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

by Gemma Jackson

  “Who’s going to stop him?” Frank Wilson was taking dishes out of one of his hand-carved cupboards.

  “There must be something we can do.” Jem wanted to call the Garda on the man. He had no right to go around beating up innocent people.

  “Jem,” Ivy eased her back into the soft cushion of her chair, “leave it. There is nothing anyone can do.”

  “Ivy –” Jem started to protest.

  “Jem, the man is a priest. It would be me against him and we both know how that would turn out. We can do nothing.” Ivy had thought about it while sitting here. She had no intention of taking off her clothes to a group of hairy-knuckled men to show them her bruises. Father Leary hadn’t hit her anywhere that could be seen in public.

  “I can’t just do nothing, Ivy,” Jem protested.

  “Sadly,” Frank Wilson pulled a shelf from one of his cupboards and with a twist legs appeared, to create a table, “she is right. There is nothing you can do about that man, Jem – other men have tried and come to grief. Let it go.”

  Ivy was watching the man’s every move. She knew Mr Wilson was a ship’s carpenter. The man had obviously learned clever ways of keeping his place tidy. She wished he was the kind of man she could question. She’d love to have a good look around this room – explore all the nooks and crannies.

  “You need to get Ivy past all them gossiping biddies standing out there, waiting to put their tuppence-worth in.” Frank set the table. He felt all fingers and thumbs. He wasn’t used to company. “You will have to ask one of them to take care of Ivy’s back. She can’t do it herself.”

  “No.” Ivy wouldn’t ask any of her neighbours for help. That would get them into trouble with the parish priest – someone was sure to tell him who had helped her.

  “Right.” Frank passed the cups and saucers around, leaving the milk jug and sugar bowl on the table. That was as fancy as he got. “You’ll have to take care of it, Jem.” He almost smiled when the two in front of him started blushing. “It needs tending. I doubt the skin is broken but you need to check.” He left it at that. It was between the two of them now.

  “You are going to get into a lot of trouble for helping me, Mr Wilson.” Ivy sipped the tea and stared at the man who had saved her. “Father Leary isn’t one for turning the other cheek for all it says so in the Bible.”

  “I know.” Frank had opened a can of worms today but if he had it to do over he would have still done the same thing. He had very little in his life now that he would mind losing. Besides, there were some things a man had to do to be able to sleep at night.

  Chapter 33

  Jem insisted on driving Ivy the short distance to her home. She shouldn’t have to deal with nosey neighbours right now. She was obviously in a great deal of pain but, being Ivy, was denying it.

  “It never rains but it pours.” Ivy wanted to see what was inside her brother’s envelope – still clutched unopened to her chest. Was that too much to ask? “What’s she doing here?” she barked when she spotted Betty Armstrong standing outside her door.

  “Looks like young Seán ran and got her.” Jem brought his vehicle to a stop outside Ivy’s back door under the fascinated gaze of everyone standing in line for the tap. “It’s a good thing too,” Jem exchanged glances with Betty. “That woman can take care of your back for you. You can’t do it yourself, Miss Hardhead.”

  “I suppose.” She waited while Jem walked around to open the passenger door for her. Truth be told, her back was aching. She watched Jem stop to have a quick word with the woman.

  Jem held out his hand to assist Ivy from the automobile. “Betty will be glad to see to your back. I’ll take my automobile over to Ann Marie’s. I’m going to stop for a chat.” He gazed meaningfully at Ivy. She gave a nod, showing she understood. He was going to talk to Ann Marie about Emmy and how she’d come into their lives. “I’ll be back this evening to check on you.”

  “You’re getting very bossy in your old age, Mr Ryan.” Ivy allowed Jem to practically pull her from the car. She was still feeling shaky. She wanted to get behind closed doors where she could scream and cry in peace. “I’ll see you later – go about your business.”

  “Talk about bossy!” Jem touched his fingers to her face. Then with a half-smile and a raised hat took his leave.

