She took one of her precious teacups and a saucer from the tall dresser and set them on the table. Then she carried the matching milk jug into the front room to fill it. She noticed that the level of milk in the metal can she kept standing in cold water in her icy workroom was getting low. She’d have to make a run to the creamery and refill the can, maybe pick up a bit of cheese. She hurried out of the freezing cold room, slamming the dividing door at her back, wanting to keep the heat in the back room.
She quickly filled her cup and, still standing by the range enjoying the heat, she took the first sip of the tea that was her lifeblood. With a contented smile she stood and emptied the china cup in minutes. She refilled the cup before walking over to the kitchen table.
Taking a knife from the drawer under the lip of her kitchen table she shaved the large block of kitchen soap into the steaming water and swirled it around with her hand. With a grin she made bubbles in the space between her thumb and fist, blowing the bubbles away and admiring the rainbow of colour that danced around the room. Her da would have given her a thick ear for messing but he wasn’t here and she did love to make bubbles. She dunked an old rag into the warm soapy water and prepared to scrub herself clean.
By the time she’d washed and dressed Ivy had emptied the teapot. With her warm clothes in place, her long knitted stockings pulled up her legs and her boys’ work boots on her feet, she was ready to face whatever came her way.
“Right, I’ll make meself another pot of tea and this one I’m going to drink like a human – sitting at the table.” She bustled around, getting ready to prepare the second pot of tea of the morning. She moved the big black kettle over the flames and while the water was boiling carried the enamel bowl to the back door. She unlocked the door and flung the dirty water out onto the weed-choked cobbles of the back yard.
Ignoring the untidy state of her room, Ivy prepared a fresh pot of tea. She removed another cup and saucer from the dresser, carrying the set over to the table. She had things to think about, plans to make.
“Well, the state of me and the price of best butter!” She was seated with her back to the wall, a cup of tea in hand. “Is this me lot in life then?” she asked of no one in particular. “Am I going to refuse to marry one of the best men I’ve ever met to spend me days sitting here all on me lonesome?” With her elbows on the table and the cup of tea pressed to her lips, she examined her surroundings. “Is that really what I want for meself?”
The life she was living now wasn’t perfect but it was a heck of a lot better than anything she’d ever known before. There was no one to take and spend her earnings. She could burn the gas lamps without fear of them sputtering out because she hadn’t a penny for the gas meter. The fire burned in the big black grate day and night.
With a silent huff she visually examined her unmade bed. She had sheets, blankets and pillows – who else in The Lane could claim that kind of luxury? Sheets and blanket gift packages were used as currency by the women in The Lane. A popular wedding present, sheets and blankets were beautifully packaged with satin ribbons. The women knew better than to open the package. The pawn shops paid good money on a set of sheets or blankets. In really hard times women borrowed the packaged sheets and blankets from one another. The money you could get from the pawn shop for several sets of sheets, with careful planning, would keep a family fed for a couple of weeks. It wasn’t unheard of for the women to bunch together their sheet packages to help a neighbour out with the rent. To the people of The Lane good sheets and blankets were currency. They were not to be used as bed covers.
The noise coming from the back yard dragged Ivy out of her wool-gathering daze. She’d been reliving Jem’s words, trying to find a way of dealing with a situation that scared her so much it rattled her bones. She hadn’t bothered to check the time yet this morning. It didn’t seem that important. She sighed deeply as the music of many women chatting carried into her room. It must be a lot later than she’d thought.
She reluctantly pushed to her feet. She needed water and it seemed from the sounds outside that she’d have to join a long queue of women waiting to use the tap in the yard. She emptied the dregs of water sitting in her two galvanised buckets into the water reservoir of her range and with a bucket in each hand turned towards her back door.
Chapter 6
“Ivy!” Bitsy Martin yelled from her position at the end of the line of women and children waiting to use the tap.
