The Mannequin Makers

by Craig Cliff

  The crowd was less numerous today and dressed in a smaller variety of colours, but they were no less interested. I could see Father moving among these people. The men all shook his hand vigorously. The women preferred to dip their heads.

  The disturbing thing about today’s crowd was the number of children. Some so young that they seemed to have recently learnt to walk were allowed to wander and stumble among the adults of the town. Men lifted children on their shoulders so they might get a better view of our window. I managed to keep perfectly still and maintain my promenading countenance, but it perturbed me greatly. I feared for these children’s prospects in life if they had already been spoiled for the window.

  Once the curtain was lowered I asked Father about them.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, slowly, ‘it is a terrible shame. They are all orphans. By necessity they have had to enter the world prematurely. If they are lucky they might wed another orphan, but they will never be a true member of society.’

  ‘How tragic,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not too late for your fortunes to diminish. Best you keep vigilant out there. Less thinking about what’s beyond that pane of glass and more about what’s in here,’ he pressed his finger into my chest, ‘and here,’ he said as he touched my forehead.

  Father says we will perform another matinee tomorrow and after that will move to two performances a day with an hour interval for lunch and to refresh ourselves.

  We are to remain in this anteroom whenever we are not performing. I already miss Mother greatly. I have not seen her through the glass but that is not to say she has not been out there. Her hand is evident in the meals Father brings us and for now this will suffice.

  My eyes are not accustomed to so much electric light. I feel it is worse due to the size of this room and its dark walls. No doubt the exertion of controlling my eyelids while in the window adds to this strained feeling. I understand that we must be confined to preserve the impact of our performances, but I long to dawdle through the garden. I miss the shy morning routine of the warblers when we are going through our own, their trilling call and swaying nests.

  At least I have my diary, which is proving a useful diversion. Without any means of making music, Eugen spends his time clenching spring-grip dumb-bells and staring at the posters of Mr Sandow. In terms of physical development, Eugen is the equal of his namesake (with the exception of the moustache). I have not seen Mr Sandow in the crowd, either, or anyone who might match his development. How strange.

  2 January

  I love performing in the window with a passion that is equalled only by the distaste I feel for the time we spend cooped up in this anteroom. It is either too bright or too dark, it seems to trap every moist exhalation and it is cramped to a ridiculous degree, even when it is just the two of us. It is perhaps no wonder I feel ill when I wake each morning. I miss Mother. I miss walking in our garden. I miss the sun rising as we bathe outside. I miss the smell of the dew lifting from the grass and the sound of the birds. I miss my own bed (these stretchers are so rigid and Eugen makes such a racket every time he turns). I know that we must be kept from prying eyes when not in the window, but it is so trying.

  Eugen doesn’t seem to mind, which only doubles my torment. He just stares at the posters of Mr Sandow while tapping complex rhythms on his thighs, or else naps or performs dumb-bell exercises. He scoffs the meals that Mother has prepared for us and Father brings in paint tins lined with tea towels. In the first few days the shepherd’s pie or mutton and rice were not tainted by the smell or taste of paint, but today it was as if the roast chicken, potatoes and kumara were merely props never meant for consumption.

  The only distraction I have (besides putting my complaints in writing) is the book Mother gave me before we were parted. I have inspected it enough to know it is another novel by Mr Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby to be precise, but I cannot bear to open it. I cannot bear the thought of another story about street urchins like those I see through the window, nor can I concentrate on anything in this soupy atmosphere. I feel as if my eyeballs would explode after reading a single sentence.

  It is with great effort that I rouse myself from self-pity and return my attention to the window. Today we presented a new tableau. We were dressed in the same promenading costumes as for our New Year’s Eve scene, to convey the idea that this new tableau is a scene from later on in the evening. Father constructed a cobblestone path that ran alongside the electric lamp post and deposited moss and fallen leaves on either side of it. He brought a new backdrop from home that depicted trees in splashes of paint. Eugen posed on one knee, offering me a small felt box, its jaws open to reveal a large golden ring with a stunning sapphire surrounded by small diamonds. I was turned away, of course, but had enough of my face to the window to allow onlookers to sense my imminent change of heart. The small sliver of the outside world I could see allowed me a better view of the comings and goings of the townspeople, on foot, bicycle or horseback, in carriages or even the odd motor car. I remain largely unimpressed with their fashions or physical development and continue to despair at the number of orphans who are consigned to a difficult adult life, one without laughter, though they seem mercifully unaware of their fate and play chasing games in the grounds of the church opposite. Whatever the prospects or appearance of these people, however, I cannot help feeling pangs of jealousy at their freedom. I know I will soon be free to walk among them, to walk barefoot on the sand and even into the breakers and, if I continue to hold my poses as I have thus far, I can expect to marry into a successful family and lead a life of comfort and happiness.

  But oh how I loathe this tiny room!

