Razorhurst (10 page)

KELPIE

Kelpie said yes to Dymphna Campbell because she didn’t want to go to school, because Mrs. Darcy had said she’d tell the authorities, which meant Welfare, and because she’d mentioned Sister Josephine and Father O’Brian, who were almost as bad as Welfare.

She wanted to stay.

She wanted to learn how to use Darcy’s typewriter and read more of his stories. She especially liked the ones set out bush, with strange things like wallabies and shearers and rouseabouts. Maybe he would let her write a story of her own. Kelpie had too many questions she wanted to ask: Were his stories all about real people, like, how Kitty Macintosh was really Dymphna Campbell? Or did he make some of them up? Was he going to write a novel some day? Or was that Miss Lee dreaming?

But it wouldn’t be like that. Darcy was down the brewery every day but Sunday. Besides, the Darcys couldn’t afford another mouth to feed.

Mrs. Darcy would hand her over to Sister Josephine or Father O’Brian, who would hand her over to Welfare, who would give her to some do-gooder family, who wouldn’t know nothing about ghosts or the Hills or anything important, who’d make her wear clothes that itched, and make her wash once a week, and beat her when she said the wrong thing, which she would, because Miss Lee said she only knew wrong things, from growing up on the streets and not knowing any better, and they’d make her go to school where there would be itchy clothing and pinching shoes and cracks across the knuckles with rulers.

No, thank you.

She liked the Darcys. Darcy and his ma had been kind to her. Mrs. Darcy hardly ever smacked her kids. They laughed and sang together, which was not what she’d seen through most family windows. Miss Lee had said they were decent people. Old Ma would have agreed.

She would leave with Dymphna Campbell, who most definitely wasn’t a do-gooder or decent people and was as scared of the coppers as Kelpie was. Dymphna wouldn’t hand her over to anybody. Besides,
getting away from Dymphna would be a darn sight easier than getting away from Mrs. Darcy. Darcy’s ma was used to keeping littlies in line, to giving orders and having them obeyed. Dymphna had soft hands and a soft face and didn’t know anything about bossing people around. Mrs. Darcy scared Kelpie a lot more than Dymphna did.

Kelpie would walk out the door with Dymphna Campbell and then scarper before the coppers caught Dymphna. Easy.

Kelpie doubted Dymphna would get far. Not in the daylight.

The kitchen was bright with sunshine now. Mrs. Darcy’s clean plates were drying on a cloth. They gleamed despite the crazing across their surface.

Kelpie sat on a crate with her legs tucked up under her and the back door behind her and hoped for more food. She eyed the icebox. Mrs. Darcy was bent over Dymphna’s skirt, stitching up the tear, while Dymphna sponged off her face and hands over a bowl of water.

Palmer was pacing and asking her more questions about being a ghost. None of which she could answer with two of the living sitting right there. Was he daft? Kelpie was pretty sure he was. He’d said Snowy did for him, and Snowy would never.

He couldn’t have. He was in gaol. If he was out, he’d come looking for her. He always did.

Besides, Palmer’s throat had been cut open. Take someone tall and strong to do that. Snowy was tall, sure, but he wasn’t as big as Palmer. Palmer’s arms were thicker than her waist, and his legs might as well be trees.

Stuart O’Sullivan, the boxer ghost, always said if you needed to take down a bigger opponent—outside the ring—your best bet was to surprise ’em. From behind was always the ticket. Even then you’d best be quick about it. Bringing down a big fella was always harder than you’d think, he’d say. Half the time you’d bottle ’em and they’d barely blink! They’d keep coming at you, like nothing had happened. Might as well walk up to ’em and say,
Give me a hiding, please
.

It would’ve taken at least two big men to surprise Palmer. Snowy worked alone. Everyone knew that.

Palmer asked why he couldn’t touch anything. Kelpie didn’t say,
Because you’re dead, you arse-brained bugger
.

He was so stupid he could have mistaken Snowy for someone else.

