Through Streets Broad and Narrow (Ivy Rose Series Book 1) Page 11

  Ivy’s ma, Violet, had never prepared a meal or in fact done anything for herself before she’d married Éamonn Murphy. Nor did she learn how to do much afterwards: as a child, Ivy thought every mother bought meals from the Penny Dinners. Ivy smiled sadly, remembering days standing in line with her mother, clutching a big covered tin dish tightly.

  The Penny Dinners had been set up to serve the poor of the community. The do-gooders didn’t seem to realise that the poor didn’t have a penny to spare. Ivy’s ma had been one of their best customers.

  Ivy stared at the stove, forcing the pain away. She refused to remember how lost she’d been when her ma left her alone to look after four men. Without Granny they’d all have ended up in the poorhouse.

  Ivy shook herself. She wouldn’t think about that – she’d think about her wonderful stove. Granny Grunt had taught her to make nourishing meals from practically nothing. Making the small quantity of bread she’d need would save her a queer few bob. Maybe she’d even try to bake cakes. Oh, there were so many things she could do with that range at her disposal!

  Ivy ran back and forth to the standing tap. She emptied each bucket carefully into the range reservoir. When the water was all the way up to the top of the container Ivy replaced the heavy lid. Then she ran out to fill the bucket once more – she needed clean fresh water on hand.

  She fought back the memory of her mother’s face. She didn’t want to remember. The past was the past.

  Chapter 11

  With rainwater dripping off the brim of his battered leather hat, down his nose and into his abundant beard, Jem Ryan hunkered down to wait. Staring at the wet cobbled street that sparkled and gleamed under the flickering gas streetlamps, Jem sighed. A month into the new year, and what had he done? He needed to make changes in his life. He’d been drifting, letting life pass.

  In this year, 1925, according to the newspapers and those in the know, everything was supposed to be different, better, newer, with more opportunities. Home Rule, no more fighting for Independence. Jem’s sigh shook him almost to his boots. Strange how in the new Ireland the same folk were rich and getting richer. The poor, of whom there were so many, kept getting the short end of the stick.

  Rosie shook her head, sending rivers of raindrops flying in every direction. A passing paperboy, soaked in the sudden spray, cursed and shook his fist in Jem’s direction. Nothing much Jem could do about the situation. The day was cold and wet, miserable in fact. Rosie, the poor old nag, was getting too old for this lark.

  With a heavy sigh he decided this would be his last fare of the day. The Galway train was late, again. The long line of waiting hansom cabs snaked around Kingsbridge Station, appearing and disappearing in the grey mist that coated everything. The horses waiting patiently in their harness dropped their heads behind the cab in front, hoping to escape some of the drizzle.

  With a screaming roar of steam the Galway train chugged into the station. Dublin, the final stop, for many would be the start of a much longer journey. The long train journey from the West of Ireland brought dreamers and schemers into the city of Dublin. Some of the people getting off the train would be taking ship out of Dublin and on to bigger worlds.

  The carriage horses didn’t react to the hissing noise. The clouds of white steam, the sudden explosion of noise didn’t bother them. The whistles and shrieks, shouts from porters, banging of doors, it was all familiar to them.

  Jem counted the cabs in front of him. He was fifth in line. He shouldn’t have any problem picking up a fare from the passengers on this train. Rosie danced a little in her traces. She knew what the sudden noise meant. Jem shook the water from the hessian sack that covered his shoulders, protecting his coat against the falling rain. He removed his hat to run his fingers through his explosion of chestnut-brown hair and shook his head, trying to get the water out of his lushly flowing beard. He removed the soaked sacking from his lap, preparing to greet his customers. A friendly word, a helping hand, sometimes meant a bigger tip.

  A line of porters pushing heavily laden trolleys began to appear through the mist and rain. In their navy pea jackets, peaked hats pulled down low, the porters blew whistles, shouted and waved their arms around, trying to appear more important than they really were. They too needed their tips. Newspaper boys yelled in a bid to attract the befuddled travellers’ attention.