  3 January

  Today we gave two performances for the first time. From nine until midday we presented the proposal tableau from the previous day. We then had an hour to tend to our bodily demands and for Father to alter the window before posing from one o’clock until five, or ‘closing time’ as Father called it. During this second performance, Eugen and I donned different outfits and presented what I have come to think of as our Count of Monte Cristo tableau: Eugen contorting his features to appear older and more distinguished, taking my offered hand with formality . . .

  The benefit of two performances is that we spend little time in the anteroom during the day. The worm still gnaws my innards from time to time, but I find him easier to vanquish in the window, with so much else to think about. It is not as warm in here during the evening and the electric light is less grating. I even had the energy to open Nicholas Nickleby after supper tonight.

  The hero has just been forced by his unscrupulous uncle to take up a teaching position at Dotheboys Hall, where, as expected, young children are severely mistreated. They are not all orphans, it seems, but their parents or step-parents care so little for them that they are willing to place them in the care of beastly, duplicitous Wackford Squeers, which is an equally depressing fate. I am left wondering why Mother selected this book for me at this moment. Perhaps to prepare me for the abundance of wasted childhoods beyond the window? Or perhaps the true connection comes later in the story?

  Yesterday, in the depths of my despair in the anteroom, I told Eugen I missed his music.

  ‘Where would a piano fit in here?’ he asked.

  ‘I miss our home.’

  ‘If you want to go home you can break pose tomorrow. Walk laps around the window. Father will have to take you home and you and Mother can talk about all the books you please. Just know that you will not only disappoint Father, possibly destroy him, but you will have wasted all of your training and might damage my chances of finding a suitable match as well.’

  ‘Eugen, I would never dream of such a thing—’

  ‘Then there’s no use complaining, is there?’

  4 January

  I was touched by someone from the outside world today.

  During our morning performance (the proposal tableau again) I noticed Father talking to a man in a top hat on the edge of the crowd. He was the sort of res
pectable older gentleman that I imagined I would see in the outside world but had so far been missing among the onlookers. I thought nothing more of this man until the interval, when Father informed us that he would be letting someone in to inspect us during the afternoon performance.

  ‘In the window?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. He’s very impressed with you both and wishes to appraise you up close.’

  ‘Does he have a daughter or a son?’ asked Eugen.

  ‘Better than that. He’s come all the way from Christchurch. He runs the windows up there. He says you two might be of city calibre.’

  ‘Will he send parents down from Christchurch?’ I asked.

  ‘No, we’ll go up there. They have the best windows in the South Island and the most people. It is a great honour and will significantly increase your prospects.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Let’s not put the cart before the horse. He must inspect you first. You mustn’t move a muscle. He might touch and prod you, but you must hold your pose.’

  Eugen crossed his arms confidently.

  After a lunch of ham sandwiches and a costume change we returned to the window and assumed our poses for the Count of Monte Cristo tableau. When everything was set, Father locked the door and turned the winch in the anteroom to raise the curtain. Eugen and I were left staring at each other, unsure when the visitor would enter. We could hear Father banging about in the anteroom for some time and then silence. I am not sure how much time passed before we heard the door being unlocked once more (an hour perhaps?), at which point I felt every fibre of my hand longing to squeeze Eugen’s, but I resisted. It was enough to be staring into his eyes and he into mine.

  ‘After you,’ I heard Father say.

  The sound of the man’s hard soles on the wooden floor reverberated in the narrow room.

  ‘Yes,’ the man said from somewhere behind me. ‘Oh yes. Marvellous.’ His words were punctuated by tiny coughs, as if he hoped to expel the tickle in his throat as he spoke. ‘Just marvellous. The detail. You’d swear they breathed.’

  My heart sank, but Father said, ‘Thank you,’ quite graciously.

  ‘May I?’ the man asked and gave another little cough.

  ‘Of course, but please be careful. They are delicate.’

  I felt his hand on my hair, just below my shoulders. It was an odd sensation to be touched by someone other than Father, Mother or Eugen. The man stroked his hand down the length of my hair and bounced the very tips on the palm of his hand. ‘Is this human hair?’ he asked, which seemed a strange question.

  ‘A magician does not reveal his methods,’ Father said, which seemed an equally strange answer.

  The man moved closer to Eugen and into my field of vision. It was indeed the same man I had seen Father talking to during the morning, though he was clutching his top hat in one hand, pressing it to his chest as if to catch his heart should it burst from his ribcage. His head was bald except for a few dark strands that had been slicked over his scalp with some kind of grease.

  ‘A fine specimen,’ he said, passing around the back of Eugen. I saw him lift my brother’s coat-tails, presumably to inspect the development of his gluteus muscles, though I am not sure how well they would show through his trousers. I wished we were posing unencumbered so that we might show off the true extent of our development. I knew that this was not the custom, that costume and pageantry were as much a part of a successful season in the window as muscles and skin tone, but this inspection differed from a crowd of people looking from the other side of a pane of glass. I knew that Eugen was thinking exactly the same thing.

  ‘This pose is quite different to the one this morning,’ the man said.

  ‘Yes. The limbs are fully articulated. The facial expressions are achieved through a variety of subtle changes.’

  ‘Make-up, lighting . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Father said.

