Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘Are they going to put any of this in writing?’ asked Chrissie.

  ‘We don’t need to. I trust them both.’

  ‘A real estate agent and a property owner?’ Vicky was rolling her eyes.

  ‘Things are different in the country, Vicky. People stand by a handshake.’

  ‘Maybe in the nineteenth century they did,’ she muttered. ‘They saw you coming, Angie. The crazy woman from the city. Let’s put one over her. She’s so besotted with the old house she won’t even notice.’

  But Angie wasn’t listening. It was something at which she had become adept over the past few months. Mostly she didn’t even hear what people said. She just offered up responses in a manner she hoped was acceptable.

  ‘Are you going to discuss this with the boys?’ asked Vicky.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh, Angie, you don’t even know a soul in Millbrooke,’ said Chrissie.

  ‘I do. There’s Nola at the Old Schoolhouse and Doug Morrison. And Richard Scott, the owner.’

  ‘I might be able to understand it if you were born here and you were deciding to move back,’ said Vicky. ‘But you’re a city person. You have no connection to the country whatsoever. Honestly, I don’t think you know what you’re doing. You’ll go mad in a town like this.’

  ‘Phil and I used to talk about retiring to a little country town and buying a B&B.’

  ‘Everybody does that – even Paul and I do, after a weekend away. It’s the tree change fantasy. But nobody actually means it.’

  ‘Phil did.’ Angie felt her throat contract in the way it always did when she said his name. It really had been their dream, the two of them. They had discussed it for as long as she could remember. He would retire from the ER, run a consultancy two days a week and spend the rest of the time playing the jovial host. And she would have her own painting studio where she could work to her heart’s content, while their guests were out sightseeing.

  ‘Is this an attempt to keep Phil alive, by turning his dream into a reality?’ asked Vicky.

  ‘It was my dream too.’

  ‘Angie, everything’s happening too fast. They say you shouldn’t make any major changes in the first year – no rash decisions that you’ll regret later.’

  ‘I haven’t made a decision. I just said I’d phone next week to let them know.’

  ‘You’ve latched onto this as a way of avoiding the grieving process. That’s what people do when they can’t confront the loss. They go on an overseas trip. Move to the coast. Move to the country. They fool themselves into believing a change of location will make things better.’

  ‘Isn’t there a possibility that it could?’ Angie asked fiercely. Vicky was making her angrier than she’d felt in a long time. Maybe that was a good thing. Was it possible the numbness was finally abating?

  ‘It’s running away,’ Vicky continued, oblivious to the edge in Angie’s voice. ‘Like those movies where the woman loses her husband and goes off to Tuscany or Provence or somewhere equally foreign and exotic.’

  ‘And does up an old house,’ added Chrissie. ‘And meets a local Adonis. He’s usually the builder, isn’t he? He doesn’t speak much English, but he makes up for it in other ways.’ She gave Angie a wink.

  ‘Chrissie, don’t encourage her. This is bloody Millbrooke, not the movies,’ said Vicky. ‘And you’ll probably end up with lead poisoning from scraping off the old paint, and broken nails from pulling up those monster weeds out the back.’

  Little bubbles of hysteria were building in Angie’s throat, threatening to erupt as a cackle, yet if she burst into maniacal laughter, Vicky would be convinced she really was insane. Instead, she tried to sound rational and composed.

  ‘It’s not as if I would be cutting my ties to Sydney. I wouldn’t be selling the house, only putting it up for rent. And you’d come and visit me, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Of course we would,’ said Chrissie.

  Vicky gave her a dirty look.

  ‘And the boys would love weekends in the country. They could stay during the uni holidays. I’d probably see more of them than I do now.’

  Vicky was shaking her head again.

  ‘You’re such a wet blanket, Vicky,’ Angie said more sharply than she intended. ‘Something positive has happened to me this weekend. For the first time in months, I don’t feel numb and helpless. And I think I’m ready to paint again. Millbrooke has inspired me. I could even offer painting classes to the locals. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll just move back to Sydney.’

