‘The banner is nothing to be proud of. In fact, it is the very opposite.’
There were some protests from the crowd. One heckler shouted: ‘Chink lover.’
Mr Miller ignored the comment and continued.
‘Some eleven years ago a shameful series of events took place at a town called Lambing Flat in this very colony of New South Wales. A mob of one thousand miners descended on the Chinese camp, bearing a banner much like the one we see tonight. They set fire to tents, destroyed belongings, burnt clothing, terrified women and children. They assaulted the men and cut off their pigtails.’
There were a few shouts of ‘Hear, hear.’
‘For those who think this was a noble act, I want you to imagine something. Picture a horde of angry men coming to your tent or your hut here at the Millbrooke diggings and burning it down. Imagine that they destroyed everything you had and threatened your loved ones. What if they cut off your beard and took your clothing and threw it on a fire?
‘What had you done to deserve this persecution? First of all, you looked different. People called you “brown beard” or “round eyes” or even “white devil”. You wore a cabbage-tree hat and breeches. You spoke another language. You followed a different faith. People ridiculed your clothes and the way you spoke. And they reviled your faith and your methods of worship. Yet every day you worked industriously and peacefully.
‘Did you deserve to be maligned and persecuted in this way? Is that fair play? In the future, men will think back to the Gold Rush days and they will remember Lambing Flat with shame and sadness. But let us give them something they can remember with pride. That the people of Millbrooke, townsfolk and miners alike, refused to allow the Chinese to be run off their diggings.’
He resumed his seat to both applause and booing. Someone called out: ‘Rout the barbarians,’ and a few more tried to make a chant of it.
Then Charles rose. Other than a shuffling of chairs and a few coughs, the room became silent. Amy caught her breath. He was wearing the turquoise waistcoat. It would be sure to provoke the anti-Chinese brigade. Why hadn’t he worn a commonplace black or brown instead?
‘Ladies and gentlemen of Millbrooke and district. I am Charles Chen. Some of you know me as the proprietor of the emporium in this very street. I came to the colonies when I was eleven years old. After my father died in an accident, I was taken in by the Miller family who treated me like their own son. I have two brothers and a sister seated at the back of the room, whom I love as dearly as my family in China.’
The audience turned to look at the golden-haired siblings at the back of the hall.
‘I am not going to speak about the Chinese situation on the goldfields because Mr Miller has described it so eloquently. I will, however, mention the problem of opium. It is a fact of history that opium was introduced into China by the British East India Company.’
‘How dare you blame the British!’ called a voice from the direction of the banner.
‘This is not to excuse the Chinese use of this pitiful substance,’ continued Charles without acknowledging the heckler. ‘It is just an explanation. Together with others in the town, I am forming an anti-opium society to rid the Millbrooke goldfields of this curse. But we need to remember opium is both legal and readily available. It will be a long and difficult battle.
‘On the matter of gambling, you will be aware that this afflicts both the Chinese and the European communities. And I don’t need to remind anyone that alcohol remains a major problem among white miners. If you are in any doubt, you need only visit the main street of Millbrooke later tonight.’
There was a shout of: ‘Who are you to judge others? A Celestial in a waistcoat?’
Amy felt sick, but Charles’s face remained calm.
‘My mode of dress is my business. I would not dream of dictating what you should wear, sir. I think I deserve the same respect.’
There was a round of applause, smothering the comment of a man in front of Amy who yelled: ‘Moon-faced devil.’
‘Regarding the subject of disease, I beg to differ with the gentleman who claimed that the Chinese are the cause. Many of the afflictions he mentioned are of Western origin and preexisted the arrival of Chinese immigrants to this country. I am disinclined to speak about French pox, owing to the number of ladies present. However, it is well known that this is a curse of those who involve themselves in licentious and libertine behaviour, whatever their nationality. The disease is neither French nor Chinese. It is international.’
A cry of ‘A pox on you!’ came from the floor.