  “I hope I don’t get that auld besom,” Jem muttered as he watched a woman, as round as she was tall, push and prod the child in front of her. There was no need for the poking as far as Jem could see. The little one was moving right along with the crowd. The waterfall of black curls that flowed down the child’s back reminded Jem of Ivy Murphy. Ivy had been a joy to watch running wild around the place. That was before her mother took off. Not that Ivy was ever as richly dressed as the young child being battered in front of his eyes.

  Jem had enjoyed the chance to spend time with Ivy Murphy. Sharing a pot of tea with her had been the high point of his social life lately. He wanted to have another chance to spend time with her. He doubted it would happen. Éamonn Murphy ran off men who showed any interest in Ivy.

  Jem ignored the hustle and bustle all around him. His attention kept returning to the woman and child. He wondered about their relationship. He hoped the woman wasn’t the child’s mother, not with the pucks and pinches she was giving her. Perhaps she was delivering the child to family in Dublin. Jem made a quick wish for the child, hoping the people she was coming to were kinder than the woman with her now.

  The pair were well dressed in rich if plain clothing. The leather boots on their feet were of good quality and showed no sign of wear. The hats on their heads were the work of a skilled milliner. The luggage on the porter’s trolley matched and was obviously shop-bought. There was no handmade string parcels in the lot as far as he could see. These two were not short of a bob or two.

  Why then, Jem wondered, was the woman so sour-looking? She hadn’t stopped poking and pinching the child even when the line of passengers in front of her stopped moving. Jem could see the woman’s lips moving. The beady eyes moved all around. He could see her nose wrinkle even from here. He was sure she wouldn’t be a big tipper. Jem counted porters’ trolleys and by his reckoning the cab in front of him would pick up that pair.

  Jem didn’t know why he was paying so much attention to the mismatched pair. For years he’d been floating along, moving from day to day without bringing bother to anyone and never being bothered. After the time he’d spent with Ivy Jem saw his life through new eyes. He didn’t like what he saw. Perhaps it had more to do with the start of a new year but he didn’t think so. He’d never been troubled like this in previous years.

  “Oh no,” Jem sighed.

  The woman was shaking her head and pointing a hand in the direction of Jem’s brougham. The brougham was a larger vehicle than most of the other hansom cabs. The heavier vehicle was old-fashioned and it wasn’t as fast as the other cabs. Jem knew that but he refused to give in to the current demand for speed. Too many horses were being injured.

  “Evening, ladies,” Jem called, jumping down from his perch. A fare was a fare after all. He couldn’t afford to be fussy. He turned to give the porter a hand with the big trunk and mountain of small leather cases sitting on the trolley.

  “Open the carriage door quickly!” Mary Rose Donnelly snapped. “I’ll not have my belongings sitting out in this weather. Put it all inside the carriage.” She waved her hands around in the fashion of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

  “There will be no room for yourself and the little madam inside, Missus,” said the porter.

  He wanted his dinner and a pint. He wanted to get out of this miserable weather and go home to his wife. Mostly he wanted to throw the luggage off his trolley and get away from the moaning harridan he’d been unfortunate enough to pick up. The porter had seen the wealth displayed by the woman’s clothing and her stack of matching luggage. He’d pushed his way to her side, confident of a generous tip. That didn’t last l
ong – the woman was a horror. You got them from time to time in his job.

  “Would you be wanting two cabs then?” he asked.

  He had been forced to listen to this woman complain from the moment he’d picked up her luggage. He needed to get rid of her and her belongings. Then he’d try to pick up another passenger or he’d be returning home without a penny in his pocket.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Mary Rose Donnelly snapped. “Just load the luggage into the cab and go about your business.” She longed to box the porter’s ears. She would have done if one of her father’s servants had been as surly in his manner.

