The Ha'Penny Place (Ivy Rose Series Book 3)

by Gemma Jackson

  Meg, his wife, was putting a big black kettle on the range. Paddy walked over and put his arm around her shoulders as she turned around. They were a matched pair, short and plump with scraggly grey hair and pale blue eyes.

  “We’re not able for all this malarkey, Ivy.” Meg rubbed her hands on her wraparound apron. They had been lucky to get this job – she knew that – but it was only supposed to be keeping an eye on the place. No one said anything about fetching and carrying up all them stairs.

  “What’s been happening?” Ivy knew the old couple were having a hard time catering to Nanny Grace. She had tried to talk the woman into coming down to the kitchen where there was always a fire in the grate. The pair standing in front of her couldn’t be expected to run up and down stairs. Nanny refused to leave her third-floor room, spending most of her time in bed. The Cusacks had been willing to put up with the old woman for the few bob Ivy passed them every week.

  “The old woman must be nearly blue with the cold,” Paddy whispered. “What with the way me old bones locked up I couldn’t get up all them stairs this morning to light her fire. While the kettle’s boiling, Ivy, would you carry up a bucket of coal and light the fire?”

  “Thank God there’s a water closet up them stairs. Paddy would never be fit to empty a slop bucket. The place would be stinking.” Meg Cusack gave her husband’s hand a pat before moving away towards the cupboard that held all of their kitchen needs.

  “Jem Ryan is outside waiting for me.” Ivy didn’t want to leave Jem and Emmy waiting out in the cold for her and this looked like it might take some time to sort out. “If you’ll allow it I’ll run out and tell him to tie up his horse. Jem can carry the coal upstairs and light the fire. He has his niece with him. Emmy will be company for the old woman while we talk.”

  “Alright . . .” Paddy said.

  The pair exchanged concerned glances. This wasn’t their house and they didn’t feel comfortable inviting people in, but this was an emergency.

  “Right, tell us what’s going on.”

  Rosie was tied up in the back yard. The fire in the nursery was blazing and Emmy was upstairs riding the big grey rocking horse. Nanny Grace was out of her bed and dressed. Ivy had carried up a tea tray and something to eat for Nanny Grace, and now the Cusacks, Jem and Ivy were sitting around the big kitchen work table, cups of tea in front of them.

  “A man came to see us yesterday,” Meg said, her apple-dumpling face creasing in dislike.

  “He said he’d been employed by the owners of these houses to inspect their premises in their absence.” Paddy grimaced. He hadn’t liked the man, not one little bit. “This fella showed us papers and everything.”

  He opened the drawer under the kitchen table and pulled out a sheaf of papers, passing them across the table to Ivy and Jem. He waited while they put their heads together and read what was typed on the pages.

  “This seems to be all above board.” Jem lifted his green eyes and stared across the table at the worried couple. “What’s the problem?”

  “Yer man said –” Meg hiccupped violently.

  “He said . . .” Paddy put his teacup down gently and patted his wife’s hand while staring at the table-top. “He said as how Nanny Grace would have to make other living arrangements or he’d make them for her.”

  “He said he’d call the poorhouse.” Meg pulled up her apron, buried her face in its folds and wailed. “He’s going to send that old woman to the poorhouse. It’ll finish her off.” The old woman was demanding, living in the past, but she’d never wish that on her.

  Chapter 16

  “I thought I’d find you here” Betty Armstrong took a seat beside Ivy on one of the straw bales grouped around Hop-a-long’s tea stall. She was dressed as an old tramp, clutching a walking-stick tree-limb in shaking hands. “Close your mouth girl, you’ll catch flies.” An elbow in the ribs knocked Ivy out of her stunned surprise at the woman’s odd appearance. “Jump up and get me a mug of tea – pretend I’m old Granny Grunt.” She waited until Ivy was standing in front of her making certain the ‘old dear’ had a good grasp of the mug before saying: “Ivy, you are being followed.”

