Читать книгу The Mannequin Makers - Craig Cliff - Страница 16
ОглавлениеFather looms large in the lives of us all, but my biggest gratitude belongs to Mother for teaching me to read and write. She endeavoured to teach Eugen as well, but he did not see the need. ‘Whatever Avis learns, I learn,’ he said, back when we were very young and could not imagine a life apart. My brother’s diversion, even then, was music. And so it was that I learnt to read and write (for both of us) to the sound of Chopin, Schubert and Sullivan.
It is hard to imagine the world without reading, without books and the stimulating conversations Mother and I have about them. She directs all my reading and acquires from town those books we do not already own. Though there is often a lag of many years between her reading of a tale and mine, she is always quick to recall its details. She says this is thanks in part to keeping a diary. In it she writes of her reading and, she says, whatever else is coursing through her head.
She speaks of her diary often (she has said more than once that it is the only thing that keeps her sane), though I have never seen it. I suspect there are secrets she wishes to keep from Father, though I cannot imagine what they might be.
I am not sure why I did not think of starting my own diary until yesterday. (My Christmas gift from Mother was this very notebook . . . It seems a shame to mar these crisp pages with my poor penmanship.) Unlike Mother, I am not concerned about my sanity. What I fear is forgetting. There is much to learn in life and there is no time to waste relearning. Now that Eugen and I are almost ready for the window (it is only a matter of days!) I am possessed by the urge to record everything for posterity. Life has been leading up to this moment. Life will never be the same . . .
Goodness. I have been thinking about setting pen to paper all day, but now that I am done with all exercise routines and household duties I am at a loss to know what to write here next. My whole life has passed so far unrecorded and it now feels somehow irretrievable.
I mustn’t panic.
I suspect writing a diary takes practice. I shall return tomorrow bursting with things to say and the power to say them. For now I hope I have not made too many errors. Perhaps I will give it to Mother to check.
