Ivy walked down the long aisle, the loose sole of her shoe slapping against the marble floor, her head held high. She was aware of the damnation in the glare of the parish priest but she didn’t care.
Chapter 10
“Granny, it’s me, Ivy. Can I come in?” Ivy pushed the door to Granny’s basement room open.
“You’ve been running in and out of this room like it was your own private hideaway since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. Why should today be any different?” Granny’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass.
“I got the milk and tea yeh wanted.” Ivy ignored the old woman’s moan and visually checked that Granny was warmly dressed. The wizened apple face was still gleaming from the quick wash Ivy had given it earlier that morning.
“Maisie Reynolds stopped me.” Ivy grinned at Granny, both women knowing that getting away from Maisie Reynolds took skill. The long-time neighbour loved to hear herself talk. “She gave me two crubeens. Her Petey picked up a load from the last hog-butchering. He pickled them up himself. Maisie passed me these two on the sly.”
Ivy bustled around the old woman’s room, more comfortable here than in her own rooms.
“I know how much you love crubeens.” Ivy had been watching Granny suck the toes of pig’s feet for years. “I was hoping to have them this evening but they’re that salty it would bring tears to your eyes. I’ll have to put them to soak. We can have them tomorrow. I’ll mention to Alf Connelly to check if a head of cabbage and a few potatoes fall off the back of one of his trains.”
Alf Connelly worked at the local train depot. The man seemed to have a genius for ripping small holes in the netting used to transport vegetables. He often had onions, carrots, potatoes and other items for sale. When she could afford it Ivy passed Alf a brown penny for the ingredients for a “blind stew”. The meatless dish was filling and nourishing.
Ivy wrapped her shawl around her head, grabbed the galvanised bucket and hurried out of the room to fetch fresh water. She needed to get on with her own chores.
Ivy groaned at the long line of women and children waiting to draw water from the only tap in the yard. She couldn’t wait. She had a lot of things to get done yet today. She’d give Granny the water she’d drawn for her own use. She’d been out at the tap this morning before anyone else was awake. Ivy hurried to unlock the back door to her own place. She hurried through her da’s room with a grimace. She still hadn’t touched the place. She must get it done. Her da had been dead for weeks and she could not continue to ignore that fact.
“Sit yourself down, girl,” Granny snapped as soon as Ivy returned. “Yeh’ve time for a cup of tea.” Granny’s room had the only free-standing stove in the tenements. It had been a nine days’ wonder when the woman had the thing installed. The coalburning cast-iron stove was used to heat the room. The top was ideal for slow cooking. Granny kept an old black kettle on the back of the stove simmering throughout the day.
“I could murder a cup of tea.” Ivy cleared off the top of the table that was used for Granny’s fine stitching – close work, she called it – and eating. “What time is yer woman coming for the tablecloth?” Ivy had spent ten long, cramped, backbreaking hours the previous day doing invisible mending to a Belgian lace tablecloth.
“She’ll be here when she gets here.” Granny watched the younger woman buzz around her room like a blue-arsed fly. There were people who swore Ivy Murphy had been born running. “Are yeh short of a few bob?” Granny knew the bulk of the payment should go to Ivy. The girl did all the fine sewing now. Granny’s hands were crippled and her old eyes were giving up the ghost.
“When has anyone around here enough money?” Ivy checked on the ham hock and lima beans she’d put on to cook that morning when she’d knocked to awaken Granny. She’d begun taking her meals with Granny since her da died. It was working out well for both of them.
“Here, girl, sit down.” Granny had set the table while Ivy prepared a pot of tea for the two of them. “I made yeh a bite.” She pushed a chipped plate covered with bread and drippin’ towards Ivy.
“Thanks, Granny.” Ivy touched Granny’s hand with the tips of her fingers. The old woman’s hands were crippled and knotted and her dark-brown eyes were slowly being covered by a film of grey, but the old woman was still fiercely independent.
