The Mannequin Makers. Craig Cliff

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.