The long line of women and a scattering of old men turned to look in her direction. It was difficult to make out individual features as everyone was wrapped up against the cold damp weather. Some of the old men had newspaper pushed under their threadbare jackets and threadbare, ripped old blankets around their shoulders like shawls. The children, huddled against the nearest person for warmth, seemed to ignore everything around them.
“If you’ve the makings of nappies about the place, my youngest is up the spout again!” Bitsy called.
“Lock that door behind yeh, Ivy,” MarcellaWiggins shouted from her place in line.
Ivy didn’t usually lock her door when she crossed the yard to fill her buckets. She shrugged her shoulders and reached into her deep pocket for the keys she’d picked up automatically. She locked the door as ordered, the habit of obeying your elders as natural to her as breathing. With her buckets swinging from her hands she walked over to join the women.
“Yeh should tell yer daughter about the ‘fiddler’s elbow’!” Jenny Black shouted at Bitsy Martin while kicking the buckets at her feet forward a few inches as the line progressed. “If your girl knew what caused all them babbies she might not have so many. She’d be a lot better off with less childer. What with that man of hers being sickly and always out of work.”
Marcella drew Ivy carefully off to one side. She wanted a word. With the two women entertaining the line of people waiting at the tap, no one paid any attention to them. It wasn’t unusual to see two women throwing off their shawls to batter each other. A fight between women was far more interesting than a little private chat between two people.
“Keep yer nose out of my business!” Bitsy Martin shook her fist in the air. “I’m only asking Ivy to keep her eye out for the makings of nappies for us. What’s it to you, yeh auld cow?”
“Amazing how he’s never too sickly for some things,” Peggy Roach sniggered.
“Ladies!” Old Man Russell barked out from his place in the line, his seamed face barely visible between the folds of the blanket bits wrapped around his head and shoulders. “There are children present.”
That shut the line of women up – for a while – nothing could keep these women down for long. When Lily Connelly came along with her empty buckets the line exploded with shouted questions and exclamations. The news of Lily’s son Liam and daughter Vera appearing at the Gaiety and being booked for the upcoming pantomime had made the rounds. This was the chance to get all the latest gossip.
“Ivy, I wanted to ask yeh . . .” Marcella Wiggins was in no hurry. She was one of the lucky ones. Her menfolk were in work. She enjoyed the company and gossip to be found around the tap. Marcella’s whisper was lost under cover of the shouted questions and demands being tossed at Lily Connelly. “Are yeh thinking of moving out of them two rooms anytime soon?”
“Mrs Wiggins,” Ivy gaped at her neighbour, “why would you ask me something like that?” She stepped back into the moving line for the tap. She couldn’t spend all day out here gossiping.
“You’ve been walkin’ out with Jem Ryan.” Marcella’s many chins shook as she nodded her head for emphasis. “There’s neither of yeh getting any younger. I don’t know if you’re planning to stay in them two rooms when yeh marry but I wanted to get me spoke in before anyone else.”
“You’d move into basement rooms?” Ivy was astonished. The Wiggins family had one of the two front flats in a nearby house. The large front room with its wide window and the inner back room that was protected and private was considered a prize location. A basement wou
ld be a big comedown for this woman, quite literally.
“Ivy . . .” The big woman with a heart of gold and a helping hand for her neighbours looked heartbroken as she stared down at the weed-infested ground. “I can’t put up with living over the Johnsons any longer.”
“Oh.” Ivy ignored the noise around her. The crowd seemed to be enthralled by everything Lily Connelly had to tell them. Ivy kicked at her buckets, trying to think of something to say.
Marcella too kicked at her buckets. “Me husband was all ready to get a few of the lads together. He was going to teach that Declan Johnson manners. Then we heard that that reprobate Declan is paying protection to Billy Flint. Me man’s no coward but he couldn’t go up against Billy Flint. I understand that but I can’t turn a blind eye to what’s going on under me very nose.” There was a break in the big woman’s voice. “I thought we’d have a bit of peace with the auld fella locked away but that Declan is ten times worse than his auld man ever was.”
