The Mannequin Makers

by Craig Cliff

  Father looked up from the stretcher, his face contorted into a rare and faintly disturbing smile. ‘You’re right. You’ve both worked too hard to end up in Marumaru. But I must go to Christchurch first and ensure everything is in place.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In a few days. Until then, you must keep performing as you have.’

  ‘Father,’ I asked, ‘what did he mean when he called us “mannequins”?’

  ‘It is just another term for performers.’

  ‘Is it complimentary?’ I asked. ‘It didn’t sound so.’

  ‘It’s fine, Avis. You are doing so well.’

  Not every new sensation this week has been unpleasant. I could become quite accustomed to Father’s compliments and encouragement.

  5 January

  The short old man was out there watching me again today. Both morning and afternoon performances. Standing there in his thick woollen suit.

  Last night we helped Father prepare the window for two new tableaux. He drew the outline of a field of corn and a barn in the corner, then Eugen and I painted in the colours while Father rigged up a series of pipes in the false ceiling of the window to create the appearance of rain (though it would fall between us and the window, allowing us to remain dry throughout the performance).

  In this morning’s tableau I was being dragged along to the barn by Eugen as the first spits of rain started. These spits were caught in a gutter recess at the front of the window that Father had constructed in advance. I marvel at the amount of planning and ingenuity he has invested in our season. I still miss Mother very much (and am yet to spot her in the street) but I am coming to understand why Father was as he was while Eugen and I were growing up. Each day I become more grateful for everything he has done for us.

  When I mentioned the old man in the heavy suit to Father he gave a coarse laugh (coarse, perhaps, because he is so unaccustomed to making the sound). ‘Don’t worry about him,’ he said. ‘He’s just racking his brain trying to figure out how it’s done.’

  ‘The rain?’ I asked.

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘The fact we are twins?’

  ‘Everything,’ he repeated. ‘He’s from a different generation. He doesn’t understand the new ways.’

  For the afternoon, Father brought in a number of hay bales and we posed as two young lovers waltzing to the music inside their own heads. I now was facing the other way up the street and yet the old man was standing square in my line of sight again. He stayed there the entire four hours. The only difference between the two of us was the occasional dab of a handkerchief to his mouth and his frequent and undisguised blinking.

  But enough about my strange companion. I am now about a third of the way through Nicholas Nickleby and see another reason Mother may have chosen this book for me. Nicholas has entered a company of actors managed by a Mr Vincent Crummles. There are many similarities between the stages Nicholas and I tread. Of course, Mr Dickens sees fit to introduce a degree of humour and outlandishness that we will do well to avoid. In particular I am thinking of Crummles’ daughter, ‘the infant phenomenon’, who has been fed gin and water from an early age to keep her looking ten years old when she is well beyond that (though the added years have not done much for her acting).

  Perhaps Eugen is a better stand-in for Nicholas Nickleby and I am supposed to sympathise with his sister, Kate. She is beautiful and seems quite virtuous, but I feel I have little in common with her situation. All of us, I suspect, male and female, feel we will be the hero of the tale when the book of our life is writ.

  6 January

  Father will journey to Christchurch tomorrow. He has enlisted Mother to deliver our meals and work the winch that raises and lowers our curtain. I could hear him instructing her in the anteroom as Eugen and I performed this afternoon, but she was not there once we had finished. I asked Father why she had not stayed behind and he made a poor excuse about there not being space for all four of us in the anteroom. I must say I am perplexed and not a little hurt by this. Why have I not seen her on the street, if not to satisfy her own curiosity then to give us encouragement? Why did she rush back to our house, that little world unto itself, before we had finished our performance? Perhaps she feared the commotion our reunion would precipitate. I have so much to tell her and so many questions to ask.

  In addition to the old man who continues to stand in my gaze for the duration of morning and afternoon performances, I am beginning to recognise a number of other characters on the street.

