by Craig Cliff
Eugen, holding his pose perfectly, tried to tell me not to worry. We were ready for the window. Father would be recovered tomorrow.
Where does his confidence come from? He has never been to town, never been in the window. Our experiences have been identical since birth and yet sometimes I feel we are two different species left in the same nest by chance. He is the cuckoo and I am the tiny warbler chick.
It is approaching eight o’clock and Father has still not returned. He has spoken about the window at length, the things we are likely to see (depending on the pose and the direction of our gaze, of course), but my head is awash with practical questions I have never considered. How are we to get to the window? What happens when the curtain is lowered once more? When will we return to the property? Will we ever return? When will we see Mother again?
Our lives are directed toward this one moment, but what next?
31 December
Oh Diary, what a lot I have to record.
It has long since passed midnight so technically it is January the first. A new year: 1919, like a pair of twins (though Eugen and I would be better represented by 1616). But I must first return to the evening of the thirtieth (when we were still 1515).
Eugen and I had been in bed for a long time but neither of us was sleeping. For all the time Eugen spends standing still, he is a restless sleeper, turning and turning, even once he has fallen fast asleep. But last night I could not hear anything, not even his shallow breathing. I was listening so intently it is no surprise I heard the scrape of the workshop door being opened. I ran outside in my nightgown and bare feet and saw Father’s face, lit by the candle he held. He looked quite ill.
‘Fetch your brother,’ he said and entered the workshop.
I returned to our room, its darkness more profound after my brief glimpse of candlelight. ‘Eugen,’ I said, ‘aren’t you coming?’
A sigh came from his bed. A moment later I heard it creak as my brother rose.
Outside once more I could hear the gentle growl of the generator and see the electric light shining through the gaps in the workshop walls. The wide glow from the open door stretched out upon the path like a golden tongue.
Inside the workshop, Father was sitting on my pedestal. Two green canvas bags with drawstrings lay empty at his feet.
‘Pack what you will need, each of you,’ he said.
‘How long will we be gone?’ I asked.
‘We are leaving in twenty minutes,’ he said. ‘You might like to say goodbye to Flossie.’
‘Father?’ I said. The dew was settling once more in my eyes.
He picked up one of the bags and tossed it to me. Eugen leant forward and picked up his own.
‘Go,’ Father said and raised his head. Only then did he look at me properly. ‘Don’t worry. We will go through everything for tomorrow when we get there.’
I ran inside and could see the glow of a candle from the drawing room. Mother was up, sitting in her armchair, looking at the volumes in her bookcase. I thought it a most beautiful pose: her face in profile, lit softly by the candle, her fine chin tilted upward, tightening the muscles of the neck, her kind hands crossed upon her lap. I wished to commit this pose to memory forever but she turned slowly and her red, swollen eyes extinguished any sense of beauty.
‘Come here, child,’ she said. I ran to her and threw myself at her feet, my head buried in her lap. I felt her hands upon the back of my head, stroking my hair.
‘I don’t want to go,’ I said.
‘You must,’ she said. ‘Think of all the work you have done.’
‘But what will happen? When will I return?’
She continued stroking my hair.
‘When will I see you again?’
‘I will come to you if you do not come to me,’ she said.
‘Oh Mother.’ I wrapped my arms around her waist. I could sense Eugen standing behind me, watching.
‘Keep an eye out for me in the crowd,’ she said. ‘Both of you.’
‘Come on,’ Eugen said. ‘You will want to pack your diary at least.’
‘Will I have time to write?’ I asked. I was in a panic. Things I had been told before, hundreds of times, had slipped from my mind. ‘Will I have time to read?’
‘Go and pack a few clothes,’ she said. ‘I have a book in mind for you to take.’ She stood and ran her fingers slowly, lovingly, over the spines.
Eugen guided me to our bedroom. He was so calm.
‘Don’t you care for her?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘This is how it was always going to be. There’s no point getting upset.’
I knew he was right. But it seemed to be happening so suddenly.
‘What about the piano?’ I asked. ‘Oh Eugen, how will you survive without your music?’
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, touching my shoulder.
Back in the drawing room, Mother handed me a book with a faded red cover. ‘I’ve been saving this book for you, for this very moment. Look after it, Avis.’
We embraced for a long time. I could feel Eugen just behind me. Mother reached out her hand and rubbed his cheek.
Outside, Father had a covered wagon hitched to Emily and Charlotte, Father’s two horses (though the names were Mother’s doing). He asked Eugen to help him lift our wooden pedestals into the wagon. Mother stood beside me, clutching my hand.
‘All right,’ Father said, ‘in you get.’
‘Good luck,’ she said brightly, though I could see the strain on her face.
Eugen helped me into the wagon. There were several hay bales arranged around the sides. Father threw a blanket to Eugen. ‘Both of you lie down and put this over you. You mustn’t be seen.’
We did as instructed and waited.
‘Right,’ I heard Father say, eventually. ‘We’ll be off then.’
