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.
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
