Ivy of the Angel

by Lena Kennedy

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Short Stories

Synopsis

Encounter a wealth of lively characters and true-to-life situation in this collection of vivid and compelling stories. Ivy of the Angel reveals why an elderly bag lady becomes the centre of attention in an Oxford Street store. Dive into a tale of thwarted love in London's East End in The Lonely Road And see how the smooth surface of a buried past can be disrupted by the intrusions of the present. The Willows Wept With Me, Linda's Revenge and The Long Dream With the freshness and directness that have become her hallmark, Lena Kennedy explores the enduring power of love, the triumph of hope over adversity, the problems of illness and prejudice, and the quirky kindness of fate. ************** What readers are saying about IVY OF THE ANGEL: AND OTHER STORIES 'Couldn't put it down' - 5 STARS 'A great writer' - 5 STARS 'A very enjoyable read' - 5 STARS 'A brilliant book' - 5 STARS 'A really good read by one of my favourite authors' - 5 STARS

Release date: May 9, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 229

Sample

Ivy of the Angel

Old Ivy huddled in the dark doorway of the shop. Sniffing loudly, she shivered and pulled her ragged old coat closer about her bony shoulders. She peered miserably out into Oxford Street and the stream of passing traffic.

‘It must be nearly nine o’clock,’ she muttered. ‘Surely they’ll open soon.’

She was beginning to feel quite desperate. It had been very chilly in the park that night but, worst of all, the bottle in the paper carrier bag at her feet was empty.

Ivy felt quite dehydrated; her tongue was the texture of sandpaper and she felt in great need of a drink. The muscles of her haggard face twitched spasmodically as she rubbed her heavily veined hands together and then twisted the faded red woollen scarf around her neck for extra warmth.

Ivy was an alcoholic. In all her fifty years, she had been dried out many times but never for long. And she had been thrown out, raped, robbed and beaten senseless. Hospitals and institutions for the destitute were her homes and had been an integral part of her life for the last ten years. The social reformers had finally tired of Ivy’s inability to pull herself together and had just abandoned her in despair.

Much of the time she slept in parks and doorways, even though the police frequently moved her on, calling her a bum. Ivy still had feelings about her situation. She knew that her life had reached its lowest ebb but she felt she had to keep going because although everything about her life was dreadful, she did not want to lose it, just in case there was something better somewhere for her one day. And besides, her favourite drink of cider with a dash of whisky could perk her up no end.

Ivy had tried prostitution for a while but that had failed because of the way she looked. No man wanted to pay money for the body of a drunken bum. Now Ivy had turned to shoplifting to get some money to keep herself going. She did not do it in the slick professional way from well-lighted store counters right under the nose of a store detective. No, she was not up to that; it would be too dangerous for her. Ivy’s technique was to move slowly around the big stores looking out for someone’s purse laid carelessly on the top of a shopping basket or a parcel put down for a second or two. With a quick swoop, Ivy would snatch up her booty, and scuttle away like a mouse with a piece of cheese. Then, later, she would barter her winnings for booze.

On this cold morning, the long wait for the shops to open seemed endless. Ivy felt colder, hungrier and thirstier than ever before.

At last there was movement inside the big store. The lights had been turned on and the assistants were removing the dust sheets from the display counters. About time, thought Ivy. Now the day’s business could begin.

With an extra shrug and a big sniff, Ivy emerged from her doorway and hobbled along on uncomfortable feet to the pedestrian crossing. The West End store was quickly coming to life. It had been gaily decorated for the festive season with hundreds of coloured balloons, tinsel and paperchains. To tempt the Christmas shoppers, the counters were full of exotic foods, dainty underwear and large displays of beads and brooches with the more expensive jewellery in glass cabinets alongside the watches and exquisite clocks.

It was to the jewellery department that Ivy now slowly edged her way, trying to mingle with the early shoppers. She did not know why but this department usually had more than its fair share of well-stuffed purses or carelessly dropped wallets.

But her luck was out that day. By noon, she still had not got anything. ‘But not to worry,’ she told herself optimistically. ‘Something will turn up.’ Looking around the room, her red-rimmed eyes settled on the sight of a young woman in an emerald green headscarf who seemed to be having an argument with the shop assistant.

The woman was shouting and waving her arms about. Ivy noted with interest the carrier bag that the woman had put down on the floor beside her. Suddenly, with an exasperated cry, the woman rushed off in the direction of the men’s department.

Ivy moved swiftly. She went over to the bag on the floor, grasped the handle and trotted briskly into the empty lift. With an excited grin on her face, she pressed the button for the basement. From there she knew how she could escape through a back alley.

