‘That is a most wise course of action, Mrs Chen. Are you seeking the rest of your staff from the city or looking closer to home?’
‘I will be advertising locally and in the nearest big town. I note from your letter that you held the position of assistant manager at the Great Western.’
‘That is correct.’
‘It is quite a coincidence, Mr O’Donnell, considering the Great Western was the inspiration for my hotel. In minuscule, of course.’
‘Another sign from the heavens, Mrs Chen.’ His green eyes glinted under Mr Tart’s chandeliers.
‘I don’t believe in signs and omens,’ she said, trying to sound businesslike. ‘Would you care to see a picture of the hotel?’
‘Indeed.’
She fished in her bag and produced the drawing by Mr White that she carried everywhere with her.
‘It is a most elegant building,’ Mr O’Donnell remarked, after perusing the sketch. ‘I do like the tower. It reminds me of a fairy-tale castle. I can just imagine Rapunzel locked up inside and the prince coming to rescue her.’
‘I’m afraid it is not quite so whimsical, Mr O’Donnell. The tower will accommodate the Oriental Suite, which is the grandest room in the hotel. A staircase will lead up to a viewing space where guests will be able to look out over the countryside.’
‘If I may say so, Mrs Chen, that is a rather whimsical notion, and quite romantic too.’
She wasn’t sure why she was blushing. There was no reason to do so. Was it his use of the word ‘romantic’? It wasn’t a curse word after all, not even mildly offensive.
‘I shall be charging a considerable amount for the use of that suite, Mr O’Donnell. I would hardly call that romantic.’
‘You are right, of course. It is a most practical idea in the guise of romanticism.’
Was he making fun of her? She couldn’t tell. The lilt in his voice remained the same whatever he said. Meanwhile, the waitress had returned with their tea and was pouring it into little Chinese cups.
‘This is a delightful place, Mrs Chen. I have never seen anything like it, not even in London.’
‘Mr Tart is quite an innovator,’ said Amy.
‘You know him personally?’
‘I haven’t been acquainted with him for long, but I would certainly call him a friend. You don’t find that distasteful, do you, Mr O’Donnell?’
‘Why should I?’
‘On account of him being Chinese?’
‘In the brief time that I spent conversing with him, I found him to be a charming gentleman. And he is obviously a most competent restaurant manager. That is enough.’
She ventured a quick look at the green eyes. They had taken on a brownish hue like the waters of the creek after a heavy rainfall.
‘Now, Mr O’Donnell,’ she said briskly, ‘I will need to see your letters of recommendation.’
‘Of course, Mrs Chen.’ From his satchel he produced an envelope with the words ‘To Whom it May Concern’ written across the front. She watched as his long fingers removed a sheet of parchment and pushed it across the table. Slowly and deliberately she read the letter, noting the emblem of the Great Western at the top. Although she searched between the lines for a character flaw, Mr O’Donnell didn’t seem to possess a single one. ‘We cannot recommend this gentleman highly enough,’ the letter concluded. At the bottom was the signature of the proprietor himself.
‘This is a most impressive reference, Mr O’Donnell.’
‘You are very kind, Mrs Chen.’
‘If I were to offer you the position, the manager’s rooms might not be ready for immediate use. In that event, I would provide food and board in an alternative lodging house until such time as the rooms are finished. There is also the matter of the remuneration. I have no idea as to the stipend paid by a hotel such as the Great Western to its senior staff, but this is what I can afford to pay my own manager.’ She wrote an amount on a piece of paper and passed it to him. Just as he was on the point of taking it, his fingers brushed hers and she dropped the paper onto the table, as if it were on fire. Without a change in his expression, Mr O’Donnell retrieved it and read the numbers. When he remained silent, Amy was certain he was going to laugh at such a lowly salary. After a while he said:
‘That is more than generous, Mrs Chen.’
She had to repeat the words in her head to be sure she had heard correctly. Steadying her voice, she said, ‘In that case, I shall be in touch by telegram as soon as possible. Thank you for your time today, Mr O’Donnell.’
He returned his reference to its envelope and placed it in the satchel. ‘Thank you, Mrs Chen,’ he said, rising from his seat and extending his hand.
