Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  There was another important piece of information Angie could glean from the headstone. Amy’s parents didn’t emigrate to the colonies until 1864. That meant Amy was born in Scotland, not New South Wales. Angie took a photograph of the grave. She would add it to her growing folder of material about Amy Duncan.

  The following morning Richard turned up at the Manse with a horse float which he drove across the grass and down to the back paddock. Then he removed three alpacas – white, black and tan. The tan alpaca had a cheeky black nose and a circle of black around his eyes like thick kohl pencil.

  ‘I’ve checked your wire fences and they’re sound,’ he said. ‘You can have these three on trial. If it works out, you can pay me later.’

  ‘I want to hug them,’ said Angie. ‘Particularly the little white one.’

  ‘That’s the female. The vet says she may be infertile, but we’ll see. The big tan boy is a wether. He’ll guard the other two. And the black one is a stud male, but he’s almost past his prime. They only have a few good breeding years in them and then they’re replaced by a newer model.’

  ‘Like modern appliances,’ said Angie. She reached out to stroke the white female who turned her head away.

  ‘Don’t rush them. They like their personal space. Let them get to know you.’

  They were uttering little bleats, like tiny lambs.

  ‘Do they have names?’

  He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Well, they do now,’ she said. ‘The brown wether with the Egyptian eyes is Tutankhamun, the white girl is Snow White and the black male is Jet.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Richard said, shaking his head, ‘they’re easy to care for, Ange, as long as you remember two important things. Rake up the dung and remove it. It’s a breeding ground for worms. And clean out the feeder and water trough regularly.’

  ‘I can do that,’ said Angie. ‘It’s just good housekeeping.’

  ‘When I have a chance, I’ll build a sandpit for them.’

  ‘A sandpit?’

  ‘You’ve seen wombats having a sand bath down by the river. Well, alpacas like to roll in the dust too. And you can imagine how your lovely white girl would look after that. And coming from the Andes, they don’t like the heat. So you should wet down the sand in the summer to keep them cool.’

  ‘What else?’ she asked.

  ‘They need shelter, but there’s that old elm tree down by the creek. In a bad storm you might want to move them into the barn until it’s over. I’ll come and visit every day for the first couple of weeks and if you have a problem, we can sort it out then.’

  ‘Thank you, Richard. My own personal vet.’

  She stood on her toes and kissed him on his stubbly cheek.

  ‘This isn’t a gift, Ange. I’m not the gift-giving type.’

  ‘I know that, Richard.’ Her heels hit the ground with a bump. ‘I don’t need a trial period. I can pay for them now, if you like.’

  ‘No, let’s see how you feel in a month or two. Think about all those well-intentioned people who buy cute little puppies at Christmas and want to return them in January.’

  ‘I’m not one of those people, Richard. Once I make a commitment, I stick to it.’

  ‘Where did the llamas come from?’ asked Jack as he carried a bottle of wine and crystal glasses to the back of the house, the potential location of Angie’s longed-for conservatory. She would need a year’s worth of Songbird rent to pay for that. For the time being, she had set up a table and chairs on a paved area overlooking the creek.

  ‘Richard dropped them off. And they’re alpacas, not llamas.’

  ‘Don’t they spit?’

  ‘Only when they’re upset.’

  He poured two glasses of chablis.

  ‘That documentary about foreign mining companies is on TV tonight,’ he said. ‘They filmed the entire protest march. I bet we’ll see those little schoolkids dressed in platypus costumes. What kind of parent lets their kids get mixed up in something like that? It’s child exploitation. They should have been in school where they belong, not being politicised by their greenie parents and leftie teachers.’

  Angie sipped her wine and let Jack vent his frustration, as if he were a caller to a talkback radio show.

  ‘You know, Angie, every single business in Millbrooke supports the mine, but they didn’t interview anyone from the business community.’

  ‘They interviewed you though. You should let your kids know about it, so they can watch the show online.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘Any news on the environmental assessment?’

  ‘The planning people have had it for months. The problem is those frigging platypuses. Everyone loves them. They’re like your llamas. So damned cute.’

  She could see the alpacas grazing in the paddock. She was already in love with them. How could she return to the city now that she had these adorable woolly creatures?

  They said their usual goodnights in the hallway. She closed the door and settled into her wing chair. On the side table sat Amy’s copy of Sylvia’s Lovers. Despite the scandalous title, it had proven to be a very moral and formulaic melodrama. Although Angie kept waiting for something sensational to happen, it didn’t. Finally she placed a marker in the book, removed her dressing gown and hopped into bed. She left her table lamp on. She had done it ever since Phil died. The woman who had always embraced the night-time was now frightened of the dark.

  As she hovered on the edge of sleep, she heard a tap on the door.

  ‘Angie, are you awake?’

