Nine Days

‘[Toni Jordan’s previous] books were notable for originality and verve, yet although these qualities remain, are indeed amplified, neither work could have prepared us for the ambition and achievement of Jordan’s brilliant third novel,
Nine Days
…The grisly scene in which Jack Husting’s parents introduce him to a prospective marriage partner is worthy of Patrick White…This novel is a triumph. Another signal career in Australian fiction is well under way.’
Australian

‘Every now and then a book comes along that’s brilliantly conceived and tightly written, yet there’s nothing flashy about it. I think Australian writer Toni Jordan’s third novel,
Nine Days
, falls into the rare and wonderful category…Each of the nine voices is distinct and brimming with personality and by the finish every part of the jigsaw fits perfectly and you see the whole sweep of this romantic, thoughtful, heartbreaking story…Jordan’s previous novels,
Addition
and
Fall Girl
, were smart sassy and humorous.
Nine Days
has taken her to another level. More serious than her previous work but with the same astute observations, brightness and wit, its a sensitive and beautiful novel, a slice of Australia’s working-class history, that is a joy to read.’
NZ Herald on Sunday

‘Jordan’s triumph is in the structure and scope of this novel…It’s a clever concept, carried out with confidence and compassion.’
Adelaide Advertiser

‘A beautiful novel which captures the loves and fears of an ordinary Australian family through hard times and better times.’
Australian Bookseller and Publisher

‘A warm, uplifting story about love, sentiment, strong emotions and life-changing decisions. But the novel manages to evade sentimentality by using its form and structure to make a larger point. By disrupting the chronology and by scattering shared events and objects across the nine narratives, Jordan creates multiple links between people, times and events.’
Canberra Times

‘Ebullient sense of humour…wonderful dialogue.’
Sydney Morning Herald

‘Reading
Nine Days
, you will laugh, even cry, but you will be in no doubt that Toni Jordan uses the modern novel to reflect those tensions that exist for many of us between duty and desire.’
Australian Book Review

‘A brilliant piece of writing…compelling, engaging and will bring tears to the eyes of readers without iron constitutions.’
Sunday Star Times

‘Toni Jordan’s characters beautifully frame a story of compassion, fun and poignancy.’
Launceston Examiner

‘Not a million miles away from Kate Atkinson’s
Behind the Scenes at the Museum
in the way it blends wit and cruelty, comedy and tragedy…the characterisation is superb.’
NZ Weekend Herald

‘The suspense is frequently nail-biting…beautifully constructed.’
Daily Mail
UK

‘A witty and wise family saga…a small treasure, from the author of the wonderful romantic comedy Addition.’
Kirkus
(starred review) US

‘Intelligent romantic comedy at its deft best.’
Age

‘Jordan’s sexy second novel takes its inspiration from the classic romantic comedy, with sharp and funny dialogue that tackles some serious issues…an elegantly orchestrated romance with some sizzling sexual chemistry…Simply a joy to read.’
Courier-Mail

‘A sparkling rom-com bearing all Jordan’s trademark wit and shiver inducing sexual tension.’
Good Reading

‘A laugh-out-loud read crackling with satire.’
Australian

‘Jordan doesn’t merely imitate a well-worn genre here. Her characters are full and detailed, their relationships and history suggestively drawn…
Fall Girl
is there to surprise and delight.’
Sunday Age

‘A delightfully entertaining, light-hearted story.’
Launceston Examiner

‘Full of set-ups and comedic riffs that will make you squirm with delight…a witty and readable novel, set against the lush Australian landscape.’
Big Issue

‘Toni Jordan has created such a real character in Grace that you are cheering her on, willing her to get to the top of the staircase, intact and unharmed. Jordan’s voice is distinctive, refreshing and very Australian. Her debut novel is juicy and funny, just like its protagonist…this is a gem.’
Sydney Morning Herald

‘Snappy, sassy, superior chick-lit with a twist…Jordan portrays Grace’s quirks with poignancy, pathos and, most importantly, humour.’
Canberra Times

‘Tremendously enjoyable…a romantic comedy with a light touch and a quirky and unforgettable central character.’
Adelaide Advertiser

‘Sensuously written, fabulously entertaining…a first novel that takes your breath away.’
West Australian

