The Mannequin Makers E-Book

Craig Cliff Perry

• Herausgeber: Melville House UK
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A stunning historical debut novel of gothic proportions, telling the tale of a father's obsession and the dark consequences."The skin was smooth and bright as porcelain, but looked as if it would give to the touch. What manner of wood had he used? What tools to exact such detail? What paints, tints or stains to flush her with life?"So wonders the window dresser Colton Kemp when he sees the first mannequin of his new rival, a silent man the inhabitants of Marumaru simply call The Carpenter. Rocked by the sudden death of his wife in childbirth and left with twins to raise, Kemp hatches a dark and selfish plan to make his name and thwart his rival.What follows is a gothic tale of art and deception, strength and folly, love and transgression, which ranges fromfamily small-town New Zealand to the graving docks of the River Clyde in Scotland. Along the way we meet a Prussian strongman, a family of ship's carvers with a mysterious affliction, a septuagenarian surf lifesaver and a talking figurehead named Vengeance. Lives and stories will intertwine as fate takes its cruel trajectory, leaving you feeling as if waking from an unsettling dream.

Leseprobe

THE MANNEQUIN MAKERS

Text Copyright © Craig Cliff, 2013

First published by Random House New Zealand. This edition published by arrangement with Penguin Random House New Zealand Ltd.

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by

Melville House UK

Suite 2000

16/18 Woodford Road

London E7 0HA

mhpbooks.com

@melvillehouse

The right of Craig Cliff to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-911545-29-3

ISBN: 978-1-911545-30-9 (Ebook)

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from Melville House UK.

Printed in Denmark by Nørhaven, Viborg

For Margaret Cliff1925–2013

Notre nature est dans le mouvement; le repos entier est la mort . . . Rien n’est si insupportable à l’homme que d’être dans un plein repos, sans passions, sans affaire, sans divertissement, sans application. Il sent alors son néant, son abandon, son insuffisance, sa dépendance, son impuissance, son vide. Incontinent il sortira du fond de son âme l’ennui, la noirceur, la tristesse, le chagrin, le dépit, le désespoir.

Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death . . . Nothing is so insufferable to man as to be completely at rest, without passions, without business, without diversions, without study. He then feels his nothingness, his abandonment, his insufficiency, his dependence, his impotence, his emptiness. There will immediately arise from the depth of his heart weariness, gloom, sadness, grief, anger, despair.

— Blaise Pascal

PART ONE

31 DECEMBER 1902 – 1 JANUARY 1903

Welcometo Marumaru

‘We run carelessly to the precipice after we have put something before us to prevent us from seeing it.’

CHAPTER ONE

In which Colton Kemp’s wife dies mid-morning, surrounded by misshapen mannequins

Another wayward gouge stroke, another chunk of skin from his forefinger. This was always the way once the head had been roughed out, and three-quarter-inch gouge and carver’s mallet were exchanged for palm tools. Colton Kemp lifted the damaged digit to his mouth before the blood could surface, and held it there, stemming the flow and delaying the curses he’d hurl at his latest model. He’d named her Ursula but, like all his mannequins, even the men and children, she was modelled on his wife, Louisa. It had taken an hour to sculpt the preparatory clay maquette, but Louisa did not complain, did not move too much, despite being heavily pregnant. He looked at the maquette now, his finger still in his mouth, and could see the impressions of his thumbs in the miniature’s features.

He had been at work since first light in the small two-cow barn he’d converted into a workshop three years ago. Despite the sun parading outside it was a gloomy place. A lamp hung from an exposed joist, casting unsteady light on Ursula’s unformed face. Friends from Christchurch and Dunedin told him the heads, if a mannequin had a head at all, were usually cast in wax. But this was Marumaru: different rules applied. In any case, he was yet to find the right consistency of wax that would hold up beneath the glare of the gas lamps in the street-front display windows of Donaldson’s department store. He’d also tried papier-mâché and plaster of Paris but could not achieve the look of flesh with either. So it was wood — heavy, stubborn wood — and gouges, parting tools, veiners, fluters, sandpaper, nicks, cuts and frustration.

Kemp’s shaky hands and rough temperament were ill suited to life as a carver, but it is curious the paths a life can take, the dead ends to which ambition and rivalry can lead a man.

Every new mannequin represented several weeks’ work and even then he might uncover a knot or vicious grain when he peeled back the layers of the face. Or, just as likely, he would chip and sand away too much and, no matter how perfect the final expression, the head would be too small for the body he had constructed. His workshop was littered with such failures. Headless Hans holding a heavy canvas sheet in his uneven arms. Eager Mavis, with her lopsided breasts and overlarge mouth, would never don a ball gown. It was best not to think about them as he worked. Instead he held out hope that one day the face he revealed would be Louisa’s. Those thin, fair eyebrows that moved with every word, every thought. The cleft in her chin that disappeared upon closer inspection. Those big eyes, green giving way to blue and grey as she passed through the world. But how can you render the kindness of such a face, frozen in a single moment?

It was maddening how her face eluded him in wood, but he had the consolation of finding it in the house whenever he laid down his tools.

He grabbed Ursula’s broad wooden jaw between the pincers of his thumb and forefinger. Somewhere, he thought, still sucking the injured finger on his other hand. Somewhere in there is the strong-willed woman who doesn’t mind a spot of rain.

