Growing Up Ivy
Growing Up Ivy
a novel
Peggy Dymond Leavey
Copyright ©Peggy Dymond Leavey, 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Allison Hirst
Design: Jennifer Scott
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Leavey, Peggy Dymond
Growing up Ivy : a novel / by Peggy Dymond Leavey.
ISBN 978-1-55488-723-1
I. Title.
PS8573.E2358G76 2010 jC813’.54 C2009-907480-X
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
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To the real Miss Derek,
the teacher who started it all
Acknowledgements
I would like to acknowledge the assistance of the County of Prince Edward Public Library, the Quinte West Public Library, and the Toronto Reference Library in directing me to sources relating to the Great Depression; also Robert Paul, editor/publisher of the online typewriter museum, for finding the Corona 3.
Special thanks to my mother-in-law, Janet Brinklow Leavey, for telling me what it was like for a young girl growing up in the Dirty Thirties, and to the original members of my writing group, Women of Words, for their support and encouragement, and for believing in Ivy.
Prologue
Ivy woke to the sound of whispering. She lay perfectly still, eyes wide, her ears straining.
The moon shone in through the window at the back of the caravan. Something rustled away through the dry grass underneath.
“Ivy.” The whispered voice came again.
“Momma?” Ivy said, out loud.
“Don’t try to find me, darling girl.”
In the moonlight, Ivy saw Alva roll over onto his other side. “You’re dreaming again, Ivy,” he said.
PART ONE
Ivy
1
Leaving Mrs. Bingley’s
On an early June morning in 1931, a tall child, dark hair in two long braids, elbowed open the door of a Toronto diner. She was wearing a shapeless blue coat, in spite of the warm weather, and carrying a suitcase in her arms, as if it had no handle.
She set the suitcase into the nearest booth and, slipping off the coat, sat down facing the door.
Her mother had just deserted her — up and left the day before — and the girl, whose name was Ivy, not yet thirteen. At least, that’s the story her grandmother would always tell. Ivy didn’t happen to see it that way.
Gloria Klein, a waitress at the diner, hurried over to take her order. When she saw that her customer was young Ivy Chalmers, she stuck her pencil into her hairnet and took a seat beside the suitcase.
“She did it, didn’t she?” Gloria said, a grim look on her freckled face. “Frannie’s taken off.”
“Taken off?” Ivy shrugged. “She’s gone to New York, like she said she would. And she wants to be called Frances now, Gloria. Now that she’s going to be a star.”
Gloria blew out a loud breath. “Well, she’ll always be just Frannie to me. We’ve been friends too long for anything else. Anyway, I’m glad she got away from this dump.”
Ivy cast a puzzled look around at the diner’s shiny surfaces, causing Gloria to add, “I meant the neighbourhood, Ivy. But let’s face it; Frannie’s whole life was a dump. Except you, of course, sweet cakes.”
She reached across and grabbed Ivy’s hands. “Oh, my golly, Frannie’d kill me if I ever made you think you weren’t the best thing that ever happened to her.”
***
Yesterday, when Ivy came home from school and found the old cardboard suitcase packed with all her things and her mother’s few possessions gone from their room at Mrs. Bingley’s, she knew where her mother had gone, and why. For weeks Frannie had been telling her that if things worked out the way she hoped, she’d be leaving Toronto for New York City.
Frances Chalmers was an actress. Her most recent role was the lead in a production that had just closed at the Rivoli. Everyone who’d seen the play said Frances showed great potential. Especially the director, who had promised to take her to Broadway and make her famous.
“You’re going to remember 1931, Frannie baby,” the director told her. “This is the year you become a star.”
Along with the suitcase, Frannie had left a note for Ivy on the table.
Ivy, dearest
The rent on Shangri-La is paid for tonight but in the morning you must go to Gloria at the diner. She will take you to your grandmother. Wait there for me.
Let’s pretend that your grandmother is the dowager Queen of Siam. You will have a glorious time with her because as a granddaughter you will be the princess of the kingdom.
Another new world, Ivy! Fresh adventures for you to imagine.
Darling girl, you must write and tell me all the wonderful things you are doing in Siam. I will send you my address the minute I am settled in New York.
Your loving,
Momma
Tucked under the chipped edge of a saucer that held two sugared doughnuts was a letter addressed to Ivy’s grandmother. Ivy had never met the person whose name was on the envelope. Maud Chalmers had to be Papa’s mother. And in that case, Maud’s home in Larkin, Ontario, could very well be where he would finally come to find her.
Ivy slept under her coat that night because the blanket had disappeared from the bed. The landlady must have seen Frannie leave the house with all her bundles and come upstairs immediately to collect whatever she’d left behind.
