The Mannequin Makers

by Craig Cliff

  ‘It took me a few figures to get to where I am now,’ he’d say. ‘Your scroll work is barrie and your figures are getting there.’

  ‘I’m sick of carving for stock,’ I told him one afternoon when I decided this was what was holding me back. ‘When can I do a commission?’

  ‘When you’re ready.’ He cast a purposeful glance at the far wall of the workshop where Vengeance stood alongside Fortitude, Courage, Lightning and Passion, all awaiting a second-rate shipowner to select them for their latest bow.

  Enter Agathos Rennie. He came in through the workshop’s large back door, which we left open to Drummer’s Close to let in air. Rennie was well known along the docks as an upstart who had inherited a one-third share of his father’s shipping business and, thanks to a campaign of half-truths and intimidation, had managed to unburden his younger brother and mother of their stock and claim control of the firm. On the afternoon he entered Doig & Son, his first big commission, an unnamed two hundred-foot clipper, was nearing completion.

  ‘Hard at work, I see,’ he announced stiffly, in the kind of sanded-down accent that frequent visitors to London seemed to acquire. He was tall and lean but a wee bit stooped, as if he’d crammed himself into a coat two sizes too small. Rennie pressed a finger to the bridge of his pince-nez, despite the fact it appeared to be pinned hard against his face as it was. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old and I questioned whether the eyeglasses were necessary or an attempt to seem older.

  ‘Mr Rennie,’ my father said, ‘I wondered when you’d stop by.’ He laid his rasp down but gestured for me to keep working.

  ‘Aye, Doig,’ said Rennie. ‘Tis a figurehead I’m after.’

  ‘Your father was a good man but you’re cutting it fine if you want his likeness,’ he said, ‘or your own.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. What have you got,’ Rennie paused and made a show of inspecting his fingernails, ‘in stock?’

  ‘A fine selection.’ My father placed a hand in the small of Rennie’s back to guide him to the wall where half a dozen of his own figureheads stood.

  ‘I don’t fancy spending much on what is, in the end, a trifle to please the crew and nothing more.’

  ‘In that case,’ my father said, wheeling Rennie to the left and directing him to my figures, ‘we have a selection of busts and torsos. Perfect for a clipper. Keeps the weight down and,’ he slipped into a whisper that was still audible to me at the back of the workshop, ‘easy on the pocketbook.’

  At this I placed my gouge down on my piece of inlay and crept forward. I saw Rennie bring his hand to his chin, appraising my feisty maidens.

  ‘Are they all the same price?’

  ‘Aye. We can work something out for a firm such as yours, Mr Rennie.’

  The shipowner ran his eyes along the row once more before stepping forward to inspect Vengeance. I wished he would not peek around the back, but so he did.

  ‘She’s all ready to be fitted,’ my father said. ‘Perfect size for a clipper bow.’

  ‘What is the meaning of this arm?’

  ‘She’s clutching something back there, in’she?’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s best left—’ he began.

  ‘A knife,’ I said in my loudest, clearest voice.

  Rennie and my father turned, one face a mixture of surprise and derision, the other all vexation.

  ‘And who do we have here?’ Rennie asked.

  ‘That’s my lad, Gabriel. A fine carver hisself.’

  Rennie pulled his pince-nez from his nose and squinted at me. ‘Did you carve this, boy?’ he asked, flicking a thumb dismissively at the figurehead.

  I didn’t like the way he had spoken to me, so I said nothing.

  Rennie turned back to survey Vengeance. He stepped forward and ran the back of his fingers along the cheek of her turned-away face. I liked how she refused to meet the shipowner’s gaze. It was easy to imagine that she bore a grudge against this snoot. That she would creep into his room when he was fast asleep and slit his throat.

  ‘I see you are trying to foist your seconds on me, Mr Doig. Bup!’ Rennie raised his hand to silence my father. ‘Whatever you were going to charge me, halve it and we have a deal.’

  My father looked down at the long-fingered hand that was offered him. For a moment I imagined him clamping his hand down on Rennie’s wrist and telling him that he’d not stand for a body treating any of Doig & Son’s wares with such disdain. But he took the hand and shook it firmly.

