Razorhurst (20 page)

The first time Gloriana Nelson realised money couldn’t buy respectability was when the Big Man himself wouldn’t accept her donation to his re-election campaign. Glory loved the Big Man with all her heart and soul. He was the best premier they’d ever had. She loved him sticking it to the old country, defying the federal government and London both, refusing to pay the bankers, caring about the workers more than the establishment. He was a fine Labor man even if most of his party hated him half the time.

Glory had never hated him, not for even half a second.

Then he wouldn’t take her money.

She sat down and cried.

Gloriana Nelson never cried.

Then they sacked the Big Man without a by-your-leave from the people what had voted him in. He should have taken Glory’s money.

The second time was when they wouldn’t sell her first-class tickets for the Queen Mary on her triumphant journey to the old country to show them what a rich colonial looked like. Glory was that rich she could have bought the bloody boat. But they’d only sell her second-class steerage.

This time Glory did not sit down. She did not cry. She cursed them inside out and sideways. She raised her fists. She was ejected from the ticket office still screaming her head off.

Davidson travelled first class. Rich bastard politicians took
his
money. Didn’t drop his haitches, did he? Knew when to doff his hat. Knew how to eat in one of them fancy restaurants with waiters dressed better than any of the men in Glory’s life. Didn’t matter that bloody Davidson made his money same way she did. He didn’t call a spade a fucking spade. Not a single bloody swear word ever dropped from his fucking lips.

Wasn’t just money you needed in this world. You had to have polish too.

That’s why Glory took on Dymphna Campbell. It wasn’t because she was so beautiful she shone. Not because of her breasts, her gold hair, her fine long legs. All of that was well and good, but beauty faded. And even the most gorgeous girl wasn’t to the taste of all the
clients. She’d heard one bloke claim Dymphna’s chin was too pointy. Another that her breasts were too small.

It was Dymphna’s voice that won Glory over.

Posh girls never lasted in the trade. Too delicate. Too used to being treated well. Glory had never had a bar of them. Besides, working men were intimidated by the posh ones, and the top of the town didn’t come slumming to run into one of their own. They saved those women for seducing and for marriage. When they laid down cash, toffs wanted a rough-as-guts pretty sort who’d do anything they paid for.

Glory was a rough one come up from nothing, and she’d done fine. Owned her own houses now. Ran her own women. Why would she waste her time on a girl too posh to know how to boil an egg—let alone make a man cry out in pleasure?

Dymphna could do both.

And her voice.

Soft and silky. She should have been an actress.

Glory started watching her, listening. She collected up Dymphna’s haitches and relinquished the ones that she never said. She observed the way Dymphna dressed. The way she painted her face. None of it loud. None of it too red. Watched the way Dymphna drank tea. Practised it when she was alone. Not in front of Big Bill or any of her men or women—she wasn’t going to have them laughing at her.

The next time she wanted to travel first class, they would damn well let her.

But to be safe, she sent Dymphna to buy the tickets.

The two went shopping together at David Jones to buy her wardrobe for the voyage.

People who weren’t born rich and came to their money by less-than-respectable means had to be unobtrusive in dress and quiet in manners. Glory bit her lip for the first week of the voyage—watching rich young men chasing waitresses and vomiting over the side. In the second week, she clipped the most obnoxious one across the ear with her fifty-pound purse.

The stupid boy didn’t report her, and she wasn’t made to decamp to second class. Though the toffs talked to her and Big Bill even less than before. Didn’t matter, because the waitresses took to making sure she got the most attentive service and the best cuts of meat.

By the time they reached London, Glory was ready to never see or hear another toff-nosed, rich bastard ever again. She threw away the clothes she’d worn at sea and bought up all the reddest, loudest clothes London had to offer.

Glory had always known exactly who she was, but now she knew she preferred herself that way.

DYMPHNA

Gloriana Nelson sat in her large cushioned chair in the roomy kitchen at the back of the terrace. She was in her usual red and gold finery, with her fingers and mouth painted fire-engine red to match. Her feet rested on a velvet stool. Her elbows rested on the kitchen table. She had a cigarette in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

Glory didn’t look like a woman planning to kill her best girl, though she didn’t look pleased to see Dymphna either.

Dymphna paused in the doorway to favour Glory with her most radiant smile. Glory loved Dymphna’s smile.
Makes you look like a queen
, she had said often enough that some of the other girls called her Queenie. They didn’t mean it kindly. Kelpie ducked behind her.

Glory did not return the smile. Dymphna decided not to see that as a bad sign.

Beside Glory, Lettie half smiled and gave a little wave, and her horrible girlfriend Dazzle smirked.

“She’s ropeable,” Jimmy told Kelpie. “Why the fuck did Dymphna think it was a good idea to walk into Glory’s den?”

Because, Dymphna wanted to tell him, they wouldn’t have made it to the Quay without someone nabbing them. Glory was the safest option. She had to be.

“I hear Davidson’s looking for you and me best man is dead,” Gloriana Nelson said. “’Course, I would’ve liked to’ve heard that from yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Glory. It’s been …” Dymphna trailed off because Glory wasn’t listening.

“And the coppers!” Glory continued, her voice rising. “Bloody coppers going after you when anyone with half a brain could tell a slight thing like you couldn’t do for an ox like Jimmy. Not without help. My boy Palmer’s dead! My right-hand man! Whatcha want to tell me about that?”

“You’d almost think she was upset,” Jimmy said. He leaned against the wall behind Glory, beside a painting of a racehorse. “You better be ready to scarper, Kelpie. I don’t trust this.”

Kelpie slid further behind Dymphna.