For a second she hesitated. Ladies didn’t shake hands. Ever. Then again, it might be acceptable for an hotelier to shake hands with a prospective employee. As she reached up, his fingers curled around hers and there was a brief, tingling sensation. Even when he released her hand, she could still feel it. And why was her heart pounding? If it hadn’t been for the din of the tea room, she felt certain he would have been able to hear it, drumming like a timpani. Her eyes followed him as he went towards the door. On the way he stopped at the counter. Surely he wasn’t going to pay the bill. She had invited him, not the other way around. She observed him handing over some coins. Then he was bidding Mr Tart farewell and walking out the door. He passed the window but didn’t look inside. She craned forward as he proceeded out of the arcade into George Street. She wasn’t sure whether it was the shining green eyes or the lilting accent or the Great Western testimonial, but Mr Liam O’Donnell had made himself a real contender for the manager’s job.
‘That Irishman is a most charming fellow,’ said a voice beside her. It was Mr Tart, who had approached the table while she was gazing out the window.
She turned around casually as though she had simply been watching the passers-by, and not one in particular. ‘He made much the same remark about you, Mr Tart.’
‘Really? What guid judgement he has,’ Mr Tart said with a chuckle. ‘May I?’ he asked, taking a seat.
‘So what is your opinion of Mr O’Donnell?’ she asked. ‘Apart from his charm.’
‘Do not underestimate the value of charm, my dear Mrs Chen, particularly in the business of hospitality. But to more serious matters. Did ye witness his testimonial?’
‘I did indeed. The Great Western recommended him unreservedly.’
‘Do ye have any other applicants for the job?’
‘An older gentleman from Granthurst, who ran the inn there for many years. I met him last week. He possesses a fine letter of recommendation from his former employer and seems eminently capable.’
‘What are ye going to do, Mrs Chen?’
Amy sighed. ‘I have to confess that I am swayed by the international reference: “Manager, direct from one of London’s finest hotels.” It would certainly look impressive in an advertisement.’
‘Aye, I have to agree about the reference. It would afford your hotel a certain sophistication and prestige. But in point of fact, both gentlemen appear to be excellent candidates. Yer Granthurst man has long experience and that counts for a great deal. I fear ye have a difficult decision to make, Mrs Chen.’
‘I do indeed, and I will ponder it during my return trip. But before I go, Mr Tart, may I enquire as to the health of Miss Scarlett?’
‘I haven’t actually seen her in a while, owing to . . .’ As his voice trailed off, Amy filled the pause:
‘There is less than a year to wait, Mr Tart. You will not regret your choices.’
‘Thank ye, Mrs Chen. I trust ye dinna mind that I wrote to Margaret, telling her of yer advice. She was most appreciative and longs to meet ye.’
‘We shall do so at your wedding. Perhaps you could even take your honeymoon at my hotel.’
Mr Tart smiled. ‘Perhaps we will.’
‘By the way, Mr Tart,’ she said as she picked up her handbag, ‘I saw Mr O’Donnell at the counter. Was he paying the bil
l?’
‘Only his portion.’
How strange, Amy mused. I will have to add it to the list of things I need to consider on my train journey home.
‘By-the-bye, what became of the baby?
I’d nearly forgotten to ask.’
LEWIS CARROLL
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter VI
XV
ELIZA
Wednesday 30th September, 1885
While Doctor Allen was away at a medical conference in Sydney, Eliza worked the entire day at the surgery, assisting Martin. Everyone seemed to have a spring cold, not that Millbrooke had seen much spring weather yet. The September nights continued to drop to freezing point and the dawns brought frosts, which dusted the paddocks with icy crystals.
By noon Eliza and Martin were congratulating themselves that they had managed to deal with every single patient, when Jimmy burst through the doors, breathless and red-faced.
‘Baby coming! Fai-dee-lah! Hurry, please.’
‘Go ahead, Eliza,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I lock up.’
She grabbed her medical bag and accompanied Jimmy to the emporium. May was in the living quarters, sitting on the bed. She showed Eliza a plug of bloody mucus.