We were rocked side to side as Emily and Charlotte led us down the drive. This was to be the first time Eugen and I had ventured beyond our front gate. I expected us to pause for Father to open it, but we soon lurched to the right, meaning the gate must have been left open and we were now on the road.
‘So this is the wide world,’ Eugen whispered, mischievously, for we knew we mustn’t talk. His hand felt for mine and found it. He gave it a squeeze.
We were jostled left and right as the wagon made its way into town. I tried counting the turns but after a short time beneath the blanket I lost all sense of direction and my head filled with other thoughts. Eventually we came to a stop. Eugen and I lay perfectly still, the blanket over our heads, waiting for Father’s instructions. I felt the wagon dip as he stepped up and leant over us.
‘Quickly now,’ he said, pulling the blanket off in one quick tug. ‘Inside.’
By the light of his candle I could see that the wagon had been backed up against a large double doorway. Father hopped down and held out his hand. ‘Duck your head,’ he whispered.
Eugen followed without Father’s assistance.
Father led us along a dark corridor and into a large cavernous space that smelt of perfume, though different from Mother’s. It was much stronger and seemed to assault me from every direction. The light of Father’s candle did not reach the ceiling, but as we made our way deeper into this space, past racks and racks of clothes and hats and gloves, I decided it must be a giant wardrobe. Perhaps we would have the choice of all of these items for our costumes? The thought delighted me.
We came to what I assumed was the back of the giant wardrobe. Father felt around for a keyhole and having found it, he opened the door.
‘In here,’ he said.
Eugen entered first and I followed. For a moment it was pitch black until Father came in and the room was suddenly illuminated with bright electric light that made us all rub our eyes.
Father blew out his candle and laid it on a small dresser. I can accurately describe what I saw when I looked around the small room as this is where I reside at this minute. The room is narrow (Eugen has measured it with his feet and says
it is fifteen by six, though I am not sure how his feet correspond with the imperial measurement) and it was quite a squeeze with the three of us inside. There was a second door to our left, which was closed. Two stretcher beds were stacked one on top of the other against the far wall, with a pile of blankets and two pillows on them. A small wooden stool stood alongside. In another corner there was a chamber pot, a wash basin and two jugs of water. Apart from the dresser by the first door, which I have already mentioned, and the single electric bulb that dangled from a brown cord in the centre of the room, that was all in the way of furnishing. The Spartan appearance was lessened only by the posters of Mr Sandow on the cream walls.
‘Through there,’ Eugen said, pointing at the second door, ‘is that the window?’
Father nodded. He went over and unlocked it.
‘This door should always remain locked when I am not here,’ he said before opening the door to reveal a heavy black curtain. ‘We can’t turn the lights on in there now. We don’t want to attract any attention. You never know who might be around, even at this hour. Eugen, come and help me with the pedestals.’
‘Can I go through?’ I asked.
‘You can but don’t touch anything.’
They left me alone and I approached the black curtain slowly. I held out my hand to part it, but I could not find an edge. I had to step forward into the curtain and slide along the wall until I found where it ended and I emerged into another space, dark and silent. I felt around behind me and lifted the curtain to let in the light from the bulb in the first room. Three walls were draped in black and the fourth was covered by a different sort of curtain lined with yellow silk. Just now, as I looked up from writing this, sitting cross-legged on my stretcher bed in the first room, I noticed a winch in the corner which must raise the curtain at the beginning of our performance.
‘Pull this thing right back,’ Father said as he backed through the black curtain, holding one side of my pedestal. They carried it to the far wall and placed it down. Father drew back the curtain nearest him to reveal a small storage space and they pushed the pedestal inside this recess. Eugen placed his hands on his hips and inspected the space. He shrugged and followed Father out the door to fetch the second pedestal.
‘When do we go on?’ I asked when they returned. ‘Which tableau will we do?’
Father grunted. Once they had slotted Eugen’s pedestal on top of mine, Father retrieved a heavy-looking pole with a glass capsule on top. ‘Keep the light coming in,’ he told me sharply and I pulled the curtain back further.
Father laid the pole down in the centre of the room, lifted a small hatch from the floor and began to connect wires that protruded from the bottom of the pole to something inside the hatch. With Eugen’s help, they carefully hoisted the pole upright.
‘I’ll have to test it,’ Father said, apparently to himself. Beside me were three switches on the wall that had been obscured by the curtain. He flicked the farthest one on for an instant and the bulb at the top of the pole lit up the room. I noticed in that brief burst of light that the floor had been painted in stripes of grey and brown.
Father ushered us back into the first room and locked the door behind him. ‘Get some rest,’ he said. ‘The curtain will not come up until eight o’clock tomorrow night. There is plenty of time to prepare. I will visit later in the morning.’
‘Food?’ Eugen asked.
‘There’s some bread and biscuits in the top drawer. I’ll bring something for your other meals.’ He looked at me. ‘Relax. Don’t let nerves or emotions ruin this opportunity.’
‘Yes Father,’ I said.
‘You mustn’t make any noise. I am the only one with a key to either door. Don’t, whatever you do, try to leave this room.’