  The porter shrugged and exchanged a commiserating glance with Jem. The two men huffed and struggled to get the large trunk into the carriage. The cab interior hadn’t been designed for luggage. It was a comfortable ride for passengers with most of the space being taken up by the long leather seats facing each other. The floor space was designed to accommodate only the passengers’ legs and feet.

  The two men, swearing under their breath and grunting with the strain, managed to wedge the large trunk between the two seats, taking up all of the available floor space.

  “Put the smaller packages on one of the seats,” Mary Rose ordered. “We are not travelling far this evening.” She shot Jem a look of such disdain he should have frozen in place. “I’ve made enquiries. I know the address I seek is only moments from this station so do not attempt to take me on a tour of the city. I know how much the fare will be. I will not pay a penny more.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Jem picked the child up in his arms. The little one would need help fitting her body into the meagre space left by the luggage stacked on the passenger seat. The child didn’t weigh much. One little arm went around his neck and shoulder and Jem found himself looking into the biggest, saddest, greenest eyes he’d ever seen.

  “Thank you,” Emerald O’Connor whispered. It had been so long since she’d experienced kindness. With a deep sigh she put her head down on the man’s damp shoulder. Emerald wanted to go to sleep and wake up somewhere, anywhere away from her aunt. It wasn’t to be. The kind man put her carefully into the carriage in the space he’d made for her beside the pile of small cases, and turned his attention to her aunt.

  “You may assist me,” Mary Rose snapped to the porter.

  “You got yourself into this position, Missus,” the porter growled, turning away. “Get yourself out of it.”

  “Allow me.” Jem offered his hand to the disagreeable woman. He couldn’t believe she was related to the little girl who’d almost stolen his heart out of his chest. The little one was so sad. There seemed to be a world of hurt in her green eyes. Why couldn’t this woman be kind to her? Well, he wasn’t going to attempt to lift the auld biddy up into the carriage. He’d do himself a mischief. She looked as if she weighed a ton.

  “Really, if this is the kind of service on offer in Dublin I’m glad I won’t be staying long.” With the assistance of Jem she forced her body into the seat, swinging her legs over the trunk and onto the seat across from her. Mary Rose didn’t care how inelegant she looked. She refused to spend any of the cash she had secured around her person. She hadn’t far to go and then she’d be free. She ignored the child cowering in the corner.

  Emerald tried to disappear into the corner of the carriage. She was too close to her aunt’s feet. She still had the bruises from the last time her aunt lost her temper and beat her senseless. Emerald knew from the pain in her body that her aunt must have kicked her when she was insensible.

  “I wish to go to the Industrial School at Goldenbridge!” Mary Rose snapped, watching her niece cringe with malicious delight. She’d drop the brat off with the nuns. Mary Rose Donnelly had everything planned down to the smallest detail. She was going to follow her own star. She’d take her loot then she’d disappear forever.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jem felt the hair rise on his body. He wanted to throw up.What did this woman plan to do at that place? Jem knew more about the goings-on in Goldenbridge than most people. He still had the nightmares to prove it.

  “I know it’s not far from here, so get along.” Mary Rose smirked and nudged her niece with her foot. “The nuns will soon beat you into shape, you little heathen!” She ignored the gaping jarvey. He was a servant after all and not even one in her employ.

  Jem closed the carriage door gently. He wanted to slam the thing in the auld biddy’s face but the carriage was his livelihood. He needed to take care of it. He walked slowly towards Rosie’s head.

  “I want you to walk so slow you’re almost at a standstill,” he whispered into Rosie’s ear. He would swear at times the horse understood what he said.

  Jem climbed up to the driver’s seat and took the reins in his hands.

  “Why are we not moving?” Mary Rose Donnelly lowered the window and was leaning her upper body dangerously far out. She was resting the weight of her body on the window rim.

  “We’re in line, ma’am.” Jem hunched his shoulders. Even here in his own little world that woman was ordering him around. “You jumped the line when you picked my cab. I have to wait till the horses in front move off.” He didn’t think the woman would know he was lying.