Although her mother was often gone until well past midnight, Ivy couldn’t remember ever having to spend an entire night alone. The scrabbling of mice between the walls kept her awake. She wished she hadn’t eaten both of the doughnuts before she’d lain down, but she’d been afraid there would be nothing left in the morning.
When sleep wouldn’t come, Ivy tried to recall some of the stories she and her mother had shared after they got into bed at night, on those evenings that Frannie was home. She pretended that she was Dorothy, falling asleep in a field of red poppies, on her way to the Emerald City in the Land of Oz.
Ivy opened the door to the hall the next morning. Somewhere in Mrs. Bingley’s house someone was cooking breakfast. Even the aroma of burnt toast made Ivy’s
stomach roll with hunger. She hoped Gloria would find something for her to eat this morning, before they set out together for her grandmother’s and the fresh adventures Frannie had promised.
Seeing that the bathroom down the hall was vacant, Ivy scurried in. Mr. Butcher had forgotten his tooth powder on the back of the sink, and she helped herself to some. It tasted much better than the salt she ordinarily used.
After brushing her hair, Ivy carefully braided it, knowing the part at the back was not as straight as it would have been had Frannie been there to help.
She waited until she could no longer hear the sound of children rattling along the street out front, shouting to each other as they made their way to school. Shrugging on her coat to save carrying it, she tucked the letter for her grandmother into the pocket, and with her arms wrapped around the suitcase, went down the stairs to say goodbye to Mrs. Bingley.
2
Life with Frannie
Of all the stories Frannie told, Ivy’s favourite was the one about the day she’d been born.
In those days, Frannie worked as a housemaid for Mrs. Hubert Hinkman. “The best job in the world,” was the way Frannie described it. “Mrs. Hinkman wasn’t just a rich widow lady, Ivy. She was an absolute angel.”
On the morning of August 13, 1918, while Frannie was on hands and knees wiping the floor inside the front door of the Hinkman house, Ivy surprised everyone by arriving on the scene, three weeks ahead of schedule.
It was Mrs. Hinkman who found Frannie there on the floor of the foyer, beside the overturned umbrella stand. The grand lady herself brought Ivy into the world, and when it was over, summoned her own doctor to the house.
In the months that followed, the baby spent her days like a perfect little turtle dove, cooing happily from the nest of blankets in an open bureau drawer. Frannie returned to washing the floors and polishing the silver.
Frannie always spoke of the baby’s arrival as if Ivy had come into her life as the happiest of accidents. Ivy never inquired where her father was. Not until she started school and learned that most other children seemed to have them.
“Why don’t we pretend that your Papa is like the Prince in Sleeping Beauty,” Frannie said. “One day he will come riding back into your life.”
For a long time Ivy was satisfied with that explanation. Every time she heard the clop, clop of a horse’s hooves in the street, she would hurry to the window, just in case it was Papa, coming at last. But the woolly horse that pulled the milkman’s wagon or the sway-backed mare belonging to the iceman was not the sleek, white charger she pictured her father riding in on.
It was Frannie’s job at Mrs. Hinkman’s that had sown the seeds to her dream of becoming an actress. Mrs. Hinkman had been a promoter of dramatic and musical productions in the city, keeping the cream of Toronto society entertained throughout the years of the war. According to Frannie, there was an endless stream of interesting people coming and going through the foyer of the Hinkman house.
Once, Mrs. H. had arranged to bring to the city a director from New York by the name of Anna Dunkle. The occasion was a charity benefit, featuring local talent performing skits and choruses.
Miss Dunkle would be staying with Mrs. Hinkman, and when the lady arrived in a chauffeur-driven motor car, Frannie told Ivy that she’d thought the procession of trunks would never stop coming through the door.
“What did you see, Momma?” Ivy begged. “What was in all those trunks?” She never doubted for a moment that the show’s promoter and the New York City director would put on a fashion show for the girl who washed the windows.
“Silk scarves of every colour and delicate fans, Ivy,” Frannie said. “Long feather boas and necklaces and tiaras, tunics and broadswords — every costume you could imagine.” And the two of them would preen and prance about the room as if they themselves were in front of an adoring audience.
Sometime before Ivy’s earliest memories began, Mrs. Hinkman died, and Frannie lost her position. Ivy was not yet three. Frannie sold her pretty furniture, and they moved into the flat with her oldest and dearest friend, Gloria Klein. Frannie got a job washing dishes at the hotel where Gloria worked. According to Frannie, Gloria Klein was another absolute angel.
But when Gloria decided to include her boyfriend, Eugene, in the happy household, Frannie and Ivy found a room of their own, across town.