  “Seán McDonald, shouldn’t you be on the stage?” Ivy began to search in her pockets for the door key before remembering she’d had her handbag with her.

  “Is this what you need?” Betty held the handbag Jem had passed to her.

  “There’s no matinee on a Tuesday.” Seán hadn’t known what to do when he’d seen the priest go for Ivy. He’d taken to his heels, going for the one woman he thought might be able to help.

  “Thanks.” Ivy took the handbag from Betty and removed her keys. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

  “I’m going into my own place.” Seán lived with his mother Ginie in the basement room next door. He stepped away with a wave over his shoulder.

  “He was worried about you.” Betty waited while Ivy unlocked the back door. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “No.”

  “Jem said your back needs tending.”

  “Look, I don’t mean to be rude.” She looked over her shoulder as she stepped into her room. “Well, maybe I do.” She offered a half smile. “Come in, sit down and let me get me bearings.” She put Shay’s envelope in one of the drawers under the kitchen table. She wouldn’t open it until she was alone. She then removed her cashmere coat. She examined the back carefully before giving a big sigh – the coat hadn’t been damaged, thank God. She could see the impressions of the stick on it but she’d be able to ease them out. The heavy material had added protection from the priest’s blows. She put her coat and hat on the nails in the wall. She turned to find her visitor standing staring at her.

  “Sit down at the table.” Ivy pulled her wraparound apron on. “I need to get organised before I can sit down.” She didn’t wait to see if the woman sat. She began to rake out the ashes from the banked fire in the range, biting back groans behind clenched teeth. She didn’t turn back to her visitor until she had the fire roaring in the grate and the kettle on.

  “I’ll do your back now.” Betty, sitting at the kitchen table, had been watching Ivy. She could see the stiff way she moved. “I’m sure you want to change your clothes anyway,” she added when Ivy opened her mouth to object.

  “Okay.” Ivy was hurting too much to argue. She’d let the woman see her back and then maybe she’d leave. “I made up a fresh batch of ointment we can use.” She took the can of ointment she’d made to relieve the pain of Jem’s injured men from one of the lower cupboards of her tall unit. “It’s a bit fresh – it’s better if you can leave it to set for a while but beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Let me help you.” Betty stood and, without waiting for the objection she was sure was coming, began to help Ivy out of her clothes.

  “I can’t remember the last time someone helped me out of me clothes.” Ivy was too sore to blush.

  Betty bit back the bawdy comment on the tip of her tongue. “What are you going to put on?” She knew Ivy kept most of her worldly goods under the big black ugly bed. If she had to fall to her knees and search for something soft for Ivy to wear she would.

  “There’s a soft shirt of me da’s under me pillow.” Ivy kept the shirt close and sometimes in the dark of night she took it out to sniff at it. The strong smell of her da was gone but she still imagined she could smell him on the shirt. The soft white shirt would cover her to her knees.

  “Sweet Divine Jesus!” Betty prayed when she got a look at Ivy’s bare back. There were ugly red welts running across it and onto the back of her arms above the elbow. “My brother should have gelded that bloody priest years ago.”

  “I put a wooden tongue-depressor in the can to use to put the ointment on,” Ivy said, ignoring Betty’s remarks. There was nothing she could do about the parish priest. She refused to dwell o
n the man.

  “I’ll use my hands.” Betty let the matter drop. “They’re clean.”

  “The ointment will burn you. Use the depressor.” Ivy wanted to get this done. She couldn’t stand here naked from the waist up.

  “Bend over the table.” Betty picked up the can of ointment and sniffed. “Are you sure this is the right thing to be using on those welts?”

  “Positive.” Ivy bent over her kitchen table, clenching her teeth in anticipation of the coming pain. The ointment would burn for a minute, she knew, before it began to draw the pain out of the bruises.