At that moment he heard someone shout, ‘Rain!’, or something very like it. He swung to face the door of his workshop and considered it much as he had the mannequin’s face, the puzzlement giving way to discomfort, anxiety, panic — only then did he release the sliced finger from his mouth and set to heaving open the heavy, warped door.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sunlight.

There, beneath the bare wire clothesline, slumped over a load of washing, was . . . well, it was either Louisa, or her younger sister, Flossie. When Miss Florence had fled the kindness and condolences of Christchurch society and moved south to live with them six months ago, she had taken possession of three or four of Louisa’s older dresses. Kemp, despite plying his trade in window dressing, had trouble remembering which outfits were now the younger sister’s. He whispered, ‘Please be Flossie,’ as he took his first step toward the clothesline. That one step was enough, however, to see the larger bulk and know it was Louisa.

He ran to her, raised her gently. A patch of dark blood on the front of her dress had already soaked through to the freshly laundered sheets. The air smelt of soda and iron filings.

‘I just wanted to get these on the line,’ she said, breathless, wincing.

‘For Christ’s sake, Lou. Where’s Flossie? Flossie!’ he called and felt hoarse, as if he’d been yelling all morning. He looked back down at his wife. ‘You shouldn’t have to hang out the damn washing.’

She winced once more. Her lids came down over her eyes. Her brows lifted and became fixed in place.

‘Lou,’ he said. ‘Lou, stay with me.’

The old lighthouse keeper’s dog chose this moment to crawl through the manuka thicket and cross the Kemps’ property. She stopped, considered the man and woman sitting on the lawn, before continuing on her way, three feet of rusted chain trailing between her legs.

Kemp felt Louisa’s forehead, then stood and hauled his wife into the barn, onto the comfort of a pile of loose hay, wood shavings and sawdust several inches thick. He knelt behind her, propped her up against his own thighs. He mopped her brow with his sleeve, rocking back and forth.

Louisa was silent.

He watched the sawdust turn red between her legs.

‘No,’ he said, softly, as if afraid of waking her. ‘No, you can’t take her from me.’

He rocked back violently and knocked one of his abandoned mannequins, which sent a shiver through the ring of limbless, ill-proportioned, inanimate freaks watching over them in what he would later recall, in his bitter, driven future, as a pathetic travesty of the nativity scene.

But in that moment Colton Kemp was lost, oblivious, blubbering. He placed a finger between his teeth to stop the tears and tasted blood.

CHAPTER TWO

In which Sandow arrives in Marumaru, in a manner of speaking

That same morning the train from the north deposited on the narrow platform a dark-skinned youth in shirtsleeves and a plaster statue wrapped in a dirty drop cloth. At Marumaru Station, this was enough to bring a crowd. Within two minutes the platform was thronged with townspeople eager to see what the youth had brought and for whom.

‘It has the height of a man,’ said Fred Empson, the station master.

‘Perhaps it’s an Egyptian mummy,’ said the mayor, Big Jim Raymond.

‘It must be returned to wherever it came from,’ said Mrs Harry Wisdom. ‘There’s no place for heathenism in this town.’

‘It is not a mummy,’ said the youth, whose name was Jesse. He was not yet disconcerted by the way that time had sped since leaving Timaru, or the sight of green pastures from the station platform, or the lack of chimney stacks beyond the first few rows of houses. His first impression was instead reserved for the bold colours of the women’s dresses and the mayor’s hat, which looked as if it were covered with felt from a billiard table.

In his newly acquired performing voice, Jesse announced, ‘It is a statue of the perfect human form.’ He slipped a knot at the statue’s hip. ‘It is—’

‘Sandow!’ shouted Big Jim Raymond.

The crowd cheered and the deflated boy unwrapped the statue to reveal the figure they all expected, the one they’d seen in newspaper advertisements and on the cover of his very own magazine. There were his tight curls and Kaiser Wilhelm moustache, the abdominal muscles like coiled dock line. There the fig leaf covering his manhood, the Roman sandals, the head turned to admire his own bulging biceps. And, if there was any doubt, the pedestal proclaimed in patrician script that this was SANDOW. As in Eugen Sandow, Sandow the Strongman, Sandow’s Spring-Grip Dumb-bells, Sandow’s Combined Developer, the Sandow Season that had swept through the nation’s newspapers, if not all of its drawing rooms, since the muscular Teuton had disembarked in Auckland among survivors of the wrecked Elingamite. Indeed, the commencement of his New Zealand tour had not been altogether auspicious. There was a general election in a week’s time, meaning there were no politicians to welcome him. Eugen Sandow, the strongest man on Earth, had had to push his way through the shattered survivors, their relieved and boisterous relatives and the silent bereaved to find his promoter, Harry Rickards, who had left Sydney a week before to make final arrangements in the new colony. Sandow would later admit to Jesse that he had expected New Zealand to be nothing more than a collection of wooden huts hastily erected by castaways from the world’s four corners, men with wild beards and women perpetually with child who cared not for news from the next hut over, let alone the heart of civilisation. ‘But I have been pleasantly surprised,’ Sandow had said, ‘by the people of your country, the development of their bodies and the commerce evident on every street corner. And of course, they know who I am, which cannot help but make me favourably disposed.’

Sandow was the big draw for Rickards’ Vaudeville Company, which went on to fill town halls and opera houses in Auckland, New Plymouth, Stratford, Wanganui, Palmerston North, Masterton, Napier, Wellington, Christchurch, Ashburton and Timaru. Before each show a life-sized plaster replica of Sandow was sent ahead to heighten anticipation.

