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

by Gemma Jackson

  “Listen to me, girl.” Curly pushed his empty plate to one side and leaned over the table. “I heard them say they are going to have a fire-sale and invite all the nobs what own factories around the place to buy the stuff. That lot will be able to buy the stuff cheap and fix it up. The warehouse owner will get the insurance money plus whatever he makes from this fire-sale.” He thumped his clenched fist on the table, making the articles on the table-top jump. “It’s like this, Ivy.” He slurped tea like a dying camel. “I know the fella that’s the night manager at the warehouse. He’s been put in charge of shifting the stuff under the cover of darkness.” He touched the tip of one finger off the side of his nose. “The same fella was a drinkin’ crony of yer da’s – maybe you know him – Skinny McInerny?”

  “Little fat fella with tiny eyes placed too close together?” Ivy said.

  “That’s him.” Curly held out his empty mug for a refill. “He owes yer da, Ivy. Eamonn often loaned Skinny a few bob or put a bet on for him. I never heard that he paid the money back. The man is in yer aul’ man’s debt and you can call him on it.”

  Ivy’s mind was whirling. She’d seen her da do business. She didn’t know if she was capable of doing the same thing. To her eyes it appeared that the men her da hung around with spoke a language she didn’t understand. It was all nods and winks – her da would tap the side of his nose and it seemed to her the person he was dealing with understood without a word being spoken. She didn’t know how to do that. She refilled Moocher’s mug while she was up, sliced and buttered more bread and carried it and a pot of her home-made blackberry jam over to the table.

  With her head spinning she sat down again.

  “I thought you could make a few bob on the stuff that’s going.” Curly slathered jam on a thick slice of white bread. He didn’t make any mention of Ivy paying him a finder’s fee but he’d make sure that was understood.

  “I don’t know how to do business like that, Curly.” Ivy conducted her business out in the open – bartering and haggling she understood, but this was outside her field of experience.

  “That uncle of yours, Billy Flint, knows all about it.” Curly nodded when the colour almost drained from Ivy’s face. “I’m old enough to know where the bodies are buried, Ivy.”

  “Curly –”

  “Moocher, yeh need to turn deaf now,” Curly barked.

  “I can’t hear a thing.” Moocher was enjoying the good food and warm room. He didn’t care what was said.

  “Billy Flint knows all about doing business under cover of darkness.” Curly shook his finger in Ivy’s face. “Yeh can’t be too proud to take advice. I know the word is out on the street that yer under the protection of Billy Flint and I was right glad to hear it too.”

  “I’ve never met the man,” Ivy said. “I had someone else act as a go-between.”

  “Betty Armstrong – Billy’s sister and your aunt – I know about that and all.” Curly watched Ivy stiffen. The world of Dublin was a small one and the whispers that went around the streets and pubs were heard and understood by a select few. Curly had his own sources for information. He kept most of what he heard to himself. “You knock on yer uncle’s back door every Monday morning, Ivy Murphy.”

  “Billy Flint lives in Mount Street?” Ivy squealed. What was a man like that doing living amongst the nobs?

  “No, he lives high on the hog in Merrion Square.” Curly shoved the last piece of bread and jam into his toothless mouth and grinned. “If you’ll give me a piece of that paper,” he pointed to where Ivy had pushed her bookkeeping supplies, “I’ll give you his name and address.”

  He took the blank page that Ivy tore from her book. He uncapped the bottle of ink, dipped the nib and without further ado wrote down the name and address of a man who was considered very dangerous and passed the page over the table to Ivy.

  “If you feel you need lessons in getting the best of a deal,” Curly finished the tea in his mug, “you go see Billy Flint, my girl. He’ll set yeh right.”

  Chapter 18

  “God, Jem,” Ivy’s whisper carried over the gentle clip-clop of Rosie’s hooves on the cobbled street, “this doesn’t feel right. The streets haven’t even been aired yet.”