‘If I may continue, I have a few final remarks. Not long ago, a wise person told me something I shall not forget. She said you cannot place people in boxes and label them as you might do with tea. As a seller of tea, I found the statement most telling.’
Amy blushed a bright red and sank down in her seat. She hoped the boys and Eliza hadn’t noticed that Charles was looking directly at her as he spoke.
‘Just because the Chinese look and sound different does not mean they are devils. Let us cast aside the untruths and exaggerations, the fears and false assumptions, and in their place, let us embrace the fact that we are all God’s children.’
Then he recited the verse from the New Testament which Amy had quoted only a fortnight earlier at the Millers’ dining table.
As Charles returned to his seat, there was scattered applause, but the heckling continued. And it seemed to Amy that the meeting could still go either way. Then Eliza rose from her seat.
‘Sit down, Eliza,’ Joseph hissed. ‘We agreed that I should do it.’
Although Eliza was standing at her full height of five-foot-three, the magistrate couldn’t see her. A man in the row behind called out: ‘The young lady here wants to say something.’ There was snickering. Joseph took Eliza’s hand and tried to pull her down into her seat, but she shook herself free and moved into the aisle. As her father had done, she waited until there was silence. Although it was a torturous delay, it was necessary. She required their complete attention.
‘Your Honour,’ she began and then paused as Joseph whispered something to her. After an awkward few seconds she continued: ‘Your Worship, am I correct in thinking this is a public meeting?’
‘Yes, young lady, you are indeed correct,’ he replied with a puzzled smile.
Every eye was on Eliza with her green cloak and straw bonnet. Amy noted the determined set of her friend’s chin.
‘Well, in that case, sir,’ said Eliza, ‘I would like to move a motion for the consideration of those assembled here this evening.’
‘You have every right to do so, but perhaps you should introduce yourself first.’
‘My name is Eliza Miller and I was born in this colony. Like America, it is a place to make a fresh start, free from the prejudices of the old order. We have the power to create a society where every individual, whether they be Chinese, Caledonian or even Calathumpian, is equal to his . . . or her neighbour.’
Amy thought she saw a tiny smile form on Eliza’s lips at the word ‘her’.
‘Your Worship, I wish to move the following motion. That the people of Millbrooke reject any attempt to expel or restrict Chinese miners from our goldfields. Furthermore, we pledge to protect them from persecution and abuse.’
‘Do we have a second for Miss Miller’s proposition?’ asked the magistrate.
Joseph raised his hand. ‘Yes, you do, your Worship. Joseph Miller.’
‘Do you wish to speak to the motion, sir?’
‘No, your Worship. My sister has expressed it most persuasively.’
‘Do we have any speakers against?’
Amy held her breath. She felt sure the Miners’ Protection League supporters would object. On the other hand, Eliza might have caught them off guard. They weren’t expecting a young girl with curls and a green cloak to stand up and address the crowd.
‘In that case, I shall put the motion. Please correct me if I misspeak, Miss Miller.’ The magistrate
read out her proposal from the notes he had taken. ‘Those in favour, say aye.’ There was a resounding ‘Aye’. ‘Against, nay.’ An equally strong ‘Nay’ followed.
‘We will need to count the hands. Doctor Allen, might you do the honours?’
The doctor performed his task in a deft and businesslike manner. The motion was passed ninety-seven to fifty-one.
‘It is a victory,’ cheered Joseph, taking Amy’s hand and kissing it. When he realised what he had done, he said: ‘Please forgive me, Amy. In the excitement I forgot myself.’
‘You are forgiven, Joseph,’ she replied. ‘It has indeed been a stirring evening.’
Amy knew she could never have summoned the courage to do what Eliza had just done. ‘I am proud of you,’ she said, reaching for her friend’s hand. Was brave Eliza shaking?
‘I fear there will be fifty-one disgruntled men in Millbrooke tonight,’ said Eliza.
‘Better that than a resolution routing the Chinese,’ said Joseph.