But Eugen Sandow was never meant to come to Marumaru.

Sure, the turn of the century had seen the inauguration of the town’s first full-time mayor, Jim Raymond, who was rumoured to have shot a man on the goldfields in his youth and now lived and died by the word of the town’s first daily newspaper, the Marumaru Mail. And it was true that the arrival of a certain strongman signalled one year since the opening of Marumaru’s second — repeat: second — department store. But Marumaru was no metropolis: the post office would not bother to distinguish it from the town of the same name in the Hawke’s Bay for another twenty years. Rickards’ company was not due to perform another show until a matinee at His Majesty’s Theatre in Dunedin on the third of January.

It slowly began to sink in for poor Jesse, who had joined Rickards’ company in Wanganui, that this was not Dunedin.

‘Sandow’s shorter than I imagined,’ he heard a young woman say to her two friends.

‘Why, he’s just a man,’ said another.

‘More than that, he’s just a statue!’ said the third.

A short man waving his hands and trying to make it to the front of the crowd caught Jesse’s attention. He wore an accordion-pleated ascot tie and as he approached he said, in an elevated voice, ‘Dear boy, you are bound for the fine establishment of Hercus & Barling, are you not?’

‘I—’

‘For I am the eponymous Hercus, Emile Hercus, proprietor of the newest, largest and best patronised department store in a twenty-five-mile radius.’

‘This is—?’

‘Oh no you don’t, Emile,’ said an older man in a brown suit that may have once been dignified but now looked merely comfortable. ‘You’re coming to Donaldson’s, aren’t you?’

‘Donaldson’s?’ Hercus said. ‘The Great Sandow would not be seen dead in that moth-ridden closet.’

The man in the brown suit placed a hand on the plaster Sandow’s shoulder. ‘It’s a good thing Mr Sandow is inanimate then, isn’t it?’

‘Please don’t touch the statue, sir,’ Jesse said. ‘You’ll leave a mark.’

‘Quite right,’ the man said, removing his hand and wiping it on his lapel. ‘Charles Begg,’ he said and held out this same overworked hand and Jesse shook it. ‘We have a very good window dresser — that term doesn’t really do the man justice. He’ll rig something up so that you’d swear it was Sandow himself in the window. Where is Kemp, anyway?’ Begg asked the crowd of townspeople, who swayed like windblown toetoe, looking for Colton Kemp among their number. He was so often prominent in any scandal, ruckus or commotion. But there was no sign of him.

‘I’m sure my man is here,’ said Hercus, who perched on tip-toe to little effect. ‘Has anyone seen The Carpenter?’

A hand went up from the middle of the crowd and they parted. A compact man in a heavy brown checked suit stood there, his large, square hand held out in front of him as if anointing someone or something.

‘Over here, my good man,’ said Hercus.

‘Kemp?’ Begg called. ‘Where the blazes is Colton Kemp?’

‘We stock all of Sandow’s physical culture paraphernalia, of course,’ Hercus said to Jesse, who was not used to being spoken to with any sort of respect or reverence. ‘Quickly, man.’ Hercus hurried The Carpenter, whose approach looked laboured. Jesse wondered if it was due to the heavy woollen suit he wore on this warm summer’s morning, or simply age. ‘I’m afraid he’s rather taciturn,’ Hercus added.

‘Sorry, sir—’ Jesse began.

‘Oh, don’t worry. The Carpenter is the most able man in the field of displays. Just one look at our present window should allay any fears you may have. But why would you have fears? You’ve come to deposit Mr Sandow’s likeness at Hercus & Barling and you’re very much in the right spot.’

‘A sack of rats for Kemp,’ said Begg. ‘That’s what awaits him, a sack of rats.’

‘Come,’ Hercus said, placing his arm across Jesse’s shoulders, ‘let us repair to my store.’ He turned to The Carpenter. ‘I trust you can transport the precious cargo?’

The man nodded.

‘Never a peep, that fellow,’ Hercus said. ‘Now tell me, boy, what is your name and how long have you been associated with Mr Sandow?’

CHAPTER THREE

In which Colton Kemp keeps mum

The lighthouse, vacant since the death of its first and only keeper, stood at the head of a nameless crag. From the handful of times Kemp had gone fishing with his father he could recall the way the bluff and the land sloping down and away resembled the severed tail of a lizard. For twelve years the gas-powered light had acted as a beacon for ships — Mayor Raymond was still agitating for another townsperson to take up the mantle of lighthouse keeper — but for now the tall white tower and the rocks below attracted only would-be suicides.

Kemp was now a widower and a father of twins — all in the space of a morning. Two lives in exchange for one. But he did not care about those small, squirming things just now. He had left Flossie to deal with the aftermath, hadn’t told her where he was going. She was seventeen but had a good head on her shoulders. She had dealt with the sudden death of her parents quietly and had adjusted to life in slower, less accomplished circles. He knew she’d do a good job this time, that she feared and respected him.