“I talked to Father Massey this morning about yer da.” Granny always attended the first Mass of the day – Ivy made sure she was on hand to awaken the old woman. “I don’t understand why his death hasn’t been mentioned from the altar. For all his faults yer da was a regular Mass-goer.” She glared at Ivy, her avoidance of organised religion an old bone to pick between them.
“I told Father Leary about me da’s death.” Ivy jumped up to pour the weak tea. She couldn’t be bothered waiting for it to brew. “Then I went and saw Father Massey so I’d be sure he entered me da in the altar list of the dead.” Ivy had been waiting for the reaction to the news of her da’s death but nothing had happened. “I can do no more.”
“You should go and see Father Leary again yerself, Ivy!” Granny snapped. “It isn’t right, it isn’t decent. Yeh never even waked the man.”
“Granny –” Ivy bit back the sour words she longed to pour from her lips. She knew her da hadn’t meant to die but he’d left her in such a state she was having a hard time forgiving him. Ivy stuffed the drippin’-covered bread Granny had prepared into her mouth and swallowed it with most of the tea in her cup. She couldn’t say what she was thinking about Father Leary aloud.
“I know, I know!” Granny waved a hand in dismissal. They’d had the same argument many times over the years.
“Those beans should be ready for you to eat for your dinner,” Ivy said, meaning the midday meal.
“The best thing yer ma ever did was teach yeh to cook,” Granny grinned.
Violet Murphy had been raised with servants. She’d no more idea how to cook than fly. Granny had taught Ivy everything she knew about cooking. In fact, from the first time Ivy waddled into Granny’s room the old woman had been teaching and training her. Ivy didn’t know how the Murphy family would have survived without the knowledge Granny Grunt shared with her.
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Granny.” Ivy stood to refill Granny’s cup. “I have to get back to me round. I’m losing daylight.”
Granny poured the fresh tea into her saucer. She closed her eyes in pleasure as she sucked the cooled liquid into her toothless mouth. “I have to admit,” she said, “I thought yer ma was out of her mind when she talked about going begging to the big houses on the square but the woman knew what she was talking about.”
“Well, me ma would know all about those houses from the other side.” Ivy shrugged. “I better get on.” She jumped up to tidy the table.
“I’ll see yeh later.” Granny knew she hadn’t much more time on this earth. She wanted to see Ivy settled before she went. “Pop into yer place first and light yer fire. I’ll have a bite to eat ready for yeh when yeh finish yer round.”
“Yes, master!” Ivy laughed. Granny liked to give the impression she was still in control. “I’ll get on.”
Ivy pulled her ratty old coat on and resettled her shawl. She had a few more houses she needed to visit before she could call it a day.
Late that same day Ivy stood in the open doorway of her da’s room. She stared around the echoing space, feeling her heart break a little more. It was hard to believe her da was really gone. She was still expecting him to explode through the door demanding a meal, a clean shirt, a few bob for his entrance fee to the pub.
Ivy sighed sadly. She’d promised herself she’d tackle his room today. It was time and past for Ivy to claim this room as her own. Ivy could almost feel her da’s eyes on her, daring her to go into his room, daring her to touch his stuff.
Ivy, as was her habit, had been back home several times throughout the day to unload her loot and check on Granny. She preferred to collect little and often. It wouldn’t do to allow certain shifty char
acters to see how much she managed to collect on her rounds. The unemployed men who hung around the streets were always on the lookout for an easy mark. The news that Ivy didn’t have her da’s protection any more wasn’t public knowledge yet but Ivy knew. She had to be doubly careful, now she was on her own.
It never ceased to amaze Ivy, the articles people threw away. Still, it wasn’t her place to judge. She’d been making money off other people’s discards for years. Ivy knew the servants in each house helped themselves to the best of the discarded stuff. It was only right they should have first pick of the items thrown away.
