Читать книгу The Mannequin Makers - Craig Cliff - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

In which Sandow arrives in Marumaru, in a manner of speaking

That same morning the train from the north deposited on the narrow platform a dark-skinned youth in shirtsleeves and a plaster statue wrapped in a dirty drop cloth. At Marumaru Station, this was enough to bring a crowd. Within two minutes the platform was thronged with townspeople eager to see what the youth had brought and for whom.

‘It has the height of a man,’ said Fred Empson, the station-master.

‘Perhaps it’s an Egyptian mummy,’ said the mayor, Big Jim Raymond.

‘It must be returned to wherever it came from,’ said Mrs Harry Wisdom. ‘There’s no place for heathenism in this town.’

‘It is not a mummy,’ said the youth, whose name was Jesse. He was not yet disconcerted by the way that time had sped since leaving Timaru, or the sight of green pastures from the station platform, or the lack of chimney stacks beyond the first few rows of houses. His first impression was instead reserved for the bold colours of the women’s dresses and the mayor’s hat, which looked as if it were covered with felt from a billiard table.

In his newly acquired performing voice, Jesse announced, ‘It is a statue of the perfect human form.’ He slipped a knot at the statue’s hip. ‘It is—’

‘Sandow!’ shouted Big Jim Raymond.

The crowd cheered and the deflated boy unwrapped the statue to reveal the figure they all expected, the one they’d seen in newspaper advertisements and on the cover of his very own magazine. There were his tight curls and Kaiser Wilhelm moustache, the abdominal muscles like coiled dock line. There the fig leaf covering his manhood, the Roman sandals, the head turned to admire his own bulging biceps. And, if there was any doubt, the pedestal proclaimed in patrician script that this was SANDOW. As in Eugen Sandow, Sandow the Strongman, Sandow’s Spring-Grip Dumb-bells, Sandow’s Combined Developer, the Sandow Season that had swept through the nation’s newspapers, if not all of its drawing rooms, since the muscular Teuton had disembarked in Auckland among survivors of the wrecked Elingamite. Indeed, the commencement of his New Zealand tour had not been altogether auspicious. There was a general election in a week’s time, meaning there were no politicians to welcome him. Eugen Sandow, the strongest man on Earth, had had to push his way through the shattered survivors, their relieved and boisterous relatives and the silent bereaved to find his promoter, Harry Rickards, who had left Sydney a week before to make final arrangements in the new colony. Sandow would later admit to Jesse that he had expected New Zealand to be nothing more than a collection of wooden huts hastily erected by castaways from the world’s four corners, men with wild beards and women perpetually with child who cared not for news from the next hut over, let alone the heart of civilisation. ‘But I have been pleasantly surprised,’ Sandow had said, ‘by the people of your country, the development of their bodies and the commerce evident on every street corner. And of course, they know who I am, which cannot help but make me favourably disposed.’

Sandow was the big draw for Rickards’ Vaudeville Company, which went on to fill town halls and opera houses in Auckland, New Plymouth, Stratford, Wanganui, Palmerston North, Masterton, Napier, Wellington, Christchurch, Ashburton and Timaru. Before each show a life-sized plaster replica of Sandow was sent ahead to heighten anticipation.

But Eugen Sandow was never meant to come to Marumaru.

Sure, the turn of the century had seen the inauguration of the town’s first full-time mayor, Jim Raymond, who was rumoured to have shot a man on the goldfields in his youth and now lived and died by the word of the town’s first daily newspaper, the Marumaru Mail. And it was true that the arrival of a certain strongman signalled one year since the opening of Marumaru’s second—repeat: second—department store. But Marumaru was no metropolis: the post office would not bother to distinguish it from the town of the same name in the Hawke’s Bay for another twenty years. Rickards’ company was not due to perform another show until a matinee at His Majesty’s Theatre in Dunedin on the third of January.

It slowly began to sink in for poor Jesse, who had joined Rickards’ company in Wanganui, that this was not Dunedin.

‘Sandow’s shorter than I imagined,’ he heard a young woman say to her two friends.

‘Why, he’s just a man,’ said another.

‘More than that, he’s just a statue!’ said the third.

A short man waving his hands and trying to make it to the front of the crowd caught Jesse’s attention. He wore an accordion-pleated ascot tie and as he approached he said, in an elevated voice, ‘Dear boy, you are bound for the fine establishment of Hercus & Barling, are you not?’

‘I—’

‘For I am the eponymous Hercus, Emile Hercus, proprietor of the newest, largest and best patronised department store in a twenty-five-mile radius.’

‘This is—?’

‘Oh no you don’t, Emile,’ said an older man in a brown suit that may have once been dignified but now looked merely comfortable. ‘You’re coming to Donaldson’s, aren’t you?’

‘Donaldson’s?’ Hercus said. ‘The Great Sandow would not be seen dead in that moth-ridden closet.’

The man in the brown suit placed a hand on the plaster Sandow’s shoulder. ‘It’s a good thing Mr Sandow is inanimate then, isn’t it?’

‘Please don’t touch the statue, sir,’ Jesse said. ‘You’ll leave a mark.’

‘Quite right,’ the man said, removing his hand and wiping it on his lapel. ‘Charles Begg,’ he said and held out this same overworked hand and Jesse shook it. ‘We have a very good window dresser—that term doesn’t really do the man justice. He’ll rig something up so that you’d swear it was Sandow himself in the window. Where is Kemp, anyway?’ Begg asked the crowd of townspeople, who swayed like windblown toetoe, looking for Colton Kemp among their number. He was so often prominent in any scandal, ruckus or commotion. But there was no sign of him.

‘I’m sure my man is here,’ said Hercus, who perched on tip-toe to little effect. ‘Has anyone seen The Carpenter?’

A hand went up from the middle of the crowd and they parted. A compact man in a heavy brown checked suit stood there, his large, square hand held out in front of him as if anointing someone or something.

‘Over here, my good man,’ said Hercus.

‘Kemp?’ Begg called. ‘Where the blazes is Colton Kemp?’

‘We stock all of Sandow’s physical culture paraphernalia, of course,’ Hercus said to Jesse, who was not used to being spoken to with any sort of respect or reverence. ‘Quickly, man.’ Hercus hurried The Carpenter, whose approach looked laboured. Jesse wondered if it was due to the heavy woollen suit he wore on this warm summer’s morning, or simply age. ‘I’m afraid he’s rather taciturn,’ Hercus added.

‘Sorry, sir—’ Jesse began.

‘Oh, don’t worry. The Carpenter is the most able man in the field of displays. Just one look at our present window should allay any fears you may have. But why would you have fears? You’ve come to deposit Mr Sandow’s likeness at Hercus & Barling and you’re very much in the right spot.’

‘A sack of rats for Kemp,’ said Begg. ‘That’s what awaits him, a sack of rats.’

‘Come,’ Hercus said, placing his arm across Jesse’s shoulders, ‘let us repair to my store.’ He turned to The Carpenter. ‘I trust you can transport the precious cargo?’

The man nodded.

‘Never a peep, that fellow,’ Hercus said. ‘Now tell me, boy, what is your name and how long have you been associated with Mr Sandow?’