  “At least we don’t have to get your hair out of the way.” Betty began to use the thick wooden tongue-depressor to coat the marks in ointment. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” she asked when Ivy stiffened under her hand.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m going back to America.” Betty was trying to take Ivy’s mind off the pain. “I’ve done what I came here to do.”

  There was no reply. Ivy’s jaw was clenched tight against the moan of pain that wanted to escape.

  “I have a business in New York. I left a manager in my place but I’m ready to go back and take up my own life again.” She had hoped to talk Ivy into going back to New York with her. She had dreamed of showing her the wonders of the city. It wasn’t to be. Ivy had a life of her own she was making here. If her brother Shay couldn’t talk her into going to Hollywood with him, what chance had she? “I haven’t booked my passage yet.” She had been putting off buying her tickets, hoping to form a closer bond with her stubborn niece. It seemed to her Ivy fought her every step of the way. “I plan on taking Hannah Solomon back with me.” Betty stared at Ivy’s back. Was it her imagination or was the first welt she’d covered in the ointment fading slightly? “Where did you say you got this cream?”

  “Made it,” was all Ivy was capable of saying at the moment. The burning pain in her back and upper arms held her almost rigid.

  “How? Never mind, you can tell me later – I’ve almost finished.” Betty continued to apply a thick coat of the ointment. When she had finished she walked over to the bed and pulled the shirt from beneath the pillow. Ivy hadn’t moved. She dropped the shirt on Ivy’s bare back and helped her stand upright.

  “I’ll need to soak Granny’s pain-relief brew – it’s a tisane.” Ivy wiped the tears of pain from her face. She wanted to fall onto the bed and scream. Instead she shoved her arms into the shirt sleeves and fastened the buttons. “I’ll make a pot of tea while I’m at it.” She stepped out of her short black skirt, pulling her old skirt from the bed and up her legs. She sat on the bed and slowly began to roll one of the silk stockings down her leg. She removed her shoe and pushed the stocking into the toe of the shoe. She repeated the movements for the other leg before kicking the shoes under the bed. She stood and shimmied to remove the suspender belt that had held the stockings in place.

  In her bare feet she walked over to take the boiling water from the stove. She pinched a handful of dried twigs into a mug and covered it with boiling water. She put it to one side to brew. She crossed the room to take the can of milk from the water-filled bucket. She sniffed – it was fine.

  She began to set the table for tea, glad of something to do.

  When she had finished, she put cold water into the mug of tisane and with a grimace gulped the horrible-tasting brew until the mug was empty.

  “I need more Alice dolls dressed,” Ivy said when the two women were sitting at the kitchen table. She had put the kitchen chair with its back against the table and was straddling the seat. The position protected her back. The two women had cups of steaming tea before them. “Would you take some of the naked dolls I have over to Hannah?”

  “I’ll be glad to.” Betty couldn’t understand it – the strain and pain seemed to be draining from Ivy as she watched. She knew her niece was addicted to tea but it wasn’t a miracle brew. What was in that ointment? Could that tisane really account for the improvement in Ivy? “I think having those dolls has saved Hannah’s sanity. Have you seen any more of her husband’s men around the town?”

  “I’ve seen them talking to the Jewish dealers in the markets.” Ivy stood carefully. “A few of them have been in and out of The Lane visiting Mr Solomon. I don’t think he suspects anything. The men come to order suits and shirts. If they take a good look around the place nobody thinks anything of it.” She refilled both cups before sitting back down.

  “Ivy, may I please look at your back again?” Betty stood and was picking up the back of Ivy’s loose shirt before she could answer. She stared at the marks she’d just painted with ointment. They were fading slightly and Ivy was moving better. It hadn’t been her imagination. “You said you made that ointment? And what was in that tisane?”

  “Just some of Granny’s recipes I made up,” Ivy looked over her shoulder to say.

  “How?”

  “I just followed old Granny Grunt’s written instructions.”

  “Ivy,” Betty was almost breathless when she returned to her seat at the table, “was this Granny Grunt a ‘wise woman’?”