The town of Marumaru was further down the lizard’s tail, where the cliffs ended and the short beach began. The walk to town was a dry dirt path bisecting a field of sheep-shorn grass that resembled a cricket pitch or, though he tried not to see it, a fairway. Before Kemp’s birth, his father had been the greenkeeper of a golf links north of Dunedin. He spoke of it only once: the pride he’d taken in turning scrub into emerald carpets of grass, the thought that went into the placement of each sand trap, the wickedness of a sou’wester on the thirteenth, the difficulties players faced in coming north — the boggy roads, slips and skittish horses — and the slow exodus of members to the Balmacewen course closer to home. The links had been abandoned in the end. In all likelihood it had now been divided into rectangles and was patrolled by Corriedale and cattle beast, though Kemp preferred to think of it overgrown: a shimmering straw-coloured fairway flanked by wild fennel gone to seed and gnarled macrocarpa leading the eye to a perfect circle of Scotch thistle where his father’s green had once shone. Kemp senior had been nearly sixty when he moved north to Marumaru and met his wife. His death concluded a roving, eventful life, but left his son with only a handful of memories. Single moments of grace or anger or despair from which Colton was expected to reconstruct a father.

He has been dead so long. Now Louisa has joined him.

This time he had a thousand memories. He had the raw materials to reconstruct his wife. It was impossible to avoid. But it was not enough. He thought of his failure to carve the likeness of her face and knew she was gone.

He stood on the edge of the crag, staring out to the horizon. Looking due east he was faced with over five thousand miles of uninterrupted ocean. All but six of those miles, however, were hidden by the curvature of the Earth. This thought, the concealed distance, the massive isolation, was more fearsome to him than the thought of the rocks thirty feet below. He looked down. The cliff face was vertical for the first half of its descent, then the moss started and the rock stretched out, eager to meet the water. It would take an almighty leap to make the creamy waves.

He did not leap. Instead, he unbuttoned his trousers and pissed out over the edge, the wind breaking up his stream after a few feet and beating it back into the rock face.

As he headed back down the slope he encountered a black-faced sheep, still heavy with winter wool, standing squarely on the path.

‘Hyah!’ he said and threw out his hand.

The sheep tilted its head to one side.

‘Hyah!’ he said again and thrust his shoulder forward in a mock charge.

The sheep turned slowly and began to leave the path, its un-docked tail bouncing in clownish defiance. This slow retreat was no longer enough and Kemp ran up behind as if to kick the sheep. No, he truly meant to kick that woollen arse. The beast picked up its pace and rambled down the slope toward a clutch of cabbage trees. He pursued. In his escalating temper he wanted to do the sheep some harm, to feel its neck between his arm and torso, to wrench its head clean off, but the slope was greater than he had first anticipated. His fast wheeling feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. The wool-heavy sheep stopped behind the stout trunk of the leftmost tree, turned to see the man hurtling toward it and, at the last moment, set off in the direction of the town. But Kemp — spirit possessed and momentum unchecked — leapt forward to tackle his quarry. The tips of his fingers brushed wool, but caught nothing.

He lay on the ground, winded, thwarted, miserable.

‘Excuse me,’ a young voice called from near the path.

He rolled onto his side, wiped his eyes with the meat of his hands and looked back up the hill. It was Josephine Strachan, youngest daughter of the schoolmaster. How old was she? Seven, eight, nine? He was no good at this sort of thing, but he knew her by sight. Flossie had been helping Mr Strachan at the school several days a week. Josephine, most likely starved of attention, had taken a special liking to his sister-in-law. He remembered something about the girl visiting his house unannounced one evening while he laboured in his workshop.

‘Why were you trying to tackle that sheep, Mr Kemp?’

The beast, standing further down the slope, let out a tremulous bleat.

He got to his feet and dusted off his trousers. The rush of foolishness made his knees waver.

‘I was practising,’ he said.

The girl walked gingerly down the hill toward him. ‘But it’s not football season,’ she said and came to a stop a few feet from him. The slope meant that her eyes were level with his. ‘And aren’t you too old to play?’

‘That’s rather impertinent of you, Miss Strachan,’ he said, hoping to scold her, make her turn and run away crying. But all she said was, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and continued to stare into his eyes.

He looked away. The sheep, finally bored, turned its head and trotted off, its tail rigid and unmoving this time, as if it were a ferret fresh from the taxidermist.

Kemp grunted and started to climb back up to the path. The girl followed. ‘How long have you been up here at the lighthouse?’ she asked.

‘I’ll have you know,’ he said without turning, ‘I’m not too old for rugby. It may not seem it to you, but I’m still to reach my prime.’

Josephine had raced up beside him. He saw her shrug her shoulders, his vitality beyond her ken.

‘You missed it, didn’t you?’

‘Missed what?’ he asked.

‘The excitement in town. The statue.’

He had no idea what she was talking about and had little interest in finding out. The two of them rejoined the dirt path and followed it wordlessly back down to the wicket gate.

‘Are you going to follow me the entire way?’ he asked.

‘How is Louisa?’

‘She is . . .’ he began, intending to say that she was fine, but was unable to continue. He stopped, opened the gate and let the girl walk through. He followed.

‘I saw Flossie in town this morning,’ Josephine said. ‘She said she would teach me piano.’

‘Is that so?’

The slope had begun to level out. Soon the dirt path would widen into a dirt road dotted with letterboxes and long, stony driveways until it eventually became Regent Street.

‘Father says I am not allowed to go promenading on New Year’s Eve until I am ten,’ Josephine said, unable to hide her puffing as she tried to match his pace.

He did not respond.

‘I wish I could see your new display being switched on.’

‘It will be there in the morning.’

‘Yes, but that’s not the same, is it? Not when it’s New Year’s Eve tonight.’