‘Let us join Father and Charles,’ suggested Daniel.
They stood to make their way to the front, but Amy excused herself. ‘I must go home, before my father discovers my absence.’ She couldn’t face Charles, not since the night he had run out on her without an explanation.
‘You should not walk home on your own, Amy,’ said Joseph. ‘There are drunkards about. Let me escort you.’
As Joseph and Amy made their way outside, she heard: ‘Good evening, Amy.’ It was a parishioner from St Aidan’s.
And it dawned on her that sooner or later her father would learn she had defied him, and then she would be punished for breaking the fifth Commandment. And who knew what else?
When Amy tiptoed into the house, her father was in his study with the door ajar. She climbed the stairs slowly, avoiding the fourth step which always creaked. Just as she was about to disrobe, a cry came from the master bedroom. She rushed to the door to find her mother clutching the bedpost.
‘My waters have broken, Amy, and the pains have started. Tell your father to fetch the doctor.’
Amy wasn’t sure what her mother meant by ‘waters’, but the fact that they were broken sounded serious. Much worse, though, was the thought of her mother being in pain. She ran down the stairs, calling: ‘Papa, I think the baby is coming. Fetch Doctor Allen and the midwife.’
Her father’s face went as pale as chalk. Thankful that she had arrived home in time, Amy fetched his coat and helped him into it. Even so, he appeared to be in no hurry to leave. Suddenly a muffled scream from upstairs seemed to shock him out of his daze. In a second he was down the hallway and opening the front door.
‘Take care, Papa. There will be hooligans about after the meeting,’ she called out to him. When she returned to the bedroom, her mother was sitting on the edge of the bed with her arms taut and her hands pressed into the mattress. After a minute or two, she relaxed a little, and Amy helped her to lie down. As another surge took hold, Amy held her mother’s hand until it passed.
‘Shall I fetch you a damp cloth, Mama? For your brow. And some water to drink?’
‘Yes, Amy. But don’t be long.’
Before she went downstairs, Amy checked the boys. Both were curled up like sleeping angels. She barely had time to fill a jug of water from the bucket in the kitchen when a piercing scream caused her to run back upstairs.
‘Has your father gone for the doctor?’ her mother asked through gritted teeth.
‘They won’t be long, Mama.’
Not knowing what else to do, Amy propped pillows behind her mother’s back, held her hand and whispered soothing words about everything being all right when she feared just the opposite. With each successive attack, the pain was getting worse, rather than better. And even though there were respites between each bout, they were scarcely long enough for her mother to catch her breath and steel herself for the next onslaught.
As she watched the gentle face contorted into a grotesque mask, it struck Amy that Margaret Duncan was no longer a young woman. Indeed, she was close to forty, old enough to be a grandmother. Was that why the baby was so early and the pain so great? If only Amy knew what to do to ease her mother’s suffering. Just when she thought she could stand it no longer, she heard voices downstairs. Thank the Lord, Doctor Allen and the midwife had arrived at last.
‘Fetch some clean rags, Amy,’ said the midwife. ‘And some hot water.’
Amy removed a pile of cloths from the linen press where her mother had left them neatly ironed in preparation for this day. Then she went downstairs to boil water on the stove.
‘How is your ma?’ her father asked as he sat huddled at the kitchen table.
‘She is not well, Papa.’ To herself, she thought: Dear God, don’t let her die.
Carefully Amy carried the pot of steaming water upstairs. Pausing at the bedroom door, she was shocked at the sight of her mother’s face. It was so ashen she might have been a wax doll. Leaning over her, Doctor Allen was shaking his head.
‘A breech presentation,’ he said to the midwife. ‘At any age it’s a problem.’
The midwife cleared her throat to indicate Amy’s presence.
‘We’ll call you when there is news,’ she said, taking the pot from Amy and placing it on the bureau. ‘Look after the good reverend. He’ll need some company.’