  There is the poor orphan boy who stops his bicycle in front of us every afternoon for the final two hours of our performance. He seems more interested in Eugen’s development than mine, which is to be expected, I suppose. (I wonder if they have dumb-bells at the orphanage or if their deprivation stretches further than I care to think.)

  There is the finely dressed, rotund gentleman with dark skin, though he does not much resemble the drawings of Indians or Africans in the books I have read. He is frequently on the street, but pays our window little attention. His interest is in shaking the hands of the adults and engaging them in conversation. When he laughs, which is often, he places his hands on either side of his large belly.

  And there is the woman with her hair in a bun who addresses the crowd with her back to us and is roundly ignored. The plate glass dulls and distorts her speeches so that I cannot understand what she is saying. She is always clutching a book and points often at the sky.

  I caught Eugen looking at my torso as we washed down following our afternoon performance.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ve been neglecting your abdominal muscles,’ he said. ‘Being in the window is no excuse for idleness.’

  ‘Eugen! I have hardly been idle. I do as much as you.’ I looked down at my belly and could detect no change in it. ‘You’ve seen how little I have been eating.’

  ‘Perhaps that is the problem.’

  ‘I promise I am no longer nervous. If only we had better ventilation.’

  ‘The window is a test, Avis. It is not meant to be easy,’ he said, looking up at the poster of Mr Sandow showing off his chest expansion.

  Is it any surprise I preferred the company of Mr Dickens for the rest of the evening? Having said that I have little in common with Kate Nickleby yesterday, I feel greatly for her predicament: a pawn in the schemes of her Uncle Ralph and Sir Mulberry Hawk. It was with much delight that I read of Nicholas’ return to London to come to the aid of his sister and the sound thrashing he gave to Hawk.

  I must remind myself that to stand in the window and look upon the people of our town would have been the height of stimulation for me but one week ago. I am not as restless as poor Eugen, who does not speak unless to utter the word ‘Christchurch’, but I would not refuse a new adventure.

  7 January

  This morning Father unlocked the door to the window and raised the curtain on our tableau before setting off for Christchurch. We have been instructed to present the same scene for the duration of his absence: I am standing on my pedestal in a white dress, posing with one hand held to my forehead, the other at my hip, while Eugen is admiring me from the ground. I am a statue and he is my sculptor.

  ‘You must keep the pose identical at each performance,’ Father instructed.

  ‘But why?’ I asked.

  ‘Because,’ interjected Eugen, ‘we can’t waste anything else on this town.’

  Father gave a gentle cough and added, ‘I won’t be here to help change the backdrop or rig up any lighting or waterworks. This tableau is a classic. It will tide everyone over until I return.’

  A few minutes after the curtain rose and Father left the anteroom he appeared on the street. This time he did not stop to shake people’s hands. He did not even meet their eyes. He shuffled to the centre of the window and stood there, looking at us through the glass, for a minute, perhaps longer.

  The expression on his face is difficult to describe. There was no smile or frown, no pallor
or flush. His eyes were no more bloodshot than normal, though his lower lids looked as if they were weighed down. This may be my own invention as I grasp for something of note to preserve in my memory that expression so blank and yet so full of some emotion—pride? Nervousness? Affection? Sadness?

  He left, as I say, after a minute or so, and I expect he is now in Christchurch.

  When the curtain was lowered three hours later and the door unlocked, it was Mother standing in the anteroom. I rushed to her and we melted into each other’s embrace.

  ‘Why have I not seen you in the street?’ I asked, my cheek pressed into her shoulder.

  ‘I couldn’t bear it, child.’

  I lifted my head and looked at her. ‘Why ever not?’

  She placed her palm against my cheek and turned to my brother. ‘Hello Eugen.’

  ‘Hello.’ He dipped his head slightly. ‘Did Father get away all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Eugen nodded, satisfied.

  ‘Now, you two must be famished.’

  I noticed for the first time that an array of cold meats and condiments had been arranged atop the dresser. Eugen stepped over to it and began to load his plate.

