you, sir, standing toward the back?’
Jolly Bannerman straightened the lapels of his ill-fitting suit. ‘Have you received many challenges during your tour, Mr Sandow?’ he asked, grinning.
‘Oh, a great many,’ Sandow said, ‘and always from men who have nothing to lose and everything to gain from the advertisement they would get in a public competition with myself. But to accept challenges from every man I meet is not my object in life.’ Jolly’s face sank. ‘I am endeavouring to make other men stronger than I am myself. That is my gospel and I think I have preached it well enough to you this evening. You, sir,’ Sandow indicated to a man seated four rows from the front. Kemp recognised him as Mr Fricker, the pharmacist, as he stood to ask his question.
‘Have you devoted any time to developing some of the minor organs, such as moving the ears?’
The town chuckled as one.
‘I must admit that I have not attained this accomplishment,’ Sandow replied. ‘Indeed, I do not see its value, unless one wishes to become a professional listener.’ This retort was met with widespread laughter, applause and a few ringing bravos.
‘But surely,’ Kemp shouted, pushing to the front of the men standing in the wings, ‘the actress in your company who plays a statue could benefit from learning not to blink?’
Sandow fingered his moustache, grinning as he searched for where the voice had come from. ‘Far be it from me to comment on other performers,’ he said, looking vaguely in Kemp’s direction, ‘particularly those more artful than me, a simple strongman.’
‘But could the eyelids be trained?’ Kemp persisted.
‘I do not see why not,’ Sandow said, finally eyeing Kemp, who felt as if an icicle had been planted in his chest.
Sandow clapped his hands together. ‘What an interesting array of questions. I thank you for your kindness and hospitality and wish you all the best for the New Year.’
The strongman made his way off the stage. The curtains dropped and the townsfolk collected their purses and canes from the floor but Colton Kemp was already out the door and running.
The grey warbler with the long-tailed cuckoo.
‘. . . all man’s misery stems from a single cause, his inability to remain quietly in one room.’
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.
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