With her weekly visits to their back door, Ivy had become a trusted go-between for the lower-house servants. They allowed Ivy to sell the buttons, ribbons and pins they managed to score for themselves. Ivy, for a small fee, would pass the items on to her contacts. This service had become very lucrative for Ivy over the years.
The upper servants – butler, cook, housekeeper, nanny – had their own contacts for the stuff they managed to score. Violet Murphy had been shocked by the amount of pilfering that went on in each house. She’d had no idea that servants had their own small trade going on beneath their employers’ noses.
On her way home for the last time that day Ivy had stopped at Smith’s the greengrocer’s to cadge a couple of orange boxes. The wooden crates used to ship oranges were the furniture of choice for the people in The Lane. The crates were in much demand and hard to come by. Now Ivy, standing in the doorway that separated the two rooms, wished she could huddle by the fire and examine her loot but she knew she needed to do something about the back room. The extra space would be a godsend.
Earlier in the evening Ivy had put a match to the fire in her room before joining Granny. Since her da’s death Ivy had been able to spend more time with the old woman. Sharing the cost of food and eating together was working out well – for both of them. They’d finished off the pot of ham hock and beans between them then Ivy had got the old woman ready for bed before she left her. She turned her head, looking back over her shoulder to watch the flames in her own fireplace with a dry mouth. She wanted a cup of tea. Ivy did her best thinking sitting at the table under the window with a cup of tea in her hand.
“Well, Da, your name still hasn’t been mentioned on the altar list of the dead,” Ivy said aloud to the empty room. She’d fallen into the habit of speaking with her father every time she was alone. The man had never listened to her when he was alive but in death he was proving to be great company. “At least no-one’s said a dickie-bird to me about your death. That’s not normal around here, Da, as you know. I’m sorry about that. I know how you’d love the fuss. I’ll probably be excommunicated after that run-in I had with the parish priest a few weeks ago but I did me best.”
Ivy didn’t feel comfortable in this room. She needed to make this space her own. She sighed and stepped away from the door post. The longer she put off the work the harder it would be for her to clear away all signs of her da. The two rooms were her home now. She could sleep in the back room and set up a workshop in the front room. The thought of being able to spread her stuff around and leave it out without getting a clip around the ear was exciting. She’d have a better idea of what she had and what needed to be done to it. If, that is, she could ever work up enough courage to walk into this darn room and actually touch the things littered around.
“Well, Da, I’m going to pull away that board now.”
Éamonn Murphy had covered the black range that was built into the chimneybreast of the back wall. He’d refused to listen all of the times Ivy had begged to be allowed use the range.
“Here goes!” Ivy was surprised by the ease with which she moved the heavy wood panel. She’d expected to need tools to remove the board but the thing came away in her hand. Ivy carried the panel over to the far wall and propped it upright there. She took a deep breath before turning back around, dreading what she’d see. “Ahh, Jaysus, Da!” Ivy pressed her hand to her mouth, pushing back the tears. She wanted to sit on the dirty floor and sob like a baby.
The bloody range was gleaming, polished to within an inch of its life.
“Did you do it for her, Da, for me ma?” Ivy sobbed. The beautiful range was blackened, the brass fittings polished. It shone, gleaming in pride of place. A huge monster of a thing, that stove had allowed Violet Murphy to lord it over her neighbours, now it would make Ivy’s life easier.
Violet had demanded that her husband black-lead-polish the stove daily. Ivy remembered her parents giggling like children whenever Éamonn tried to show Violet how to do the work herself. The brass tap gleamed in the light coming from the other room. Ivy was so surprised she lit the gaslamps in this room for the first time in her life. In the bright light the range was still there, still beautiful.
The black range had been the main reason Éamonn Murphy wanted to rent these two rooms. The top of the range could be used for cooking. Violet Murphy had kept the buckets of stew from the penny dinners hot on the top of that stove. The black kettle had sat proudly on top of that range, steam always coming from the spout, ready to make a pot of tea. One side of the range was an oven. The opposite end was a water-container. The red flames of burning coal would glisten behind the black bars of the fire. You opened the brass tap and had hot water on demand.