“Are yeh telling Ivy about them Johnsons?” Tilly Fletcher, six months pregnant, and with four of her six snotty-nosed tow-haired youngsters clinging to her long skirts, shouted aloud as she approached the standing group. “Something has to be done about him. I had the relievin’ officer in.” Members of the Saint Vincent de Paul charity were known locally as ‘relievin’ officers’. “Declan Johnson was up them stairs like a light. He’s wantin’ a cut of any money I get for me childer.”
Ivy felt her heart almost hit her feet. Tilly was the same age as herself. They’d grown up together. The sight of the woman old before her time with frown lines and a perpetually turned-down mouth sent shivers down her spine. The crowd went eerily silent. You could hear the water hitting the end of someone’s bucket.
“In the name of Jesus,” Marcella blessed herself while taking the Lord’s name in vain and glared at the younger woman, “who needs the News of the World with you around?”
“That Johnson family are a bloody disgrace” Bitsy Martin shouted. “It’s shameful enough having to ask them fellas for a hand-out without having to put up with Declan Johnson as well! That blaggard was up with Nelly Kelly as well. He told her he wanted money off of her and he explained the matter with his fists. Nelly had a black eye, which is bad for her business. Have yeh heard about that, Ivy Murphy, Nelly being such a good friend of yer da’s and all?”
“I try to mind me own business, Bitsy.” She didn’t know why Bitsy was picking on her today. She wouldn’t be doing business with Bitsy Martin. The woman had a way of forgetting to pay. It was a well-known fact around The Lane that Bitsy Martin and all belonging to her would “live in your ear and charge rent for the eardrum”. She could get old torn sheets for nappies from someone who didn’t know her.
“Well –” Bitsy took a deep breath, delighted to be the one to pass on the latest gossip.
“Will you hold your whist, Bitsy Martin!” Marcella roared. “We don’t need to be talking about such things out in plain sight.”
“Maybe Ivy can have a word with that Franciscan Friar that’s always popping in to visit her,” Tilly Fletcher said sourly as she administered a quick flick of her hand around the back of one of her children’s ears.
Ivy’s friendship with Brother Theo was a constant subject for discussion around The Lane. The holy man’s visits were counted and remarked upon around the tap and courtyard. It was a strange friendship to the people of The Lane since their sainted Parish Priest Father Leary hadn’t a good word to say about Ivy Murphy.
“You’d bring the do-gooders down around our ears,” Peggy Roach gasped. The woman stood with two full buckets of water at her feet. She hadn’t wanted to miss any of the news being bruited around the place.
“Something will have to be done before the situation around here gets much worse,” Lily Connelly offered quietly. “We’ll all have to start locking our doors soon. That Declan always did believe that what’s yours is his. If Father Leary wasn’t away on that retreat he’d soon have that lot sorted out.”
“I don’t want any do-gooders putting their nose around my place,” said Tilly Fletcher.
“That’s because you know they’d be around to fumigate the ruddy room,” Peggy Roach muttered, not quite under her breath.
“Someone needs to go have a talk with Billy Flint,” a voice offered from the crowd.
“Who said that?” Marcella shouted.
No one answered. It was all very well to suggest that someone should talk to Billy Flint but no one was brave enough to offer to be the one doing the talking. The man was said to be a terror for his privacy. He didn’t welcome people sticking their noses into his business.
Ivy was relieved to finally be in front of the tap. The crowd would continue to stand here and discuss options. If they came up with a plan someone would let her know. She filled her two buckets and with a sigh picked up one in each hand. She made her way carefully, trying not to spill the precious liquid, over to her own back door, hoping she could get inside while the crowd was occupied with shouting out suggestions for solving their problems with the Johnsons. She had to put the buckets down to reach into her pocket for her door key. She ignored the sharp ringing sound of the slap of naked flesh against flesh and the outraged cry of a child.
“Sweet Jesus!” Ivy was indoors, the back door safely locked.
