Ha'Penny Chance (Ivy Rose Series Book 2)

by Gemma Jackson

  “I don’t know what to do with the cash money, Ann Marie,” Ivy whispered. “The coins I deal with all of the time. What do I do with those?”

  “I thought Brother Theo found you a tutor for economics?”

  “He did,” Ivy nodded. “Mr Clancy comes to the livery two evenings a week now. He’s teaching me, Jem, John and some of the lads all about bookkeeping. He’s a wonderful teacher. I’m learning all about profit and loss.” Ivy stood suddenly and went to put another sandwich together. “I’m learning about percentages and so many other things. I’m keeping my own accounts in a special book Mr Clancy got for me.”

  Ivy hadn’t known it but she’d always kept accounts. She’d simply done it all mentally, unable to write the facts and figures down.

  “That’s all paperwork, Ann Marie.” Ivy brought the freshly made sandwiches over to the range. She emptied the slop from their cups into a bowl she’d set out before pouring more tea. She dropped into the chair facing Ann Marie, her entire figure a picture of despair. “What do I do with the actual money, Ann Marie, the pounds, shillings and pence?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The feckin’ money, Ann Marie!” Ivy grabbed two handfuls of her own hair. “I’m that worried about the stuff. Now that I know Declan Johnson is back in The Lane I’m almost afraid to leave the house. I can’t go on like this. There must be a way to keep money. A way I know nothing about.” She was almost wailing.

  “Ivy, explain!” Ann Marie leaned forward and shook the other woman’s knees.

  Ivy jumped to her feet and hurried over to the big brass bed. She fell on her knees, her rear end sticking up in the air. Her upper body disappeared under the bed. With a lot of grunting and huffing she began to drag a selection of old cardboard boxes, biscuit tins and thick lumpy knotted socks out from under the bed.

  “The money, Ann Marie!” Ivy stood, panting, and pointed her finger dramatically towards the floor covered in containers. “What in the name of God do I do with the money?”

  Ann Marie stood slowly. She walked over to join Ivy by the bed, staring down at the collection on the floor. “Ivy, are you telling me that those,” she pointed, unsure what to call the motley items on the floor, “are full of cash?” She was trying not to shout.

  “What else am I supposed to do with it?” Ivy glared. “I never knew having money was such a bloody headache. I spend half me time worrying about it and the other half making it. What am I supposed to do, Ann Marie?”

  “You put it in the bank, Ivy Murphy,” Ann Marie snapped. “That’s what you do with it. Put it in the bank and allow them to worry about keeping it safe. That is what you have a bank account for.”

  “How?” Ivy snapped. “When I have enough cheques I get dressed in me best and go in to the bank to make a deposit. You taught me how to do that. But I take cash several times a week and have to walk about the bloody town with cash all over me. I can’t just walk into that fancy bank in me rags. What would I do with me pram? They’d kick me out before I could open me mouth. But, if I get meself all dolled up and keep making special trips to the bank, that will get me noticed.”

  “Push that lot,” Ann Marie pointed a toe towards the items on the floor, “back under the bed.”

  “That’s not all, Ann Marie.” Ivy wanted to get all the information she could. “What am I going to do with the money I collect for the Cinderella dolls?” She used her foot to kick the items back under the bed.

  “That money too should be lodged in the bank – of course.” Ann Marie returned to her seat.

  “Ann Marie, I’m not going to sell those dolls off cheap.” Ivy used the water in the bucket still standing under the tap to rinse her hands before sitting down.

  “I know that, Ivy.” Ann Marie had listened to Ivy’s views on the price of her dolls often enough.

  “I’ll be standing out in the street, in front of God and everyone, selling those dolls. I’ll be shouting out the price I’m charging for all the world to hear. It won’t take a genius to do the sums, Ann Marie.” Ivy had been sick with fear, carrying her earnings around the streets of Dublin. How much worse would it be with what she considered a small fortune in her pocket? “The go-boys that hang around the streets trying to make a quick copper will hear me sales pitch, Ann Marie. They will watch me carefully. Watch the sales I’ll hopefully make. They’ll know I’m carrying a lot of cash on my person. I’ll suddenly become a person of interest to people who think nothing of knocking someone around for a penny, never mind pounds.”