  Mother was wearing a black skirt with constellations of flour particles near the hem and a white blouse that had yellowed slightly at the cuffs. I thought it strange as she had always taken such pride in her appearance. I had been waiting for an opportunity to talk to her about Nicholas Nickleby, which I was now more than halfway through, but I was struck dumb by sadness. It is strange, but I missed Mother more in that moment, with her less than a foot from me, breathing the same musty air inside the same tiny room, than I had at any time during the previous week. I was reminded of our past conversations about books, the way she would prompt me to recall the events of the plot, interjecting with questions about whether I had taken to such-and-such character, or whom I suspected of being the murderer, or did I know what a convent or a catacomb was. The old Mother would have been itching to hear about my reading of Nicholas Nickleby and would not have delayed broaching the subject. But today she seemed reticent and withdrawn.

  I picked at the food on offer (mealtimes are still a struggle for me; the worm persists) and readjusted my costume in preparation for the afternoon’s performance, waiting all the while for Mother to speak. But she sat on the stool, her legs crossed and her mouth wearing a rigid smile, saying nothing.

  Soon enough the hour was over and Eugen and I had to return to the window. I felt so silly and wished to recant my silence and spend the hour over again, this time in conversation with Mother, but it was not possible. Instead, I retrieved this diary from beneath my pillow (I am not hiding it from anyone but there is so little space in the anteroom that this is the best place to keep it) and thrust it into Mother’s hands.

  ‘Do read it,’ I said. ‘It may help to pass the time.’

  Eugen and I returned to the window, took up our poses and the curtain rose. When I am standing upon the pedestal, my shoulders are square to the window and a large section of the street is visible to me. The old man was not there when the curtain came up, but within moments he had stepped into view. He stood on the far footpath, his eyes interrogating mine, the gaze broken only by a passing carriage or motor car. When I am away from the window I feel shaken by this man and am certain I should fear his motives for he intends to catch me out and ruin my prospects, but while we are together (oh, even the phrase seems ridiculous) I am strangely at ease. It is as if I can see through to his intentions as I can divine Eugen’s emotions and in those long moments I’m confident he means me no harm. This confidence fades, however, as soon as the curtain lowers and I am left, as I am now, in a muddle of anticipation and anxiety.

  During the afternoon I could hear Mother making bangs and clatters in the anteroom, with long pauses when I imagined she might be reading my diary. When we returned to the anteroom at five o’clock, it was evident she had been there all day. She had prepared a hot meal with only a lamp-stove. Her hair had frizzled and her forehead glowed like a Christmas ham left on the table too long.

  ‘It is not much fun being cooped up, is it?’ I said.

  She gave a weak smile. ‘We must humour your father.’

  ‘It is for our benefit,’ I said, ‘in the end.’

  ‘It is how it must be,’ Eugen said, lifting the lid of the cast-iron pot and dipping his little finger into its contents. He gave a yelp as it was promptly scalded.

  ‘Have you reacquainted yourself with my diary?’ I asked.

  ‘I have.’ She swept the hair from her face, lifted the lid and began to ladle the stew onto three plates. ‘I see you are getting through Nicholas Nickleby?’

  ‘Yes, I hope to finish it before we leave for Christchurch. What strange creatures the brothers Cheeryble are,’ I said, hoping to draw her into conversation, but her eyes remained downcast. ‘They seem so kind and generous. You remember them, don’t you, Mother? The brothers Cheeryble,’ I prompted, ‘who have given Nicholas a job, and their clerk, Tim Linkinwater, who seems the very model of loyalty and dedication.’

  ‘Did you notice the inscription?’ she asked, her glance still directed at the food.

  ‘Inscription? No, I began the story immediately as I always do. Should I have?’ I placed my plate beside me and went to retrieve the book but Mother told me to eat while my dinner was still hot.

  ‘You’ll have time enough to inspect the book this evening, once I’ve left.’