  “Declan Johnson?” Ivy named a man who had threatened her life. She didn’t question the woman’s sudden appearance. It seemed everyone and his dog knew her days for visiting the markets.

  “I thought you knew.” Betty visually checked out the people surrounding them. She was taking a risk meeting Ivy in the open, but nobody should be able to see through her disguise. She’d learned her craft from the best. “Declan Johnson died in an institution for the diseased.”

  “Jesus!” Ivy blessed herself. She’d been keeping one eye over her shoulder for that blackguard forever, it seemed.

  “One of Manny Felman’s neckless wonders has been following you around.”

  Hannah Solomon had been living in Betty’s Baggot Street house for ten days. The change in her appearance was remarkable. It would take longer for her to stop jumping at shadows. “You didn’t tell me you paid for your purchases from the haberdashery with a cheque.”

  “I didn’t think it was important.”

  “Everything is important.” Betty allowed her hands to shake. Ivy reacted by moving closer to put her hand under the mug. “Manny Felman was able to question a bank clerk. A man who, for a small fee, was willing and able to supply Felman with information concerning Miss Ivy Rose and her thriving doll business. Success makes enemies, Ivy. You need to learn that.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ivy had passed the problem of Hannah over to Betty, but ‘Miss Rose’ had made several visits to the haberdashery to pass notes and instructions before Hannah left.

  “Hannah’s husband enjoys inflicting pain.” Betty had been obliged to bathe and spoon-feed Hannah that first night. She’d arrived shaking and shivering at the back door. The woman was frightened almost out of her mind. The old and fresh cigar burns covering her skin – revealed when Betty removed Hannah’s old-fashioned clothing – had been weeping pus. They had needed immediate treatment. Betty’s knowledge of wise-woman cures was extensive but it was taking all of her skill to heal Hannah’s physical and mental injuries.

  “The word on the street is that Hannah is in a sanatorium,” Ivy whispered. “She’s had some kind of crisis of the nerves according to her distraught husband.”

  “Felman’s own arrogance is working against him.” Betty allowed tea to spill from her mouth. “He doesn’t believe Hannah capable of escaping on her own. He is searching for a man – a lover.” How any man could believe that a woman would run from one abusive man into the arms of another never failed to amaze her. Ivy continued to support the mug of tea. “He is keeping an eye on you but doesn’t expect to find anything. After all, you are female.”

  “The Garda were called to the shop.” Ivy leaned over to remove an old pair of black knitted gloves from her pram. They had holes and were unravelling – she was going to mend them. Whatever Betty had used to age her hands was cracking. They staged a small drama with Ivy offering the gloves and Betty refusing.

  “You can’t really blame Hannah for helping herself to a lot of the most expensive items in the shop.” Betty had been surprised at the woman’s daring. She’d wondered how she’d managed to walk with the weight of the goods stashed around her person. Still, the goods could be sold in America and provide a nice little nest egg. “One more reason apparently to look for a man. Manny figures Hannah isn’t bright enough to know which stock would bring the most money – rather insulting since the woman ran the darn shop from what I understand.”

  She’d taken the precaution of asking Ann Marie Gannon to photograph Hannah’s injuries. It was a risk involving another person but they needed a record of the cuts and scars on the woman. If ever they needed to seek legal advice for Hannah those photographs would speak louder than any words. She hoped the courts in America were more understanding than the Irish legal system.

  “What about my Alice dolls?”

  Hannah had taken o
ver almost all of the production of the Alice dolls. The woman had inherited her father’s tailoring skill. She could turn out those dolls as if she had twenty hands, Ivy sometimes thought.

  “The system we’ve set up of getting the dolls to and from you to Hannah is safe.” Betty’s housekeeper was the soul of discretion. The task of carrying dolls and material about the place was not a problem for Dolly. “The work keeps her hands busy and her mind occupied. She needs that right now.” Betty allowed Ivy to force her fingers into the black gloves.

  “I have to get on. We’ve been sitting here long enough. If you need to tell me anything, Seán can give me a time and I’ll be waiting by the telephone in the livery.” Ivy stood and replaced the enamel mugs on the wooden plinth that formed the tea counter.

