Читать книгу The Mannequin Makers - Craig Cliff - Страница 17

27 December

Mother has been most helpful. She says that I should not worry too much about the past. She promises there is much to write about in any given day. Should something from the past be relevant to the day’s events then it is easily incorporated.

She also said it was unusual to give one’s diary to another to read. I long for a day when I might have an exciting life that contains events I might wish to conceal from even my closest family, but until that time I shall continue to let her proof my entries. It would seem a shame for a later generation to uncover this diary and conclude that I was uncouth and had no desire to better myself.

So let us focus on the events of this day, which was a Friday.

Eugen and I rose at six a.m. and performed our morning routines, which are identical, unlike afternoon exercises, which differ according to our genders.

My brother frequently tells me girls have it easy. I do not agree. Granted, we are not expected to attain the same brute strength, but I must work equally as hard. The fruits of my regime, however, are not as easy to show as flexing a biceps. While Eugen can compare his development favourably with Father, who has never gone in for exercise and eats sparingly, I can only compare myself with Mother, who is much younger than Father and is quite beautiful without seeming to work at it. Not that Father would ever acknowledge this. His focus is solely on Eugen and me and preparing us for the window. He is vigilant in monitoring our progress. With Eugen it is a push for greater growth, greater change. With me it is a matter of not progressing too far and losing the feminine edge. Much can go awry with the female body. For example (ah yes, I see how this might be done): the time shortly after my eleventh birthday when my golden locks began to darken to a troubling dun. To correct this, Father had me wash my hair in lemon juice and instituted a regime of sun exposure in the summer months. I had to be careful, however, to ensure only minimal skin exposure as this would cause blemishes and a degeneration of skin tone. (Father has a piece of a seashell, sanded down to a small disc, that he places against the flesh of my neck and forearm to ensure I maintain the perfect complexion.) He rigged up a splendid contraption for the purpose of lightening my hair: I lie on a bench fitted in the workshop with only the top of my head and my hair protruding through a hole in the wall and into daylight. I must wear a special calico visor (it is in many ways a skirt for the forehead) to protect the upper reaches of my face. Preparing for the window is a great balancing act, I tell you. This method was successful in lightening my hair again, if it never quite returned to the shimmering gold I remember.

Eugen, on the other hand, is free to roam around the property in his breeches or with no clothes at all, tending the vegetables, maintaining the high macrocarpa and manuka hedges that enclose our property, taunting Juniper, our nanny goat—as his skin is less susceptible to the sun’s degrading rays.

Not that I am frail or idle. I assume many tasks inside the house and out, but must don a large bonnet when out of doors and cope with the encumbrance. Today, following morning routine, I did just this while picking peas and broad beans for our lunch. It was a pleasant summer’s day and I could feel the warmth of the sun through the protective layer of my blouse and white cotton gloves.

We grow all our own vegetables and have our own cow. Only our meat comes from town. Mother and I take pride in the variety of meals we prepare for the table. Of course, as I am still a few days shy of sixteen I have not yet ventured there. I am counting the days, I assure you. Mother is doing her best to dampen my expectations, but I fear it is a difficult task.

It is hard to believe that if everything goes well I will be engaged to marry at the end of next month.

Eugen shares my anticipation for the window, but he is restless rather than eager. He truly has the fidgets, which is perhaps the worst affliction one could hope for when confronted with the window. We know so much hinges on this short period, not least Father’s happiness (and doesn’t everything hinge upon this?), but I fear Eugen’s unremitting pride might see his feet swiftly taken from under him.

But just try to tell him this and prepare to be beaten back. He is a special creature and I love him dearly.