“Can we sit down, Glory?” Dymphna asked, bracing herself for more yelling.

“’Course you can. Lettie? Make ’em some tea. This pot’s cold.”

Lettie winked at Dymphna and leapt up to set water on the stove.

Dymphna guided Kelpie by her elbow towards a stool, but Kelpie wouldn’t sit down. Likely making it easier for herself to escape. Dymphna couldn’t blame her. She sat, holding on to Kelpie’s elbow. Neither one of them was going to run until Dymphna knew what Glory knew.

“It’s going to ruin me party. Finally get shot of that bastard—divorce papers signed and everything. I told you, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Glory had told everyone. Including the newspapers.

“Palmer gets murdered the very morning of me big celebration. There’s a cake, you know? Made special. Six tiers. Bigger than most wedding cakes. Divorce is a lot more special to a lady like me than marriage. I’ll tell you that for free. There’ll be no one bludging a few pounds here and a few pounds there no more. Taking me money without doing a lick of work. Big Bill was a fat old leech. I am well shot of him.”

Dymphna could not disagree. She had always avoided Big Bill. He had wandering hands and did not believe he had to pay for any of Glory’s girls.

“What’s her name then?” Gloriana Nelson asked, pointing her chin at Kelpie. She stubbed out the cigarette and picked up her polished black stone, running it back and forth between her fingers.

“Kelpie,” Dymphna said.

“Ha!” Glory let out a giant roar of laughter. Kelpie took a step backward. Dymphna pulled her forward.

“Well, of course that’s her name. She’s a wee puppy dog, ain’t she?”

Dymphna smiled at Kelpie, who was decidedly not smiling. Dymphna prayed that she wouldn’t say anything to rile Glory.

“Oh, and look, now she’s baring her teeth. Adorable. She’s a brown little thing, isn’t she? I hear she’s been following you around, Dymph. Where’d you find her? She might be a bit small to work. But there’s all sorts, aren’t there? Have the doctor check her out.”

Dymphna stood up, horrified. “I didn’t bring her here for that, Glory.”

“Don’t rile her, Dymph!” Jimmy shouted. Dymphna wondered when Jimmy was going to get it through his thick head that she wouldn’t hear him.

Glory laughed. “I’m joshing you, love. Still, want the doc to look her over. Don’t want the wee doggie giving you no fleas. It’ll bring your price down. You’re my best girl. Ain’t no rival for you. Sorry, Dazzle. You’re lovely, but
your
hair comes courtesy of a bottle.”

Glory smiled at Dazzle, who made a sound that did not resemble a laugh. Dymphna could not resist smiling at her.

“I don’t mind,” Dazzle said, even though she sounded as though she’d as soon stab Dymphna as praise her. “She’s the Angel. Everyone knows she’s the best.”

Dymphna smiled wider. She loved Dazzle as much as Dazzle loved her. Dymphna had caught her going through her things more than once. Complained to Glory too, who’d thrashed the girl and elicited the promise she’d never do it again, which had lasted a couple of days. Perhaps. Dazzle couldn’t help herself. One of the many reasons Dymphna was delighted to have her own place.

Dymphna had no idea what Lettie saw in Dazzle. Her taste in women wasn’t great, but it wasn’t usually this terrible. Dazzle would only use Lettie. If—no,
when
this mess was over, Dymphna would do what she could to break them up. Lettie needed protecting.

“Shall I take Kelpie to the doctor then?” Dymphna asked.

“Not right now! Got more questions for you, Dymph; don’t you know? Though some are the same questions I’ve asked you already. The ones you ain’t answered yet.”

“Sorry, Glory. It’s been a long day.”

“You say that, but it’s not even noon yet, love. Some of us only just woke up. Isn’t that right, Lettie?”

Lettie laughed and winked at Dazzle. “It was a long night and all.”

Dymphna looked at her watch. “Noon,” she repeated.

“I ain’t even been dead a whole day,” Jimmy said, sounding as bemused as she was.

“Tea ready yet, Lettie? Good-oh. Pour us all a cup. Plenty of lemon for our Dymphna. Milk and sugar for the rest of us and for the doggie too.”

Kelpie scowled. Dymphna patted her shoulder, though that probably wasn’t the best way to let Kelpie know that she didn’t think she was a dog.

Glory laughed. “I like her, Dymphna. Lots of spirit. Look at
that expression! Would melt the eyes of an arse-faced judge, that would. Or turn them to stone.” She accepted her tea and took a sip. “Thanks, Lettie love. Nice and hot. Can’t beat a cuppa, can you?”

Dymphna murmured her agreement as she took her own cup. Sipping it calmed her.

“Be careful,” Jimmy said. “Wouldn’t put it past the old bird to poison you.”

“Lettie, Dazzle?” Glory jerked her chin towards the door. “You two lovebirds can make yourselves useful elsewhere.”

The two women jumped up, closing the door behind them. Dymphna felt colder and wrapped both hands around the teacup so Glory wouldn’t see her shiver.

“Tell me about Palmer,” Glory said without a trace of laughter.

“I’m dead,” Jimmy said. “You can tell her I don’t like being dead. You can tell her if I’d had my way,
she’d
be dead.”

Dymphna closed her eyes. He’d never said that before. Killing Glory had never been the plan. Sidelining her had been, easing her out of power, but Jimmy had sworn that Glory didn’t need to die.

Kelpie pressed closer to her. Dymphna took another sip of her tea and wished she could say something to reassure the girl. She wished someone would say something to reassure
her
. “Jimmy asked me to meet him at Mrs. Stone’s.”

“Bit of a rough place for you, ain’t it, Dymph?”

“You know I like rough men, Glory. Always have. Same as you.”