‘Don’t worry, May. It’s perfectly normal. We call it a “show”. What a silly word that is. It’s not a show, like a concert or a play. But a sign that the baby is coming.’ Then she realised May hadn’t understood a single word. ‘Jimmy, just tell her everything is going to be fine.’
It struck Eliza that they would need an interpreter. And it certainly couldn’t be the father. No man was ever allowed in the birthing room, unless he was a doctor. The only suitable person Eliza could think of was Amy, who spoke Cantonese about as proficiently as Eliza could speak French. That is, enough to get by. So she sent Jimmy to fetch Amy.
‘Jimmy, ask her to bring a basket of food with her. It’s going to be a long day.’
By midnight May was exhausted from wave after wave of pain, pounding her like an incoming tide which had forgotten it was time to recede. Worse still, the baby remained trapped high inside her mother’s pelvis.
‘Do we just keep waiting for some progress and pray she doesn’t collapse in the meantime?’ Eliza whispered to Martin.
‘If nothing has happened by morning, we’ll need to consider a Caesarian section.’
Eliza’s eyes widened. ‘Have you ever done one?’
‘No, but I assisted at several when I was in London.’
‘There’s a high chance of infection, isn’t there? Not to mention blood loss.’
‘Well, it’s either that, or we’ll lose the baby, and possibly May too.’
Amy, who was sitting on the bed holding her sister-in-law’s hand, overheard the last sentence.
‘You can’t let May die!’
‘We’re not going to,’ said Eliza, trying to sound convincing.
By the early hours of the morning, May was so poorly they decided to do the operation then and there, rather than wait until daylight. While Eliza turned the kitchen into a makeshift operating theatre and began sterilising anything that might be needed for the operation, Martin rushed back to the surgery to collect a box of silver wire for the internal stitches.
‘Do you need me to help?’ Amy asked tentatively.
‘Just keep the oil lamps burning and the water boiling. We’ll do the rest.’
As dawn lit the rooftops of Millbrooke and the leaves hung wet with dew, Eliza removed a little girl from May’s womb. Martin sewed up the incision with small, even stitches, using the silver wire for the internal sutures. Thank goodness for Martin, thought Eliza. She had never been one for needlework.
Afterwards Jimmy made jasmine tea and they sat on little bamboo stools in the kitchen, waiting for May to waken. In a cradle beside them, the baby lay sleeping.
‘She’s so perfect,’ sighed Amy. ‘Not a mark on her.’
‘That’s because of the Caesarian,’ said Eliza.
‘Will May be all right?’ asked Amy.
‘I don’t know,’ said Martin.
‘Do you know what this town needs?’ said Eliza, before answering her own question. ‘A maternity hospital. A bright, clean place with comfortable birthing rooms.’
‘I think I know just the woman to establish such an enterprise,’ said Martin.
The ninth of November was Eliza’s birthday. Thirty-one years old: a certified old maid. She spent the morning at the surgery, had a birthday lunch at Amy’s and rode home afterwards. In the afternoon she curled up in the parlour with a medical journal, while her mother and Nancy worked on Daniel’s memorial book, pasting in paper medals and decorative scraps, adding lines of poetry and embellishing everything with pieces of ribbon and lace. The book was Charlotte’s obsession, but at least she wasn’t weeping uncontrollably any more. Not in front of the family, at any rate.
Now that Nancy’s pregnancy was advanced, she reminded Eliza of the mediaeval Madonnas she had seen hanging on the walls of the Musée du Louvre. One in particular came back to her vividly – a painting of the Annunciation (she had forgotten the name of the artist – an Italian, no doubt) complete with all the potent symbols of virgin motherhood. A mille fleurs garden sprouting white lilies for purity and violets for humility. Mary with her flowing hair and beatific expression, and the Archangel Gabriel announcing her pregnancy. Eliza smiled to herself – instead of an archangel, Nancy’s news had been delivered by a female medical student. And it hadn’t been an Immaculate Conception, far from it. But in most other aspects, the mediaeval painting could have been a scene from Nancy Gray’s life. The serene young woman who surrounded herself with velvet flowers – lilies, roses, pansies and violets, crafted by hand, ready to be worked into her headpieces.
