Through Streets Broad and Narrow (Ivy Rose Series Book 1) Page 6

  “That’s okay.” Jem smiled. “A cup of tea in good company is a rare treat for me.”

  “That’s your own fault, Jem. You don’t mix much and you’re not a drinking man which is almost a mortal sin in these parts.”

  Ivy had a pot of tea made in minutes. She’d kept the big black kettle filled with water and hanging from a hook over the fire. With real pleasure at this unexpected opportunity, she served the tea. Then she returned the teapot to the grate. She liked her tea piping hot.

  “Now stop stalling,” she said, “and tell me how you know Tim Johnson has a key to this place.”

  “Okay, it was like this, I was brushing Rosie down, getting her ready for the night and I heard Tim Johnson talking to Pegleg outside . . .” Jem repeated everything he’d heard the two men say.

  “Tim Johnson did have a key to this place.” Ivy stared into Jem’s eyes. She’d never before noticed how attractive his very green eyes were. When you looked at him you only saw the flaming-red beard. It had been so many years since she’d seen him without his beard she’d forgotten what he looked like with a clean-shaven face.

  “How in the name of God did that come about?” Jem almost shouted.

  “Me da.” Ivy shrugged – nothing more needed to be said.

  “Does he not know what a . . . a bounder he is?” Jem was trying to be polite – after all, he was in mixed company. “I could call Tim Johnson a lot of other things but ‘bounder’ will do for the moment. The man’s not to be trusted.”

  “I know.” Ivy stood to fetch the teapot. “Here, empty your slops in there.” Ivy brought a cracked sugar bowl to the table. “I’ll pour you a fresh cup.”

  “What do you mean ‘you know’?” Jem watched Ivy pour the tea. She had the most elegant hands he’d ever seen – how had he never noticed that before?

  “Me da gave that key to Tim in case he ever locked himself out.” Ivy was being discreet. Her da had given that key to Tim Johnson so the man could open the door and throw her father into the place when he was too drunk to stand up. He’d given it to him after a drunken night when he’d fallen down the iron steps and almost frozen to death in the entryway to his own home.

  Ivy couldn’t believe she was sitting in her own room, sharing a pot of tea with a man not related to her. She was actually enjoying the experience

  “Your father should have given the key to Granny Grunt.” Jem was still thinking about any father handing a key to his daughter’s home to a well-known womaniser. Jem had to fight to keep his hands from fisting. Was there no-one to protect Ivy?

  “You don’t have to worry,” Ivy whispered. “Me da wised up. He changed the locks himself. He even put bolts inside the doors and windows.”

  “What happened?” Jem knew that something had – Éamonn Murphy wouldn’t make work for himself. The man was a handsome specimen of useless space in Jem’s opinion. He could have made his fortune as a bare-knuckled fighter. He’d the body for it and the women seemed to love him. God knows he was the pride of the public house but, where it mattered most, in his own home, Éamonn Murphy was a disgrace. Jem would never utter his opinion aloud but he was entitled to his own thoughts.

  “Tim Johnson,” Ivy almost spat the name, “used the key one day when he knew me da was out. You know how it is.” She shrugged. “It’s not hard to check the coming and goings of everyone in The Lane. There’s only one way in and out of here after all. The so and so knew I was here on me own.”

  “Did he hurt you, Ivy?” Jem wanted to kick something, shout streams of abuse on the absent head of her useless excuse for a father but he kept his voice soft and his eyes gentle.

  “No.” Ivy shook her head. “At least not in the way you mean. It was just after Petey, the last of me brothers, left. I was nineteen that summer.” She sipped her tea, proud the hand holding the cup didn’t shake.

  “Ivy?” Jem was only across the courtyard from this place but he’d been so busy minding his own business he’d seen and heard nothing. Ivy could have been raped while he sat with his feet in the fire smoking his pipe. He’d been going around for years with his eyes closed – it was about time he woke up to the world around him.