‘Excellent…a light and lovely story that champions being different in a world where being different is treated with suspicion…Jordan strikes a fabulous blow for resolute individuality.’
Sunday Telegraph

‘Interesting, funny and engaging.’
Harper’s Bazaar

‘One of Jordan’s many strengths is that she never patronises Grace… This novel is energised by Grace’s grumpy, funny, obsessive, fearful and insightful voice. Her strangeness is beautifully crafted…A winning love story, a sorbet for tired souls.’ Michael McGirr,
Age

‘A Trojan horse of a novel…
Addition
raises a lot of questions about our values and our society, couched in disarmingly easy-to-read prose…lashings of spot-on satire.’
Australian Book Review

‘Fizzes and sparkles…It is, of course, also a love story with a happy ending, which is one of the most satisfying narrative trajectories there is.’ Kerryn Goldsworthy,
Australian Literary Review

‘Delightful…full of charm and humour.’
The Press NZ

‘Bringing a quirky humour and a sympathetic view of diversity to her story, the author sustains the momentum to the end of this engaging romantic comedy.’
The Times

‘Brimming with sarcastic humour.’
Guardian

‘Mature, witty and entertaining.’
Irish Times

Toni Jordan has a BSc. in physiology and qualifications in marketing and professional writing. Her debut novel,
Addition,
was shortlisted for the Barbara Jefferis Award and longlisted for the Miles Franklin in 2009, and has been published in sixteen countries. Toni lives in Melbourne.

tonijordan.com

@tonileejordana

facebook.com/authortonijordan

textpublishing.com.au

The Text Publishing Company

Swann House

22 William Street

Melbourne Victoria 3000

Australia

Copyright © Toni Jordan 2012

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

First published by The Text Publishing Company 2012, this edition 2013.

Cover design by W.H. Chong

Page design by Imogen Stubbs

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Author: Jordan, Toni.

Title: Nine days / Toni Jordan.

ISBN: 9781922147691 (pbk.)

ISBN: 9781921961120 (ebook : epub)

Dewey Number: A823.4

For Robbie,
for everything, of course.

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Author note

Nine Days

Acknowledgments

Author note

This novel was inspired by a photograph from the State Library of Victoria’s
Argus
newspaper collection of war photographs. The couple in the photograph are unidentified. Connie Westaway and Jack Husting are entirely fictitious and their fates are not those of the photograph’s subjects.

SOME DAYS ONE hint of light peeking through the curtains and bam! You spring out of bed like the devil’s after you, like you’ve been lying there all night just waiting for the day to begin so your legs can move. They’re itchy and nervy, busting to get going, like you’re sitting in the pictures waiting for the film to start.
What’s going to happen today?
you think. That’s how it mostly is. So I should of known by the way I didn’t want to get up that things were bound to go wrong. The blankets were pressing on top of me, like they were saying
Kip! Don’t move if you know what’s good for you!

I look over at Ma in the other bed: she’s dead asleep facing the wall, a mound under her blanket and a pile of coats and
jumpers and even Dad’s old clothes pulled out of drawers. Francis is squished next to me, his mouth open all pink and white, teeth like headstones planted in marshmallow. He sounds like a cow that swallowed a whistle. His pillow’s dripping drool. It’s bad luck for me and Ma, sharing a room with Francis. Connie’s lucky. She has the camp bed in the laundry on account of young ladies needing more privacy than boys or mothers. Get a load of that snoring! One day some poor girl’ll have to marry him and she’ll never have another decent night’s sleep as long as she lives. The bags under her eyes’ll be big enough to pack for a weekend at Dromana. Just look at him. The great white hope. It’s all right for Francis because he doesn’t need to get up for a good two hours and I’m supposed to be real quiet in case I disturb his royal geniusness but he could do with some disturbing if you ask me.