  The well-wrapped-up pair were walking on either side of the horse’s head along the dark backstreets leading down to the Dublin docks.

  “Don’t be fretting, Ivy.” Jem was holding a lantern in one hand to light their way. “You’re going to a warehouse sale. You’ll pay for the stuff we take out of that place.” He’d no doubt someone was receiving an underhand payment to turn a blind eye to these goings-on – that was none of their business.

  “Still and all, it doesn’t feel very honest to be creeping through the streets on a Sunday morning.”

  Jem had been insulted when she’d talked about needing to find someone to teach her the art of double dealing, as she doubted her ability to do business in what she thought of as a ‘man’s way’. He insisted he came from a family of horse traders. He’d be her guide during their visit to the fire-damaged warehouse.

  “We won’t be the only ones there, Ivy.”

  He’d hitched Rosie to one of his large wagons. He had tied a hand-held cart onto the long flat bed of the wagon. They’d never be able to shift the bulky packages without the cart. He had put two of Ivy’s precious tea chests, empty for the moment, onto the cart. Conn Connelly and one of his brothers were asleep under a tarpaulin on the flat bed. He had brought a load of rope as well. They didn’t know what they’d find when they reached the warehouse so best to come prepared. The Connelly brothers would protect the horse and cart, keeping an eye on anything Ivy might buy. Jem thought it likely that the word was already out on the street about the warehouse. He wanted to be one of the first there – so Ivy could have her pick of the damaged merchandise.

  “The place will be packed with people looking to make a few coppers from whatever’s on offer,” he said.

  “You’re a man of mystery, Jem Ryan.” She’d been amazed to discover Jem knew the ins and outs of trading in bulk. Why had she thought she knew everything there was to know about Jem?

  “I got to hear a lot when I was out and about picking up fares.” He’d often made a few extra pence by passing along the things he’d heard in his travels around Dublin. He’d bought and sold too when he was sure he could pass the merchandise along. His lads were carrying on that tradition, bringing him the items of gossip they heard on their travels.

  This morning he was keeping a close eye on the streets they passed. A warehouse sale drew the attention of people hoping to help themselves to the goods others had paid for. He wouldn’t be returning by this route but it didn’t pay to be careless. The street rats knew that if people were going to buy goods from a warehouse sale they would have cash in their pocket – that was a temptation to some.

  “Merciful Heavens!” Ivy stopped abruptly, staring at the very bright light breaking through the darkness. Was that the electric lights Curly had talked about? The things would blind yeh! She stood staring open-mouthed at the bright beams of light shooting up into the sky – then had to run to catch up with the horse and cart that had continued on without her.

  “Is that them electric lights?” she asked when she’d caught up with the horse.

  “The lights are battery-operated,” Jem answered without really thinking. He was aware of the press of bodies along the road leading out onto the docks. Without stopping he reached up and removed the whip from its place by the side of the driver’s seat on the cart. He nudged the Connelly lads awake.

  “Still and all, Jem, them lights are a wonder.” Ivy too was aware of the people closing in around them.

  “Come for the sale, have yeh?” Two tall broad-shouldered men suddenly appeared on the pathway. They had the bearing of military men. At their approach the flyboys disappeared back into the alleys and laneways that opened onto the road.

  “Billy Flint must be providing security for this sale,” Jem whispered to
Ivy, his voice not showing the relief he felt. He didn’t enjoy getting into street fights. He’d do it if he had to but he preferred to pass along peacefully.

  “Yeh better hurry along,” one of the men said, his eyes moving constantly, searching the shadows. “The stuff is walkin’ out of the place.”

  The dock was alive with people – there were men pushing hand-held carts and women with the familiar three-wheeled rattan barrows, sleepy children popping their heads over the side from time to time – everyone was hurrying along the dock in the direction of the brightly lit warehouse.

  “This is a world I never knew existed,” Ivy gasped, her eyes taking everything in.