  She could have pretended to be asleep, and Jack would have returned to his room. Instead she said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I come in and talk?’

  ‘Okay,’ she replied tentatively. Angie knew the meaning of ‘talk’ from the dating dictionary of the painting ladies. Just as ‘companionship’ wasn’t platonic, ‘talk’ didn’t mean ‘conversation’. She watched the door open. There, in the soft light of her table lamp stood Jack Parker in his silk boxer shorts. The painting ladies’ fantasy – Moira’s Clint Eastwood circa 1970. Although it was exciting, part of her was viewing the scene in a clinical way, like a painter framing up a composition.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I was thinking about you, Angie,’ he whispered, although there was no need to do so – the nearest house was fifty metres away. ‘I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.’

  She knew he was waiting for her to give him a cue. After a long pause she said, ‘You’ll catch a cold if you sit there like that.’ She wasn’t sure where those words had come from. Was it an old movie script? Maybe it was just those two glasses of chablis. She’d never been a good drinker.

  When he slipped under the covers, it was as if his body had its own central heating.

  ‘You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you,’ he whispered, his lips on her bare shoulders. ‘It’s been driving me crazy.’

  ‘Jack, I haven’t done this in a long time.’

  ‘I know.’ His hand was already between her thighs.

  She caught her breath. She hadn’t felt as aroused as this in . . . probably years.

  Angie lay in the half world between sleeping and waking, trying to hold on to the dream that had filled her night, but it stayed out of reach. Then the garbage truck came rumbling down the street, its air brakes whooshing, and she was wide awake. Beside her the sleeping cowboy was oblivious to the crash of a bin being dropped on the road.

  Her first impulse was to jump out of bed, have a long, hot shower and pretend it never happened. But she didn’t move. Had she just cheated on Phil? Not in a technical sense perhaps, but it felt like a betrayal. An ill-advised attempt to seek comfort from her grief.

  There had been no words of love, of course, because love didn’t come into it. It was simply about emptying her head of everything except the sensation of Jack’s body coupled with hers. And had that been bland and disappointing, she might have dismissed the episode as an aberration, but it had been quite th
e opposite.

  What had happened to the circumspect widow, the respectable middle-aged woman who had buried the sexual side of her life with her dead husband, the only lover she’d ever had? Until now. Had she become a different person in Millbrooke? Good old Angie, a slave to convention, had done something completely out of character, and she felt guilty and exhilarated, both at the same time.

  As Jack began to stir beside her, she wondered what he would think of Angie Wallace without make-up. Apparently he didn’t notice.

  ‘Why haven’t we been doing this for the past few months, Angie?’

  It probably wasn’t the right moment to remind him about the woman with the blonde bob and the two chubby-faced boys. He would have to deal with that in his own way and in his own time. And so would Angie.

  ‘You’re so beautiful,’ Jack mumbled as he kissed her breasts.

  She knew he was lying, but words could be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Then she felt him hard against her thigh. This time she couldn’t rationalise her response by blaming the wine. It was no longer a tipsy one-night stand. This time she was making a choice.

  Richard was in the supermarket, dressed in camouflage pants and a pixie cap pulled low over his forehead, looking more like a derelict than a property owner as he pushed his trolley along the aisle.

  ‘You weren’t at the café this morning.’ His tone was accusatory.

  ‘I slept in.’

  ‘Is it okay if I pop in to see the alpacas this afternoon?’

  Something in his tone made her wonder whether he had guessed about Jack. Was there a look on her face which announced she had just had sex with Mr Songbird – not simply once, but twice?

  ‘Of course. You don’t need to ask.’

  ‘I won’t be disturbing you, will I?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  She was about to walk away when he blurted out: ‘Don’t forget it’s jazz night at the pub, Ange. You might want to drop in.’

  ‘Thanks. But I have some preparation to do for my painting class tomorrow. We’re starting a new project. Aspects of Millbrooke.’

  In fact, she was planning a romantic dinner with Jack. But if Richard knew that, he would fulminate about Faustian pacts and selling one’s soul.

  ‘Jack, tell me honestly,’ asked Angie as she opened a bottle of sauvignon blanc, ‘can we have the mine and protect the local platypus population too?’

  It was late afternoon and Jack was sitting at the kitchen table as Angie began preparing dinner.

  ‘The EIS says we can. After all, they’ve been around for a hundred million years.’

  ‘That’s the point, isn’t it? They’re the earliest form of mammal. An ancient species, swimming in the creeks of Gond-wanaland when dinosaurs still roamed the earth.’

  ‘Exactly. And when an asteroid annihilated the dinosaurs, who survived? Steropodon – the ancestor of the little critter living in your creek. What does that tell you, Angie? They’re tough and resilient.’