Ivy normally liked to examine her stolen booty well away from the shop she had taken it from, but she felt very curious about this lot. It was very heavy and wrapped in tissue paper. Her brain was not functioning very well – it never did until she had had a few drinks inside her – and she was very startled when the object in the paper suddenly started to make a loud whirring sound. She dropped the bag in fright. Images of last week’s newspaper headlines flashed before her. It was a bomb. The IRA had given out a warning of a bombing campaign on the mainland in the run-up to Christmas. Ivy had read about it in the old newspaper she had used to cover herself at the weekend. She liked to keep up with the news, even if it was a little out of date.

Last week there had been a bomb in fact. A device had been left in a carrier bag in a big London store.

‘Oh God,’ Ivy exclaimed in panic, placing the bag in the farthest corner of the lift. The whirring sound was louder than ever. How much time did she have?

When the lift reached the basement floor, Ivy dashed out through the doors, only pausing to press the top floor button so that the lift would get as far away from her as possible before the bomb exploded. With a grimy hand she wiped the sweat from her brow. ‘Fancy me nicking a bomb,’ she muttered as she hobbled frantically towards the street door.

Then she noticed a young couple heading towards the lifts. With them they had a baby in a pushchair and another child no older than three who clutched a doll to her side.

Ivy hesitated and then stopped. In the depths of her mind she is transported back to a house in the Angel, Islington. In the house she can see two young children like those in front of her. They are laughing and larking about. A young woman, their mother, is with them. She is beautiful, with strong features and thick auburn hair. The mother is smiling at them but she has a worried expression in her eyes. Then a dark shape moves close to them. Her husband, with his coarse features and eyes already bloodshot from drinking. Bottles, half-empty glasses. Her husband, her drinking companion. Hangovers, fights, bruises. The house is a wreck, a slum. The children are screaming, first to stop the fights, then when the people from the social services come. Now the woman is screaming too. She does not look young anymore. Now she is haggard and old. Her face is lined, her hair dull and faded. The children are gone. The woman is crying, weeping. She drinks to make herself feel better. She has nothing left in her life. Staring at these little children now, Ivy knew what she had to do.

She yelled as loudly as she could: ‘Get yer kids out!’ Her voice had turned into a screech. ‘There’s a bomb in the lift.’ With a loud wail, Ivy turned and ran in total panic into the street.

Ivy’s message spread like wildfire throughout the store. People were rushing about in panic as they tried to get their children and themselves out of the shop. With no instructions from their superiors, the shop staff were not sure whether they should be helping the customers to leave or getting themselves out. They just did not know what to do and ran around in circles trying to find out.

Eventually someone dialled 999 and the police arrived quickly with blue lights flashing and sirens wailing as they began to evacuate the store. There had not been so much excitement in Oxford Street since the Blitz.

On the other side of the road Ivy stood and watched the panic-stricken people pouring out of the store. Although the police were urging everyone to move away and out of the danger area, people collected in groups to watch the excitement. ‘Those Irish,’ someone muttered. ‘Something ought to be done about these things,’ said another.

Ivy listened to their comments with some amusement. She could not understand why they were not just happy to be out of danger. Then she heard a loud voice say: ‘That shop deserves to be blown up. I bought an alarm clock there last week and it kept whirring all night. When I took it back I couldn’t find my receipt so they denied that I had bought it from there. I had a row with the assistant and when I went to get my husband to help, somebody stole the carrier bag with the clock in it.’

As Ivy heard these words, she began to feel very odd. Well, she had made a mistake, that was obvious, but what an amazing effect it had had. People were milling about all over the place. Sirens were blaring, police were shouting at the crowds through megaphones, telling them to move on. There was a tremendous sense of fear and excitement in the air.

Ivy needed a drink. She turned on her worn heels and hobbled off towards the supermarket where she might be able to nick a bottle of cider. As she walked along, she felt unusually jaunty. For the first time in many years she felt quite vital. Today she had not just been a passive down-and-out, one of the forgotten dregs of society. Today, she, Ivy, had made things happen, and that made her feel good.

Linda’s Revenge

Even when I was a young child, my friends and family referred to me as a hardnut. Growing up as the only girl in a family of four tough boys, I learned from an early age to stand up for myself and not to rely on outside help of any kind. I carried this philosophy through my early life, and in those days I was proud to be considered so utterly independent.

I left my family home as soon as I could. It was not a happy place as my parents were always fighting, either with each other or my brothers and, later, me. For when I became a teenager, they turned their anxieties on to me and I realized that I had to escape before they made me a prisoner in the home.

It seems to me now that my life really began when I hitch-hiked to my first pop festival in Bath. It was the beginning of my involvement in the exciting world offered to the young in the late 1960s. It was an exciting grind for survival and to have one’s voice heard. There were demonstrations against war, pop music for peace, and lots and lots of drug taking which turned us on and made us happy. And being fairly attractive, I always had a lot of boyfriends in tow.