‘Oh Father,’ I said and hugged him, forgetting myself.
Once he had left we lay the stretchers out and arranged the bedclothes.
When we were ready Eugen took pleasure in switching off the light bulb (Father never let us touch the switch in his workshop) and climbed into bed.
‘What time is it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. It was still dark outside.’
‘There are no windows,’ I said.
‘There’s one,’ he said. ‘The only one that matters. Concentrate on that.’
I am not sure how long we slept but we were woken by the electric light coming on. I realise now that this was the first time I had ever woken anywhere other than our bedroom, excepting the handful of times Eugen and I had been allowed to camp out under the stars, which helps to explain the terrible confusion I experienced.
When my eyes had adjusted and I had my bearings I entered the window room, where Father had parted the back curtain to reveal a painted scene of stone buildings and large glass windows.
‘Get your nightgown off and wash down,’ he said.
‘Morning routine?’ I asked.
‘It is morning,’ he said. ‘Don’t think of today as any different.’
‘Can we please have a clock? It is hard to keep track of time without—’
‘Yes, yes. I’ll bring you a clock this afternoon.’
Back in the first room Eugen was already rinsing himself with a brand-new sponge. He handed it to me when I had undressed and I ran it over his back.
A pile of new clothes rested on top of the dresser. A cardboard box on the floor contained our dumb-bells and developers from home and a single pack of playing cards.
‘The worm is back,’ I told him.
‘In your stomach?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t be nervous. Nerves will only hinder your performance.’
Oh dear. Eugen has just asked me when I will be finished writing as he wishes to turn the light off and sleep, so I must hasten things along.
Father managed to answer all of my questions and allay my fears during this visit and his next and in the minutes before the curtain rose at eight o’clock I could not have felt more comfortable. Once we were in our costumes, Father asked me to lower my head and he slipped a necklace over my head. I looked down and saw the seashell disc he uses to check my complexion, hanging down as a pendant on a single strand of fine silk.
‘You are perfect, Avis,’ he said, with a trace of tenderness in his voice that made my entire being pulsate. ‘No one will notice this,’ he said, fingering the necklace, ‘but we know it is there. It will be our secret.’ Over the top of this he placed a large silver necklace with green and red gems, which seemed gaudy in comparison with Father’s gift.
‘I’ve waited a long time for this,’ he said, returning to his usual solemn, almost threatening, self.
I nodded and walked through to the next room where Eugen was already waiting.
Our tableau was one we had practised many times and seemed the obvious choice: we were two young lovers out promenading on New Year’s Eve. I wore a flowing dress of vibrant emerald silk voile, which Father says was very much the rage in Paris during their summer. Eugen wore a flecked tweed suit with the golden chain of a pocket watch emerging from his waistcoat. We both stood on the painted pavement (no pedestals) with our feet placed to give the impression of a moment captured mid-stroll. My hand rested in the crook of Eugen’s arm and we both faced forward, looking at the yellow lining of the curtain and the imaginary street that extended from our tableau.
Oh, what a sight it was once the curtain rose. Faces were pressed to the glass, with rows and rows of people behind, stretching back to the other side of the road. Beyond: the pointed spire of what must have been a church, my first church. The sky was an orange flare fading quickly. Iron poles topped by flickering electric lights, resembling the one in our tableau, sprang up from the middle of the crowd. Oh, the clothes they wore. The variety of heights and faces, all of them agog in that first moment but each expression unique. I longed to shift my eyes and see how far the crowd stretched to my right, to turn my head completely and take in every detail of the street. I wished to close my eyes tightly and reopen them to
test if that would wash away this hallucination or prove it real. But I had practised too long to falter so soon. Too much was riding on a perfect performance. A perfect season in the window.
After some minutes those further back began to push through the crowd to get a closer look. Those nearest the glass seemed unwilling to give up their positions, no doubt wishing to catch us out, but they were pushed aside by the general swell. The crowd continued to move and rearrange itself, but its overall number did not alter greatly as the hours passed, even when midnight came and the fireworks were let off from the churchyard. Eugen and I had observed these fireworks from our house on birthdays past. It was strange that being so close to the marvel reduced the spectacle rather than enhanced it. The street filled with smoke that slowly pushed up against the window, reducing everything to blurs and smudges.
The townspeople were singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, a song Mother taught us, when the curtain was slowly lowered on our first performance. We continued to hold our poses until we heard the door open and Father announced, ‘Bravo!’
I have not had any time to consider it more fully, but I suspect this is only the second piece of praise I have ever heard from Father’s lips, the first occurring earlier in the evening. It finished off what has been a night that lived up to and exceeded all expectations.
Seeing Father so happy is heartening, but Eugen seems unmoved. I suppose, if you expect success to the degree he does, it is hard to be delighted when it arrives.
Speaking of poor Eugen, I must let him get his beauty sleep.
1 January 1919
We gave a matinee performance today, posing in the same New Year’s Eve tableau as the night before from eleven in the morning until three in the afternoon. The worm still made his presence known this morning, but aside from this I felt less nervous before stepping into the window.