She carried her buckets over to the range. She was shaking. She used the handy tool to open the top of the range and emptied one bucket into the reservoir. She’d keep the second stashed in the alcove by the range. She needed more water for her day’s chores but she wasn’t willing to step back out into that yard. She’d keep an eye out and hopefully run out when there was less of a crowd.
“I don’t want to end up like Tilly Fletcher.” The image of that woman was burned inside her head now.
She opened the floor cupboard of her tall unit and began pulling out the ingredients for griddle cakes. She needed to eat something. “That’s the real reason I’m afraid to marry Jem.” She whipped egg and water together. She hadn’t enough milk to add to the batter. She preferred to keep the milk for her tea. “I’ve been making up excuses because I’m afraid to admit to him that I don’t want to have a gaggle of snotty-nosed childer clinging to me skirts.” She shivered wildly, hearing her own words almost echo back to her, and her stomach roiled.
“I can’t admit that aloud to Jem. It’s a sin against God and man to even think something like that. He’d be ashamed of me.” She’d been listening to the women of The Lane heap verbal abuse on her own mother’s head all of her life. Violet Burton hadn’t wanted to be constantly pregnant. She’d been very vocal in her opinion. Her outspoken opinion had been fodder for the old biddies to gossip over – forever, it seemed to Ivy. Was she too an unnatural woman? Was something like that passed down through the blood?
She assembled her meal without thought, going through the motions of making the griddle cakes and a pot of tea. When they were made she carried everything she needed over to her kitchen table and almost collapsed into one of her chairs. She leaned her elbows onto the table in front of her and dropped her aching head into her hands.
“The rich are different.” She pushed back in her chair and began to pick at her meal. She did a mental recap of the houses she visited on her round. Those houses weren’t bursting at the seams with children. “They must know something we don’t.” Ivy felt as if she was on the verge of a big discovery. Her friend Ann Marie was an only child; her uncle had only the two children. How did they do that? “Who can I ask?” She remembered the arguments that resulted between her parents when her da had asked Father Leary for advice. She couldn’t go to a member of the clergy with this question. Did she dare broach the subject with Ann Marie? The friendship between the two women was precious to Ivy. Did she dare discuss something so private with her friend?
She stuffed the food in her mouth, gulped the pot of tea and, with her mind whirling with questions she longed to find the answer to, she stood to take care of the business at ha
nd. She’d bought a rabbit ready for the pot from a local lad who’d managed to trap several. She’d been lucky to get the last rabbit the lad had for sale as she came home yesterday. She’d put that on the range with a load of bruised vegetables, handfuls of lentils and barley, cover the lot with water and she’d have a meal fit for a king that would keep her fed for days. She had work to do that wouldn’t wait for her.
Chapter 7
Ivy used one of the tea chests that served as the base of her work table as a lever and pushed herself to her feet with a groan. She pressed her two hands into the small of her back and tried to push herself into a standing position. She’d been crawling around the ice-cold floor on her hands and knees for ages, checking out her supplies. This day seemed to be running away from her and she still hadn’t been out to get more water. In spite of being wrapped up in her outdoor clothes she was freezing. She could almost see her breath in front of her face.
She gave her stuffed pram a happy slap. She had it almost full with items she’d take to market in the morning. She’d made a mental note of the market layout, planning her day, as she’d carefully packed the goods. She liked to have everything she needed close to hand as she approached each stallholder. There would be no foutering about and letting them get an eyeful of her goods. This time of year they were eager for anything they could get their hands on for the Christmas trade. She had her preferred group of stallholders she did regular business with all year.
“I’ll iron these sheets and bits dry.” She crossed to the damp laundry hanging from a rope line she’d stretched across the room. The line was tied to hooks set into the walls of the room. It could be removed easily but it was a blessing when you were trying to get items dry in this weather. The clothes and small items could drip onto the floor in the front room before being ironed dry.
Ha'Penny Chance (Ivy Rose Series Book 2) Page 5