Julie Hearn

Ivy

There had been frost on the cobbles again, that morning, but it had soon melted and for the first time in a long time the air didn't feel as if it was going to freeze your face off.
  No fog, either, to clog the lungs and dampen the spirits. In fact the sky, above the chimney tops, was very nearly hyacinth blue and the afternoon sun, although weaker than a beggar's tea, was almost warm.
  Perhaps it was this brightening of the weather that stopped Ivy from going straight back to Paradise Row after she had abandoned her bacon and marched out of school. Perhaps it was the tiny hint of spring in the air that made her turn left instead of right at Beaufoy's vinegar and wine works and go clomping down unfamiliar alleyways, as bold as a troll in her rat catcher's boots.
  Whatever the reason, she was soon hopelessly lost.
  I'll ask, she told herself. I'll ask a bluebottle the way back to Paradise Row. 'Bluebottle' meant a policeman. 'Watch out for them bluebottles,' Uncle Elmer always told Jared before the boy went out on the town. When she was smaller, and had known no better, Ivy had imagined real bottles raining down from the sky and thought her cousin very brave indeed to venture out among all those shards of breaking glass.
  She felt knowledgeable now, in comparison to her three-year-old self, as she scanned the immediate vicinity for a figure in a top hat and distinctive blue coat.
  It was a wide and busy thoroughfare she had found herself in. The sun had brought the street sellers out and their voices mingled with the clatter of wheels and the clop of hooves to form a sing-song sales pitch for plum cake and violets and packets of pins.
  The big girls sold violets. Perhaps, Ivy thought, she would see Mad or Cyn or Hor and whichever one it was would swoop over to her, all of a scold, and keep her close until enough flowers had been sold to make supper more likely.
  But the violet-seller turned out to be an unknown blowsy person who passed by without so much as a glance in Ivy's direction. No bluebottles around, either, so far as Ivy could tell. Only strangers in a hurry, their legs, skirts, and carriage wheels racing by in a blur.
  From somewhere-a pie shop, perhaps, or the cake seller's barrow-a heavenly smell of pastry made Ivy's stomach growl. She would eat a plum cake all right. Or muffins or crumpets or a gingerbread-nut. For none of them had ever been creatures, and she had long since walked off any energy she might have gleaned from seven nasty mouthfuls of school cabbage.
  Orlando had told her, once, about a street boy who would have starved only he knew of a big house where a lady put food on a windowsill for the birds. A ground floor sill it was, because the lady was an invalid, like Aunt Pamela, and never left her parlour. And it wasn't just crumbs she put out either, or crusts gone hard and green, but hunks of bread so big and soft and warm you'd think that the lady was waiting for some magical beast to fly down and tap on the glass.
  Ivy would have given anything, at that moment, for a piece of warm bread. But she didn't know where to find the house with a feast on the sill. It could have been anywhere in London. It could have been anywhere in the world.
  For a moment, the passing legs and skirts and carriage wheels became an even bigger blur. But crying was for babies who wanted to be fed, or for silly girls like Mad who did it for attention. Crying had never got Ivy very far, so there was no point doing it now.
  Three blinks, a snotty sniff, and the urge to weep went away. And, with the tears gone, Ivy saw that she was being watched.
  It was a woman gazing at her, from across the street. A very tall woman with - oh - red hair.
  With so many people to-ing and fro-ing, it was odd to see someone else - particularly someone else with red hair - standing stock still as if they too were lost and hoping to see a bluebottle. Perhaps, Ivy thought, this was someone she knew. Someone from Paradise Row.
  But no. She was just another stranger. So why had she stopped and why was she staring?
  Eventually it dawned on Ivy that this woman hadn't actually paused for her benefit. Nor was she really staring - at least not in a seeing kind of way. She had stopped to peel an orange. She was just a woman resting her feet for a moment or two, while she ate her fruit. And she Ivy, happened to be in her line of vision the way a statue or a gas lamp might have been.
  Ivy didn't like being looked at in that way. It made her feel like a ghost; transparent and forgotten.
  So she hunkered down on the paving stones, with her back against the chill of a wall, and let her head fall forward so that all she could see was her own lap.
  Then the red-haired woman really did notice her.
  Small child alone. Aha!
  Briskly, in a matter of seconds, she assessed Ivy from top to toe.
  Hat: none. Scarf: none. Coat: cream-coloured but grubby and thin - wouldn't fetch more than thruppence. Gloves or muff: none. Dress: faded and unfashionable - fit only for the rag man. Petticoat: none visible. Stockings: probably none. Boots: adult sized and... hmmm... not at all bad, despite the missing laces. Good leather. Just need to check for holes.
  Right then.
  Ivy looked up. The woman was smiling at her now - really smiling-and holding out a slice of orange.
  Ivy liked oranges, although the taste, she knew, could be variable. The ones Cousin Jared got from the market were usually small and wizened until he pricked the skins and boiled them up. Then they swelled to double their size and he quickly sold them on.
  If this woman had bought her orange from Cousin Jared it would be like eating a sliver of water. Still, it was food, and of the kind Ivy ate, so she got up and crossed over the road.
  The woman watched her drawing closer. That's right, my pretty, she thought. Come to Carroty Kate. Come an' say hello. Keeping her smile fixed, and her hand outstretched, she plotted her next few moves. The street was busy (bad) and there was no fog (bad) but the girly was alone (excellent) and it couldn't be very far to the nearest Suitable Place.
  In fact, now she came to think of it, there was a highly Suitable Place just off to the left - the kind of alley law abiding adults never entered for fear of losing their lives, their wallets, or both. It was the simplest act in the world to lure a small child into a place of that sort, so long as it didn't struggle or scream.
  This one didn't look like a struggler or a screamer. It looked meek and trusting; dealing with this one would be as easy as peeling the orange. No mess, no bruised flesh, and nothing badly torn.
  Carroty Kate leaned towards the approaching child the way an angel might lean from the heavens. And the piece of orange between her fingers could have been fashioned from the second stripe of a rainbow, or cut from purest gold, so graciously did she offer it.
  There, she thought as Ivy's small hand reached up. Gotcher.

Ivy © Julie Hearn, 2006. Published by Oxford University Press.