Before Amy could say a word, they were shooing her out the door.
Amy took a seat opposite her father at the kitchen table, feeling so restless it was impossible to sit still. She boiled more water, made her father a pot of tea and kept the saucepan bubbling – just in case. For the tea she used the smoky leaves from the emporium – the smell of it alone was comforting – and as her father sipped distractedly from his cup, he didn’t seem to notice it wasn’t his usual brew. Afterwards she went upstairs and waited outside the bedroom door. Every couple of minutes a shriek would break the silence, but Robbie and Billy remained asleep, oblivious to their mother’s battle in the other room.
When Amy could stand the screams no longer, she went downstairs to her father’s study. On the shelf among his theology books sat a heavy copy of Doctor Johnson’s dictionary. She lifted it down, placed the tome under an oil lamp and leafed to the ‘B’ pages searching for ‘breech’. She read the definition, couched in strange words that might have been a foreign language, but she was no closer to finding the meaning. Then she heard the midwife calling from the top of the stairs.
Amy was out of the room so fast she almost collided with her father in the hallway.
‘Reverend Duncan, it is a little girl.’
Now
On Tuesday nights Angie had established a routine – roast dinner at the pub, followed by an hour listening to the local jazz quartet which played in the public bar. Richard was always there with his cronies. The two of them had moved from calling each other Mr Scott and Mrs Wallace to the familiarity of first names. The problem was he’d shortened hers to ‘Ange’. Maybe he thought it sounded friendly, but it made her cringe. Only one person in the world had ever been allowed to call her Ange, and he was gone.
‘Have you seen the posters about the information night?’ Richard asked her one Tuesday.
‘What information night?’
‘The one they’re holding this Friday. It’s about a new tourist initiative. Top secret. Everyone is speculating as to what it might be.’
‘Well, I’m not really interested.’
‘Where’s your civic spirit, Ange? This could be the biggest thing in Millbrooke since fluoridation.’
‘Fluoridation?’
‘That issue split the town in two. People weren’t speaking to each other for months. Eventually the council organised a vote. A kind of plebiscite.’
Angie’s interest was piqued. ‘Who won?’
‘The pro-fluoriders.’
‘I had no idea there was fluoride in the water. I came to the country to escape nasty things like chemicals in the water supply.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have c
ome to Millbrooke. It’s full of them.’
‘I’m buying a filter tomorrow.’ Angie shuddered.
‘You really should go to the information night, Ange. Everyone in town will be there.’
She had a feeling he would nag her until she agreed.
‘I’ll pick you up from the Manse. Seven-thirty Friday,’ he said, returning to his friends at the bar before she could think of an excuse.
On the stage of the School of Arts auditorium men in suits were filling a row of seats.
‘Who are they?’ Angie asked Richard.
‘The bloke on the end is the shire president, but everyone refers to him as the mayor. If we called him “the president”, he’d behave even more self-importantly than he does now.’
‘I gather you don’t like him.’
‘He promised he wouldn’t put the rates up, and then delivered the casting vote that raised them by twelve percent.’
‘That seems like a lot.’
‘Bloody hell it is. Do you know how much I pay every year? Enough to fly to London and back. First class.’
‘I guess that’s the price of being a real estate tycoon,’ she replied. Sometimes she wondered whether he had inherited his properties, as Tanya had once suggested. If not, how could a person like Richard have earned the money to buy them? Even in humble Millbrooke, they wouldn’t have come cheap.
The chairs on the stage had now been filled.
‘The three on the right are from the mining company,’ said Richard. ‘Songbird Minerals. They’re Americans.’
‘Yes, you told me that before,’ said Angie. ‘But why are they here tonight?’
‘They’re funding the tourism initiative. The whole thing is their idea.’
‘That’s impressive.’
‘It’s pork-barrelling.’
‘Don’t politicians do that every election? Winning over the locals with a grant to a school or a new wing for a hospital. It’s the way the world operates, Richard.’
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