  “Tim Johnson planned to do me the honour of making me his wife.” Ivy gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Not for anything like love or even liking, you understand. The man has buried three wives already. He was full of himself that night. He really thought I’d be willing and able to provide for him and his brood of motherless childer.”

  “That bastard!” Jem shouted. “Excuse me language.”

  “I told him even if he managed to rape me I wouldn’t marry him.” Ivy held back the memories of her fear that night. Tim Johnson had made his intentions known with his fists. She’d been battered and bruised but she’d refused to let him see her fear. “I told him even if he impregnated me I’d never agree to marry him. I’m not that much of a fool. I’d sooner raise a bastard child than have anything to do with the likes of him. I’ve supported four men, thank you very much. I have no intention of adding to that count.”

  “That didn’t stop him though, did it?” Jem could imagine what Ivy wasn’t telling him. There was a world of horror in her brilliantly blue eyes.

  “No, by the grace of God me da forgot something. He came back from the pub to find his friend wrestling around the floor with his screaming daughter.” She remembered her da’s fury. He’d almost beaten Tim Johnson to death. “Me da made Tim Johnson cry for his mammy that night. Then he changed the locks. He gave me that hockey stick . . .” She nodded to the long-handled wooden stick standing by the window. “That’s the only bit of wood me da would never throw into the back of the fire.”

  “So I didn’t need to come over here to warn you after all?” Jem didn’t regret his visit. He and Ivy hadn’t spent any real time together before. They knew each other and always passed the time of day but that was all.

  When he’d arrived in Dublin from his home in Sligo he’d thought himself a man at fifteen. He’d come to take up a job at the livery owned by his mother’s brother. Ivy must have been about eight then, an enormous age gap at that stage of their lives. Sitting here with her in her cosy room the age gap didn’t seem so much. He’d enjoyed this time with her.

  “I appreciate your coming over here to warn me more than I can say, Jem,” Ivy said softly. “I thought Tim Johnson had given up all ideas about me. He’s a married man again. I pity that poor cow he married. She’s aged a hundred years since he got his hands on her. Tim and his load of motherless childer will bury her before she’s very much older.”

  “He has a bad reputation around women, Ivy.” Jem pushed his chair back, preparing to stand. “You should never turn your back on him. Keep that hockey stick close to hand when you’re here alone.”

  “Stay a minute, Jem.” Ivy didn’t want him to leave. “It’s not that late and we’re in full view of anyone interested in what we might be getting up to.”

  “I know,” Jem laughed. “Have you not noticed how many people have strolled past your railings since we’ve been sitting here?”

  “Yes, it’s amazing how many of the neighbours have decided to take an evening stroll.” Ivy’s laugh turned to a startled sob.

  Jem looked at her, dismayed. “Ivy . . .” He paused. “I saw Officer Collins come up your stairs this morning.” He waited, wondering if she’d tell him what was going on. “I was coming back from my night’s work. Last night was a busy night for cab drivers.”

  “I thought someone would see him.” Ivy shrugged. “It’s hard to keep a secret around here.”

  “Is your da in jail?”

  “No!” Ivy snapped. “How could you think that?”

  “Ivy, whatever you tell me will go no further. You know that. I’m no gossip.”

  “I know, Jem.” Ivy wasn’t ready yet to tell anyone her business.

  “I need to be on me way.” Jem stood. “Lock the door behind me, Ivy.”

  “Thanks for calling, Jem.” Ivy stood to open
the door at her back. It was impossible to get into the small hallway with her sitting in the way.

  “Happy New Year, Ivy Murphy,” Jem said as he stepped through the outer door. “Ivy, about that bath, I know it’s none of me business but are you still planning to haul in the water yourself?” Jem knew the amount of work involved in hauling in buckets of cold water.

  “I’m thinking about it.” Ivy shrugged.

  “Why don’t you go to the public baths in Tara Street?” Jem didn’t like to offer to pay for Ivy’s bath but he’d willingly pay to save her from the hard work.

  “I’ll think about that too,” Ivy promised. She’d never been to the public baths for herself but she’d thrown the boys in there when she had the pennies to spare. “Now be on your way, Mr Ryan. I thank you for the pleasure of your company and wish you a Happy New Year.”