  No one would think twice about seeing Seán McDonald run back and forth between The Lane and Baggot Street.

  “Or you could telephone me.” Betty allowed Ivy to help her to her feet. “You can’t write the number down. How good is your memory?”

  “Excellent.” Ivy laughed, remembering when she had to remember reams of facts and figures. She could still do it but life was so much easier now that she could read and write. She made a mental note of the telephone number Betty whispered. “Tell Hannah I said hello.”

  Ivy grabbed the handle of her old pram and with a grunt of effort got it moving.

  Betty watched her niece push the dilapidated pram across the cobbles. The girl’s pride would choke her. She refused to allow Betty or William to help her in any way. She had her mother’s stiff-necked pride although Betty knew better than to say that aloud.

  Chapter 17

  “I give up,” Ivy shouted aloud to the empty room. “Who made me responsible for the rest of the world? Who died and made me God I’d like to know.” She’d been tossing and turning in her bed, trying to return to sleep. It was Saturday. She punched her pillow in frustration. She wanted to stay in bed. She didn’t have to jump out of her warm nest at the crack of dawn. She wished she had a switch to turn off her brain. Whenever she closed her eyes, the problems she faced kept appearing. It was impossible to drag her mind away from its rotating list of worries.

  “I may as well be up and doing.”

  She pushed the bedclothes away and, groaning, put her feet on the cold floor. She took care of her bodily functions and changed out of her ‘poor man’s pajamas’ – two men’s jumpers – one pulled over her head, the other on her bottom half, her legs pushed into the arms. Shivering, she quickly dressed in the outfit of black skirt and warm blue jumper she’d worn to the market the day before. When she was fully dressed she lit the two gas lamps attached to the wall separating her room from next door’s basement. She raked the fire, added fresh fuel and put the kettle on the range top directly over the fire.

  “There’s not a sinner out and about.” She’d pulled the thick tablecloth she’d turned into a curtain from the single window in the room to check the back yard. “I’ll empty the slop and get fresh water. I’ll be out and back before anyone’s stirring.” She emptied the last of her fresh water into the reservoir of the range and with the two galvanised buckets in hand hurried into the gas-lamp-lit back yard. She had refilled the water container in her range and had two full buckets of water sitting on her floor before she stopped running back and forth. She made herself a pot of tea and used the top of the range to sear two slices of bread. She had homemade blackberry jam to go on the bread.

  Ivy sat at her kitchen table, a cup of tea close to her hand. She entered figures into her account book, dipping the nib of her pen into the bottle of ink sitting open on the table. She didn’t use her fountain pen for book work, nervous about breaking the nib by using it too much. “I never thought I’d see the day I’d have money in the bank.” She used a sheet of blotting paper to dry the ink on the page. “What’s a body supposed to do with money? Do the rich just put it in the bank and count it?”

  A sharp rap of knuckles on her back door made her jump in fright. She barely managed to rescue the ink from spilling all over her work. Shaking in fright at the near miss, she put the top back on the bottle of ink and tightened it before standing to see who had the cheek to knock on her door so early on a Saturday morning.

  It took her a moment to recognise the two men standing before her door. To her knowledge she’d never seen them outside of Fitzwilliam Square before.

  “Curly, Moocher, what in the name of God are you two doing at my door?” She opened the door wider. “Step in and welcome.” She watched the two men enter her home. She hadn’t even realised they knew where she lived.

  “Thanks, Ivy.” Moocher gave a jerky bow of his head as he passed.

  “Morning, Ivy.” Curly, his bald head well wrapped in sackcloth, followed on Moocher’s heels.

  “Sit down before the fire and get a heat.” She gestured to the two soft chairs sitting before the range. “Give me a minute to gather me thoughts.” She put the kettle on and with quick movements tidied up her paperwork, pushing the articles on the table to one side. “Right,” she pulled one of the kitchen chairs over to the fire and joined the two men, “tell me what brings you to my door.”

