrete cage that framed the iron steps leading down to the doorway. Officer Collins was a familiar face to the residents of these tenements. “What in the name of God are you doing at my door?”

  “Could I come inside, Miss Murphy?”

  Barney Collins wished he was anywhere but here. He’d walked the streets of this tenement block known locally as “The Lane” for years. Ivy Murphy was a well-known local figure. She’d pushed a pram around the high-class streets that existed only yards away from the squalor of The Lane from the time she was knee-high to a grasshopper.

  Ivy stepped back and watched the tall police officer remove his hat and bend his head to enter the tiny hallway. “I can’t offer yeh a cup of tea,” she said, leading him into the front room. “It’s a bit early for visitors.”

  “I wonder if we could have a bit more light on the subject?” Barney Collins couldn’t see a thing in the flickering gaslight. With Ivy’s pride in mind he held out a copper pe
nny and offered it to her with the words: “Saves you searching in the dark.” Barney well knew everyone in these tenements squeezed every penny until it screamed but right now he needed to be able to see the woman.

  “Give me a minute.” Ivy was glad the dim light hid her burning cheeks.

  She hurried into the hallway and quickly pulled the door of the cupboard that hid the gas meter open. The strength went from her legs when she noticed the broken seal on the money-box of the meter. Her da had nicked the gas money as well. Ivy passed the penny through. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she thought, catching the penny in her open palm and passing it through the meter again.

  “Thank you, Officer,” Ivy said, returning the coin to the policeman. “I had several coins on top of the meter.” She lied without a blush but she was mortified at being forced to play penny tag with a police officer.

  She quickly lit the second gas lamp on the mantel. With very little fuss she raked the fire and in minutes had a blaze climbing up the chimney. When you came in freezing from the winter conditions you needed to get the fire going, fast. Paper, sticks and small nuggets of coal were kept close to hand.

  Ivy wiped her black-stained hands on a damp rag hanging by the grate, before turning back around to face Officer Collins. To give her father his due, he was a dab hand at finding nuggets of coal spilled around the docks. He sold some for drink money but always made sure there was enough at home for his own comfort.

  “What’s going on?” Ivy sank down into one of the chairs flanking the fireplace. She gestured towards the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news.” Barney Collins perched on the edge of the chair, staring at the woman opposite.

  Ivy Murphy was a good-looking young woman. In the proper clothes she would stand out in any company. Her blue-black hair pulled back into an old-fashioned bun suited her face. The starvation diet of the tenements gave her face a high-boned patrician appearance. Eyes of brilliant blue framed by thick black lashes stared across the space between them.

  “Just get it out quick, please.” Ivy forced the words out. Her lips felt frozen and her teeth wanted to rattle, but she sat stiffly upright. “What has me da been up to now?”

  “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Miss Murphy.” Barney Collins swallowed audibly. “Sometime during the early hours of this morning, in what we believe was a drunken stupor, your father Éamonn Murphy fell into the cement horse trough outside Brennan’s public house and drowned.”

  “Me da is dead?” Ivy fell back against the chair, her hand going to her incredibly narrow neck, almost as if she needed help holding up her head. “That’s not possible. I’m expecting me da home any minute.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Barney Collins wondered if he was going to have a hysterical woman on his hands.

  “He’s really dead?” Ivy whispered. “You’re sure? It’s not some kind of mistake?”

  “I’m sure, Miss Murphy. I know your father well enough to make a positive identification.”

  “Yes, I suppose you do.” Ivy wanted to float away, disappear. What on earth was she supposed to do now?

  “Ivy, Miss Murphy, is there anyone I could call to be with you?” Barney Collins couldn’t just leave the poor young woman here alone.

  “There’s only me and me da,” Ivy whispered. “All the others left.” Her three younger brothers had taken the mail-boat to England as soon as each turned sixteen. Ivy hadn’t seen or heard from them since.

  “I could knock on Father Leary’s door if you like,” Barney offered. “I pass his house on my way home.”

  “He’d only be round here with his hand out!” Ivy blurted out before slapping her hand across her mouth. It didn’t do to badmouth the clergy in Holy Catholic Ireland.

  “I see.” Barney Collins was astonished to hear anyone dare to voice a negative comment on the clergy. The poverty-stricken families living in this slum were devoted Catholics. The people of The Lane accepted the decisions of the priest before the law of the land. Every family gave pennies they couldn’t afford to the Church each Sunday and every Saint’s Day. It was a wonder the local church didn’t burn down with the number of candles these people lit.