In spite of the presence of all these boys, I was still a virgin when I turned seventeen. This was not intentional; I think my famous temper certainly protected me. ‘Don’t get fresh with Linda,’ my friends would warn a new admirer. ‘Linda’s got a punch like a prize-fighter.’

This wasn’t the way I wanted things to be and at times I felt rather sad and lonely. Then I would begin to critize my appearance. I would stare down at my thick, sturdy legs and wish they were long and slim, and examine my boyish figure in the mirror and imagine how I would look if I were as thin as Twiggy, the girl we all modelled ourselves on in those days. I started dieting in a hopeless sort of way. I would starve myself, determined to achieve that controlled lean look needed for wearing tight jeans and skinny-rib sweaters, but I could never keep it up. After a month of misery and gnawing stomach pains, I would guzzle five cream cakes and quickly put on as much weight as I had lost, and more.

I was not very good at holding down jobs. I worked in cafés and pubs whenever I could, but I was not very punctual and the jobs never lasted for long. I lived in various digs, squatted in empty houses, as was the trend in those days, and after a year of living like this, I felt rather aimless. But I felt grown-up and glad to have left my family home when I did. I just was not sure where I was going.

Then I met Vivien and my life changed. Vivien was a sweet-natured girl a few years older than me. She was not good-looking but she had an attractive personality. She was warm and generous and had a motherly manner about her which appealed greatly to me. I had never felt very close to my own mother and I see now that Vivien answered a need in me at a crucial time.

We met when we were both queuing for a job. Vivien was standing in front of me and just from looking at her I knew I could not compete. She was smart, neat and clean, whereas I looked rather grubby and rumpled, having been rummaging around my squat at the last minute in an effort to find something presentable to wear. Nonetheless, she was not put off by my appearance and after the interviews she cheerfully offered me a cigarette and asked if I wanted to join her for coffee.

‘I hope you’re not too disappointed,’ she said.

‘I never wanted that stupid old job, anyway,’ I said breezily.

We talked for a while and I was flattered that Vivien was so interested in me and my life. I told her proudly about the pop festivals and the squats and the hippie communities I liked to hang out in. But I was surprised by her response when I’d finished.

‘Look, Linda,’ she said kindly. ‘I know this is not my business, and we don’t even know each other, but you can’t possibly go on living like this.’

I stared, almost glared at her. ‘Oh, no?’ I sneered. ‘Suggest something better?’

Vivien did not react. Her voice was quiet and calm. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if you like you can share my digs. It’s only one room and conveniences, and it’s expensive. But it’s big enough for two, and I was about to advertise for someone to share with me.’

I shook my head. ‘That’s impossible,’ I said. ‘I’m out of work and currently haven’t a penny to call my own.’

Vivien shrugged. ‘That’s okay for the time being,’ she said. ‘I have enough to cover us for a week or so and I think we’ll be okay until you get a job.’

I thought she was a mug to be offering me all this without knowing me at all. But that was her problem. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll come.’

Amazingly, that was the turning point for me after all these months of wasting time. Nothing happened immediately, but slowly some of Vivien’s neatness and her niceness rubbed off on me. It must have done because, before long, I had landed a job in a department store and, in spite of my aggressive manner, held it down. I was not well paid but we were allowed a credit account for clothes. With Vivien’s advice I learned how to purchase the kind of clothes that suited my sturdy frame. They were well fitting and tidy. Soon I did not even want to wear my multi-coloured, tie-dyed shirts and ragged jeans.

Vivien’s digs were in central London. Before, I had been living in the suburbs so now I had to give up my suburban friends and build a new social life in town. On Saturdays Vivien and I would go to dance at the Drill Hall. On Sundays we would walk in the park.

It was on one of our Sunday promenades that Vivien bumped into Will, a boy from her home town. Will was out walking with a pal of his. Both wore army uniforms. Vivien and Will were clearly pleased to see each other. They looped arms and walked ahead of me and the other boy, laughing and chatting. The other boy and I trudged along behind. I’m sure that he was as embarrassed as I was by the display of affection in front of us. I was moody and sulky. I hated walking with this boy; all my hippie instincts made me hate anyone in uniform. He was a north country boy with ruddy cheeks and a slow drawl which intrigued me. He was very controlled and did not bother to compete when I tried to drag him into political arguments. And my provocative statements about law and order only made him smile. It seemed impossible to get a rise out of him, and I was surprised that I rather liked that.

We sat on the grass and waited for Viv and Will to walk about the lake.

‘My name’s Peter,’ the boy said.

‘Mine’s Linda,’ I growled.

‘There’s no need to be so aggressive,’ he said lightly with a broad grin.

‘And there’s no need for you to be so con. . .