Excerpt from The Mannequin Makers by Craig Cliff, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

'The penultimate act this evening,' the master of ceremonies was saying, 'is another taste of fine culture. The finest theatre from Mother England's finest poet. A superb vignette from The Bard's great pastoral play, The Winter's Tale. A story for the fireside on a chilly January eve — January in the Northern Hemisphere, of course. A tale of jealousy, rage, loss, deception, but also, as we shall witness, magic, transformation and reunion. The perfect apéritif before another statue comes to life.' He raised his hand to his lips. 'But I have said too much. Ladies, gentlemen, I give to you the Gates Family Players and the concluding scene of The Winter's Tale.'

The crowd clapped politely as the master of ceremonies backed away from the front of the stage and passed a shuffling figure who, despite being robed in white cloth and sporting a long grey beard, clearly counterfeit, could not have been past twenty years of age. There were a few hoots of recognition from the crowd and someone shouted, 'Atta boy, Jesse!', though this meant nothing to Kemp.

In one hand this figure carried a large hourglass hung from a chain and in the other a book.

Young Father Time stopped at the centre of the stage and began to read off a sheet of paper stuck to the cover of the book:

'I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror
Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error,
Now take upon me, in the name of Time,
To use my wings. Impute it not a crime
To me or my swift passage, that I slide
O'er sixteen years and leave the growth untried
Of that wide gap, since it is in my power
To o'erthrow law and in one self-born hour
O'erwhelm custom. Your patience this allowing,
I turn my glass —'

He paused to upend the hourglass.

'and give my scene such growing
As you had slept between: Leontes leaving,
The effects of his fond jealousies so grieving
That he shuts up himself. Yea, of this allow,
If ever you have spent time worse ere now;
If never, yet that Time himself doth say
He wishes earnestly you never may.'

With this, the figure shuffled back to the wings and two stage hands rolled out a backdrop painted to resemble the nave of a chapel, with real velvet curtains hung across a niche. Four men and two women, one quite old, the other rather beautiful, took the stage in a jumble of togas, tunics, capes, stockings, sandals and elfin shoes. The largest of the men in the finest of the garments also wore a crown of some heavy metal to which only the last flakes of gilt still clung.

'O grave and good Paulina,' the king began, 'the great comfort that I have had of thee!'

He took the older woman's hand and she spoke to him reverently as they strolled along the stage, the other actors in tow. In front of the curtained niche, the king stopped and spoke solemnly:

'Your gallery have we pass'd through, not without much content in many singularities; but we saw not that which my daughter came to look upon, the statue of her mother.'

The actress playing Paulina began to describe the statue of the queen, the way the likeness exceeded anything the 'hand of man hath done', before pulling back the curtain. The actors gasped as a woman completely in white, posing on a short pedestal, was revealed. The audience murmured. Perhaps they saw an echo of Sandow's statue — the white powdered face, one hand held up to support a veil of white lace, the other down by her hip.

The actors marvelled at the supposed statue. Kemp thought the use of a veil unwise as the light material showed every movement. He considered the possibility of constructing a new window display based on this scene. He scanned the audience for The Carpenter, who might not be able to deliver such a scene as quickly as him, but would most certainly trump his queen (and that of the poor actress on the pedestal). Yes, there he was, leaning forward in his seat, craning his neck, thinking the very same thoughts.

From The Mannequin Makersby Craig Cliff (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2017). Copyright © 2013 by Craig Cliff. Reprinted with permission from Milkweed Editions. milkweed.org