The Jade Widow

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘I hear it is a fine school,’ Joseph replied, giving Amy a curious glance. ‘In fact, I was thinking of sending James when he’s older.’

  ‘It’s not definite yet, Joseph,’ explained Amy. ‘I have only posted the letter today.’

  ‘Would you like Father to write a letter of reference? He has many influential friends in Granthurst. I think one of them might even be on the school’s Board of Governors.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ said Amy. ‘I shall speak to him about it.’

  ‘Perhaps not today though. He has other things on his mind.’ Joseph indicated the Sydney newspaper he was holding.

  ‘Is there more news from Khartoum?’

  ‘No, it’s closer to home. The Imperial Cabinet has cabled their acceptance of our military assistance and the troops will be leaving in less than three weeks.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘London wants our soldiers over there by the end of March.’

  ‘Is that possible? Africa is such a long distance from Sydney.’

  ‘The government has already chartered the steamships Iberia and Australasian. They will need both vessels to accommodate a battalion of infantry men and an artillery unit, not to mention guns, supplies and horses. They are even sending ambulance wagons and a water cart.’

  ‘Does the newspaper say how long they will be away?’

  ‘Only that they are taking enough equipment for a six-month campaign. Best to be prepared for a long stay.’

  ‘Have you heard from Daniel?’

  ‘Yes, we received a telegram from him this morning. He will, of course, be part of the contingent. Apparently there were hundreds of men queuing up at the barracks yesterday. Not just soldiers, but police too – from all over the colony.’

  ‘Are you saying that Daniel volunteered for this?’

  ‘No, he is a captain in the permanent army. He has no choice. But the others did. There were six times as many men as were needed, according to the reports. Such patriotism.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you realise that Daniel has been in the army for almost ten years now and he has never seen service? This is a chance to travel the world and defend the Empire at the same time.’

  ‘I don’t imagine your mother feels the same way.’

  ‘No, but she will put on a brave face for Daniel when he comes home on leave.’

  ‘He’s coming home?’

  ‘The weekend after next. And Eliza will need to hold her tongue. I don’t want her ranting about it not being our war. That kind of talk is hardly suitable at any time and certainly not on the eve of Daniel’s embarkation for the Soudan.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Amy. ‘But it will be hard for Eliza to remain silent about her views. She’s always been so . . .’

  ‘Snippy,’ Joseph interjected.

  ‘No, I was about to say “forthright”.’

  ‘Forthright! Eliza’s more than forthright. She’s a powder keg waiting to explode. Remember that meeting involving the Miners’ Protection League when she stood up and made a speech. She just couldn’t contain herself, even though she had agreed beforehand that I should do it.’

  ‘If I recall rightly,’ said Amy, ‘it was an excellent speech about everyone being equal whether he or she is Chinese, Caledonian or Calathumpian.’

  ‘What is a Calathumpian, Mama?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Actually, I have no idea. We shall have to look it up in the dictionary as soon as we get home.’

  Two days later, Amy received a letter from the registrar of St Cuthbert’s. Would Master Charles Chen be available for an entrance test at eleven o’clock on Friday, 20th February? And would Mrs Charles Chen kindly attend at the same time for an interview with the headmaster, Mr George Carruthers, bringing with her any relevant school reports and a letter of reference from a minister of religion?

  That morning she paid a visit to the rectory at St John’s and requested a testimonial from the Reverend Brownlow. Afterwards she took the horse and sulky to Millerbrooke House to confer with John Miller. Even though the college had only requested one reference, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have a second. He was out checking fences and not due back until lunchtime so she drank tea on the verandah with Eliza while she waited. Eliza herself had only just returned from Doctor Allen’s surgery where she had spent the morning helping him. It had become her regular job since returning from France.

  ‘I am pleased you have decided on this course of action, Amy. But how does Charlie feel about it? I imagine he’s rather apprehensive.’

  ‘No, not at all. Do you know what he told me, Eliza? It almost broke my heart to hear it. He said he was lonely and that the other pupils would be like brothers. I suppose I should have realised he felt that way.’