With her arms deep in dishwater, Frannie set in motion her plan to become an actress. The manager of the hotel was kind enough to give her the day-old newspapers that had been left in the lobby, and she and Ivy would scour them every evening, looking for notices of upcoming auditions.
To the armload of fairy stories they brought home from the library, Frannie now added books of plays by Shakespeare and Ibsen, a new volume every week. Ivy would fall asleep listening to her mother’s voice, reading all the parts.
It was hard for her mother to keep a job and travel all over the city, trying out for parts in new productions. Frannie lost the dishwashing job at the hotel and began a series of short-term jobs, while she and Ivy moved from one rooming house to another, often just ahead of the bailiff.
If there was no money for the streetcar, Frannie would walk to her audition, sometimes leaving before daybreak. “I’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning, Ivy,” she would say. “After you’re up and washed, put on your play dress and go down to Mrs. Foster’s. She said you could play with Margaret till I get back.”
Margaret Foster was a dull girl with a surprising lack of original ideas. With her pale eyes in her pudding face, Margaret would stare blankly at Ivy, and Ivy knew the girl couldn’t possibly understand the imaginary places she was trying to evoke.
When Margaret came to find her, Ivy told her, from the other side of the door, that she had developed a mysterious rash and could not play with her today.
“Let me see it,” Margaret said.
“Oh, no,” Ivy said. “It’s very contagious.”
Hearing Margaret clump back downstairs, Ivy climbed up onto the bed and played happily with her paper dolls while she waited for Frannie. She knew that no matter how late it became, Frannie would always come home. Ivy had buried her early fears of abandonment somewhere deep inside.
Frannie burst into the room, her blonde curls bouncing. “Good luck today, darling girl.”
“Momma! You got the part!”
“No, dear heart, but I got a job scouring pans at the bakery in the next block. I saw their sign in the window just now as I came along. Isn’t that wonderful luck? And look what they gave me for our supper.”
It was a round cake, jam-filled, its golden-brown top sprinkled with sugar in the shape of a snowflake. Ivy ate so much of it that her stomach ached all night.
That was the year Ivy started school. She could already read, having learned by watching the words as Frannie read to her each night.
The classroom seemed hardly big enough for Ivy and her imagination, and she was often scolded for daydreaming. She much preferred to stay at home, and on those days when she did, she began to write stories of her own, using the back pages of her scribbler. No one from the school ever came looking for her.
***
This morning, when Ivy reached the foot of the stairs, she could hear a radio playing inside Mrs. Bingley’s apartment. With a background of organ music, a chorus was singing the praises of some soap that promised a beautiful complexion.
When the deep voice of the announcer intoned, “And now, let us return to our story,” Ivy knew the landlady would not be answering the door. She didn’t blame her. If she owned a radio she would listen to serials all day long, too.
Frannie used to call Mrs. Bingley “Lady Natalie of Bing,” saying that made it easier to forgive her constant criticism.
“Some people think they must comment on the way the rest of us live our lives,” Frannie had said, as she hustl
ed Ivy back up the stairs one evening.
Ivy had come down because she’d heard a noisy confrontation between the two women taking place outside Mrs. Bingley’s door. Obviously, Lady Natalie had been lying in wait for Frannie’s return.
“Of course Ivy’s not alone!” Frannie was saying, two bright red spots colouring her porcelain cheeks. “She’s never alone. How could she be? There are fourteen other people living in this house.”
There were much worse places to live than Mrs. B.’s — like the drafty, two-roomed flat over Klemper’s Dry Goods Store. The Klempers had turned out to be impatient landlords who refused to wait even one extra week for their rent.
Frannie was still working at the bakeshop when she and Ivy came home late one afternoon to find all their worldly possessions out on the sidewalk in front of Klemper’s store. It had happened before, in other places, and Ivy always wished she could be as brave about it as her mother.
While they stood there in the grey light, surveying their bundles, it had started to drizzle. “Where will we go now, Momma?” Ivy asked.
“Wherever you wish, my darling. Will we go to Never-Never Land this time? Or, I hear they have some lovely rooms at the Back of the North Wind. All you need is a good imagination, Ivy dear,” Frannie said.
They’d picked up their belongings and set off. “You can choose to live in a tree house, if you want to, like the Swiss Family Robinson. You are the only one who can decide.”
“But will Papa find me there?”
“One day he will,” Frannie said.
Darkness had fallen on the wet city streets. Ivy had no idea where it was they were headed. But she was relieved at Frannie’s decision to take shelter from the rain for a while, stopping in at the diner where Gloria had recently been hired.
They’d found her busily scraping plates, carrying dishes into the kitchen, and wiping down tables. Gloria had brought them a pair of heavy, white china cups and a pot of tea, which she topped up with hot water or another tea bag whenever she passed their booth.
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