The Ha'Penny Place (Ivy Rose Series Book 3)

by Gemma Jackson

  GEMMA JACKSON

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2015

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  © Gemma Jackson 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  1

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978178199-9455

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the author

  Gemma Jackson was born in inner-city Dublin, the fifth of seven children. Educated by the nuns at Mount Sackville Convent in Castleknock, she remembers a childhood of hunger, cold and desperation. Yet, through it all, making life worth living, were wonderful people, stories, music and gales of laughter.

  She left home at seventeen, desperate to see the wider world.

  Gemma has worked her way around the world. As long as the job was legal, she’d do it. She has been an air hostess, advisor and writer for a TV evangelist, hand model and movie extra.

  The Ha’penny Place is Gemma’s third novel, following on Through Streets Broad and Narrow and Ha’penny Chance. All three novels arefictional amalgamations of the stories about ‘The Lane’ and its people that she grew up listening to.

  Also by Gemma Jackson

  Through Streets Broad and Narrow

  Ha’penny Chance

  Published by Poolbeg

  Acknowledgements

  To the people at Poolbeg, thank you so much for allowing me to realise a lifelong dream. I’m a published author – I’ll be losing the run of myself. Paula Campbell and Gaye Shortland, thank you. I have heard it rumoured that you are both checking out the webpage of homes for the perpetually bewildered after having to deal with me – sorry!

  I am especially grateful to the readers who take the time to visit my webpage and tell me they’ve enjoyed my books – thank you.

  To the Dubliners I grew up around, especially the ones long gone – I remember you all with love and gratitude.

  To my daughter Astrid for feeding my tea addiction – I’d get nothing done without the constant supply of tea.

  For the people, real and imagined, who populated The Lane. The history of those people is kept alive by the storytellers. I’m proud to be one of them.

  Dedication

  The Dublin I grew up in was a place where no one locked their doors. You got a box around the ear from whichever adult caught you doing something wrong. A hob-hatcher – someone who stayed inside all day – was one of the worst things you could be. The coal, milk, vegetables were delivered by horse-drawn carts. The local farmer loaned you goats and donkeys to cut the grass. When did my past become ancient history?

  Chapter 1

  “I feel as if I’ve spent half me life standing on the Dun Laoghaire docks waving goodbye to people.” Ivy Rose Murphy looked into her brother’s eyes, determined to imprint his image on her memory forever.

  “At least this time you’ll have something to remember me by.” Shay Murphy AKA Douglas Joyce, star of stage and soon to be famous on the big screen, jerked his head in the direction of the newspaper cameramen loitering around the shipping company’s first-class lounge, hoping to capture an image for their papers. He had delayed his departure because of his sister – he couldn’t wait any longer. He had places to go, worlds to conquer. He thought the second day of 1926 an ideal time to step out into the unknown.

  “Being in the dailies might be alright for you,” Ivy nudged her baby brother gently, “but for the likes of me it’s mortifying.” He’d left home for the first time as the penniless Shay Murphy – today he was the feted entertainer Douglas Joyce. It was far from this kind of attention both of them were raised. Ivy’s ivory cheeks were stained with red. She’d never become accustomed to people looking at her and shouting questions. Had these reporter people no homes to go to?

  “The state of us and the price of best butter!” Doug/Shay grinned down at his sister, his sparkling violet eyes so like hers it was easy to see the relationship between the pair. “The last time we were here I was down there,” a nod of his head towards the crowds of shabbily dressed people milling around the docks, “sick to my stomach with nerves and fear of the unknown. The pair of us weren’t dressed up to beat the band neither.”

  “You’d an arse in yer trousers aself, not like some of them poor buggers.” Ivy was determined to fight off the tears that had been threatening for days. She’d cry an ocean when he was gone but she’d be deep-dipped and fried before she’d see him off on his great adventure with tears running down her face.

  “You made sure of that, Ivy.” Doug examined their twin images in the long glass windows that circled the upper-deck lounge. They looked like two wealthy toffs. The purple tweed suit his sister was wearing covered her from neck to ankles. It was too long to be bang-up-to-the-minute fashion-wise. He’d tried to talk her into the shorter lengths but she’d been horrified at the very thought of exposing her ankles to the world. But, over the suit, Ivy wore his gift of a beige cashmere coat and hat with elegance and style. She looked like she should be in the ‘fillums’ herself. The sight of his own expertly tailored clothing amused him. The good looks and talent he’d been born with had seen him this far. He wondered how much further he could climb.

  “I wish you’d change your mind and come to America with me, Ivy,” Doug said for what felt like the thousandth time. He’d saved the money for Ivy’s first-class ticket to the land of dreams. He’d had such great plans for them in their new life in America. He’d been offered the chance of a lifetime. A talent scout had approached him with an offer to star in the new ‘talkies’– newfangled pictures being made with sound. He’d grabbed the chance with both hands. But the hard-headed woman in his arms had refused all suggestion that she should leave her hand-to-mouth existence in the tenements of Dublin. He’d tried to give her the money he’d saved for her but she’d insisted he’d need it more than she ever would. He’d reluctantly agreed.