The properties and paddocks to their left fell away and were replaced with dark green explosions of flax and beyond them a thin strip of sand the colour of camel’s hair that stretched to the rocky breakwater of the small harbour. A lone black-billed gull circled the beach in silence. To their right, the first business. Kemp feigned interest in the metalwork gate that read ‘J. C. Ban-nerman, Ironmonger’. It had just gone four in the afternoon and Bannerman had closed his shop for the day, no doubt preparing for a night of revelry.

An approaching buggy forced them out of the middle of the road.

‘Are you going to look at the window of Hercus & Barling?’ Josephine asked.

‘No.’

‘Oh, you should. You really should.’

They continued on past Bertie Bush’s hardware store, which was desperately in need of a new coat of paint, Padget the watchmaker’s narrow shop and the Criterion Hotel, standing proud on the corner of Regent and Albert streets.

‘Won’t your father be wondering where you are?’ Kemp asked as he looked left and right, preparing to cross the street to avoid the window of Hercus & Barling and the lesser evils of Mrs Alves’ sweet shop, Mr Borrie’s toys and games and the meat pies and coffee of McWatter’s cafe.

‘No, sir,’ Josephine replied.

Emboldened by the girl’s sudden bout of manners, he said, ‘If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll tell your father you’ve been larking about at the lighthouse.’ He stepped off the footpath.

‘Oh, he won’t care.’ She ran a few steps to catch him up and jumped over the ridge of horse leavings that had been swept into the centre of the road.

‘Well,’ Kemp said, ‘I’ll forbid Flossie to give you piano lessons.’

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Do you have a piano in your house?’

Josephine turned back toward the lighthouse.

‘I didn’t think so,’ he continued. ‘I don’t intend to let annoying little girls into my home to use my piano.’

‘Flossie says it’s Louisa’s,’ she said, nearly shouting. They stood on the beach side of Regent Street now, both watching the still-circling gull.

‘You’re horrible,’ the girl said after some time. ‘I’m going to tell Louisa what a horrible husband she has and what a terrible father he will make.’

She made as if to leave. He grabbed her shoulder and crouched down.

‘Listen to me, Josephine. You must not step foot on my property. You will not step foot on my property. Do you understand me?’

He looked down at his hand, still clamped to her shoulder, then back at the girl’s face: her eyes downcast and blinking rapidly. He released her shoulder and continued down Regent Street, his head inclined a notch too high to seem natural.

Beyond the Albert Street intersection, shops reappeared on the left of the high street, though they too had closed for the day. He turned to look behind him. Josephine was a dozen paces behind, keeping her distance but still following. He stood with his hands on his hips and eventually she drew level with him again.

‘What do you think of these windows, Mr Kemp? Aren’t they dreary compared with the big stores?’

‘Dreary?’ he said. ‘That’s one word for it.’

They walked on, past Professor Healey’s store of smoker’s requisites and Mr Kriss’s bakery, which emitted the heavy tar smell of the black bread that he baked for holidays — his mother’s recipe — though no one else in town could stomach it.

‘Look at this,’ Kemp said, pointing at Sandy Chase’s window, stocked with ales, porters, wines and spirits. ‘The bottles are still wreathed in tinsel from Christmas. And the McNeils’ window . . . Well, a fine coat of dust hardly entices the potential buyer of a pair of boots, does it?’

Josephine thought hard before responding, ‘No.’

‘Now Mr Ikin, on the other hand,’ he said and turned square to the bookseller’s window, ‘I suspect he wears his dust with pride.’

He looked around and found Josephine in front of the bright white display of the next store over, which belonged to the town’s purveyor of pills and sundries, Mr Fricker.

‘Have any of these stores ever asked you to rig up a display for them, Mr Kemp?’

‘They’re above that sort of thing, or so they say. But let’s see how long they can hold out, eh? Let’s see how long till they’re boarding up their windows like the shops on Stirling Road and queuing for a job selling perfume or minding the books at Donaldson’s or that other store.’

‘You mean Hercus & Barling?’

‘I know what it’s called.’

The commerce on the beach side came to a halt once more at the grounds of St Paul’s, the tallest of the town’s three churches. He could smell the fishmonger’s shop on the other side of grounds. The reek seemed the final word on religion, no matter how much the vestments, stained glass and ceremony might appeal to the aesthete inside any window dresser.

He leant on the church’s wrought iron gate, another of Jolly Bannerman’s pieces, and looked across at Donaldson’s, square and tall, its black verandah of corrugated iron stretching out to the street. The masonry facade sought to announce quality, class, permanence. The tall windows of the upper floors were bound by Roman arches, each capped with a keystone bearing a white rosette. But he knew it was all for nought without a decent display in his windows, the only windows that counted.

He had started as a stock boy seven years earlier, back when it was Donaldson’s Drapers two doors further down Regent Street and old man Donaldson still ran the roost. As the store had grown, expanding the range of goods offered — millinery, gardening tools, sheet music — so too had Kemp’s role. He was responsible for all elements of display inside the store and had two stock boys beneath him when Charlie Begg came out from Nottingham in ’99 to oversee the move to the new premises. Four storeys, replete with Lamson tube system and twenty feet of plate glass either side of the main entrance. A proper department store, one to rival any in the South Island.

‘You say you’re responsible for display,’ Begg had said at their first meeting. ‘What exactly does this encompass?’

‘Putting the wares out and making them look nice, sir.’

‘Well, we can’t have those front windows bare for the grand reopening, can we? Sketch a few ideas and show them to me tomorrow morning.’