  “Gives you more time to look forward to your new life at the orphanage.”

  Mary Rose’s voice came quite clearly to Jem. She was making no effort to lower her screech. The malice in the words and tone had him shivering. The woman couldn’t possibly mean to leave that little girl in Goldenbridge. It was known to locals as Goldenbridge Girls’ Home but, to everyone who knew it, it was Hell.

  What could he do? He was just a jarvey, a cab driver. He had no power here, no connections. He couldn’t stop this woman doing whatever she wanted.

  “The nuns will soon knock all your high and mighty airs out of you! Are you listening to what I’m saying to you, you little horror?”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  The resigned suffering in that little voice had Jem tightening his hands on the reins. Rosie took that as her signal to move and stepped out of the line, her steel-shod hooves ringing across the cobbles.

  “There will be no more ‘Emerald’ nonsense. The nuns will give you a good Christian name. You won’t find anyone to spoil and pet you where you’re going. You will soon be down on your knees.” Mary Rose laughed aloud. “When you’re not on your knees praying for God’s mercy you’ll be on your knees scrubbing floors. Oh, I wish I could see that. It would do my heart good. Are you listening to me, brat?”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  Jem wanted to jump down off the box and punch the auld crow. She was torturing the little one. Jem turned Rosie’s head. He’d take a diversion, give himself time to think. Was there anything he could do to save the little one from the fate that her aunt seemed to have in store for her? He’d go past Kilmainham Gaol and on towards Islandbridge. They’d reach Goldenbridge eventually.

  Jem didn’t know what to do. How could he deliver a child into the tender care of the nuns? Jem knew the only way any child escaped the true horror of the nuns’ treatment was if she had relations that visited. If a child had someone who checked to see that they were safe, the nuns kept their hands to themselves. Was there some way he could claim to be a relative of the little girl being tormented in his carriage?

  Of course, Jem, he jeered himself mentally. The nuns are going to believe a great big hairy galoot like you is related to that dainty little girl. Why not go the whole hog and claim to be her father come to take her home! That’ll work a treat. A bitter smile creased the wall of hair that covered Jem’s face.

  Jem listened to the woman spew her hatred out at the child. He’d never before heard such bitterness. It seemed that everything that went wrong in the woman’s life was always someone else’s fault. He listened while the vile woman hissed venomous curses on her father’s head, her brother, her dead sister – the child’s mother apparently – all came in for their share of bitter curses.

  Jem took a relieved breath when the bitter diatribe st
opped. Too soon. The woman wasn’t finished. She began to vilify some cleric, some bishop no less. The bishop must be as demented as the woman calling down curses on his name. Bishop Troy had apparently suggested that the bitter, twisted woman travelling in his cab would make a good nun. As Dubliners would say, sure she’d make a great nun where none are wanted.

  “He should have married me!”

  Jem jerked at the shouted words.

  “He was far too old for my sainted sister! The fool man married her and carried her off. Why couldn’t they have stayed away?” The last was the scream of an angry cat. “How dare they think I would be happy to look after their child? I was forced to look at his eyes in your face every cursed day!” Mary Rose was finally free to say everything she’d been bottling up inside for so long. “What is that noise?”

  Mary Rose Donnelly again opened the carriage window and poked her body out of the carriage. Jem was surprised she’d been able to hear anything over the sound of her own voice.

  “You need to be careful, Missus.” Jem turned to look over his shoulder and down at the disagreeable face glaring at him. The woman was a great deal younger then he’d originally thought. She dressed like an old woman and her constant bickering stopped anyone from looking closely.

  “There is some kind of demonstration going on outside Kilmainham Gaol.” Jem turned to examine the crowd pushing and shoving around his carriage. He couldn’t make out what they were shouting. He knew he didn’t want to be caught up in whatever this was.

  “I was not informed our journey would take us past a gaol!” Mary Rose shouted. With her anger riding high, she shoved her body further out of the carriage, shaking her fist up in the jarvey’s direction.