  ‘How could you possibly know?’

  ‘Have you forgotten that I was an only child myself for nine years? Until my mother gave birth to Robbie. It is a solitary life.’

  ‘It didn’t seem to do you any harm,’ said Eliza with a smile.

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ Amy glanced at the memory garden where the pansies were nodding their multi-coloured faces in the breeze. ‘Have you heard any further news from Daniel?’

  ‘Only that they have apportioned the recruits into companies and they are doing drill practice. He says drill is very important. And the government is asking for donations of goods and money in support of the troops.’

  ‘We must organise a benefit here in Millbrooke to raise money.’

  ‘That is an excellent idea, Amy. We could hold it in the long barn when Daniel is home on leave.’ Eliza paused for a moment and looked towards the west, shading her eyes with her hand.

  ‘It’s Papa. He’s on his way back.’

  After lunch, Amy joined John Miller in his study. She remembered the times she had sat bolt upright in her own father’s study at the Manse, holding her breath for fear that she would be admonished for some petty misdemeanour. What a contrast to be seated in a comfortable wing chair, drinking coffee from demitasses and being treated like an intelligent adult.

  ‘Now, Amy, Joseph has told me about St Cuthbert’s. And I believe it to be a very wise decision on your part.’

  ‘So you agree with Eliza that I will turn him into a sissy if he stays with me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it in those terms. Not at all. He just needs to be among other boys in order to build his strength. By that, I don’t simply mean his physical strength. I’m also referring to his strength of character. I’m proud of you for letting him go, Amy. And I shall be delighted to write a glowing letter of recommendation, not the least because it will all be true.’

  On Friday morning Amy and Charlie took the train to Granthurst. She was dressed in her best gown – an elegant high-necked creation of black voile. Ever since her husband’s death, she had only worn black, or navy blue for special occasions, even though everyone she knew, including Reverend Brownlow, made it their duty to remind her the official period of mourning had long passed and that she was a young woman, not a black widow. Amy didn’t choose to heed them. How could she don the frivolous garments of her youth – the pink organdie, the turquoise embroidered silk or even the flower-sprigged muslin? Those vibrant colours and patterns held too many memories. Dark tones reflected her state of mind – sombre and restrained. The Queen was her example, and Charles Chen was Amy’s Prince Albert. How could a woman stop honouring a man like that, no matter how many years had passed since his death?

  For her visit to St Cuthbert’s, Amy’s one concession to fashion was the addition of a chic black hat with a matching spray of ostrich feathers. She had never been able to resist a smart hat. Her golden hair was pulled into a bun and secured with pins and a touch of pommade. Although she had tried to copy the Queen’s severe hairstyle, a few tendrils had fallen loose around her face. Every so often she would attempt to tuck them back into place, only to find the wayward strands seemed to have taken on a life of their own. Meanwhile, Charlie was wearing a twee
d jacket and his first pair of long trousers, which Amy had purchased the previous Christmas from the Anthony Horderns’ catalogue.

  Sitting opposite him in the carriage, Amy observed her son from under her lashes. He was engrossed in his illustrated copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. From time to time, he would utter a little chuckle and then continue reading in silence. Amy couldn’t help smiling at his delight in Mr Carroll’s story. Better to let him relax and enjoy his book than spend the journey doing last-minute study.

  As the dry brown fields rushed by, Amy glanced at her fob watch, which had once belonged to Charles. An hour to go. A dozen years ago, when she had first come to Millbrooke, the trip in a rickety Cobb and Co coach had seemed to take forever. At the end of that same year she had made a secret journey to Granthurst in the Millerbrooke dray with Joseph at the reins and Charles beside her. They had left Millbrooke at midnight and arrived in Granthurst the next morning. To Amy, it had seemed like a great adventure.

