Ha'Penny Schemes (Ivy Rose Series Book 4), page 1
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 2017
by Poolbeg Press Ltd.
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,
Dublin 13, Ireland
Email: poolbeg@poolbeg.com
© Gemma Jackson 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
1
Copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook
© Poolbeg Press Ltd.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978178199-8229
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 was born in inner-city Dublin. One of seven children, she grew up in a family that needed each other to survive. They weren’t poor – they just had no money! The family motto should have been ‘Sure give it a go’.
She was educated by the nuns at Mount Sackville Convent in Castleknock – when Castleknock was an area of pig farms and orchards – not the salubrious Dublin neighbourhood it is now!
Gemma has travelled the world seeking adventure – wanting to know what was out there beyond the island of Ireland. She has worked in any job she could find to fund the next leg of her travels. She has herded sheep in Devon – chased horses in Oklahoma – been a hand model and movie extra – and advised the Regan administration on foreign affairs. Gemma herself says she ‘has a passing acquaintance with wealth but an intimate knowledge of poverty’. It has stood her in good stead when she sits down to write.
Also by Gemma Jackson
Through Streets Broad and Narrow
Ha’penny Chance
The Ha’penny Place
Published by Poolbeg
Acknowledgements
To Jewel Gore – my first rabid fan, now a friend – who berates me, loudly, if I allow something to happen to Ivy that she doesn’t like.
To my daughter Astrid – thanks for the constant supply of life-giving tea and for sweeping around me as I escape into another world. I’d be buried in dust and dog hair but for you.
To my readers who have taken the time to share their enjoyment of my books with the world – thank you.
To Poolbeg Press – I thank you for allowing me to fulfil my dream of being a published author. Paula Campbell and Gaye Shortland – two ladies who work hard to make my books the best that they can be – I’ve learned so much from you both.
Dedication
To my parents Rose and Paddy Jackson – both gone now but never forgotten. They were true Dubs – no matter how tough the going got they smiled and shared what little they had. I never told them how fortunate I was to be their daughter.
Chapter 1
“Ivy . . .”
“Shhh, go back to sleep.”
She hated to move away from her husband Jem’s warm flesh but needs must when the devil drives. She had things to do. She crept almost silently from the warm nest of the bed. She pulled the old army greatcoat from the foot of the bed, wrapping it around her shivering body with speed. She needed no light in the dark room. She grabbed her boots and left the room, closing the door at her back.
The bedroom was one of two large rooms that opened directly onto the long wide kitchen. Ivy had set the other room up as her workroom. The still-glowing embers in the black range nestled into the chimney breast gave enough light to guide her around her kitchen.
In moves that were automatic, she took the long, knotted strip of newspaper she’d prepared the night before from on top of her kindling box which was kept close to the range. She removed the glass domes from the wall-mounted gas lamps. “These domes could do with a wash,” she whispered before turning to light the paper from the embers in the range.
Over the years, Ivy had developed the habit of talking aloud to herself – and sometimes to her dead father – when alone in her rooms. Having a husband now hadn’t broken her of the habit.
She swiftly turned the knob on the nearest lamp to release the gas. The blue flame hissed and danced when she touched the flaming paper to the gas. She repeated the action with the second lamp before dropping the burning paper into the range.
“My kingdom for a pot of tea!”
She felt the familiar frisson of joy shiver down her spine while she filled her small metal teapot directly from her kitchen tap. No more standing in line at the outdoor community tap for her. No more hauling buckets of water until your arms ached and your fingers bent. The novelty of indoor plumbing was delightful.
She lit one of the four gas rings on her new freestanding stove and put the battered pot onto the ring with a satisfied sigh. Would she ever take the touches of luxury Jem had brought into her life for granted?
I’m glad Emmy isn’t here this morning, she thought while raking the still glowing fire in the range. When their adopted ‘niece’ stayed over, Ivy was afraid to move around the kitchen. It didn’t take much to wake the little girl. She shovelled the hot ash from the grate into a tin biscuit box. She’d save the ash for Jem to use in their back garden. She dropped kindling made from broken boxes and fresh nuggets of coal onto the glowing embers.
“You little beauty!” Ivy jumped to tend to the spitting teapot on her stove.
She still couldn’t believe the speed the gas boiled up the water for her tea. It was a blessing on a cold dark morning. She removed the metal lid and poured tea leaves into the bubbling water. Then she turned off the gas and set the teapot on top of the warm range, leaving the tea to brew.
Without removing her coat, she began to dress. She’d left her clothes draped over two kitchen chairs pulled close to the range overnight. Sitting on one of the chairs, she wiped her hand briskly over the soles of her bare feet before pulling long knitted stockings up her legs. She pulled the boys’ tweed trousers, which she’d taken to wearing to keep the cold wind from freezing her nether regions, up her slim legs. She pushed her feet into her well-worn boys’ work boots.