  ‘Blake and Tim will blame me for this,’ said Vicky. ‘If there hadn’t been a girls’ weekend, the Old Manse would have continued to languish on its acreage, waiting for some other crazy romantic to take it on.’

  When Angie didn’t answer, Vicky added, ‘It ought to be demolished and replaced with a spanking new subdivision. Except that it’s probably heritage-listed like most of this bloody town.’

  Little was said on the long trip back to Sydney. Angie sat in the back with a sketchbook she’d bought at the newsagent, drawing room plans and slotting in her furniture. By the time they reached the freeway interchange on Sydney’s outskirts, she had added a conservatory at the back, a pergola at the side, a knot garden and a lavender hedge. There was a new streamlined kitchen adjoining the dining room and ensuite bathrooms for every bedroom.

  As they pulled up outside Angie’s house, Vicky told her for the umpteenth time to drop the idea.

  ‘It’s cloud-cuckoo-land,’ she warned. ‘Nothing good can come of it.’

  Angie thanked them for a lovely weekend and waved goodbye. Then she let herself into the house and turned off the alarm. No need for one of those in Millbrooke, she thought to herself. A smile creased her face. It was then she realised that she’d already made up her mind.

  2

  ALADDIN AND HIS TREASURES

  Then

  What Amy’s father hadn’t told her in his letter was the cause of her mother’s illness. That mystery was solved when Margaret Duncan confided to her daughter about a bairn arriving at the end of winter. Amy looked upon her mother’s wan face and felt guilty at her own reluctance to leave Sydney. She couldn’t remember such awful sickness with Robbie or Billy, not that Amy had known much about it, having been no more than a child herself when they were born.

  In the mornings her mother sent Amy to buy bread from the bakery in the main street. ‘Don’t tell your papa,’ she whispered, ‘but I’m just not well enough to make my own bread.’ The Reverend Duncan didn’t believe in buying things you could make yourself.

  One morning, towards the end of April, Amy slipped past her father’s study where he was already up and working on his Sunday sermon. It was a brisk Millbrooke morning with a light frost on the grass, a portent of the winter to come. She wrapped her paisley shawl tightly round her shoulders.

  Just after sunrise, the main street was unnaturally quiet. A man sleeping off the previous night’s drinking binge was curled up in the doorway of the Telegraph Hotel. Amy shivered as she imagined an autumn night spent in the open. She skirted around him and headed up to the bakery, passing the millinery shop on the way. Sitting in the window on a wooden stand was an adorable straw creation with a mass of downy black feathers and a bold red grosgrain ribbon. Amy sighed out loud – she had a passion for hats. And although it might never be hers, she could always dream.

  Even before she reached the bakery door, she could smell the bread, so fresh and enticing. The baker had just removed a tray of currant buns. His arms were bulging with muscles from kneading the dough; his face was flushed with the heat of the oven. Overcoming the urge to buy a warm bun to eat on the way home, Amy purchased the loaf she had been sent for. The sun was glistening low in the eastern sky. There was no need to hurry. So she pondered taking a stroll to the top of the street and down the other side, past a haberdashery she had spotted on her first day, its windows laden with rolls of ribbon and cards of lace.

  Merchants were setting up their shop
s, placing crates of fruit and vegetables on the boardwalk. The smell of the bread nestled in her basket was becoming so irresistible she was tempted to break off a small piece of the crust. She didn’t though, because she wanted to take her mother the loaf in all its perfection. She crossed the road and proceeded down the other side, stopping to gaze at the ribbons and lace. Aunt Molly’s sovereign was still wrapped in a handkerchief inside her trunk, waiting to be spent.

  ‘Just between us,’ Aunt Molly had said. ‘No need to tell your mama and papa.’

  A new hair ribbon would be nice. Her father would never notice. She would think about it and come back when the shop was open.

  Amy passed the boot mart, the pharmacy and Thompsons’ general store. She was about to cross back to the other side of the road when her nose detected something even more mouth-watering than the bread. It was a mix of aromatic spices coming from the next shop. She looked for a sign. Most of the buildings were covered in painted lettering, but here she had to search for the name, written in elegant frosted letters on each of the windows.