  I had sold my first figurehead, though the circumstances left a lot to be desired.

  The next day we took Vengeance to the shipyard where Rennie’s clipper was near completion, me pushing the barrow and my father striding ahead, telling the fishwives and bootblacks to mind the way. The harmless grey sky was obscured by the rigging of ships large and small, old wooden barques that had rounded the Horn for the last time and freshly painted iron-hulled vessels that had yet to leave the Clyde.

  ‘She’s a fine-looking craft,’ my father said when we came to the yard of Rennie’s shipbuilder. ‘She’d trim a day off the Ariel’s time, though I fear we will nae see too many more like her. Shame young Rennie’s too tight to deck her out properly.’

  I looked down at Vengeance, wrapped in sheets.

  ‘I didnae mean your figure, lad. The inside. I suspect even the captain’s doorknob is without a flourish.’

  He patted me on the shoulder and went to speak to the chief shipwright. Soon enough a wee crew of men was working to winch Vengeance up to the bowsprit. I accompanied my father down into the dock and up the tall wooden ladder that was lashed to the gunwale.

  ‘Shouldnae be too much to fix her on,’ my father said when we were both on deck. ‘Just a few notches and a few daubs of paint.’

  ‘The paints,’ I said. I had left them sitting in the barrow at the end of the dock.

  ‘Aye, you’ll have to get down and fetch them.’

  It was hard work climbing the ladder a second time: the rungs were spaced with taller men in mind and I was clasping my father’s wooden palette box. I made it to the bow and leant over to find my father sitting on a network of ropes, his feet dangling through the bottom while he positioned Vengeance against the wooden trenails that protruded from the prepared surface of the stem.

  When the figure was held fast, he looked up. ‘You took your time.’

  ‘Aye. It is a decent ladder, that one.’

  He laughed. ‘How about you pass me the paints and climb over?’

  I pushed onto my tippertoes and peered further over the edge and to the ground.

  ‘That’s it. Take a look down. There’s nocht to fear. A ship’s carver must have a head for heights.’

  ‘I’m nae scared,’ I said, though of course I was.

  I passed the box to my father and gingerly lifted one leg over the gunwale.

  ‘That’s the way. Now grab hold of my hand. Aye, that’s it. Ease yourself down. Aye, aye, that’s the lad.’

  And there I was, standing on the rope netting, one hand pressed hard against the bowsprit, the other white-knuckling my father’s fingers.

  ‘You’ll need a hand, or two, for the painting.’

  My body gave a sudden shudder as the lines moved beneath my feet.

  ‘I can do it,’ I said through gritted teeth, more to myself than my father.

  ‘Aye, but nae when you’re shaking like that. You’ll settle.’

  He hoisted himself to a standing position and, leaning his head against the bowsprit, opened the palette box and began to mix a small amount of paint to match the deep blue of Vengeance’s dress. He then placed the brush between his teeth, folded the box shut and placed his free hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him. He raised his eyebrows and bared his teeth, prompting me to take the paintbrush from his mouth.

  ‘Aye, that’s the lad.’

  With my father’s hand on my shoulder, I soon forgot the precariousness of my position and was transported back to th
e workshop, giving Vengeance her last touches before she set off to see the world.

  ‘How does she look from down there?’ my father yelled to two men at the bottom of the drydock. They gave a hoot of agreement.

  Our work complete, we climbed back onto the deck and descended the ladder.

  We were standing at the cutwater, paying our last respects to Vengeance, her head turned to the Clyde’s dredged channel as if eager to commence her exploits, when a cold voice sounded from behind us.

  ‘I guess that will do.’

  I turned to see Agathos Rennie, as thin and stooped as he had appeared in the workshop, though in the weak light that filtered through the heavy clouds his skin looked paler; it was hard to imagine blood flowing beneath it.

  ‘She’s a perfect fit,’ my father said.

  ‘Does your ship have a name yet, Mr Rennie?’ I asked.

  Rennie frowned and looked at my father. ‘She’s to be christened on the morrow. The Agathos, that’s her name.’