  “Yes, she was.”

  A wise woman was a much-respected member of any community. They were the people you went to when you had an illness or injury. The poor couldn’t afford to go to doctors. They consulted the wise woman or the apothecary for their woes.

  “My Lord!” Betty buried her face in her hands and laughed uproariously. “A wise woman!” she hiccupped, “And you have her recipes?”

  “Yes, Granny was a devil for writing down her ‘cures’. I have books and books of hers.”

  “Ivy,” Betty gulped the tea in front of her until the cup was empty, “give us another cup of this magic elixir. I have something I want to talk to you about.”

  Ivy stood to fetch the tea, wondering if insanity ran in her family. She hoped to God it didn’t. She’d enough to cope with.

  “Do you know what a percentage is?” Betty asked.

  “Of course.” Ivy poured the tea.

  “I told you I have a business in New York,” Betty said as Ivy sat. “I didn’t tell you what kind.” She laughed gaily. “I have a factory that produces creams, potions and lotions that I sell in my shops.” She had been one of the lucky ones. She’d arrived in New York after surviving the sinking of the Titanic without a stitch or a penny to her name. A wealthy gent had taken a shine to her when he’d come to offer his assistance to the survivors. She owed everything she was to that man.

  “Go ’way!”

  “Ivy,” Betty clapped her hands, “if the other recipes Granny left you are as good as the two you just used – you and I are going to be very, very, wealthy women.” Betty couldn’t believe it. She had hoped to help the niece she had never met and instead Ivy was going to help her.

  “I won’t give you Granny’s books.” Ivy’s mind was working frantically. She had no idea how business was run in New York but the recipes she had on hand were very useful to her. She wouldn’t give them away. But if she could make money from the recipes – well, she’d have to think about that.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to,” Betty agreed. “What I’d like you to do is allow me to copy the books for my own use.”

  “Let’s talk terms.” Ivy was no one’s fool. If she had something worth money she wasn’t willing to give it away.

  The two women discussed business and drank tea. Betty Armstrong talked in sums of money that seemed more of a fairy tale to Ivy than the stories told on story night. If there was any possibility that she could make the kind of money this woman talked about – well, no better woman. Ivy Rose Murphy would jump on that bandwagon.

  “I’d want papers drawn up by a man of letters,” Ivy said when the talk seemed to be winding down.

  “You don’t trust me.” Betty grinned, delighted with the woman her niece had become without any help from her.

  “This is business, trust doesn’t come into it.” Ivy planned to discuss everything with Ann Marie and get her advice. That woma
n had a head on her shoulders for money that was a wonder.

  Chapter 34

  “Dear Sir –”

  “That’s a bit formal.”

  “We can’t put ‘Howayeh, Eddy’ on the bloody thing.” Ivy was again straddling a kitchen chair, the dull ache in her back a reminder of the day’s events. She and Jem were attempting to compose a letter to Emmy’s father. “‘Dear Sir’ is how you start a letter. Brother Theo taught me that.”

  “Ann Marie suggested we make it a short message asking for a meeting to discuss a financial opportunity.” Jem remembered the look of horror on Ann Marie’s face when he’d told her about Emmy’s aunt. She’d insisted they not contact a member of the legal profession until they knew how much trouble they were in. “She’s gone to talk to her aunt. Just as you thought, she said if anyone would know where an eligible bachelor was staying in Dublin, it would be her. She’ll let us know what she finds out.”

  “Jesus, Jem, what’s the likes of us doing writing about financial opportunities?” Ivy pushed the paper and pencil away. “I ask yer sacred pardon.”

  “Well, we sure as shite can’t say ‘Here, Eddy, we have your daughter – where the fuck have you been?’” he almost yelled, pushing to his feet. “I’m going to check on Emmy.” He almost ran through the obstacle course in the front room. Emmy was playing with her friends in the courtyard.