  MR CHEN’S EMPORIUM

  IMPORTER OF FINE GOODS AND DEALER IN ORNAMENTAL WARES

  At the top of each verandah post was a pair of decorative brackets made from cast iron. Nothing unusual there, except that the design within each bracket was a fire-breathing dragon, its wings outstretched. A pair of blood-red doors marked the entrance. One was shut, the other flung open.

  She stood at the doorway, unsure whether to enter. She might have walked on, had it not been for the scent of the fragrant spices luring her closer – cinnamon, cloves, ginger and something earthy she couldn’t quite identify. Tentatively she stepped over the threshold but didn’t proceed any further, as if an invisible barrier was holding her back. From somewhere close she heard a tinkling sound. It took her a few seconds to discover the source. Hanging above her were strings of brass bells swinging in the breeze. The interior of the store was so dark her eyes took a while to make out the details, and then she could barely contain her excitement. The walls were lined with wooden shelves reaching to the cornices. Every shelf was crowded with beautiful things vying for her attention: teapots, bowls, cups and plates in tantalising colours and intricate patterns, and elegant vases with lids resembling Prussian helmets. Paper parasols painted with bright flowers and birds were suspended from the ceiling. Bolts of fabric were stacked in an open cabinet, arranged by colour. A brass lantern glowed on the counter and large porcelain urns patterned with intricate blue and white designs stood on the floor.

  It was an Aladdin’s cave, tucked away in the main street of Millbrooke.

  A man was standing at the counter with his back to her, unloading something from a tea chest. She was about to leave when he turned and saw her. He squinted, trying to make out the figure backlit by the morning sun. Then she realised it couldn’t be more than half past seven. The store was not yet open.

  ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, sir,’ she said before he could speak. ‘Your shop smells like Christmas and I couldn’t resist looking inside.’

  He was dressed in a suit – a brown jacket, white shirt and black tie knotted loosely in a bow, with matching brown trousers. But it was the waistcoat which caught her eye: orange silk – the colour of a Millbrooke sunset. And then she saw his face. Bronzed skin, liquid brown cat’s eyes, sleek black hair immaculately combed back from a high forehead, full lips topped by a black moustache, not the thick and bristly kind favoured by her father, but a thin line perfectly groomed. His cheekbones might have been sculpted out of clay. It was hard to judge his age.

  As she looked at the face, it dawned on her that the merchant was a Chinaman, like the band of dancing people she had seen in the street. Like her beloved Aladdin of Monsieur Galland’s A Thousand and One Nights, only without the pigtail.

  Meanwhile, the Chinaman in the orange waistcoat was staring back at her, as though he hadn’t understood her words. She was about to repeat them slowly when she heard: ‘Good morning, madam. Please do not apologise. May I be of help to you?’

  He was smiling, showing perfect white teeth. Perfect English too. If she closed her eyes, it would be easy to imagine he was Mr Dickens himself. Amy was disconcerted. She had expected him to speak in the odd, high-pitched sounds she had heard from his fellow countrymen when she passed them in the street. Not the cultivated accent of someone who might have recently come down from university.

  ‘No, thank you, sir. I really should go. My mother is waiting for me to return with the bread for our breakfast. I am truly sorry to have bothered you.’ At the same time she found herself advancing further into the shop.

  ‘You spoke of the smell of Christmas,’ he said.

  The look he gave her was so odd that she wondered if she should explain the meaning of ‘Christmas’, but he continued. ‘I wonder if it could be the spices in the tea? This one in particular smells like plum pudding.’ He was pointing to a small wooden canister, part of a row of identical containers sitting on the counter.

  ‘I’ve never known tea to smell like that,’ she replied.

  He removed the lid and filled a wooden scoop with tea leaves. As he held it towards her, Amy leaned forward and breathed in the fragrance. Her face was almost touching his hand.

  ‘Yes, I think you are right,’ she said.

  ‘Dried chamomile blossoms, apple and cinnamon. It is a tisane. Would you care to try it? I have some water boiling on the stove.’ He indicated a room at the back. Before she could decline, he was gone, returning soon after with a cast-iron kettle which he placed on a porcelain trivet. Next he took a white teapot, decorated all over with climbing blue flowers, added three teaspoons of the tisane, and poured the hot water.