All of a sudden Joseph appeared at the doorway, giving a churlish little cough, as if to say: ‘Don’t you ladies have anything better to do with your time?’ Though what he actually said was, ‘Good afternoon, ladies.’
‘Joseph,’ said his mother, ‘come and take a look at our memorial book. Nancy has found a perfectly beautiful quotation from an American by the name of Emerson. Read it to him, Nancy.’
Shyly she read from the page: ‘When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.’
‘Well, of course you can see the stars when it’s dark,’ said Joseph. ‘Except in the city where they have those gas lights everywhere.’
‘It is a metaphor, Joseph,’ said Eliza. ‘About grief.’
Joseph gave her an irritated look. ‘Why don’t people just say what they mean, instead of talking in riddles? And Nancy, I do wish you wouldn’t encourage Mama in this pointless frippery.’
Eliza watched as Nancy’s eyes filled with tears and her pale complexion turned red. Then she rose awkwardly from her work table and brushed past Joseph as she left the room. Absorbed in arranging her medals on the page, Charlotte didn’t seem to notice the contretemps.
‘Don’t you realise the scrapbook is their lifeline?’ Eliza hissed at Joseph. ‘Mama’s and Nancy’s. Joseph, you are such a . . .’ She couldn’t think of anything but a curse word to finish the sentence. ‘Now go and apologise to the poor girl. I really don’t know how Mama would manage without her.’
At dinnertime Nancy seemed to be her usual self, causing Eliza to assume there had been an apology from Joseph. Whether it had been grudging or not was another matter altogether. After the meal Nancy produced a white cardboard box tied with ribbon.
‘This is for you, Eliza,’ she said.
Everyone gathered around to see Eliza’s present. Inside the box an object was swathed in layers of tissue paper, the kind Nancy used for her hat patterns. Carefully Eliza removed the paper to reveal a headpiece made of black velvet roses with beads for stamens.
‘Do you like it?’ Nancy asked anxiously. ‘You can wear it with your mourning clothes. I checked with Reverend Brownlow.’
‘It’s adorable,’ said Eliza, placing it in her hair and rushing out to
the hallstand to admire herself in the mirror.
‘Did you read the label?’ asked Nancy, who had followed her into the hall and was holding a square of paper which had fallen out of the box.
Eliza read the wording aloud so that everyone could hear.
‘Fripperies by Nancy.
Headpieces for the Modern Lady.’
She didn’t dare hazard a glance at Joseph for fear of giving rein to the bubble of laughter rising from her chest. Anyway, she didn’t need to look at him to gauge his reaction – she could picture it in her mind’s eye. First the innocent puzzlement, then the frown as it dawned on him ever so slowly that little Nancy Gray, the wanton mother-to-be, had got her own back in the most charming and clever way.
During the night Eliza was woken by a wailing sound outside her door. Had someone forgotten to put the cat out? After a moment she realised it wasn’t a feline wail at all, but Nancy’s voice, crying, ‘Help me, help me.’
Eliza was out of bed so fast her head was spinning. She didn’t even bother to don a robe over her nightdress.
‘I’m coming,’ she said as she opened the door.
In the hallway Nancy was bent over in pain. ‘I had an accident in my bedroom,’ she said in a plaintive voice. ‘I’m so sorry. As soon as this pain passes, I’ll fetch a mop and clean it up.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Eliza. ‘I’ll deal with that. And the accident was your waters breaking. You don’t need to be sorry. It’s perfectly natural. Now, how is the pain?’
‘It’s going away. Does that mean I’m better?’
‘You’re not ill. The pain you are feeling is the baby, telling you he or she wants to get out. Now, let me help you back to your room and I’ll call Martin.’
As soon as she had settled Nancy in her bed, Eliza went down the corridor to Daniel’s old room and knocked gently. It was a few seconds before she heard Martin asking, ‘Who’s there?’
‘Martin, it’s me. Nancy’s gone into labour.’
The voice that answered made her feel instantly reassured. ‘I shall be there directly.’
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