  Ivy shut and locked the door.

  Chapter 6

  Ivy checked on Granny, making sure the old woman had everything she needed for the night. She listened politely to the lecture the old woman delivered without saying a word in her own defence. She wasn’t ready to share the news about her da with anyone, not yet.

  Ivy had used the back door, for the first time in years not having to walk around the tenement building when she checked on Granny. She sighed with satisfaction at the short return trip from Granny’s to her place.

  As soon as she’d locked the door at her back she began checking the locks on the door and windows of the back room, her da’s room. Then she left the room as fast as her legs would carry her. She couldn’t bear it. Her da’s unique scent and the lingering stench of bodily functions were all around her.

  How could you feel so numb yet hurt so much? Ivy couldn’t believe she’d never see her big handsome da again. She’d never see his smile, hear his laugh, listen to him say ‘I’m off to see if me ship’s come in,’ as he went out the door.

  “You’re being stupid, girl.” Ivy leaned with her back against the door separating the two rooms, crippled by indecision. “You’ve a brain in your head. It may be a small practically useless female brain but it’s there, girl!” Ivy wasn’t aware she was parroting her father’s favourite expressions but the slagging worked.

  Ivy grabbed the enamel basin she’d used for years to wash dishes, clothes – herself. The large basin had originally been white but years of hard wear had chipped the enamel so much that there was more of the blue base showing than the white enamel. But it served its purpose.

  I may not be able to have me bath, Ivy thought – she had returned the tin tub to its nail outside the back door before going to visit Granny – but I can strip meself down and wash. She poured hot water from the kettle into the basin. After adding cool water from the bucket, she put the wash basin on a small table tucked into one corner of the room.

  She could feel a blush travel from her toes to her forehead. She’d never been naked for as long as she could remember. I’ll go to hell for sure now, what with speaking ill of the dead and now thinking about getting naked and touching me own flesh. Yes, indeed, Ivy Rose Murphy – her head jerked back and forth in agreement with her thoughts – you’ll be going straight to hell.

  She pulled the chain to extinguish the gas lamps. If she was going to hell there was no need to light the devil’s way for him.

  “What am I going to wear tomorrow when I go to meet your one from the morgue?” Ivy was speaking aloud to distract herself from what her own hands were doing. She was removing her clothes, every stitch. Like everyone else in The Lane, Ivy slept in her clothes. The rooms were so cold you awoke of a morning with ice on your lips, and any bed coverings you were lucky enough to have had ice crystals on them. The crystals were formed from the breathing of the bed’s inhabitant. It was a lucky family who could afford to light the fire first thing of a morning.

  “I can’t go to meet the one from the morgue in me old rags . . .” Ivy stood naked in the firelight, afraid to look down at her own body. This must be one of those ‘occasions of sin’ the priests talked about, she thought. “If I put the word out I was going visiting I’d soon have some kind of an outfit.”

  She wet an old rag and lathered it up with her bar of Ivory soap. She ran the rag over her arms and torso. With closed eyes and a silent prayer she ran the rag over her bosom. A relieved gasp left her lips when no occasion of sin occurred. Wetting the rag as needed she struggled to reach as much of her back as she could. Satisfied she’d done as much as she could she prepared to wash her legs. She chanced a quick peek, just to see what she was doing, and was amazed at the lack of flesh on her bones. Had her legs always been so skinny?

  “Maura Flynn has that skirt she bought from me last week. There was a lovely bit of material in that skirt.” She continued to wash her long legs. “If Maura hasn’t pawned it yet she’d loan it to me.”

  Ivy was shaking as she rinsed the rag and prepared to wash between her legs. What if she felt some pleasure? She’d know then she was a depraved sinner for sure.