  On the way back to the workshop, my father said he’d expected nothing less from Agathos Rennie. ‘She might be a grand ship but she’ll have a miserable crew so long as it’s doing the bidding of that beetle.’

  Little did I suspect I would one day experience such miseries first hand.

  I am enjoying your tale very much.

  I am glad there is pleasure in it for some.

  I haven’t read the Odyssey, though I have seen it mentioned in other books. Would you recommend I read it?

  I will see if there is a copy for sale when next I go for supplies.

  To Marumaru?

  No, that would be unwise. There’s another town to the south. Much smaller. No department stores. But it will have enough to sustain us.

  You mustn’t forget more writing paper.

  Of course, my dear. I will fetch something for your stomach as well.

  9 November 1890

  When I awoke it was as if the inside of my skull were being chiselled out. My body convulsed with cold. Weak daylight filtered through my eyelids. An oily, cludgy smell filled my nostrils. The sound of breakers and the screech of strange birds entered my ears. I brought a hand to my forehead and felt the crust of salt below my hairline, opened my eyes and looked at my hand. The palm and fingers were white, the wrist a mess of reds and browns, but it was free. I could feel the pitch pine mast pressed to my back, but ran my hand against it just to be sure, knocking twice, as if for luck.

  I lifted my head and saw that the ropes sat limply around my waist and legs. The mast lay perpendicular to the breakers. Beyond my feet and the battered mizzen top I saw green, land-green, a slope covered in vegetation leading up and away from sheer rock faces. I sat up, keeping the surf to my back. The cliffs did not seem as high as I had supposed during the storm the previous day. Perhaps this was a different island. Still, if I was to reach this green slope I would have to make my way along the rocky foreshore and find a way up the cliffs. I wriggled my legs free of the ropes, swung them around so that my feet might touch terra firma once more, but hesitated. The margin between the sea and the foreshore was alive with a tangle of thick kelp. The narrow beach, if that’s the term, was a blanket of rock riddled with thin seams, jagged edges and wee boulders making their hundred-year journey from the earth back to the sea, all of it given a marbled appearance by the thousand-thousand white streaks of bird droppings. My bare feet were numb. They resembled cakes of delicate soap. I mightn’t feel it at the time but the rock would tear them to shreds. I lifted my feet up to rest on the mast and hugged my knees to keep warm.

  The sense of abandon that had gripped me while fastened to the mizzen top had vanished. I was cold and weak but no longer wished to die. The melodrama of it all had seemed fitting in the moment of my life that most resembled the stories I’d read as a child—stories where women would swoon in equal measure at the sight of a pistol, the revelation of a true identity or the simple avowal of love. I rolled onto my chest to feel beneath the mast. Rock. Pressing one hand gingerly against the ground I lowered my head. Bits of dry brown kelp, fresher, slimier strands of yellow-tinged weed, rock, ropes and tattered canvas, but no sign of her. She must have slipped free during the night. It would explain the looseness of the ropes. I marvelled at how I could have stayed perched atop the mast and out of the waves.

  I scanned the beach that curved like a crescent moon. A number of birds were gathered around one patch of kelp in the distance. I thought of them as gulls, though they could have been nellies, those dark-feathered birds the sailors liked to take pot shots at from the gunwales, or any number of other birds for which I did not then know the name. I didn’t even know where I was. Could it be Tierra del Fuego? It seemed too soon to have reached the Horn, but perhaps I’d lost count of the days. There must have been other islands littered in the Southern Ocean, but I knew nothing of them. I knew the State of Victoria better than I knew this ocean and could recite all the stops on the Melbourne to Albury railway line, despite the fact I never got to board my train.

  I wished to lie back down and sleep, but I knew that I would catch my death. I ripped two strips of canvas to wrap around my feet, gathered the loose pieces of timber and rope that were scattered near the mast and went in search of food and fresh water. I set off in the direction of the gulls, still in the same spot on the foreshore. As I drew closer I discovered the source of their curiosity tangled in the kelp. I picked up a rock and threw it at the feasting birds, but it fell well short of the corpse. I let out a scream, but the gulls seemed unafraid of me. They seemed, in fact, to regard me with greedy interest. Tossing another rock underhand, I managed to strike the corpse square on the chest, pushing up its arms, and the gulls took fright. I quickly threw another rock and approached waving and shouting.

