Razorhurst by Justine Larbalestier Read Free Book Online

turned it over, and put it back into the machine, then draped it and himself with the towels again.
    “He’s a writer,” Miss Lee said, as proudly as if she had invented writing. “Writers express themselves colourfully, so don’t be alarmed.”
    Kelpie grinned. Far as she could tell, everyone swore—other than Miss Lee. Besides, she liked the sound of Darcy’s voice, even when he was going off about his
bloody, fucking, bastard, no-good, bung-headed, sodded-up, so-called typewriter
.
    Miss Lee leaned over to read from the page at the top of the stack.
    Kelpie liked what Miss Lee read. It was the kind of story you’d hear from the old fellas in front of Castle’s, but funnier, less rambling. His story was about people like him, living in the Hills or out bush.
    “So authentic!” Miss Lee breathed. “Oh, excellent word choice!
Aromatic
.” She continued to read aloud. “Oh, no,” she said a little later. “I hope he’s going to change that.
Strewth?
I know he’s writing about the Hills, but he doesn’t have to use such common vocabulary.”
    Kelpie liked the word
strewth
and vowed to use it more. When Miss Lee wasn’t around.
    “Oh no!
That
word’s even worse.” Miss Lee’s lips pressed together.
    Kelpie wanted to ask what word, but she could tell Miss Lee would never say. Besides, Neal Darcy was barely two feet from where Kelpie was crouching. She peeked over the edge of the sill.
    There was a patch of sweat in the middle of Darcy’s back. She found it strange that banging away at those metal spiders made him sweat. Like he was chopping wood, or shifting furniture, not making up stories in his head and writing them down.
    The harder he pounded at the typewriter, the more he sweated and the more the towel on his head started to slide, until it fell to the ground and his hair fell forward into his eyes, so he had to push it back, sending droplets of sweat flying.
    “Such passion!” Miss Lee said. “Once his face went purple, he wasso infuriated that the writing was not proceeding as he wished. He almost hurled his typewriter at the wall! He had it poised above his head. I would have held my breath if I had any to hold. But then he put it down, said, ‘Sorry, Lucy,’ and punched the wall. His knuckles bled, Kelpie. Can you imagine? I was most concerned.”
    The stairs creaked and Kelpie ducked.
    Miss Lee sighed. “The rest of the household is stirring. Mr. Darcy’s packing up. He must go to work in that dreadful brewery. Such a shame.”
    Kelpie scrambled into the lane before any of the Darcys came out to use the dunny. Miss Lee appeared beside her.
    Tommy was where he’d been. “Don’t know why you’d waste your time watching that ugly mick.”
    Kelpie didn’t think Neal Darcy was ugly.
    “Wish I could smoke,” Tommy said, watching old man Miller passing by, sucking on the last dregs of a cigarette. Miller’s cough was wet and echoed in his chest. “Only thing I really miss. Well, that and fucking.”
    Kelpie pulled a face.
    “Ignore him,” Miss Lee said. “Nothing he tells you is true. But it is
all
unpleasant. Let’s find you some food. Are you ready for your first reading lesson?”
    Kelpie nodded.
    Those precious minutes watching Darcy write, listening to his words, had made Kelpie want to know everything about letters and words and sentences. She wanted more of Darcy’s stories, more of any stories.

DYMPHNA
    Dymphna felt her left leg trembling. Soon her right leg would shake too. Usually she could conceal it. Especially if she was sitting down.
    She was in the Darcys’ kitchen, wedged against the back door. Kelpie by her side. Jimmy on the other. Her leg’s tremor causing the door, already loose on its hinges, to vibrate. Kelpie must know she was shaking. But surely Mrs. Darcy’s brood were gobbling their porridge too loudly to notice? Even though they were seated mere inches away. Even though the ones without their backs to her were staring at Dymphna, barely blinking.
    She