Until then, Kemp’s idea of window dressing had been to cram as much merchandise as possible into the old store’s small dark window and send a boy in there with a feather duster every three months. There hadn’t been the space for mannequins. Instead the few that Donaldson’s possessed were dotted inside the store. Now he was to come up with ideas to fill the expanse of plate glass and provide sketches? He couldn’t wield a pencil for any purpose beyond words and numbers.

At home that evening he’d shared his predicament with Louisa.

‘But you must have ideas, Col. You’re around the goods all day. Just put them together to make a scene. Tell a story.’

‘But half our dummies are missing arms. They look as if they’ve just come back from fighting the Boers.’

‘What about a battle scene?’ she asked mischievously.

‘That may be in poor taste.’

‘If there was some way of hiding the missing parts,’ Louisa said and looked down at the threadbare tablecloth. ‘Flossie cannot for the life of her draw hands, so her damsels are always holding mufflers, her dashing knights crossing their arms. Perhaps you could hide the missing parts? Prepare a forest scene. The trees could hide the shortcomings of the dummies.’

‘A forest? That sounds like a fair amount of work.’

‘Not if you’re smart,’ said Louisa and reached for her sketchbook.

The next morning he’d shown Louisa’s drawing to Begg, acting as if it were his own.

‘And how much will you need for incidentals?’

‘Perhaps one and sixpence?’ he’d offered. He planned to cut actual saplings from his own property and install them in the display.

‘A miser? My estimation of you grows by the minute, Mr Kemp.’

With time he and Louisa became expert at recognising stories from the newspaper or details from their own lives that could form the basis of a new display. A jail break. A night at the theatre. Bringing home the latest addition to the family — all the while trying to start their own.

Though he no longer had to show Begg his idea before producing a display, he still had Louisa prepare a sketch on a piece of foolscap, which he then replicated in the windows of Donaldson’s.

It was Louisa who suggested he carve his own mannequins, sick of his continual complaints about the state of the store’s dummies and the cost of ordering new ones from overseas. Louisa who urged him on. Louisa who bandaged his damaged fingers.

He looked across the street at his latest window and saw too much of Louisa in it. The ghost of her face in the four mannequins. The echo of her voice, the shade of her pencil in the layout. The numerals ‘1902’ cut from large shards of broken looking-glass (quite how ladies broke mirrors in the confines of a dressing room was still a mystery to him). The black ropes against the black background, invisible to the casual onlooker, which would hoist the ‘2’ up into the false ceiling and replace it with a ‘3’. His best mannequins forming happy couples either side of the sparkling numbers, dressed in their finest theatre clothes, who would turn to each other as the ‘3’ descended and almost clink their champagne flutes, thanks to individual turntables concealed in the false floor. All the movement rigged up to the same gas engine that powered the pneumatic Lamson tubes that sent money and receipts around the store.

‘I can see the ropes,’ Josephine said. He had almost forgotten she was beside him. ‘I can picture exactly what will happen, but I want to see it anyway.’

‘And you can,’ he said, ‘tomorrow.’

It was only a short block back to Hercus & Barling. Looking over Josephine’s head he could see a small crowd of eight or ten people outside its window. There was no such crowd for Donaldson’s.

‘Why don’t you go look at The Carpenter’s window?’ he suggested.

‘The curtain’s still down,’ she replied.

Ten people are willing to stare at his blank curtain, he thought, rather than my display. He could feel his skin flush once more.

From the first, the two department stores had not just affected the sole traders — the widow dressmaker, the dealer in golden rings and small trinkets — but had also fed upon each other, undercutting prices, paying exorbitant amounts for shipping to ensure stock was the first to arrive, offering more generous credit terms. Each store had a man dressed as Santa Claus in the week before Christmas and the town delighted in judging whose St Nick was fatter, whose white beard looked the more authentic. But the battle was most evident, and most crucial, in the window. It was not a competition between two stores but between Colton Kemp and The Carpenter, ever since the day the silent sod strolled into town. Kemp had never heard him talk, though Big Jim Raymond swore The Carpenter congratulated him upon his re-election in September. What sort of affectation was it not to speak when spoken to? To always wear the same loud suit with its large houndstooth check and to nod and wave and point before trotting up Pukehine Hill at the end of the day?

But damn the man, his mannequins were a wonder. The story went that The Carpenter walked down from his shack on the hill carrying a wooden mannequin, placed it in front of the entrance to Hercus & Barling two days before their grand opening, and Hercus offered him a job on the spot. Kemp’s curiosity got the better of him at the opening and he saw the window display firsthand: dozens of electric lights powered by the store’s own generator (Donaldson’s, like the town itself, was still to make the leap to electricity), thirteen headless mannequins of the sort imported from Europe (though he suspected they were, like Emile Hercus, second-hand from Sydney) and, at the centre, The Carpenter’s serene lady, dressed in a red moirette dress with a blue shawl draped over her left shoulder and arm, the soft hand protruding, palm up. The skin was smooth and bright as porcelain, but looked as if it would give to the touch. What manner of wood had he used? What tools to exact such detail? What paints, tints or stains to flush her with life? What beast had he shorn to create her mane of brown hair, curling as it passed the hint of her ears and tumbled down her shoulders?

