Diary fragment · 3 min read ·
The Figure in the Window
A window dresser at a Calder department store notes that the mannequin in the front display turns its head each morning to face the supervisor's counter, and the supervisor has begun to answer it.
- dated: the quiet quarter
- narrator: Nora Quenn, window dresser
- reliability: unreliable
Monday. Dressed the front window for the autumn sale. The mannequin in the centre is a tall woman in a grey tweed suit, from the old stock, with a glass face and a fixed smile. I set her with her left hand on her hip and her right holding a shopping bag, the way the buyer asked. Then I went down to open the counters.
Tuesday. When I came in at seven the mannequin's head had turned. It was no longer facing the street. It was looking through the glass, down the length of the shop floor, to the supervisor's counter at the far end. I put her straight. I told myself the stand had slipped.
Wednesday. The head had turned again. This time the glass eyes were on the supervisor's counter, and the supervisor, Mrs Tilly, was standing behind it with her hands full of invoices. She looked up and saw the window and said, quite pleasantly, good morning. The mannequin's painted lips did not move. But I could have sworn the head dipped, very slightly, the way a person nods back.
Thursday. Mrs Tilly says the figure has been watching her since the spring. She says she does not mind. She says it is better company than the men from the wholesalers, and that it always looks at the right things, the ledger and the till and the stock book, as though it were checking the sums.
Friday. I asked Mrs Tilly whether she had ever spoken to it. She laughed and said she had, the first week, and that the figure had answered her, very politely, in a voice like a shop bell. It had told her the takings were short by four shillings, and it had been right.
Saturday. The window was full of shoppers all day. At closing time I went back to dress the figure for Monday. She had turned again, and she was facing the back door, where Mrs Tilly had left her coat on the hook. The coat had been moved. It was on the mannequin's arm now, buttoned up, and the scarf was tied at the throat in a neat bow I did not know how to make.
Sunday. Went in to check the window before the shop opens. The figure is standing as I left her, but her face has changed. The glass has a faint glow, and the painted smile is wider, and her eyes, which I was sure were grey, are now looking at me with the quiet attention of someone who has been waiting a long time for the window to be dressed properly.
Monday. Mrs Tilly came in early and found me in the window, with my hands full of pins. She said the figure would need a new name, now that it was keeping the books. I said I did not think it wanted one. She said it had already told her what it wanted to be called, and that it was the name on the old department sign above the lift, the one that was painted over in the war.