It’s not going to get any easier and it’s like diving in the Yarra it’s that cold so I pretend I’m Mawson and get dressed quick as, and then tiptoe past Mrs Keith’s room because she sleeps to nearly ten then I’m out the back door where my boots are waiting. The air slaps me in the face, wakes me up good and proper. Soon it’ll be pinky-light, twinkly-light and the stars will turn in for a bit of a nap themselves but now in the cold dark you can feel the great city waking. If I looked down the side, past the gate to Rowena Parade, I’d see men in their dirty boots and worn coats wrapped tight, heading round the corner, down Lennox Street and across Swan to the IXL factory, or a bit further along to Bryant and May. I can almost hear the tramp of them, boots on bluestones, caps pulled over ears. Those blokes are the workers. There’s a
whole different lot in white shirts and ties and waistcoats and hats with newspapers under their arms who also walk down Lennox to Swan to catch a tram to the city. Our house here in Rowena Parade is the spot where blokes get divided into proper workers and office men.

Me, I’m one of the proper workers. You can smell every factory in Richmond from our little backyard when the wind’s right. Between the end of the footy finals and Easter the hot sweet of the jam hits you first, then the tomato sauce, next burning malt and hops. Now in the middle of winter there’s nothing but the tannery and the Yarra, and it’s like the dunny cart had a permanent spot in the lane so I’m not standing around to breathe it in.

In our yard, grass finds its way through the bricks laid flat and the cracks in the path. The grass is white-tipped and it crackles under my feet. I’m King Kong, squashing native huts. Crunch crunch. Sorry natives. Then I’m out the gate and into the lane and around the corner and I undo the latch at the Hustings’.

Inside I swing open the top half of the stable door and there he is, Charlie the fire-breathing dragon. He nods, then shakes his head like he’s got water in his ears. This is Horse for glad to see me. I rub my palms together and breathe on them because as Ma says
Kip it’s not funny to put cold hands on someone’s warm body
by which she means
especially not on Francis’s backside under his nightshirt first thing in the morning.
We have different ideas of funny, Ma and me. Anyhow, Francis started it.

When my hands are warm I pat the crooked star between
Charlie’s eyes and then I scratch behind his ears and he pushes his head into my hand and stamps his feathered feet. Keep going, he’s saying. More pats, more scratches. Charlie is the smartest horse in the entire universe so he starts snuffling down my sleeve. He always picks the right pocket. Charlie is never wrong. Today: one shrivelled apple from the lane, minus one small bite. Union dues, I tell him. A little deducted for the good of the working man, namely me. I hold the apple flat on my hand and it tickles, then up it goes into his gob and two bites later it’s gone.

‘Well old boy,’ I say. ‘We can’t stand around here all day when there’s work to be done.’

He nods and whinnies to show he’s heard me. Before Mr Husting comes out I get the bucket and top up the trough from the pump on the other side of the yard, measure out the oats and close the hay bin tight because one little mouse gets in once and they never let you hear the end of it. While Charlie’s eating I sweep out the stable and take the manure to the pile. Charlie’s got good bowels as my nan would say. My nan talks a lot about respect especially my lack of same but there’s only two types of people she’s keen on. The King and Queen Elizabeth and the princesses whose pictures she cuts out of the
Women’s Weekly
and sticks up on the kitchen wall, and people with good bowels. I imagine they use the King’s bowel habits to time the changing of the guard.

I brush Charlie down till he’s shiny. Long straight strokes. He likes this. Mr Husting always says first impressions count, my lad! I’d sooner go out in my nightshirt than have the customers see Charlie not looking his Sunday best. I step
into the yard and right on time Mr Husting’s coming out the back door in his suit and knitted vest and his gloves with no fingers. He looks tired. His cheeks are longer. He says good morning and asks after Charlie.

‘He’s beaut, Boss.’

‘Good lad, Kip.’ He reaches out his hand and messes my hair, which is something I allow very few people the latitude to do on account of I’m fourteen now, not a kid anymore, but being boss gives Mr Husting certain privileges.

‘That horse looks fighting fit. Better than Catalogue.’ And then Mr Husting holds his other hand out flat and instead of an apple there’s a shilling. ‘For you, Kip.’

Whacko! A whole entire shilling is enough to get in to the Glaciarium, if I shrink down a bit. Skating on ice. Just imagine it. Maybe today will turn out all right after all. The trick will be to put my shilling where Francis won’t find it. I need a hiding place like Connie’s, a loose brick under the house. She doesn’t know I’m on to her but there’s not much escapes me round here. I reach out my hand, I put the coin in my pocket and just then there’s a noise and it’s the upstairs window lifting and Mrs Husting is leaning halfway out still in her nightgown with a shawl around her.