The Carpenter’s first mannequin was a revelation for Kemp and a sensation for the town. Over the following months The Carpenter produced more figures. The appearance of each was an event that surpassed the excitement of a new window at Donaldson’s, no matter how intricate Kemp’s mechanics, how timely the scene or artistically it was laid out. The Marumaru Mail began speculating about the gender, age, hair and eye colour of The Carpenter’s next model weeks before it appeared. No one seemed to care about the masses of blank space in his window displays, the utter stasis of his arrangements, the lack of theme or connection to the town in which the store sat: The Carpenter’s window was another world, one on the cusp of coming to life.

Little by little this world began to spill into Marumaru. The ladies of the town, who had conformed to the modest colonial fashion for dark skirts and white blouses, began to step out in the reds and blues and greens of The Carpenter’s window. The men stuck with subdued tones for their suits and waistcoats but stuffed silk handkerchiefs of turquoise or magenta into their breast pockets and emerald felt bowlers on their heads. Visitors from the north and from the south often remarked upon the deluge of colour in the town, the women’s resemblance to parakeets, the men’s to mallard drakes. Perhaps most tellingly, when a visiting photographer set up his equipment at Hercus & Barling the townsfolk chose to be immortalised performing the poses of The Carpenter’s models.

Kemp had already thrown himself into the making of his own mannequins before The Carpenter’s arrival but he could not breathe life into them in the same way. They remained wooden forms, collections of limbs and blank spaces for covering with cloth and millinery.

An open carriage drawn by two old Clydesdales passed Kemp and Josephine. It was heading toward the wharf, or perhaps out of town. For a moment he considered jumping on the back of the carriage, stowing himself beneath the dirty green tarpaulin and leaving Marumaru forever, but Josephine was sure to give him away.

‘Kemp!’

He looked back at Donaldson’s and there was Charlie Begg, ruddy with rage, clutching a ledger book with both hands.

‘Where the blazes have you been?’

He didn’t want to cross the road. He looked down at Josephine, who seemed happy enough to sit on the church fence, dangle her legs and watch the unfolding drama.

Begg slammed the ledger book against an imaginary counter and stomped across Regent Street. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he repeated.

‘Wednesday is my workshop day,’ Kemp replied. ‘The window is all set for this evening.’

‘Sandow is here. Well, not here,’ Begg gestured back to the store, ‘but worse, there.’ He pointed toward Hercus & Barling.

‘Sandow? In Marumaru?’

‘I told you,’ Josephine added, though both men ignored the girl.

‘Well,’ Begg said, ‘just his statue at the moment, but you know how they send that ahead of the company.’

‘But Sandow isn’t supposed to perform here. The theatre’s hardly big enough for that pony show.’

‘I know. The boy must have got off at the wrong station. Nevertheless,’ Begg said slowly, spelling out the source of his ill-temper, ‘there is a plaster replica of Sandow the Magnificent in Hercus’s window right now and they’re selling Sandow Developers as if they were loaves of bread.’

Kemp looked back in the direction of Kriss’s bakery. ‘Probably outselling bread today.’

Begg hit him on the arm with the ledger book.

Josephine put her hand to her mouth but stayed perched on the fence.

Kemp looked at the ground, trying to keep his anger, lately focused on The Carpenter, from jumping the tracks and ploughing down his boss.

‘I get the impression, sir,’ he said, mirroring Begg’s deliberate pace, ‘that you think I am to blame for our misfortune, though I cannot see how.’

‘Because The Carpenter was at the train station this morning to carry Sandow off. We could have had him. Donaldson’s could have had him. The whole town was there, Kemp. The whole town but you. What, pray tell, was so important that you did not bless us with your presence?’

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t say the words that would kill Louisa once again. Even now it seemed that she would be in the kitchen, struggling to cut a pumpkin, when he returned home.

‘I didn’t know,’ he said. True enough, though he’d later learn that Flossie had seen the commotion at the station and run home to tell Louisa and him of the statue, arriving instead to find her sister limp in his arms in the workshop.

Begg narrowed his eyes. ‘One-upped again, eh?’ He patted Kemp on the shoulder, causing the flames to rise once more in the window dresser’s chest.

Two young women dressed to the nines for a night promenading Regent Street approached from the direction of the wharf. By force of habit, he appraised their outfits and knew an instant later that they were not Donaldson’s ladies. He turned to Begg and saw that he had come to the same conclusion. Soon the streets would be crawling with men and women in their finest clothes, sporting parasols and the latest Brazilian and Panama hats. He had delegated to one of his stock boys the task of flicking the switch at midnight to power his New Year’s display. If he left now, if he could shake Josephine Strachan, he could avoid the crowds, the tally-keeping, the lies of omission, the revelry of people looking forward without a single fear in their hearts.

‘I suppose there’s little point in holding a grudge,’ Begg said.

Colton Kemp said nothing. He turned his back on his boss and began to walk the mile and a half back to his secluded property, hauling his earthly form as if it were an engine coupled to a dozen freight carriages, every step a fresh battle with inertia. Josephine followed a few yards behind, in silence this time. He would later wonder why she clung to him. What was it she detected?

Eventually she left him, taking the path that ran beside the swamp back to the schoolhouse.

He worried what she would tell her parents when she got home. Not that he had grabbed her by the shoulder, threatened her, but that he had been walking around the town that afternoon as his wife lay dead. Because the news would have to come out. Tomorrow, if he could face it.

Flossie spied him as he walked up their long gravel driveway and ran out to meet him.

‘Oh, Col,’ she said, ‘I’m so glad you came back.’