  “Sheila Purcell, her that does for the priest . . .” Ivy was almost faint with relief. She’d washed her private parts, and received no pleasure from the action. Maybe she wasn’t cursed to eternal damnation. “Of course Sheila smells herself – she thinks she’s special. Just because she works in the priest’s house!” Ivy stood with both hands in the water. “Still, she does have that lovely pair of shoes she wears on Sunday. Not a hole or a scratch on them. I wouldn’t know meself wearing shoes like that. They’d be a bit wide and long for me but I could fix that.”

  “It’s such a pity I don’t know anyone with a decent coat to their name. A good coat would be just the ticket – a good coat covers a multitude of sins – it wouldn’t matter what I wore underneath it.” Ivy tried to get a picture of her neighbours in her head, trying to remember if anyone had appeared wearing a decent coat recently. She came up blank. A good coat would be taken to the pawn shop almost immediately. The amount of money you received for a decent coat guaranteed you’d never be able to afford to redeem it again, no matter how much you told yourself otherwise.

  “So if I put the word out I’m going visiting I’d have all the neighbours coming over here to offer me something or other. Even those with nothing to lend will be over to see what’s going on. So that puts the top hat on that idea. I’ll be lynched if I tell anyone I’m selling me da’s dead body. . . I’ll hold me whist, sing dumb for the minute. It’s not the first time me da has gone missing for days. I’ve a bit of time yet.” Ivy rinsed out the rag, before throwing the water from her basin into the slop bucket. She’d do her face and neck in the morning.

  “I’ll have to rummage through me tea chests and see what I’ve got on hand. There must be something in one of them that I can cobble together into a decent outfit.”

  Ivy shivered. She wasn’t cold – the fire was still roaring up the chimney. She was standing naked as the day she was born in her own room. The heat that flamed over her skin was almost as hot as the flames from the fire. She shoved her chin into the air and like a soldier walking towards the firing squad she marched over to the tea chests stacked in the nooks on both sides of the chimney breast.

  Éamonn Murphy had a contact in Boland’s Mill, a man who regularly could be trusted to find anything that ‘fell off the back’ of the delivery wagons. Éamonn sold the tea chests to Ivy at a fair price. The tea chests were viable income as far as Éamonn Murphy was concerned and were a constant temptation to him. Every time he was short of a few bob he tried to sneak a couple of the chests out from under Ivy’s nose. Ivy had had to threaten him, claiming she’d stop going on her rounds if he even thought of taking the chests out and selling them to get his entry fee for the pub.

  The eight tea chests with the board Ivy paid one of Éamonn’s mates to cut for her formed a sleeping platform for the three lads. Éamonn had sold the big brass bed his children slept in, claiming sleeping on the hard floor would do them no harm. Ivy didn’t agree.

  The chests were used for stori
ng Ivy’s pickings, her stash. They were her treasure chests. During the day they stood in several stacks by the side of the fireplace. At night, with the board across the chests and a thin pad Ivy made of rag strips and flour sacks, they were a bed. The four children of Éamonn Murphy huddled together. The three boys slept at the top, Ivy alone lengthwise at the foot. They’d slept that way for years until one by one the males left home leaving Ivy in sole possession.

  Ivy pulled an old hand-knit jumper from one tea chest. The thing was man-sized and full of holes. Ivy planned to one day rip it apart. She’d wash and stretch the wool then knit something she could sell. Ivy put her newly cleaned legs through the arms of the jumper and pulled the body up around her. She couldn’t bear to put her dirty old clothes back on. She used a rag strip from a different chest to secure the loose jumper around her waist. With a shiver of relief, she covered her nakedness by pulling another man’s jumper over her torso.

  “The working man’s pyjamas!” Ivy laughed aloud. “I wonder what I look like?” She didn’t own a mirror. Her da wouldn’t allow a mirror in the house. He said it would lead to the sin of vanity.

  Ivy dropped into one of the fireside chairs, wondering what she should do now.

  “Right, I’m washed and decently covered. What next?”

  She couldn’t sit still. She jumped up and with efficient movements lit the gas lamps. She shifted the top chests down to the floor, revealing the open top of each chest to her eyes and hands. She dropped to her knees and with the chests all around her glanced from one to another, wondering what she’d put into them and when.