  Many times since then she had reflected on her behaviour in pressing Charles to run away with her. He had wanted to take a cautious approach, to spend more time winning her father’s approval, fearing an irreparable schism might form in the family. But she had dismissed his concerns. In her impatience to be with Charles, she had involved him in subterfuge and falsehoods, pushing him to do things which went against his nature. Was that the reason he had fallen ill with diphtheria? Was it the strain of the elopement and the vilification by her father on their return to Millbrooke? Could that have weakened his health? The guilt had become a dark shadow across her heart.

  ‘Mama, what is your favourite part of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?’

  Charlie’s question jolted her from her troubled thoughts.

  ‘Well, let me see. There’s the tea party. As an importer of tea, I am rather fond of that particular scene. And I do like the Cheshire cat. I always wanted a talking cat.’

  ‘Really?’

  She laughed. ‘It was when I was a little girl in Glasgow, years before Lewis Carroll wrote his book. What about you, Charlie? What’s your favourite part?’

  He thought for a long time before replying, ‘I think it is when Alice plays croquet with a flamingo as her mallet. Though I suppose that’s a cruel thing to do, isn’t it? Poor flamingo. Do we have flamingos in Australia, Mama?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But we have ibis. They have long beaks a little like flamingos, though their feathers are white, not pink.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said solemnly and returned to his book.

  How proud Charles would be of this charming young man, she thought. And how sad that her own father denied his existence. Her mother, however, came as often as she could to the house on Paterson Street. If she happened to encounter a St Aidan’s parishioner who might consider it their duty to report the visit to Reverend Duncan, Margaret Duncan would continue walking as if she were heading for the bootmaker’s shop at the end of the street.

  It was a great joy in Amy’s life to spend those moments with her mother. Margaret Duncan adored her grandson, but she was always nervous, her eyes darting towards the long-case clock in Amy’s parlour, knowing that she would have to be home before her husband discovered her absence.

  ‘Why does Nanna never stay for supper?’ Charlie would ask.

  ‘She has to be home in order to cook for my father.’

  Charlie knew better than to ask about his grandfather. Amy had told her son the Reverend Duncan was not a good man. It was a harsh statement but better to speak the truth than invent a story that Charlie would inevitably learn was a pack of lies.

  Since the night she left home in 1872, Amy had never again set foot in her father’s house. She had no reason to go back there. After all, she saw her mother on a regular basis, and she sometimes encountered her brothers in the main street. Robbie was twenty-one and newly married; Billy was nineteen and still a rapscallion. Both had been forbidden to speak to her. Occasionally Robbie gave her a smile so fleeting she would wonder if she had imagined it, but generally he just blushed a deep scarlet and looked embarrassed. Billy was different. If she happened to meet him on his own, they would soon slip into their old pattern of easy banter. If Charlie was with her, the two boys might even exchange a few words. But neither Robbie nor Billy had ever come to the house in Paterson Street. Amy knew that would be bending their father’s rules too far.

  Amy had only one regret about not going back to the Manse – her travelling trunk, which remained unclaimed at the bottom of the linen cupboard. She had pushed it so far under the bottom shelf she doubted even her mother knew it was there. The contents had little value, not in a monetary sense at any rate, yet they were invaluable to Amy. A sentimental record of her first year in Millbrooke – a pincushion made from a remnant of turquoise silk, a little tin of tea, the hand-painted fan Charles had brought her from Canton, her grandmother’s tiny jet cameo, an empty bottle of perfume and a framed photograph taken the day she first danced with Charles. A motley collection, meaningless to anyone else.

  Many a night when she couldn’t sleep, Amy spent the wakeful hours devising ploys by which she could retrieve her treasures. The only plan which seemed feasible was to ask her mother to pack them into a basket and bring them on one of her visits. But in the bright light of a Millbrooke morning Amy had realised it wouldn’t be fair to involve her mother in such an activity. After all, she was already enmeshed in enough intrigue of her own. The trunk and its contents would be safe enough in the linen cupboard. And one day Amy would find a way to reclaim them.

  ‘Mama, we are almost there,’ said Charlie.