  “We got a couple of nights’ work.” Curly was looking around the room. He’d been here before, many times, when Éamonn Murphy had used this back room. “At that warehouse that caught fire – down on the docks – have yeh heard about it?”

  “I have,” Ivy nodded. “We watched the flames roar into the sky from here.” The Dublin docks weren’t far from The Lane.

  “Some say it’s in retaliation for the accident,” Moocher muttered into his chest.

  “Be that as it may be.” Curly didn’t want to go into the politics of the thing.

  “The accident that killed David Rattigan and that other fella?” Ivy had been to David Rattigan’s funeral. The man had been from The Lane – he’d left a widow and five children destitute.

  “That’s the one.” Curly held his hands out to the flames, thrilled with the heat. “Poor aul’ Mousey Rattigan, squashed flat as a pancake.” He shook his head in sorrow for the passing of a man much younger than himself. The men who worked the docks were angry. There had been no money passed along for the widows and children of the dead men. The dock workers had had a whip-around but the ship owners and the warehouse owners had kept their hands in their pockets. Talk around the docks was that the fire was set in retaliation. It didn’t make sense to Curly – setting the place on fire didn’t do a blind bit of good for the widows and childer.

  “Have you two eaten?” Ivy knew it was silly to ask but she had to say something to break the silence that had fallen. The two men were obviously here for a reason. It would be easier to get it, whatever it was, out of them over a bite to eat. She jumped to her feet. “I got a dozen cracked eggs at the market yesterday.” She made the tea she’d ignored until now. “Sit down at the table and I’ll make yez a bite to eat.”

  The two men moved quickly, eager to get treated to a hot meal sitting inside at a table. It was many a day since they had known such luxury. The room was silent as Ivy busied herself breaking the eggs into a bowl. She made scrambled eggs and fried bread. When the meal and two big enamel mugs of tea were put in front of the two men she joined them at the table, pulling one of her orange boxes over to sit on. The wooden crates used to ship oranges were the furniture of choice for the people of The Lane.

  “Ivy . . .” Curly took a big gulp of tea from his tin mug. He’d half the meal inside him already. “Me and Moocher were working at that warehouse these last few nights.” He pointed his fork at Ivy to make his point. “I wouldn’t normally think of this but since I saw yeh with Jem Ryan and his horse and cart I got to thinking. Didn’t I get to thinking?” He stared at his friend sitting across the table from him, shovelling food into his mouth.

  “He did, Ivy.” Moocher nodded his head in agreement. He didn’t stop eating but he made the response he knew his aul’ mate expected. “A fierce one for thinking, is aul’ Curl
y.” He returned his attention to his meal, satisfied he’d done all that was required of him.

  “They had them big electric lights at that warehouse.” Curly shook his head at the thought of the big machines that had been dragged in to light the warehouse. “They’re enough to blind a man.” Another big gulp of tea emptied his mug. He waited as Ivy jumped to her feet to fetch the teapot from the range.

  “That warehouse is full of stuff,” Curly continued when Ivy returned to her seat after refilling both mugs. “I never seen such colours in me life. There were no browns or blacks, no!’ He shook his head. “Cloth the colour of the rainbow – fabric, they called it, and skeins of yarn from the floor to the ceiling. Honest to God, Ivy, the colours would take the eye out of yer head!”

  “It’s the truth he’s telling yeh.” Moocher picked up his fresh mug of tea and slurped the hot liquid into his mouth.

  “The stuff is ruined, I heard them say.” Curly looked at Ivy to see if she’d cottoned on to what he was talking about yet. He gave a deep sigh at her blank stare and continued. “I thought – with you being friends with Jem Ryan and all – well, I thought you could maybe visit that warehouse and make a deal for some of that cloth and wool. You’d never be able to shift the stuff with that aul’ wreck of a pram of yours but if Jem Ryan were to go with you,” he spread his arms wide, “well, you see where I’m going with this.”

  “Curly . . .” Ivy didn’t know what to say. She’d never bought in bulk from one of the warehouses down the docks.