The Mannequin Makers

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Craig Cliff. The Mannequin Makers

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For Margaret Cliff

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death . . . Nothing is so insufferable to man as to be completely at rest, without passions, without business, without diversions, without study. He then feels his nothingness, his abandonment, his insufficiency, his dependence, his impotence, his emptiness. There will immediately arise from the depth of his heart weariness, gloom, sadness, grief, anger, despair.

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The commerce on the beach side came to a halt once more at the grounds of St Paul’s, the tallest of the town’s three churches. He could smell the fishmonger’s shop on the other side of grounds. The reek seemed the final word on religion, no matter how much the vestments, stained glass and ceremony might appeal to the aesthete inside any window dresser.

He leant on the church’s wrought iron gate, another of Jolly Bannerman’s pieces, and looked across at Donaldson’s, square and tall, its black verandah of corrugated iron stretching out to the street. The masonry facade sought to announce quality, class, permanence. The tall windows of the upper floors were bound by Roman arches, each capped with a keystone bearing a white rosette. But he knew it was all for nought without a decent display in his windows, the only windows that counted.

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