  “Ivy, you’ll be in danger!” Ann Marie gasped. The problem of the money Ivy was keeping under the bed was easily solved. But how would they keep Ivy safe while she stood openly in the street making money? She knew Ivy believed her to be an expert in all things to do with money but she’d never come up against this problem before.

  “At the very least you need a bank bag and a key to the night safe so you can lodge your money safely,” Ann Marie stated with authority.

  “What’s them when they’re at home?”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen the clerks in Grafton Street dropping the big leather bank bags into the wall safes outside the banks?”

  “I think so,” Ivy said slowly.

  “I’m not completely sure how it works, Ivy.” Ann Marie had a vague idea but she preferred to be sure of her facts. “We need to pay a visit to the bank and enquire about possibilities.”

  “That only solves some of me problem,” Ivy sighed. “It would be a simple matter to grab the bag from me hands. I don’t think I could stop a pair or even one grown man intent on mischief.”

  “What does Jem have to say about all of this?” She knew Jem took Ivy’s safety very seriously.

  “He wants me to talk to Billy Flint,” Ivy admitted. “Oh, and he thinks we should get married,” she threw into the conversation.

  “Wait, wait!” Ann Marie threw both arms up in the air. She’d find out who Billy Flint was later. Right now she wanted to get to the meat of the matter. “Ivy Rose Murphy, you are the giddy limit. Do you mean to tell me, Jem has proposed marriage and you are only now getting around to telling me!” It wasn’t a surprise to hear Jem had proposed but she’d thought Ivy would have been more excited.

  Ivy dropped her chin into her chest and whispered, “I asked him to give me time.”

  “I’m sorry – I thought you’d be happy to marry Jem – was I wrong?”

  “No, not really. Jem is the only man I could ever imagine marrying.” Ivy shrugged. “It’s just that I have so much I want to do with my life. So much I’d like to achieve. When a woman gets married she’s supposed to put her husband and childer before everything else in her life. I don’t know if I can do that, Ann Marie.” Ivy was shamefaced.

  “As an outsider looking in,” Ann Marie said, “I think what you and Jem have is very special.”

  “He’ll want me to give up me round, me business, to stay home and take care of him and I can’t do that.” She couldn’t bring herself to mention her unnatural fear of constant pregnancy. The words were stuck in her throat.

  “Did Jem say that?” It would surprise Ann Marie if he had.

  “No.”

  “Then how on earth do you know what he thinks or feels, Ivy?” Ann Marie demanded. “This is just what I was trying to talk to you about earlier. Friendship, any kind of relationship should be about give and take. No one can read your blessed mind, Ivy. You have to talk to people, tell them what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. You have simply got to learn to give and take, Ivy.”

  “I’ll try,” Ivy whispered. Perhaps Ann Marie would understand her concerns about limiting the number of babies a woman had. She’d never know if she didn’t ask. Would her friend hate her? She was angry at herself. She had Ann Marie sitting in front of her and couldn’t even work up the courage to ask the woman for her advice. She was going to do it . . .

  She had opened her mouth to try and bring the subject up when she noticed Ann Marie pull a timepiece from her
pocket.

  “I need to leave, Ivy.” Ann Marie put her watch back in her pocket. She jumped to her feet and began to dress herself in her still damp outer clothing.

  “I’ll ask if one of Jem’s lads will walk you home.” Ivy stood. She wanted to kick herself for missing her chance. Now she’d have to work up her courage all over again.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is.” Ivy wrapped her damp shawl around her shoulders. She picked up Ann Marie’s box of cream cakes and waited. “Declan Johnson is dangerous, Ann Marie – you don’t want someone like him following you home. Let one of Jem’s lads walk out with you. If Conn’s about, that would be great – I’d feel happier if I knew someone was seeing you safely home.”

