by Craig Cliff
26 December 1918
Father 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.
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.
28 December
Three more nights to pass until the window. I am tempted to lay down my pen and go to bed (it has just gone seven in the evening) to hasten our coming out, that moment when I can see and be seen. The first thing I will do once my fate has been arranged and I can step down from the window is run to the sea. Mother says our house is quite close to it and sometimes she can smell it, but to me it is a wonder from a storybook.
But I mustn’t get ahead of myself. I know I will regret not writing down the happenings of this day if I do not do so now.
Firstly, I should add that last night Eugen spied me scribbling in this diary when he grew tired of the piano.
‘What are you writing?’ he asked with a single lifted eyebrow.
I stared at him directly. ‘A diary.’
He closed the lid over the piano keys.
‘Would you like to take a look?’ I asked. I still hope that one day he will be enticed to learn to read so that I might converse with him about Treasure Island and Pamela and Oliver Twist as I do with Mother.
‘Read it to me,’ he said. He gestured with his head at the clock, meaning that Father would not be home for several hours, it being a Friday night.
After listening to my entry for that day Eugen remained silent.
‘Mother says it is not common practice to share a diary,’ I said, ‘but if you wish I will read you my entry every night.’ He shook his head. ‘Why do I need to hear about my own life?’
So it seems this diary will not be subject to masculine eyes or ears. (Father has never approved of my reading—‘fanciful distractions’ he calls my books—and takes little interest in the goings on inside
the heads of others.)
All the better.
Today we rose at six as usual and performed morning routine. Until recently I could not foresee a time when I would ever forget a single aspect of this, having carried it out every morning since I was the smallest child. However, this afternoon, while laid out on the bench in the workshop, my hair bleaching in the sun, I finished a book entitled Twice Upon a Double-Cross, in which a man loses his memory after a blow to the head. Mother suggested it to me after reading of my great fear of forgetting. For much of the book I was cast into deep agony as the man, Roland Crumb, stumbled through his unfamiliar life. However, with the help of his wife, Roland was able to slowly recover his memory and avoid falling into the same trap set by his covetous business partner, Webster Wattle. Father, Mother and Eugen might be able to stand in for the character of the helpful spouse (and soon enough I may have one of those!), but I also see the value of committing these details to paper should I ever suffer from amnesia (so long as I do not forget how to read!).
I will also do my best to avoid any blows to the head.
Morning routine: rise at six, then bathe in the large basin that extends from the washhouse. This is the worst part during the colder months, but it is quite pleasant at the moment. The air is crisp and still. Several pairs of grey warblers have constructed their pear-shaped nests in the manuka thicket nearest the house and at this time of morning I can see the nests wobble, though the birds dart around so swiftly I can never catch a decent sight of them.
When Eugen and I are both cleansed, our muscles relaxed and pores open, we begin to work through the gentle dumb-bell and developer exercises. These are meant to awaken the muscles rather than provoke them and to reacquaint our brain, that most crucial muscle, with every part of the body so that we may determine any weakness or imbalance that exists. These may then be worked upon in the course of the day and corrected over time.
Having warmed up completely, Eugen and I have a little breakfast (porridge in winter, bread and butter in summer) before taking to our pedestals in Father’s workshop.
Two years ago Father rigged up electric lights in the workshop to prepare us for the reality of the window. We still rely on lamps in the house and only pose under the electric lights two times a week. We would do so more often but Father says the generator is costly to run and he does not like the noise.
Father used to observe us throughout morning routine but these days he comes and goes. There are always things in town that he must attend to, though I am never privy to them.
When it is time for me to help with the lunch we step down.
Afternoon routine is less rigid and Eugen and I go about our tasks separately. These last few weeks Eugen has spent every minute of daylight working on his muscles and will only touch the piano keys after supper. I am as excited about the window but my time is often better spent posing in costume or with my nose in a book.
As the thirty-first approaches, I have been thinking more and more about the customs observed in countries depicted in my novels and our own unique customs here in New Zealand. It is hard to imagine ‘school life’ as described in books from the Northern Hemisphere. Perhaps it is easier on the parents in these countries. Caring for Eugen and me, instructing us, preparing us for adulthood and marriage, has been a time-consuming task for Father and Mother. But there must be a great variety in the quality of teachers in these schools, many of them beastly places, and I cannot say I would like my child exposed to other children before his or her personality is fully and rightly formed. I also wonder what sort of bond exists when a parent is not fully responsible for their child. Our antipodean custom might seem quaint to visitors from Europe or North America, but I truly believe, as Father does, that it is the best situation. Parents can freely appraise the prospective partners for their own offspring. By the age of sixteen a person’s outward appearance should indicate their physical health and suitability for procreation. The manner of presentation, ‘the window’ in which the new adult must remain perfectly still, is a test of fortitude, grace, dedication and mental strength, which are important in determining the worth of a marriage partner.