She lured him inside, fed him, hardly spoke. She had coped well enough. As well as could be expected. Still, the house rang with cries and he found that he couldn’t sleep in his bed that night, that it was rendered incomplete without a counterbalance, his counterbalance. He soon gave in to his restlessness and stalked to his workshop, lit the lamp and saw the bloody comet trail leading from the base of Ursula, stolid and incomplete, to the heavy barn door. From the muddle of his tool bench, he selected the hatchet he used to chip away large amounts of wood at the start of a new project. Clenching the haft in his right hand, he realised this is how he had felt since the morning: tense beyond all reason but with none of the release of a sweetly placed stroke. Faster than thought, he drove the hatchet into Ursula’s unfinished head, braining her as if it were a tomahawk. He had to place his free hand on the figure’s right shoulder to free the bit from the wood before swinging again. This next stroke knocked a wedge free from Ursula’s head and the heavy wooden form toppled back, coming to rest awkwardly with a trestle against its rump. He turned, eyeing each of the misshapen forms that remained upright before hurling the hatchet end over end into the head of Mavis and her overlarge mouth.

He left the barn, forgetting it would be dark out, and fumbled around the lean-to where he stacked his firewood, searching for his father’s heavy, cumbrous axe.

By sunrise he had reduced the mannequins in his workshop to lengths of firewood for the range.

The occasional hand or foot sticking out of the woodpile would unnerve poor Flossie in the coming weeks, but that next morning she bit her bottom lip and placed a firm hand on his shoulder to rouse him. He uncurled from beneath his tool bench, still clasping his father’s axe. She looked into his red-rimmed eyes.

‘Col, I need you to get some things from town. For the babies.’

CHAPTER FOUR

In which the acolyte makes himself at home

Jesse lay awake as the sun cut through the thin bed sheets that were hung as curtains in his room at the Criterion Hotel. His chest felt expanded and he pumped it like a bellows, lying on his back and watching his breastbone rise and fall. He had hardly slept but his head felt clear. He knew that next to him lay Julia — dear, plump, motherly Julia — that she was a prostitute and that he was no longer a virgin. These facts became soft at the edges and crumbled when he tried to set the night’s events in order. Had one of his new friends paid for Julia or had she too been placed on his account (which of course was Mr Rickards’ account)? Ah, he didn’t care. To Rickards he was a delivery boy, a tagalong. To the people of Marumaru he was a herald, a saviour.

Julia lifted herself onto an elbow and said, ‘You know, love, it’s not every man I let kip beside me.’

‘Was I making too much noise?’

‘Not half,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’

‘You’ve got your own room for huffin’ and puffin’.’

‘My—?’ So this wasn’t his room. He was unaccustomed to the liberties the drink had taken with his memory. All the same, he found it hard to muster any regret that he’d strayed from Sandow’s path of moderation.

Julia sat up completely now, making no attempt to shield her large pink breasts with the white sheet. He felt himself get hard again, though there was a dead ache that had not been there last night, an ache he revelled in, the way his muscles used to ache when he started following Sandow’s System.

She reached out her hand to pat him on the cheek. ‘There’s a good boy,’ she said, motherly once more, and it set his cock throbbing.

Down the hall, he walked several circuits around his room, laughing to himself and throwing his hands in the air as a maniac might, before stripping to his underwear and settling down to his exercises. He began with the Sandow Spring-Grip Dumbbell, slowly clenching and unclenching his fist and curling the small weight up to his chin. Ten with the left, ten with the right, thinking all the time about his breathing, his new expanded lungs, the muscles of the chest, the biceps, the triceps, the wrist. He then brought his arm to his chest and extended it in an arc, as if opening a casement window. Ten with the left, ten with the right. On he worked through Sandow’s routine, slowly, never taxing a muscle too greatly, never expending excessive energy, focusing his brain in a way that had become second nature to him. He rigged his Sandow Developer to the door and began working his back. He kept noticing muscles he might not normally feel, ones he had employed with Julia. The thrusting fibres in his buttocks. The lower calf that had held him on his tiptoes as long as he wanted and needed. The toes that had grasped for traction on the wooden floor.

After his exercises, he took his sponge to the communal bathroom. He did not fill the heavy grey tub with cold water and fully immerse as Sandow’s gospel dictated. He never followed this step at home or when working out with Jarrett. Instead he stepped out of his underpants and soaked the sponge in cool water and proceeded to dab his warm, twitching body with the vital substance.

He dressed once more in his only outfit — short-sleeved shirt, brown waistcoat and thick canvas trousers — donned his cap and headed downstairs. It had just gone seven o’clock and the dining room was empty. The dark carpet of the hall smelt of spilt ale and sawdust. He took a seat at the bar and was happy enough to sit there and read the names on the liquor bottles.

‘After the hair of the dog that bit you, eh?’ said a voice from behind him. He turned and saw the publican, Ed Coughlin, who slowly made his way around the bar.

‘Sorry?’

‘You after a drink, sir?’

Jesse smiled. He was still a sir the morning after, though Coughlin forever looked on the verge of winking. ‘No thank you.’

‘Had your share last night.’ It wasn’t a question or a jibe, just barman’s conversation. ‘Dora’s in the kitchen,’ he said, ‘if you’re after breakfast?’

Jesse thought of the account the hotel had been happy enough to run up on Mr Rickards’ behalf last night. The drinks he had been shouted right there in the Criterion after his second telephone call with Rickards, when he could announce to the gathered crowd that the company would perform in Marumaru the next night.