  “We’ll leave Rosie close by and get in there.” Jem walked the horse to one of the bollards. “Conn,” he passed the whip to a sleepy Conn who had come up front to take the reins, “keep your eyes open. There’s help at hand if anyone causes problems but you need your wits about you.”

  He removed the handcart from the wagon and set it on the cobbles. Taking Ivy’s elbow and pushing the handcart with his free hand, he drew her towards the open warehouse.

  The smell of smoke lingered and puddles of water splashed under their feet when they walked into the well-stocked warehouse. They had to push their way through the people milling about.

  Ivy tried to keep her jaw locked shut. She’d never seen anything like this before. She’d expected the place to be like Harry Green’s warehouse where she bought goods wholesale. This was an Aladdin’s Cave. The place was lined with shelving running the length of each aisle, the shelves stretching up to the damaged roof. How could you tell what was wrapped in all of them packages or locked in them crates?

  “How can you tell what’s for sale?” she whispered to Jem.

  “See them fellas up there?” He pointed to a man standing on top of a crate. Two other men stood on either side of him, their hands full of papers.

  “Yes.” Ivy hadn’t noticed the little man but she knew him: Skinny McInerny.

  “Each package usually has a label and a number.” Jem was looking around at the packages. “You take the label number up to him and he’ll tell you what’s inside and give you a price. You never pay what they’re asking – just like when you bargain at the market, only for a lot more money. That fella over there,” he pointed to a man sitting at a table, two big bruisers standing behind him, “he takes the money.”

  “There’s method in this madness then. Yeh learn something new every day.” Ivy began to examine the packages she could reach. She noticed men sending young lads scurrying up the shelving to tip the bulky damp packages down onto the wet floor.

  “We can guess some of this stuff, Ivy.” Jem stood at her shoulder, keeping careful watch for pickpockets. “Them big square-type packages must be the wool Curly told you about and the long sausage-shaped ones would be the material, don’t you think?”

  “You’re more than just a pretty face, Jem Ryan,” Ivy agreed. It was buying a pig in a poke but she knew she could make good money from the wrapping alone. The thick strong sacking cloth could be used for a lot of different purposes. The men of The Lane used the material cut into strips to make beds and support for soft chairs.

  “Ooh . . .” A moan went around the warehouse when one of the bundles being tossed down exploded open and soft báinín – pure white wool – spilled over the dirty floor.

  “Who did that?” Skinny McInerny jumped down from his crate and crossed the floor in mincing steps that travelled a lot faster than you would think, his henchmen followed along at his shoulders. “You there,” he pointed to one of his men, “wrap that up.” He gave a nod of his head to Jem – a quick jerk of his head – and without another word returned to standing on his crate.

  “Where do you want it?” The man who’d finished wrapping the burst package with twine muttered to Jem.

  “Black horse and long wagon by the third bollard,” Jem murmured, seemingly without moving his lips. The man picked up the spoiled package and carried it towards the warehouse doors.

  Ivy began to poke and feel at the packages as she’d seen others do. She removed a loose covering from a bolt of material and fell in love. The exposed material, while water-stained and smelling of smoke, was of a soft yellow cotton printed with colours that dazzled her eyes. There were birds the likes of which she’d never seen and butterflies flittering around brown sticks she thought might be bamboo. The sticks had big green leaves shooting out of them. She put the bolt of material on the handcart. She didn’t know what she was going to do with it – she only knew she wanted it with all of her heart. It would be like wearing sunshine.

  “Have yeh only bright colours?” a big man growled and flung a cut-off of scarlet material into the air.

  Ivy caught the bright material and added it to her cart. Easter was near and the people of The Lane liked to celebrate with something bright and cheerful to wear. She watched the boys and men shoving and throwing the bulky packages around the warehouse. They were doing the work for her and she was going to let them. She and Jem grabbed packages of soft pink wool and one of yellow. The bright cottons the men cursed went onto the cart.