Kelpie didn’t doubt that one of Mr. Davidson’s men had killed
Palmer. Why wouldn’t Davidson’s men be killing Glory’s men? Or Glory’s killing Davidson’s? That’s what hard men did: killed each other.

“Is that thing like me?” Palmer pointed to where the faded ghost wafted past him. “Is that where I’m heading? Turning into a wispy cloud trapped in someone’s kitchen?”

Mrs. Darcy handed Dymphna a cloth, and she used it to dry herself.

“How do I look?”

Like an angel
, Kelpie thought. Dymphna had no scars or pimples or cysts or moles or warts or freckles. Her skin looked like it had never been touched by anything, not even the sun.

“Too beautiful for this place,” Palmer said, scowling.

“You’ll do,” Mrs. Darcy said, laying down the skirt. “I’ll get more water.”

When she was gone, Dymphna said, “I’ll take good care of you. Unless you really want to stay here.”

“Tell her about Snowy and Davidson,” Palmer said. “Before the old lady comes back.”

Kelpie shook her head slightly, answering them both.

“You’ll leave with me?”

Kelpie nodded. Leaving with her didn’t mean
staying
with her.

Outside was awake now. All the factory whistles had blown. The morning was filled with the splutter and roar and clip clop and buzz of automobiles and trucks and carts and horses and a thousand different conversations up and down the length of Foveaux and Albion, and Elizabeth Street too, with the hammering and shuddering and staccato whirr of sewing machines, giant fabric cutters, the thunderous clap of barrels at the brewery slammed together. Tommy might still be yelling at Kelpie from Belmore Lane, but she could no more hear it than she could hear a butterfly in the backyard.

Dymphna stood and removed her torn stockings.

“Look at those legs,” Palmer said. Kelpie did not look at them.

“Those are done for,” Mrs. Darcy said, closing the door behind her and putting a fresh bowl of water in front of Dymphna. “Silk, eh?” She touched them reverently.

Dymphna nodded. “Toss them. Plenty more where those came from.”

Mrs. Darcy slipped them into her apron pocket. Kelpie was pretty sure she’d be keeping them.

She handed Kelpie a cloth, a sliver of soap, and a bowl of water.
Kelpie hated soap. It got into her scabs and cuts and made her eyes sting.

She ignored the sliver, wetting the cloth with the icy water and rubbing at her face while watching Dymphna pick up her hat, brush the dust off, and carefully push the tiny thing back into shape. She borrowed Mrs. Darcy’s shears to trim the veil, then turned the hat around several times, adjusting it, dabbing at it with a cloth. When she put it down, the hat looked like nothing had happened to it.

“She’s an artist,” Palmer said. “I bet she could make her own hats if she wanted to. Probably made that one.”

Kelpie didn’t think so. It had a little label stitched inside. She’d seen them sewing labels into clothes in the factories on Foveaux. If you made something yourself, why would you put a label in it? She rubbed her hands together in the now-grey water.

“There’s no fixing those,” Mrs. Darcy said, pointing at Dymphna’s gloves lying on the kitchen table. Two of the fingers were torn, and they were filthy. White gloves were stupid.

“I won’t be a minute.” Mrs. Darcy went upstairs.

“I will keep you safe,” Dymphna said.

Kelpie said nothing, wishing there was more food.

“She’ll do her best,” Palmer said. “But if you’d tell her about me and Snowy and Davidson, she’d be in a much better position to take care of both of youse.”

Kelpie shook her head.

“I will, Kelpie,” Dymphna said. “I promise.”

“God damn it!” Palmer roared, then disappeared. Kelpie hoped he’d stay gone this time. He talked almost as much as Miss Lee, but none of it was useful. She was not going to tell Dymphna lies about Snowy Fullerton.

Mrs. Darcy returned carrying tissue paper. She placed the crinkled sheets in front of Dymphna. “Go on then. Unwrap them.”

Dymphna carefully peeled back the paper. Nestled inside were a pair of cream-coloured gloves. Dymphna stared at them.