‘Good morning, my dear,’ calls out Mr Husting.

‘Good morning, Mrs Husting,’ I say. ‘What a pleasure to see you. How are you on this bright sunny day?’

She gives me her usual look, which is to say the look she practises on me in case she opens her window one day and there’s a pile of dead fish in her backyard.

‘Sylvester. Did you give that boy a penny?’

‘No, my love, I did not.’

‘That shawl is very becoming on you, Mrs Husting,’ I call up to her.

‘Because we pay a fair wage straight to his mother, you know that.’

‘I do know that, my pet.’

‘A lovely shade of blue. It matches your eyes.’

‘I’d like to know who else in this city would suffer to have the likes of him hanging around morning and night and pay for the privilege. Hundreds of boys wanting work in a two-mile radius, good boys, not layabouts. Boys that don’t squander their opportunities.’

‘I’m visiting the Shearers today. They’re moving. They won’t be needing their girl’s bed now she’s married. A set of chairs. A near to new Malvern Star and an old copper. I’m going past the shops.’

‘Sherbet bombs and some jersey caramels. And don’t be late tonight. I’ve got a nice piece of corned beef and Elsie’s doing a cauliflower cheese. I dare say it’s been some time since Jack’s had a cauliflower cheese like Elsie’s.’

‘He was dead to the world when I walked past his room, just like he was still a boy,’ says Mr Husting.

‘He’s tired from the travelling, that’s all,’ she says.

This past week I’ve scrubbed each brick in the yard and repainted the window sills and weeded the garden while Mrs Husting and Elsie cleaned every nook inside, on account of Jack coming home yesterday. This seems to me the greatest waste of time since the brothers made us clean the inkwells. If I was away from Ma and Connie for eighteen months I
wouldn’t notice if the garden was weeds from one end to the other. It’s not only the Hustings, though: it seems like everywhere you look, people are moving, getting things ready, putting affairs in order.

Mrs Husting almost closes the window, and then she notices me again, Charlie’s brush in one hand going numb from the cold, the other deep in my pocket squeezing the shilling. ‘And can you get that one to scrub the dirt off that load of shovels without ruining them?’

‘Dirt?’ I say. ‘That’d be the brownish stuff, would it?’

She gives me a look that could melt steel. It’s a miracle G-men from America haven’t parachuted in the street and carried her off because Mrs Husting could be a government secret weapon. If she turns her head an inch too far, that look would miss me and ignite the stables. Charlie snorts. Even he can feel it.

‘I’ll get him on to it when we get home from the afternoon run,’ Mr Husting says.

‘Just keep an eye on him,’ she says. ‘I know his sort.’

When she closes the window Mr Husting smiles at me again and taps the side of his nose with his finger. ‘That shilling. Our little secret. Gentlemen’s honour.’ He holds out his hand, just like Dad used to do.

I hold out my hand and shake on it. I even say, ‘Gentlemen’s honour,’ as well, just the way he said it. There’s no excuse for that kind of dumb.

Being known as chief
layabout and squanderer of opportunities
in all of Richmond is a big responsibility. Maybe it’s those missing seven minutes. Maybe if Francis was the one who came seven minutes later everything would be different. I’d still be at school, for a start. But the fact is I followed him out so here I am, stable boy in charge of horse excrement transportation and shovel scrubbing at the Hustings’. I like it, mostly. Believe you me there’s heaps of things about school I don’t miss. Believe you me.

The busier you are the faster the morning goes and in half a mo it’s time for breakfast. That’s the best bit of working next door: walk ten yards down the lane, around the corner to our back gate and like the Phantom, here I am at home. I didn’t know how cold I was until I walked in. Connie’s already at the stove and Francis is in his school shirt and tie having his cup of tea and there’s the smell of bacon frying.

‘Are your hands clean?’ says Connie.

There’s no point even answering on account of my reputation so I hold them out in front of me, nails up.

‘Make sure, Connie,’ says Francis, about to stick a piece of buttered toast in his gob. ‘We don’t want horse manure all over the kitchen. Maybe we should make him eat outside. As befits his station.’