  “I’ve given yeh me opinion,” Ivy stated firmly. Who knew what Shay was going to find in this place he talked about, Hollywood if yeh didn’t mind, and talking pictures. What would they think of next? It would never catch on and Shay was going to need his wits about him to keep from starving. She had her own life to lead and had no wish to find herself in a strange country without a penny to her name and no way of making one. She’d stick to what she knew, thank you very much. She was making a life for herself that many a woman would envy. She’d a roof over her head, food on the table and fire in the hearth. She was wealthy in comparison to her tenement neighbours.

  “Smile, Ivy!” Ann Marie Gannon shouted. She was completely unaware of the crowds around her. The expensive camera in her hands held all of her a
ttention. She was determined to record this moment for Ivy.

  “Ann Marie, I swear to God yeh sleep with that bloody camera.” Ivy turned in her brother’s arms and smiled at her friend.

  Ann Marie had bought the camera as a Christmas present to herself. It seemed to Ivy the woman was determined to record every moment of daily life. It was a good job she was learning to develop the film herself or she’d be in the poorhouse. The woman might be loaded but she hadn’t a lick of sense about saving the pennies. Ann Marie’s beige silk suit was bang-up-to-the-minute, the shorter skirt-length exposing her shining silk stockings and butter-soft beige leather shoes. The hat she wore was a song to the milliner’s art and framed her pretty face. She’d covered the expensive garment with the long black woollen coat that Ivy’s tailor friend and neighbour Mr Solomon had made for her. The coat was covered in special pockets Ann Marie had designed for her equipment.

  “It’s a shame Mr Smith has gone ahead,” Ann Marie said, referring to Doug’s friend Johnjo Smith. The man had gone aboard the ship with the luggage. He was determined to earn his keep as Doug’s ‘dresser’. “I’d have liked a few more photographs of him.” She was frustrated at the time it took her to set up the shots but she’d get quicker. She was determined to capture the world around her on film.

  “It’s almost time, Ivy,” Doug said as a loud bleat from a foghorn cut through the sound of the milling crowd.

  “Write to me.” Ivy hugged her brother to her, her heart breaking.

  “It will be weeks before I arrive in California.” Doug was glad the studio was paying for his first-class ticket to America. He would have to earn his passage by allowing the studio publicity crew to follow him on the voyage. The film crew and Johnjo would be travelling third class but he would be travelling in style. He expected to be asked to sing and dance for his supper. He didn’t care – for the chance he’d been offered he’d stand on his head and whistle if they asked him. “You’ve seen the brochure of the ship that’s going to take us from Liverpool to New York.” Doug was trying to distract himself from the pain of this parting.

  “A floating palace, you mean.” Ivy had been astonished at the sheer glamour of the ship that would carry Shay and Johnjo to the new world. The brochure was almost bald now. It had been passed from hand to hand in ‘The Lane’ and was the talk of the place still. “You better get going then, Shay.” Ivy could hardly speak past the lump in her throat. “I want to hear from yeh regularly. You remember that.” She hugged him tightly, her body shaking in his arms.

  “I’ll write. I promise.” Doug hugged his sister close. Who knew if they would ever see each other again? But he refused to allow himself to believe this was the last time he’d see his sister. He’d make it in these new talking pictures, he swore. “I’ll send for you when I’ve made me fortune.”

  “You do that and if I happen to make me fortune before you I’ll come visit yeh in that heathen land.” Ivy pressed a kiss into his cheek and stood back. She had to force herself to let go of him.

  “Goodbye, Ann Marie.” Doug bent and pressed a kiss into the woman’s cheek, careful not to knock her gold-rimmed glasses askew. “Take care of my sister, please – if she’s ever in need, let me know,” he whispered into her ear before stepping back.

  Then he waved out the window at Jem Ryan who was standing down in the street by his gleaming black automobile.

  Jem returned the wave, raising his fancy trilby from his head. He was outside the double entrance doors that led into reception and to the stairs up to the first-class lounge. He was waiting for the two women. He leaned against his automobile. He wouldn’t trust anyone but himself with the new (second-hand) machine he’d bought from an Anglo-Irish family leaving the country. The vehicle, which he kept polished to a high shine, was his pride and joy.

  Ivy was going to be heartbroken. He checked the pocket of his black suit for the clean handkerchief he’d put in there specially.