  The three of us ate and afterward took out the cards and played Kuhn Khan until it felt quite late. It was a pleasant way to pass the evening. A nice change from me reading or writing in this diary (though I’ve still found time to do that now) and Eugen lifting barbells while staring at Mr Sandow.

  ‘I must be off now, children,’ Mother finally said and stood to go. ‘Be good.’

  She opened the door to the giant wardrobe and shut it behind her.

  On the blank first page before the frontispiece of Nicholas Nickleby I found the following handwritten message:

  To my dearest Colton on his 23rd birthday

  Yours absolutely

  Louisa

  Colton is Father’s name. I do not know anyone called Louisa, but that is not surprising. In my sixteen years I have only ever known Father, Mother and Eugen. I have read enough romances to know that anyone who writes ‘Yours absolutely’ is not a family member or an acquaintance. Did Father have an admirer in the town? Was this the source of Mother’s recent unhappiness and the thing she was trying to alert me to? Should I have been paying more attention when Father mingled with the onlookers in those first few days, shaking hands and shrugging his shoulders? How many years have passed since Father’s twenty-third birthday?

  I closed the book and turned it over in my hands, inspecting the worn cloth binding. This, I concluded, was a gift from Father’s first wife.

  ‘What do you make of this?’ I asked Eugen, and read the inscription aloud.

  ‘So who is Louisa?’ I asked. ‘And when did you ever see Father read a novel?’

  ‘He has devoted his life to us, Avis. Perhaps he hasn’t had time to read since we were born.’

  ‘Yes, precisely,’ I said, becoming animated. ‘You know my theory that Mother might be Father’s second wife.’

  Eugen sighed.

  ‘But I haven’t considered who the first wife might have been. It must surely be this Louisa. Not only that, but I suspect she was our mother. Who else would write “Yours absolutely”?’

  ‘Another dreamer like you? Or your wrinkled admirer out there.’

  ‘Oh, be serious, Eugen. Haven’t you ever wondered about how distant Father and Mother are?’

  ‘Yes, of course I have. Though I wonder more at how distant we are from them. The question you should be asking yourself is: Is Father our father?’ He looked up at the poster of Mr Sandow.

  ‘But he is, obviously.’

  He gave a dismissive laugh. ‘You are so ready to rid yourself
of one parent, but not another. Don’t you think, Avis, when you look out of the window and see all the skinny, weak, powerless people, that Father is just another one of them?’

  ‘Father has had his own trials,’ I said, which seemed true enough.

  ‘Wouldn’t it make more sense if our parents were more like Mr Sandow? If Mr Sandow was our father?’

  ‘You are being ridiculous,’ I said. ‘Why would Mr Sandow deposit us with Father and Mother?’

  ‘He must be a busy man. Perhaps he didn’t have time enough to devote to us. Father, on the other hand . . .’

  I thought of the poor children left at Dotheboys Hall, but shook the image from my head. ‘You’re talking nonsense, Eugen.’

  ‘Let us see what Christchurch brings,’ he said and began to undress at the basin.

  My head has not stopped spinning from these speculations, even now that Eugen’s hand hovers over the light switch.

  10 January

  Three full days have passed since I committed anything to the page, but the gap feels closer to three months or three years. I do not know if I will ever regain my old diary, which was left under my pillow in the anteroom, or the inscribed copy of Nicholas Nickleby under my stretcher with a hundred or so pages left to read. There will be other copies of Mr Dickens’ book to supply the ending of that story, but I may never recover my diary and so must start afresh.

  I have much to cover. Fortunately it seems I have little other call upon my time. No performances to give. No one to converse with, at least not in any balanced way. The only limit is my own stamina and the amount of ink I have in this hut.

  It is difficult for me to recall particulars of the morning of the eighth of January, despite the fact it promises to have been my last performance in the window.

  I know Mother Flossie arrived late and flustered, leaving us only a matter of minutes to eat breakfast and no time for me to raise the subject of the inscription.