“My wedding gloves, ain’t they?” Mrs. Darcy looked almost teary. “Made ’em myself. Lost count of how many I’ve made since then. But these are still the finest I ever made.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to. Wouldn’t look right you in that suit and no gloves. Might as well wear no shoes. You’ll get them back to me.”

“I will.”

Dymphna opened her purse and fished out a red note and handed it to Mrs. Darcy who gasped, staring at it.

“A brick! Ten pounds! I never seen one of these before. That’s more than Neal makes in weeks!”

Kelpie didn’t reckon anyone round here had ever seen that much money. Not unless they were Old Man O’Reilly, or some other nob, or worked for Glory or Mr. Davidson, and even then. She’d never seen Snowy with a note that big. Ten shillings, maybe.

“I gave her that,” Palmer said. “Remind her.”

“Don’t say no,” Dymphna said. “You’ve run a risk hiding us. You’ve fed us, let us wash, loaned me your gloves. You have to let me repay you.”

Mrs. Darcy looked as if she was going to say no, but then she tucked the note into her apron next to the torn silk stockings. “I won’t forget this.”

“Nor I.”

“Now, what are we going to do about her hair?”

“It’s a disgrace,” Palmer said. “Look at Dymphna and then look at you. Hard to tell you’re a girl.”

Kelpie itched to point out that his hair hadn’t looked especially wonderful after he was killed, sticking up in all directions, stuck together with blood.

Mrs. Darcy tried to pull her fingers through Kelpie’s hair, but the snarls were too tightly stuck together. It hurt, but Kelpie didn’t flinch.

At one time, her hair had been plaited and tied with string. Kelpie had done it herself, copying how Mrs. Darcy did her girls’ hair with Miss Lee giving her instructions and encouragement. But that was likely months ago now. The string had become part of Kelpie’s hair.

“It’s more like carpet than hair. Dirty old carpet.” Mrs. Darcy lifted up a clump and let it drop. Her nose wrinkled.

“It will be prettier short,” Dymphna said, as if Kelpie cared about pretty.

Mrs. Darcy began to saw at it with a kitchen knife. “It’ll grow back soon, love.”

Kelpie knew that. It was the main problem with hair. Always growing. Mrs. Darcy threw the hair into the fire. It smelt awful.

Then she attacked Kelpie’s head. Pouring water over it so that her coat got wet and rubbing at her scalp so hard Kelpie wanted to scream.

“You call that washed, lass?” Mrs. Darcy’s voice was stern again. “You’ve just spread the dirt around your face. Let me.”

Mrs. Darcy pushed the sleeves of Kelpie’s coat up past her elbows and put her hands in new cold water, then scrubbed at them with a stiff brush and soap like she was washing clothes. Kelpie’s eyes watered, but she refused to cry. Even when her fingers started bleeding around the nails and the soap got in.

Mrs. Darcy began scrubbing at Kelpie’s face only marginally more gently than she had scrubbed at her hands. “And behind your ears. Don’t think you’ve ever washed here, have you?” Mrs. Darcy shuddered. “Water’s all dirt already. You’re filthy, you are. And your neck.” She pulled the collar of Kelpie’s coat down, and it came away in her hand.

“Don’t break it!”

“I’m not, love. Your coat’s old. That bit of water washed away whatever it was that was holding it together.”

Kelpie wasn’t convinced. That coat had to last her through the winter.

Mrs. Darcy wiped her hands on her apron then started rubbing Kelpie dry with a towel. It hurt.

“So many scabs. So many scars. You’re brown as an acorn. How long you been living wild, lass?”

Kelpie didn’t say because she didn’t know. Most of her life. However long that had been. When Old Ma had been alive, Kelpie had known how old she was. Old Ma always lit a candle on her birthday. But then she died and only Snowy knew. He’d given her a woollen hat for her tenth birthday, but that had been … two winters ago? Or was it three? Kelpie didn’t think she could be thirteen yet.