  The first-class departure lounge exploded with the cries and last-minute instructions being given by the voyagers’ families. Some of the people in the lounge were travelling for business, but some like Shay would be travelling to make a new life for themselves. These people were the lucky ones, travelling in style to their new lives. Ivy was caught up in the excitement of the crowd. She had little time to think any more about this final goodbye to her baby brother. Shay was a man now. She’d done her best by him. She’d lit so many candles and prayed so much for his success in his new life that God must be sick of listening to her.

  Ann Marie followed the crowd down the stairs and out onto the docks. She snapped her camera as quickly as she could, hoping she’d capture images worth keeping. She was aware of Ivy peeling away from her brother and walking slowly in the direction of Jem and his automobile.

  “You doing alright, Ivy?” Jem put his arm around Ivy, pulling her in close to his side.

  “I knew this moment was coming, Jem, but, God, it hurts to let him go again.” Ivy felt the strength go from her knees. She leaned against Jem thankfully, her tear-washed eyes searching the crowd for Shay’s distinctive blond head and fashionable hat. She watched him walk away without looking back. “I don’t know if I’m on me head or me heels.”

  “You’ll be able to sit down and collect yourself soon,” Jem promised. “That fancy hotel Ann Marie is taking us to for a cup of tea will soon put the smile back on your face.” He knew Ivy was nervous at the very thought of stepping through the doors of the Royal Hotel in Dun Laoghaire, so mentioning it would take her mind off her troubles.

  “I’ll be losing the run of meself if we keep this up, Jem.” Ivy stood upright, forcing her knees to lock into place. “What in the name of God is the likes of me doing going into fancy hotels for tea, I ask yer sacred pardon?”

  “I’ll be with you this time,” Jem said. His life was certainly looking up since he’d started keeping company with Ivy and Ann Marie. “The hotel has a special place to leave the automobile – I checked.”

  “Ivy, quick – wave, there’s Doug and Johnjo!” Ann Marie shouted like a hooligan as she came back in the direction of her waiting friends. She was almost skipping along. This was such an adventure. “Look! There they are, up there on the top deck – wave!”

  Chapter 2

  While Ivy and company were taking tea in the glamorous lobby of the Royal Hotel, Brother Theo, a Franciscan Friar who had appointed himself Ivy’s friend and mentor, was in a state of agitation.

  Theo had been called in to a meeting with the Abbot. He was still reeling from the tone of the interview. He’d left the meeting and walked, without speaking to anyone, into the small private chapel of the friary. He desperately needed time to think about all that the Abbot had said to him. He took a creased handwritten copy of Saint Francis’ Prayer from his pocket and laid it carefully on the shelf of the prayer bench on which he knelt. He didn’t need a written reminder of the prayer – he felt it was carved on his heart – but he hoped that seeing the written word would give him a small portion of the peace he so desperately needed.

  “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace . . .” Theo tried to breathe the opening words of the prayer in while staring at the carved image of the Crucifixion before him. He’d been subjected to a stern lecture that had left him wrestling with his anger. The Abbot had received a letter from the Archbishop of Dublin, strongly recommending that Brother Theo cease interfering with the workings of ‘his’ archdiocese.

  “‘Father Leary will be returning to take up his work with the Dublin poor,’” the Abbot had read from the letter he held in his hand.

  Theo had jumped to his feet, prepared to state his opinion of this idiocy forcefully. He hadn’t been given the chance to open his mouth. The Abbot had glared him into silence before reminding him of his vow of obedience.

  “Where there is hatred, let me sow love . . .” Theo didn’t believe Ivy Murphy was capable of hatred but he truly believed that the Westland Row parish priest, Father Leary, held an unnatural h
ated of Ivy Murphy. Theo had been instrumental in having Father Leary removed from his position. He’d requested particularly that Father Leary’s mental welfare be assessed. How could the judging panel have failed to see how unsuited Father Leary was for the position of power he held?

  Theo stared at the carved figure in front of him, praying fervently for guidance in handling whatever might come of this ill-advised decision on the part of the Dublin Archdiocese.

  “Where there is injury, pardon . . .” Theo tried to find forgiveness in his heart for Father Leary. He fingered the long string of wooden rosary beads hanging from the waist of his brown habit and tried to find the peace he usually did from his prayers.

  “Where there is doubt, faith . . .” He’d been instructing Ivy Murphy for over a year. Her inquiring young mind and the questions she raised were a source of fascination to him. He’d never told Ivy that he’d been instrumental in the removal of her tormentor. How could he inform her that the man who took an unhealthy interest in her private affairs was returning to his duties?

  “Where there is despair, hope . . .” Theo fought the despair that threatened to sink into his very bones. One of the reasons given by the archbishop for the return of Father Leary to his parish was the decline in funds being offered to the Westland Row church. Theo had listened to his Abbot with his tongue firmly between his teeth. He’d remembered the many times he’d been subjected to Ivy Murphy ranting about Father Leary’s habit of removing the last penny from the clenched fists of his parishioners.