  “I’m sure you don’t see.” Ivy grinned in spite of herself. “I have a problem . . .” she paused, wondering how much to say, “with the Church. It’s a well-known fact in these parts.”

  “I’ll have to leave you to it then,” Barney Collins was unsure what to make of this situation. “The death certificate and your father’s body will be waiting for you at the morgue in the basement of Kevin’s Hospital. Because of the time of year,” he shook his head – it was a rotten start to 1925 for this woman, “it will be a few days before the body is released into your care.”

  “Thank you for coming in person to tell me.” Ivy stood waiting for Officer Collins to push himself upright, then slowly walked the police officer to the door. She wanted a cup of tea and time alone to think.

  “I’ll keep in touch if you don’t mind,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Ivy held out one pale, cold, shaking hand, offering a handshake as a token of her gratitude. It was all she could afford.

  “Let me know if I can help in any way.” Barney Collins stepped through the open door and replaced his uniform hat on his head. “It seems almost insulting to wish you a Happy New Year,” he shrugged, “but I don’t know what else to say.” He began to climb the iron stairs leading up to the street. When he reached street level he turned with his hand on the iron railings to look down. The door was closed tight, the gas lamps extinguished.

  Ivy wasn’t even aware of turning off the gas lamps – the habit of saving money by any means possible was bred into her bones. She dropped back into her chair, staring without seeing into the fire.

  “What in the name of all that’s good and holy am I going to do now?” she croaked aloud, tears running down her cheeks unnoticed. Her da had left her without a brass farthing to her name. There was no way she could give him the send-off he would want, the kind of send-off his friends and drinking cronies would expect. Her body began to shake as she tried to grasp the situation she found herself in. What would she do? Where could she go?

  Ivy finally gave in to the sobs she’d been forcing back since she heard the news. Her big, tough, rascal of a da was gone. She’d never see him again. She’d never again scream at him for the trouble he never failed to bring to her door.

  “Tea, I need a river of tea.” Ivy wiped her hands across her wet cheeks, her eyes sore from the ocean of tears that had poured from her shaking heart.

  She grabbed the heavy black kettle from the grate and without conscious thought picked up the galvanised water bucket. She hoped she could get down the back of the tenement building to the communal outdoor tap without anyone seeing her. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. All she was capable of thinking of at this moment was her desperate need for a cup of tea. She wanted to think, plan, try and find some way out of this nightmare.

  While the heavy stream of water slapped against the bucket a smoky rasp issued from the half-open door of the outside toilet.

  “Jesus, would yeh have some mercy for the suffering of others!”

  Ivy raised her eyes to heaven, praying she’d have all the water she needed before Nelly Kelly came storming out to see who was out and about at this hour. Nelly made no secret of her admiration for Ivy’s da. She’d try to barge her way in to see him. Ivy knew enough about the mating of animals to know what the noises coming from her da’s room meant whenever Nelly closed the door that separated the two rooms. Nelly was the last thing she needed this morning.

  The kettle and bucket filled at last, she scurried away and back to the basement.

  There she sat for hours at the table under the window of their front room, moving only occasionally to tend the fire and add hot water to the tea she sipped through pale lips. She held the chipped enamel mug to her mouth with two hands, trying to
force her mind to settle into some useful train of thought. She listened to children scream in the street and barely flinched when the steel rim the boys were playing with fell down the basement steps with an unmerciful clatter. Even Nelly Kelly’s screamed curses and shouted abuse failed to penetrate the daze she’d fallen into. She had to think.

  She’d visit her da. That was the Christian thing to do. Her head almost wagged off her shoulders as she nodded frantically at the first solid idea that had come to her. She’d go and see her da – then she’d be able to think.

  She stood and stared around the sparsely furnished room, wondering what she should do first. She banked the fire with wet newspaper, causing clouds of grey smoke to fill the chimney breast.

  Without thought she picked up the threadbare old army overcoat one of her brothers left behind. She pulled the coat over her shaking body. Throwing the black knitted shawl over her head and shoulders, she wrapped the belt of the coat around her waist to hold the long ends of the shawl in place. Without a backward glance she let herself out of the only home she’d ever known.

  Ivy ignored the shouts of the children playing in the square cobblestoned courtyard. She was aware of the women leaning in the open doors of the block of twelve Georgian tenements at her back but didn’t respond to their shouted greetings. She stared without seeing across the courtyard at the local livery, a long barn-like building that snaked along one complete side of this hidden square. Mothers yelled at their children from the row of two-storey, double-fronted houses that marched across the furthest end of the square but Ivy didn’t hear them.