I am well aware that twins are unusual and Father reminds us often that we will create a storm in Marumaru. Great crowds will gather at our window, scrutinising us for flaws and family resemblance. Some, Father says, are likely to watch for hours waiting for a slip-up. If that should happen, our prospects would be severely damaged.
Though Father has never read to us, he used to tell us bedtime stories about boys who sneezed in the window and never got a bride, or the girl who smiled when a man blew a raspberry on the window pane, sentencing her to a solitary life without laughter.
The stir we will cause as twins in the window will bring added scrutiny, but it is also a blessing. We will be together in the window, Eugen and I. This not only provides a great deal of comfort, but it increases the variety of poses and stories we can present with our tableaux.
The window would be a frightening proposition without Eugen there beside me. I try not to think too much about what will happen once our matches have been settled.
29 December
Two nights until the window.
One thing I failed to mention yesterday regarding morning routine: every so often Father will teach us a new tableau to add to our repertoire. He moulds us, planting our feet in the correct spots, twisting our torsos, raising or lowering our chins. He will often stand there with his hand on my chest until he cannot detect my breathing. (As he is fond of saying, ‘If you can fool the hand you can fool the eye.’) He also instructs us on the characters of the tableau, the inner feelings we must transmit through our outward appearances. Our characters are not always happy siblings or young lovers. This morning Father taught us one of these more vexed tableaux. It will certainly be the last we learn before the window.
In the new tableau I am a respectable young socialite who has previously rejected Eugen because of his poor prospects, only for us to be reunited once he has made his fortune. Some of the story-telling can be conveyed by wardrobe (fine clothes in the newest fashion for Eugen, respectable gown for me) but for morning routine we pose unencumbered. As Father says, if a bare pose is convincing it can be enhanced by clothes, but nothing can save an unconvincing pose.
The first day of a new pose is always the hardest. It is taxing, both mentally and physically, but after so many years of morning and afternoon routines, we both look forward to the challenge.
It is always humbling (for me at least) to move from a perfected pose to a new one and learn that the stillness you had achieved so completely is not easily transferred. You must interrogate where each body part is positioned, which muscles are required to hold everything in place and where the cheats are: those parts of the body that are idle or obscured in the pose and thus require less attention. With time and much effort, and under Father’s watchful eye, Eugen and I have learnt to subtly rearrange our weight to draw on the untapped strength of these cheats without making any perceptible movements.
In the moments when I could disengage my mind this morning I pondered whether this would be the first tableau we use for the window, or if it was too great a risk to attempt it with only three days’ practice. I thought about the gown I might wear, something plush and feminine like the orange velvet dress Father brought home one night in October.
One positive aspect of the new tableau is that Eugen and I are facing each other. Sometimes, I am turned away (such as when I am the young maiden refusing a diamond ring, though my face must express that my heart will soon melt and I will turn around and accept) or Eugen’s back is to me (when we are farm hand and farmer’s daughter caught in a sunshower and running for the shelter of the barn). I must fix my gaze for the duration of the tableau and I much prefer to look upon Eugen’s face than his shoulder or a knotted rafter. Eugen is not much of a conversationalist in the traditional sense, but I treasure our silent exchanges when posing.
This morning as
I looked into Eugen’s eyes his face contorted into a cold and satisfied expression. I was reminded of the scene where Edmond Dantès reappears before Mercédès, although he is now the Count of Monte Cristo and she the Countess de Morcerf. As I recalled the scene in greater detail, Eugen’s face began to resemble the vendetta-driven count’s all the more. If I were to walk up to him now as he plays ‘Fantasia in F minor’ (I can see the heading on the sheet music from here) and ask him about the scene he constructed around this morning’s tableau, I am certain it will match that of Dumas’ novel, though Eugen will not be able to give any of the correct names.
30 December
Father has had one of his dark turns. Of all the days. We are to appear in the window tomorrow. Tomorrow.
Eugen and I bathed and limbered up this morning as usual, unaware of Father’s condition. Mother did not wish to say anything over breakfast but it was clear on her face. (When you spend so long standing still and scrutinising one person’s face you suddenly find yourself fluent in the language of all faces.) When he came to the table, he did not look at us and said nothing. He is a kind of ghost at such times, liable to drift away, pass through walls, leave the property, only to reappear and unleash sudden bouts of terror. This morning he left the table less than a minute after taking his seat. He’d touched nothing on his plate, of course.
I am not sure whether it was seeing Father this way, or my own nervousness about the window, but I felt quite queasy myself and couldn’t finish my breakfast. I excused myself from the table and went in search of Father, but he was no longer on the property. Oh, that I could have left to pursue him.
There was nothing to do but take to our pedestals and play Dantès and Mercédès, though it was hard to strip the concern from my expression or keep the dew from the rim of my lower eyelids. The burrowing worm in my gut was no help either.