  ‘I was told you bring the curtain down at night also. Why is that?’

  ‘To maintain the interest and encourage visitors to return. There’s little point drawing crowds once the store’s closed. But also because I need to change the display often. I work alone and it takes many hours to paint a new backdrop, select costumes and arrange the models. To do this in the open, well, it would destroy the illusion.’

  The man had rounded the front of our tableau and was now looking intently at my neck. I worried that he would detect the seashell necklace that sat beneath the gaudy silver one, but he prodded a finger into my flesh, just above my collarbone.

  ‘It gives to the touch?’

  ‘It must if the eye is to be convinced.’

  The man ran his finger along the line of my collarbone, sending shivers down my spine.

  ‘Do I detect warmth?’

  ‘Ah, that is from the electric lighting. The materials are mildly conductive. Quite like the flesh in that sense.’

  I looked deeply into Eugen’s eyes, searching for a hint of the same frown I wore internally. He seemed perfectly at ease.

  The man hooked a finger inside the neckline of my dress and pulled it away from my flesh. I had to quickly and imperceptibly shift my weight further back to avoid being pulled forward and ruining everything. A most difficult challenge but one I am pleased to say I rose to.

  ‘Anatomically correct?’ He coughed in a higher register than before. ‘My, my.’

  Father kept silent. The man withdrew his finger and stepped back and to the side, now standing somewhere just behind my right ear.

  ‘And balance? How is this maintained?’

  ‘By modelling the figures as close to life as possible.’

  The man made an unconvinced huh sound.

  ‘There are also iron rods that connect them with the floor.’

  ‘I see. Well, you have thought of everything.’

  ‘It was a long time coming,’ Father said.

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Years.’ It was Father’s turn to give a nervous cough. When the sound died away, Father and the man remained behind us, both of them still and silent.

  ‘It will depend on the fee and the term of the contract, of course,’ the man finally said, ‘but I’d like very much to see these mannequins in the window of Ballantynes.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Father said. I heard him opening the door to the anteroom. ‘Perhaps we could discuss the finer points in my office.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I heard their footsteps recede, the door shut and Father turn the key.

  There was still a long time to go before the curtain fell on our afternoon performance but there was so much to discuss with Eugen. We have perfected the exchange of emotion while posing, but our connection is not such that an entirely new concept can leap from one mind to the other. In this case, I wanted to know about the term ‘mannequin’ that the man had used, which I could not remember ever hearing or reading before. I wanted to know why Father had talked about our ‘materials’ and lied about iron rods connecting us to the floor. I understood the need to preserve our performance to demonstrate our strength and character, but it was as if Father’s pretence stretched to the point that we truly were statues.

  Eugen was not worried by the man’s visit. He was excited and proud, ready to move on to Christchurch, the city to the north that Mother speaks of sometimes as the place of her birth. She never says much about her family, however. Perhaps she reserves these memories for the pages of her diary.

  I wonder sometimes how a match was made between Father and Mother. He is clearly older than her, and much less handsome, which seems at odds with what I know about the window and the matches it produces. Equally, I have read of affection between parents but never seen so much as a handshake between Father and Mother. They can go days without speaking directly to one another, passing messages through Eugen or me. ‘Tell your father dinner is ready.’ ‘Tell Flossie to mind her own business.’

  What do I conclude from all this? Perhaps conclude is too strong a word, but I do su
spect that this is not Father’s first marriage. I have never been brave enough to broach the subject with him, or cruel enough to raise it with Mother, but such were the thoughts that plagued me this afternoon as I waited for the curtain to fall.

  I was not completely blind to the goings on beyond the window, however. I noticed, for example, the old man standing on the flank of the general crowd that, even five days into our season, never seems to number less than twenty, although my view of the street is often quite limited. At first I thought he was an orphan dressed in adult clothing, so short was the figure. But I soon saw the wrinkled skin of his face and the large, rough hand he used to dab the corner of his mouth with a bunched handkerchief. I am poor at guessing ages, as one might expect with my limited exposure to the outside world, but he was a good deal more hunched and shrunken than Father. I did not recall seeing him in the crowd before, though that is not to say he was not there. What made him remarkable was the way he was positioned, beyond Eugen’s left shoulder. It was as if this old man were staring into my eyes just as my brother was. I worried that he, too, could penetrate my thoughts. That he was trying to catch me out in a way Father had not warned us about.

  He was still standing there when the curtain was finally lowered and Father unlocked the door.

  ‘So,’ Eugen said as soon as we were free to move, ‘when do we go to Christchurch?’

  ‘Soon. A week perhaps.’

  ‘A week? And what do we do until then?’

  We followed Father back into the anteroom. All the furniture had been shifted into the corner where the chamber pot and basin sat and a large sheet was draped over the top of everything. Father ripped the sheet off and started to reconstruct a stretcher bed.

  ‘We’re wasting our time in this window, Father,’ Eugen continued. ‘You see as well as I do that the people of this town are sickly and ill-proportioned. Their children cannot be that much better.’