“I’ll have me first cup of tea before going any further.”
She washed her hands and face in cold water before taking the metal milk jug from the cold cupboard and putting it on the oilcloth-covered kitchen table. Then she selected a matching cup and saucer from the freestanding cupboard.
With her first cup of tea inside her, she dropped the heavy coat onto a kitchen chair pulled close to the table. Shivering, she pulled a man’s long-sleeved vest over her head and down her body. A long black skirt came next, over the tweed trousers. A youth’s linen work shirt and a heavy knit jumper completed the outfit. She pushed the two chairs back under the kitchen table and poured another cup of tea.
She felt guilty taking the time to just sit sipping her tea. There was work and plenty of it to be done in the kitchen. She sighed and leaned over to take out the notebook she kept in one of the deep pockets of her coat. She’d packed her pram the night before. It was sitting waiting for her in one of the four sheds that ran along her garden wall. She wanted to make a note of the people she needed to visit this morning. No point in running around Smithfield Market like a headless chicken.
“I hate to offer Sally those two lace dresses.” Sally, a stallholder at the market, and her daughters would use the material in the dresses to produce collars and cuffs to smarten up worn dresses. There was money to be made there. “I haven’t the time to alter them meself but I won’t let her have them unless I can get a good price.”
Ivy was finding it difficult to stay on top of her business. She’d only two hands. When she’d lived alone she’d had nothing but time. As a married woman, time was something she never seemed to have enough of. Her husband – a man in a million – wanted to spend time with her. Jem liked to take her out on the town and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy their outings.
“I’ve all those shoes that need cleaning. I’ll not sell them on dusty.” She pushed to her feet to fetch another cup of tea. “I’m annoying meself with me moaning. It’s time to get on the road, Ivy, and stop yer bloody complaining. There’s many a one would swap places with yeh.”
She stood and carried her cup and saucer over to the sink. She pulled on the old overcoat, pushing her keys and notebook into the deep pockets. She took her black knitted shawl from the hook at the back of the kitchen door, pulling it over her shoulders. She blew out the gas lamps and stood for a moment, checking by the light from the fire she’d left blazing for Jem that she’d left everything in order.
“The place needs a good going over,” she remarked. “Still, I’ve only the one pair of hands. It’ll have to wait.”
She pulled the kitchen door open and stepped out into the freezing-cold dark Dublin morning. She navigated her way by feel down to the shed nearest to the door that led from the garden
“I feel like a prison warden with all these bloody locks,” she muttered, unlocking the wooden door in the brick wall.
She pushed her pram through, stepped out and locked the door at her back. She pushed the pram at speed around the side of the house towards the gas-lamp-lit, square, cobbled courtyard of The Lane.
“Watch it!” a male voice barked.
Her pram was brought to a sudden halt.
“You’ll run someone over!”
“Name of God, Mike Connelly, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” Ivy stared at the well-set-up young man holding her pram in place. “I thought I’d be the only sinner out and about at this hour of the morning.”
“You’re not usually out and about this early yerself, Mrs Ryan.” Úna Connelly was standing at her brother’s side, so wrapped up in odd bits of clothing only her eyes were showing.
“I’ve things to do.” Ivy turned her pram in the direction of the Stephen’s Lane exit from the enclave of poverty the inhabitants called The Lane.
The other two fell into step alongside her. At one time there had been only one way in and out of The Lane – the urine-soaked exit that bordered the local public house – but, since the discovery of other openings, the people of The Lane avoided it.
“Where are the pair of yez off to at this hour of the morning?” Ivy asked as the threesome made their way along the exit tunnel onto Stephen’s Lane and turned right in the direction of Merrion Square.
“Me and Mike are off to enjoy the pleasure of gutting fish,” Úna said.
“Are the pair of yez working at the fish factory now?” Ivy didn’t wait for an answer. “Would you not rather be working at the livery with yer brother Conn, Mike?” Conn Connelly, the eldest Connelly brother, worked at the livery with Jem.
“Me little brother is a martyr to his lungs.” Úna pushed her shoulder against her tall brother’s chest affectionately. “He has only to step into the livery to start wheezing like an old man. Our Liam’s dogs do the same thing to him – poor lad.” Liam Connelly and his sister Vera had a dog act that was gaining renown on the Dublin stage.
“I’ve no tongue in me head either by the looks of things, what with me big sister doing all me talking for me.” Mike put his arm around his sister’s shoulders and covered her mouth with his hand. “Come on, mouthy, or we’ll be late. We’ll love yeh and leave yeh, Mrs Ryan.”
The two turned towards a side street that would take them directly to the fish factory on the Dublin docks.
“Mike!” Ivy’s shout stopped them in their tracks.
They turned and waited.
“Come see me this afternoon, will you, please?” Ivy wasn’t sure what she wanted with the lad but she’d a thought tickling at the back of her mind.