  ‘Get gone. Away with you!’

  The birds withdrew a few yards, some to the air, some to the rocks, screeching all the while.

  I grabbed a boot and hauled the corpse free of the kelp, so that it lay on its back, arms outstretched. The eye sockets had already been pecked clean, but I could recognise young Tim well enough.

  ‘Ach, it’s nae right,’ I said. ‘It’s nae right at all.’

  I crouched down. The gulls had already worked the waistcoat and shirt open, nudged his vest upward and had been in the process of pulling his insides out when I had interrupted. I reached inside the waistcoat and removed Tim’s grimy spoon, a splinter of wood and his pocket watch.

  ‘Half past four, as always,’ I said.

  I searched the trouser pockets next, finding a coarse needle that looked as if it had been whittled from the bone of some seabird, and a little wooden cardinal, one of Sepsey’s carvings.

  ‘No matches,’ I shouted to the waves. But why would the lad have matches on him? And even if he did, they would have been sodden and useless now.

  I stood and tossed the little cardinal into sea.

  There would be no fire that night.

  My clothes were still damp and clung to my skin. The sailcloth around my feet was coming undone. I looked at Tim’s boots. Though the lad had been but a spirl, he was close to my height.

  ‘Aye, they’re no use to you now,’ I said, patting him on the shoulder. I untied the laces on the left foot—the right’s were already undone—and removed the leather boots.

  ‘Ach, you’re nae wearing any hose. What would your mammie say?’

  I rewrapped one of my feet in cloth and tried jamming it into a boot, but it wouldn’t pass through the narrowest part of the shaft. I removed the cloth and tried again. This time my toes were able to touch the insole and with a bit of wriggling the rest of my foot slid inside. I did the same with the next boot and stood. The fit was tight. Without stockings I would be plagued by blisters but I knew this was better than leaving my bare feet at the mercy of the rocks.

  I noticed one of the gulls had returned to its perch on Tim’s forehead. It had managed to open the mouth and work its head down the lad’s throat.

  ‘Hoy!
’ I shouted, but the bird either couldn’t hear or chose to ignore me.

  I crunched over and considered kicking Tim’s jaw so that his teeth would sever the bird’s head, but hesitated. Perhaps it was the fear of desecrating the corpse, or the thought of kicking Tim with his own boots. Or perhaps I knew deep down that these birds were not so different from me. They were just making do with what the sea provided.

  The dull brown bird removed its head from Tim’s mouth. It was cloaked in an executioner’s hood of dark red blood. A strip of meat trailed from its beak and I tried not to consider the origin of this morsel. I tapped the bird under the breast with my boot and it took flight.

  I set about removing Tim’s clothes. Waistcoat, shirt, vest, trousers. I considered removing the drawers. Every thread would be useful. They looked as if they were made of decent cotton. But I wondered how a ship’s boy had come to have cotton drawers. Perhaps he’d run away from a wealthy family. Perhaps he was the youngest son of a merchant who was friendly with Captain Bock. Or perhaps he’d come from poverty as I had always assumed and these drawers were the only gift his widow mother could give him before he set sail.

  It was no good. I couldn’t take the drawers. Even though I knew the birds would find a way beneath their hem.

  I found three smaller rocks, placed two in Tim’s eye sockets and wedged one in his mouth.

  ‘I’d bury you, but I dinnae have the tools,’ I said aloud. ‘Could use my hands, I guess, but then I might as well be howkin’ my own grave.’

  I trudged further along the beach in my tight boots, squeezing the lad’s clothes in my arms, looking for more flotsam, following the flight of the seabirds in case they led me to another corpse. I noticed movement in the distance. A wee, wobbling form making its way across the rocky shore to the kelp. As I approached, the shape of the bird became clearer. A penguin, about two feet high, with striking yellow eyebrows a couple of inches long that stood erect on its head. My stomach rumbled and the bird turned its entire body to face me, cocking its head to the side. Its snowy breast was marred by an irregular maroon patch, not unlike a large birthmark, though my first thought was that even the penguins on this island stooped to defiling corpses.