“I suppose yeh couldn’t be bothered with all the work of hauling in water and lighting the fire in here, Da. Yeh were a lazy bugger. If you’d let me use the stove we’d all have been better off. I can tell yeh, I’m going to have hot water on the go all the time.” The luxury of it all! Ivy patted the range lovingly.
For the first time Ivy noticed the large mirror that sat comfortably on top of the range. “You weren’t worried about your own vanity, I see, Da. I’ll be using that too, Da.” She picked up the heavy mirror and carried it over to rest against one wall of the room. She avoided examining her own image, afraid that her father’s ghost would rise up and belt her around the ears for her sin of vanity.
Ivy opened the oven door, expecting to see empty shelves. Tins of polish and torn rags were crammed into the space. Ivy hoped the chimney had been kept as clean as the range.
Ivy hurried back into her own room, the front room. She shook her head. She really must remember to call the rooms hers now. She grabbed a supply of loose paper from her stockpile stored in orange boxes. She carried the old newspapers into the back room. With a deep breath and crossed fingers, she opened the front grid of the range and shoved paper into the clean fire pit. She set the paper on fire and stood back. The smoke went up the chimney like the answer to a prayer. She was in business.
For the first time in twelve years a fire was lit in the big black range. The range had been at the very heart of the Murphy family home life. Ivy remembered sitting around the fire with her parents and brothers listening to stories about the old days and the characters her da had met on his travels. She’d forgotten all about those happy family times.
Her mother Violet had told stories too but only when her da was away. Violet’s stories had seemed like fairy tales to her wide-eyed children. Violet had told stories of servants, balls, clothes and food beyond belief. A life her children would never experience. Violet had talked about Éamonn Murphy as her prince. The love of her life, the man she’d given up everything for. Violet’s children had listened to her words in wondrous delight.
Ivy stood back, staring at the range, remembering. Then she became aware of the tears flowing freely down her face. Shaking her head in disgust at her own stupidity, she grabbed the water bucket. She had no time to wallow in memories. Those times were over and gone, best forgotten. She removed the heavy cast-iron plate cut into the top of the range with the special tool she found hanging in its usual place. She was going to fill the water container, right now.
She wouldn’t know herself with the luxury of having constant hot water. She didn’t intend to let the fire in the range go out again. She’d have to talk to some of the local lads. She’d need them to start bri
nging any nuggets of coal they found down the docks to her. She’d have to be careful in her choice of supplier. There were some she didn’t want to know she’d the money to pay her way. Ivy sighed. She’d get Conn Connelly to act as go-between. You could trust Conn.
Ivy imagined she could feel the room warming up already. She’d bank the fire with wet nuggets when she was out on her rounds. The cheery glow would always be waiting for her when she came home – cold, wet and footsore.
Ivy ran out into the yard, the water bucket banging against her legs. She almost skipped over to the tap, thinking about the uses she could put the range to. For once no-one stood in line for the water tap, there must be some excitement going on somewhere else. Ivy had the tap all to herself, an appreciated luxury. Her mind buzzed with ideas. She’d leave something, even if it was only a blind stew, simmering on the stove while she was out and about. She’d come home to a hot meal. Ivy’s mind was spinning, full of her great plans.
Ivy was vaguely aware of people calling out to her but she hurried on with her chore. She heard the shouts and cursing coming from the neighbour’s place but paid it no heed. There was always someone having an argument around the place although there seemed to be more than the usual amount of shouting and colourful abuse being dished out tonight. Normally a right barney was entertainment and Ivy would have joined her neighbours but not tonight. She had too much to do and enough problems of her own to be getting on with. She wanted the water container on the range full to capacity.
She’d be able to make her own bread, Ivy suddenly thought. Granny Grunt had taught her how.
Through Streets Broad and Narrow (Ivy Rose Series Book 1) Page 10