“I’ll do that, Mrs Ryan, but we have to go now.” He pulled his sister along with him as they ran off. It didn’t do to be late as the overseer was a man very fond of docking wages.
Ivy didn’t stay to watch the pair. She pushed her pram along the sleeping streets.
“Is that yerself, Mary?” Ivy didn’t slow her fast pace when she caught sight of the shadowed figure on the other side of Kildare Street. She’d guessed the identity of the other woman by the shape of the pram she was pushing.
“Yer out before the corporation cart this morning, Ivy.” Mary pushed her pram into the deserted street.
There was no sign of the horse-drawn corporation water cart that washed the Dublin streets every morning.
“It would freeze the hair off a monkey this morning.”
The first month of January 1927 had been wet and miserable. It seemed February was going to match it.
“I wanted to get down to the market early,” Ivy said when Mary joined her.
The two women, shrouded in dark clothing from neck to ankles, shawls covering their heads and shoulders, pushed their prams through the gas-lit streets.
“I thought, with all them farmers making their way to Dublin for the Farmers Conference,” Ivy said, “that some of their women would be down the market with their jams, butter and cheese.”
The first Irish Farmers Conference was attracting a lot of attention in the newspapers. She was hoping to pick up fresh produce for her friends and family.
“What about yerself – a bit early yet for you, isn’t it?”
“My fella said the orange boats are in.” Mary was hoping to find a sailor with a box of oranges that ‘fell off the boat’ into his arms. Mary sold produce from her pram on street corners.
“Oh, lovely,” Ivy said. “If I see yeh on me travels I’ll have some off yeh.” The Garda moved on the street traders so Mary could be on any street corner.
The two women separated when they reached the Dublin docks. Ivy hurried along the empty streets, making mental lists of everything she needed to achieve today. She stifled a sigh – there never seemed to be enough hours in the day to get everything done.
Chapter 2
“Well, would yeh look at that? ‘The dead arose and appeared to many’! I thought you were too high-falutin’ to come down here these days, Ivy Murphy.”
Hopalong’s tea stall was right inside the main entrance to Smithfield Market. He served tea and fried sandwiches to anyone who could pay for them. The stall was a gathering place for everybody who passed through the market – stallholders and customers alike.
“Give us a mug of tea, Hopalong.” Ivy didn’t bother to mention that she’d been Mrs Ryan for the last nine months. She’d be dead and buried before the people she’d grown up around remembered her married name.
“Here, Ivy –” Hopalong looked around carefully before almost whispering as he attended to putting his enamel mugs on his counter. “Do you know Iris Walker?”
“Her whose husband was gassed in the Great War?”
“That’s the one.” Hopalong leaned forward. “She’s been asking about yeh. I think she’s looking for a bit of work with them dolls of yours.”
“Send her up to me.” Ivy produced a series of dolls under the name ‘Ivy Rose’. She had a team of women who dressed the dolls for her in their own homes.
“The poor woman doesn’t like to leave her husband.” Hopalong filled one of the big black pans he kept on top of his freestanding gas stove with sausages. “Poor aul’ Seb – he left home a broth of a lad and came back a wreck. He can’t take two steps without gasping. Iris won’t leave his side – devoted to him she is.”
“I’ll fix something up.” She hadn’t a clue right now where she’d find the time. She took her notebook from the deep pocket of her greatcoat. “Give me her address.”
“Bless you,” he said when she’d written down the address. “Sure if we don’t help each other, who will?”
Ivy looked at the address. It would be only a few minutes out of her way to pass by Henrietta Street – but not today. She simply didn’t have the time.
“Is that yerself, Ivy Murphy?” came a shout.
Attracted by the smell of cooking sausages wafting around the market, a crowd of stallholders were gathering for a cup of tea, a sandwich and a gossip before the hard work of the day began. Friday was a busy day at Smithfield Market.
“We all saw your picture in the newspaper, Ivy!” Big Polly shouted as she walked up to Hopalong’s stall. “You and Jem Ryan attending a talking-picture premiere if you wouldn’t be mindin’. You was the talk of the place, I can tell yeh.” The tall, heavily built woman pushed her way to Ivy’s side. “I almost didn’t recognise yeh meself. Yeh looked just like a fillum star. Fair took me breath away.”
Hopalong was busy serving big mugs of piping hot tea. Ivy got out of the way as people reached for milk and sugar from the countertop.
“My missus almost fainted the first time she saw your Shay up there dancing and singing on the big screen.” Tony the greengrocer joined the group around Hopalong’s stall. “Them talking pictures is something to behold.” He shook his head, marvelling at the new technology that was being introduced into Dublin cinemas. “The whole family has been back more than a couple of times to watch them short pictures with your Shay in them. I puff out me chest when I tell the people around me in the picture house that I knew the big fancy star Douglas Joyce from the time he was knee-high to a grasshopper.”