  “Jem,” Ivy leaned in close to whisper, “I want everything in here. The money I could make. The work I could give to the women in The Lane – me head is spinning with ideas.”

  “Then why the frown?” Jem began to push the cart in the direction of the warehouse manager.

  “Where am I going to put all of this stuff?” Ivy followed on Jem’s heels, her hand rooting around in the skirt pocket she’d pinned shut to protect her money.

  “We’ll worry about that later.”

  Jem prepared to barter.

  Chapter 19

  “Hurry up, lads.” Ivy watched the goods she’d bought being carried through her back room into the front room. “The knocker-upper will be about soon, knocking up the Holy Marys for first Mass.”

  “Conn, put Rosie up – I’ll be over in a minute,” Jem grunted from one end of the last of the heavy bundles they carried between them.

  “What was I thinking, Jem?” Ivy didn’t notice the Connelly lads leaving. She stood in the open doorway between her two rooms and stared at her work room. She wouldn’t be able to move. It was packed with parcels and bags almost to the roof. “How in the name of God are we going to live here if I keep filling the place with stuff?”

  Jem closed the back door behind his lads before walking over to join Ivy. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his body in a one-armed hug. The place was a mess and a lingering smell of smoke drifted around the room. “How much of this stuff do you reckon you can shift?” He pressed a kiss into her hair.

  “With Easter comin’ people love something bright and cheerful to wear. They’ll be making and knitting for the childer. I’ll keep some stuff back and use it to dress me baby dolls. But I’ll move a lot of the rest along at a good profit when I figure out me costs.” She leaned into him with a tired sigh. She wasn’t accustomed to being up all night. She’d think about it when she’d had a bit of sleep. “That doesn’t answer the question of how in the name of God we’re going to live here, Jem.” Her eyes filled with tired tears. She had to get the smell of smoke out of the stuff she bought – then wash what needed washing.

  “Now is not the time to be thinking about that.” Jem turned her into his arms, pulling her close to his body. “You’re tired. You need a good long sleep. You’ll hop out of bed full of the joys of spring and full of new ideas.” He pressed a kiss onto her lips, forcing himself to keep the kiss short and sweet. There was nothing he’d like more than to crawl into that big bed with his Ivy and sleep the sleep of the just. “Something you could be thinking of . . .” He leaned in to sneak another kiss.

  “What’s that?” Ivy rose onto her toes, following his lips to deepen the kiss.

  They were both tired. Their defences were down. The kiss deepened. The sound of their heavy breathing filled the room. Jem’s fingers drifted to her bosom. He pulle
d her shawl away, pushing to get at the buttons of her old army coat.

  “Whoa, whoa!” Jem jerked his head back. He stood, taking deep breaths, trying to get control of his emotions. Ivy pressing herself against him didn’t help at all. He pressed his forehead into hers, using his arms to put distance between their bodies. “You stay right there, woman.” He pushed away and walked towards the back door. “Don’t follow me.” He pointed his hand at her, to stop her joining him. “I’m only human, woman.” He stood with his head bowed, fighting to get control. “We need to get churched, Ivy. The month of May can’t come soon enough for me.”

  “Jem . . .” Ivy started to walk over to him. She wanted more of his kisses.

  “Stay where you are, woman.” He put his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t open the door but looked at his sleepy-eyed Ivy. “I want you to give some thought to something.” He closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. She waited for him to say what he was thinking. “When Emmy and me move in here my room over the livery will be empty. We can put shelves up for you and move your work over there.” He pulled the door open. He had to get away from temptation. “Think about that while you’re getting your beauty sleep.” He stepped out into the back yard. “Lock this door behind me,” he ordered before pulling the door shut.

  “I’m too tired to know me own name,” Ivy muttered, walking over to lock the door. “I’ll be more able to sort meself out when I’ve had a night’s sleep. This staying up all night is hard work.”

  Chapter 20