  Chapter 15

  Ivy pushed her heavy pram along the street, her mind consumed with plans and problems. She simply didn’t know where the time was going. Jem wanted her to go visit Billy Flint before the year got much older. If Billy Flint put out the word on the streets that she was off limits she’d be as safe as houses walking around the place. She’d be glad to know that she had protection, but how much would something like that cost her? Billy Flint did nothing for nothing. Ivy had been putting it off but the closer it came to pantomime season the more she tossed and turned at night.

  A memory of Emmy Ryan at the Halloween party brought a smile to her lips. It had been a simple matter to make a black cat and a witch’s hat for the little girl. She’d felt guilty because she hadn’t put more effort into the costume but it seemed that these days there simply weren’t enough hours in the day to get everything she needed done. Emmy hadn’t seemed to mind. She’d hugged the little black cat close all evening as she ran around the place. The child seemed to be everywhere at once. She’d almost drowned bobbing in the galvanised tub for apples, her teeth had been in danger as she tried to catch an apple dangling from a string held aloft by a tall lad standing on a chair, and it was only by the grace of God that her fingers hadn’t been crushed when she’d borrowed one of the workmen’s hammers to open the nuts and coconuts that had been collected by the older children.

  Little Seán had seemed to have the time of his life too. He’d never left Emmy’s side, running around with her and jumping to obey her every command.

  Ivy’s mind whirled while her feet trod the familiar alleys and back lanes. She’d reduced her visits to the Dublin markets. She had too much to do. It struck her as amusing that, the less she visited the markets, the more the stallholders seemed to think they were missing out on something. She was in great demand when she did manage to make a dash to the markets.

  “I’ll have to make time to teach Emmy a party piece.” She took her notebook out of her pocket and wrote that down. The child needed to be able to perform some little ditty when called upon at one of The Lane’s many street parties.

  She’d paid a visit to the bank with Ann Marie and set herself up with a bank bag for the night safe. The weekend before the bank visit she’d counted up the money she’d had stashed under the bed. She’d almost passed out at the total she’d been keeping hidden. She’d honestly never realised just how much her round earned over a long period. She’d never had the money in her hand long enough to become aware of just how lucrative her business was. Her da had seen to that. At Ann Marie’s suggestion she’d sorted the coins by type. The bank teller hadn’t counted the coins – he’d weighed the money and his total had matched Ivy’s to the penny. She’d wanted to apologise to the poor man for the sheer volume of coins she’d pushed across the bank counter at him. Ann Marie had advised her to say nothing – that was what a bank was for after all, taking and counting money. Ivy had followed the expert’s advice.

  Sometimes she found it hard to believe the direction her own life was taking. What with a posh friend, a lovely man who wanted to marry her and money in the bank, well, it was past believing. If her da had a grave he’d be rolling in it. But he hadn’t. His body had gone to the College of Surgeons for medical research.

  She shook herself, then smiled when she realised what point she’d reached in her round.

  “Hey, Curly, e’er a chance of a sup of tea?” Ivy called out to the apparently empty wooden shack sitting smack-bang in the middle of the alley that ran along the back entrances to the fancy houses forming one side of Fitzwilliam Square.

  Ivy applied a bit of pressure to her pram. The weight of it caused her to smile in delight. Wednesday was her day for wandering further afield on her round. She didn’t try and make it back to The Lane at midday, preferring to carry on until the afternoon. But she did make a point of being back safely in her own two rooms before complete darkness fell.

  “That yerself, Ivy?” Curly Jones, his bald head well wrapped in old sacking, another sack around his shoulders, stuck his head around the rim of his wooden security shack. “It’d skin yeh out there today, girl. Get yerself in here in the dry – the kettle’s on.” He put his lips together and gave a shrill whistle. “Won’t be a minute till Moocher gets here.”

  Ivy parked her pram to the side of the shack. The smell of burning metal was a welcome scent: it meant heat. Curly never let the fire in his galvanised bucket go out.

  The tall, narrow, three-sided shack was one of many dotted around the wealthier areas of Dublin. Outside security, the men who lived in these pitiful shacks laughingly called themselves.