  ‘It must infuse for a few minutes. Pray take the opportunity to look around while you are waiting.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Although there was much to peruse in the Chinaman’s store, it was the bolts of fabric which drew her to them. Jewel-coloured silks and brocades adorned with tiny flowers and birds. Next to the silks there stood a cheval mirror. How could she possibly resist the temptation to drape herself in one of those sumptuous silks and view the effect? Placing her basket on the floor, she took a bolt of turquoise and unrolled enough of it to wrap around her body like a toga. In her mind’s eye she saw a wondrous ball gown. It would have no need of lace or any other trim. Then she posed in front of the looking glass, supporting the roll of fabric with one hand and placing the other on her hip.

  What she saw made her smile. The greenish-blue tones were a perfect foil for her pale complexion, which was flawless, save for a dusting of freckles on her nose, the product of eight summers lived under the Australian sun. Her dark blue eyes had taken on the colours of the sea, and her golden curls seemed to shine as brightly as the silk.

  Although she had been among the tallest in her class, the improvised turquoise ensemble flowing from shoulder to floor made her look even taller. However, thanks to Miss Howe’s deportment lessons, she knew better than to hunch her shoulders in an attempt to camouflage her height. ‘Stature may be God-given,’ Miss Howe had preached, ‘but posture is one’s own doing.’

  A noise at the counter indicated the Chinaman was back. As she turned towards him, she noticed a frown on his face. What must he be thinking? That she was a flibbertigibbet mesmerised by her own reflection? Flushed with embarrassment, she hastily undraped the silk, rolled it up and replaced it on the shelf among the blues and greens. As she smoothed her navy dress, she heard: ‘I have always admired the silk makers of Hangchow. They are not afraid to use colour. Do you like the turquoise, madam?’

  Still flustered, she simply nodded in reply.

  ‘I think I have a small remnant of it. Not big enough for an item of clothing.’ He riffled through a basket of fabric scraps on the counter. ‘Here it is. Would you like to have it? You might be able to make a pincushion or a needle-holder.’

  He handed her the square of silk.

  ‘I couldn’t
.’

  ‘It will only be used to patch someone’s breeches if you don’t take it.’

  The silk was like a tiny piece of his exotic homeland. She placed it carefully in her basket.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘People call me Mr Chen,’ he said, offering his hand.

  ‘I am Amy Duncan from St Aidan’s Manse,’ she replied, conscious that she had forgotten to wear her gloves. Although it was generally considered unladylike to shake hands with a gentleman, gloves or not, she couldn’t very well ignore his proffered hand. As she shook it, she noted the long, bronze fingers and the skin cold and smooth like silk.

  ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Duncan.’

  ‘Likewise, Mr Chen,’ she smiled, but at the same time took a step back. In the space of a few seconds, yet another rule had been broken. Miss Howe had taught her she should never give her name to a stranger. Furthermore, her headmistress maintained that a lady and a gentleman should be formally introduced by a third party who was a mutual acquaintance. But perhaps the rules of etiquette might not apply to an exchange between a merchant and his customer.

  When in doubt, Amy always sought solutions from her reading. What would her namesake, Little Dorrit, have done in the circumstances? She remembered Mr Dorrit’s insistence on keeping up appearances. He had even employed Mrs General to give etiquette lessons to his offspring. And then the image of her own father loomed. What would the Reverend Duncan make of his daughter indulging in a conversation with a Celestial shopkeeper, albeit one who spoke and dressed like a gentleman?

  ‘Your tea is ready, Miss Duncan,’ Mr Chen announced, pouring the fragrant liquid into a tiny cup with no handle.

  ‘Aren’t you going to have some yourself?’ she asked.

  He seemed surprised. ‘Do you mind?’

  Why would she mind? He poured a cup for himself and watched as she took a sip.

  ‘It actually tastes like Christmas,’ she said.

  ‘It does indeed,’ he replied, smiling at her.