  As Amy glanced out the window, she caught sight of the timber mill and tannery which heralded the outskirts of Granthurst. She checked her fob watch. Twenty minutes to eleven. Plenty of time to walk from the station to the college.

  A privet hedge ran right around the college, broken by a huge iron gate with the letters ‘St Cuthbert’s’ worked into the metal design. When Amy pushed on one of the gates, it opened like magic.

  ‘I feel like Alice entering Wonderland,’ she said to Charlie, who was lurking behind her.

  They walked along a path leading to the largest of the turreted buildings. On their right, boys of around Charlie’s age were playing cricket. Finally they reached a terrazzo verandah and heavy wooden doors as tall and wide as an elephant.

  ‘Now I really do feel like Alice,’ said Amy. ‘Remember when she drinks the potion and begins to shrink. Suddenly I feel very small.’

  Amy knocked tentatively and a doddery white-haired gentleman in a stiff dark suit and bow tie opened the door.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I’m Mrs Chen. My son is here to attend an enrolment examination.’

  The old man nodded and indicated they should follow him. They crossed a tiled entrance as big as the interior of St John’s in Millbrooke. A row of benches resembling church pews hugged the far wall.

  ‘Wait here, please,’ he said and scuttled away.

  ‘He reminds me of the White Rabbit,’ whispered Charlie. ‘And I’m starting to feel nervous. Is it too late to change my mind?’

  ‘No, of course not. But we’re already here so you might as well do the test. Just breathe slowly and deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That will keep you calm. It is a trick your father taught me. He used to do it before he had to speak in public. One night he made an address to a group of hostile miners. Things were so rowdy the police had to blow their whistles and the magistrate threatened the offenders with a night in the lock-up.’

  ‘Were you there, Mama?’ asked Charlie, his eyes wide.

  ‘Of course I was. Your father spoke so beautifully that by the end of his address he had won them over. Not all of them, of course, but a considerable number. He was so courageous I could hardly bear to watch him.’

  ‘Do you think I will ever be as brave as Papa?’

  ‘If the opportunity presents itself, I’m sure you will be.’

  ‘I think I might be a
soldier when I grow up. Like General Gordon.’

  Amy gave him a sideways glance. ‘General Gordon was an engineer, Charlie, not a soldier.’

  ‘Well, like Uncle Daniel then.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to help me run the hotel or assist Uncle Jimmy in the emporium?’

  ‘I’d rather be a captain in the colonial army.’

  ‘You don’t have to join the army to be a brave man. Take your father, for example. They heckled him from the floor and called him vile names, yet he never once lost his temper. He won them over with his sense of dignity and repose.’

  At that moment the elderly gentleman appeared with another man aged in his forties or fifties – it was hard to tell. He was wearing a black academic gown.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Chen. I am Mr Marshall, the Master of Wellington House. I shall be accompanying Master Chen to the exam room. In the meantime, Mr Hodges will take you to meet the headmaster. Come on, young man,’ he said to Charlie.

  ‘Remember to breathe,’ Amy whispered in Charlie’s ear as he turned to accompany the master. She watched them disappear through an archway.

  ‘Now, Mrs Chen, follow me,’ said Mr Hodges.

  She straightened her skirt, tucked her hair behind her ears and dutifully followed the suited gentleman up a winding staircase to the top of the turret. In front of them an arched wooden door barred the way. Mr Hodges knocked and gave a little cough. From the other side of the door, Amy heard, ‘Come in.’

  For a moment she felt like a recalcitrant student awaiting punishment. Mr Hodges held the door open and waited for her to enter. Dressed in a flowing black gown with fur around the neck, the headmaster was standing behind his desk. He was tall and angular with a balding head.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Chen, do come in,’ he said, inclining in a bow.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Carruthers.’ There, she had managed to remember his name.

  ‘Do I detect a Scots accent, Mrs Chen?’ he asked, offering her a seat.

  ‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly. She had always imagined the accent had disappeared years ago, thanks to the elocution lessons she had undertaken at Miss Howe’s School for Ladies. Then again, it might have re-emerged owing to her nervousness.