  “Looks like yer doing all right for yerself today.” Curly gave a gummy grin and a nod towards Ivy’s pram. “The springs on that thing are about knackered, Ivy. Yeh need to see to them. Yeh have to take care of yer equipment, don’t yeh know?”

  “It seems like every house around the square is doing a spring clean in winter.” Ivy shrugged. It was none of her business what the wealthy got up to. She was picking up more stuff than ever from these houses. Her pram was loaded with stuff she couldn’t wait to examine.

  “Well, the world is changing, don’t yeh know, Ivy? What with this great new Irish freedom we’re all supposed to be enjoying.” He spat lustily into the bucket at his feet. The glob of spit sizzled on the flames. “But there’s some living in fear of what us wild Irish might get up to.” He shared an understanding glance with Ivy on the vagaries of people. “There’s a lot of the wealthy getting out of the country while the going is good.” He whistled loudly again. “That Moocher, he gets slower every day.” He grinned broadly. “But he’ll be here as soon as the brew is ready to pour out. The lad’s got a mighty nose on him. I swear he can smell a cup of tea from a mile away.”

  “Then him and me have something in common.”

  Ivy peeled back the cover of her pram. She’d baked last night with these two men in mind. They were a good sort and always had a cup of tea and hot gossip ready for her on her Wednesday trek around Fitzwilliam Square. When they could afford it they shared the grub they brought from the Penny Dinners with her. Sometimes, when her brothers were little, the food she got here had been all she tasted for days at a time.

  “I brought buttered scones and milk with me.” Ivy grinned, taking a tightly sealed can of milk from the depths of her pram and then picking up a newspaper-covered parcel that was tucked down the side. “We’ll eat like the nobs today, Curly.”

  “B’god, we will that, Ivy.” Curly licked his lips at the promised treat. “Yer coming up in the world yerself these days, ain’t yeh, Ivy?” He had noticed a definite improvement in the young woman he’d known since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.

  “I can’t complain, Curly.” Ivy took a seat on a propped-up broken chair that would end up in the bucket fire before too long.

  “Well, yeh could complain, Ivy, but who would listen to yeh?” Curly thought it was a sad state of affairs that her da had to die before Ivy could blossom. Éamonn Murphy had been a good mate, always ready to buy a fella a drink, but Curly thought young Éamonn hadn’t done right by his daughter. The poor nipper, out in all weathers, keeping her menfolk fed and fat. It wasn’t right, not right at all.

  “Here’s M
oocher now,” he grinned. “Didn’t I tell yeh he could smell the tea?”

  “That yerself, Ivy?” Moocher, a tall thickset man, shambled into the clearing. “I’m glad to see yeh because I have something to say to yeh. Yeh’d want to be keeping your wits about yeh, Ivy. I’ve seen a fella hanging about behaving ‘in a suspicious manner’ as the Garda would say. I want yeh to mind how yeh go, Ivy Murphy.”

  Ivy felt a shiver run down her spine. “Do you know Declan Johnson, Moocher?” She’d seen Declan around the place – watching her. He made sure she’d seen him. The man enjoyed terrifying women. “Could it be him?”

  “That waste of space!” Moocher spat lustily into the dirt at his feet. “I’d give the likes of him a feed of knuckle-sandwich if I saw him hanging around the place. If that bit of Johnson filth is bothering you, Ivy, you come to me. I’d soon sort him out.” Moocher held up one giant fist and shook it. He couldn’t abide any man that abused women. “I couldn’t make out the face of the fella hanging about but he was dressed in the best, that much I can tell yeh. What’s the likes of him doing around the back lanes, I ask meself?”

  “Get yerself in here.” Curly was accustomed to Moocher’s constant dire warnings. He’d learned to ignore them to a large extent. “Ivy Murphy has invited us to dine.” Curly laughed so hard at his own wit he almost choked on the hacking cough that caught him unawares.

  Moocher moved with more speed than Ivy had ever seen from him. He took the smaller man by the shoulders, beating on his back with his strong hands.