  Angie couldn’t help smiling. Jack Parker could convince you of anything. Even that you should take him into your bed when commonsense warned you otherwise. Before she knew it, they were kissing, up against the kitchen counter. Just as he was struggling with the zip of her jeans, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Shit, who can that be?’ Jack asked.

  ‘It must be Richard. I forgot about him coming round. He wants to check the alpacas.’

  ‘Can’t you get rid of him?’

  Angie was already on her way to the door, straightening her T-shirt and zipping up her jeans. As she passed the mirror of the hallstand, she took a quick look. Her face was flushed and her hair was awry where Jack had run his hands through it. Quickly she smoothed it down. There was nothing she could do about the flush.

  Yes, it was Richard. He was wearing a new cap for the occasion – one of those knitted hats from Peru with side flaps like a beagle’s ears.

  ‘Hi, Ange.’ He was looking at her oddly, and instantly she imagined there were little antennae on the top of his head hidden by his trademark cap. He knew. ‘I’ve brought a book about alpacas,’ he said by way of greeting.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He continued to stand there, playing with a long woollen tassel which hung from the bottom of one of the beagle ears.

  ‘Would you like to come in for a drink?’

  ‘Well, maybe just a quick juice.’

  Why did he bother maintaining the façade of being a teetotaller? It was ridiculous. Angie led the way down the hall to the kitchen where Jack was sitting with his feet up on the table, like the county sheriff. She almost expected him to say, ‘Howdy’, but instead he smiled: ‘Hi. It’s Richard, isn’t it? We met at the information evening. Nice to see you. Would you like a glass of wine?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll get you an orange juice,’ said Angie. ‘Have a seat.’

  Mr Songbird and the owner of Millerbrooke faced each other off across the table.

  ‘How are things at the drill site?’ asked Richard, his tone making ‘drill site’ sound like something dire and evil.

  ‘Everything’s proceeding according to plan. We’re publishing updated information about the feasibility studies on our website this week.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘It’s about openness and accountability, Richard.’

  ‘I’m all for that.’

  Angie offered olives and cheese. ‘I noticed Snow White spitting at Jet today,’ she said to change the subject. ‘What does that mean, Richard? Is she pissed off with him?’

  ‘Maybe. It could also mean she’s pregnant. We’ll get the vet to check her over. How’s Tutankhamun?’

  ‘A bit stroppy, poor darling. Perhaps he fancies Snow White and there’s nothing he can do about it.’

  ‘Except gaze at her from afar,’ interjected Jack.

  Angie had finished her wine.

  ‘Another?’ Jack asked, stroking her hand. Although she withdrew it quickly, she knew Jack’s casual caress hadn’t escaped Richard’s attention.

  ‘Will you stay for dinner, Richard?’ Angie asked, praying he would decline.

  ‘It smells good, but there’s a rabbit casserole on the stove at Millerbrooke.’

  Angie shuddered. ‘I know they’re pests, but how can you eat them? They’re so sweet.’

  ‘So are lambs, Ange, and you eat them. Thanks for the juice. I’d better get back. Enjoy your dinner.’

  She saw him to the door. As he turned to go, he said: ‘I almost forgot to give you the book.’ He produced a pocket-sized volume from his coat, Alpacas and You, with a baby alpaca on the cover looking like a floppy soft toy.

  ‘Thanks. And I hope Snow White really is pregnant.’

  ‘Don’t count on it. More likely she was just telling him to back off. She’s an independent girl. Doesn’t want to get involved with a glamorous womaniser like Jet. He’ll just break her heart. And she’s too nice to have that happen to her.’

  10

  YOUNG LOCHINVAR

  Then

  The next day Amy and Charles met at the rocks.

  ‘Amy, I have been considering young Lochinvar’s actions. If we were to choose that path, we would need to plan it carefully.’

  She threw her arms around him. ‘Do you mean we are going to be married?’

  ‘You told me you couldn’t breathe in that house. And I cannot have you suffocating, can I?’

  She hugged him even tighter.

  ‘But, Amy, there is a problem,’ he said, disengaging himself from the hug and bidding her to sit down. ‘I have checked with Mr Thomas, the solicitor. You are only eighteen. The law requires you to be twenty-one before you can marry, unless you have permission from your parents or there is a special reason.’

  ‘Is it not special reason enough that we love each other and want to be together?’

  ‘Unfortunately, being in love is not a reason to dispense with the law. Neither is suffocating.’

  ‘Don’t m
ake fun of me, Charles.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was trying to make you smile.’ He took her hand. ‘By special reason, I imagine the law is referring to a young woman who is with child, in which case a marriage would be expedient.’

  Amy’s mouth fell open. You could have a baby and not be married?

  ‘Forgive me, Amy. I should not speak of such things.’

  ‘If you do not, I shall never learn what happens in the world.’

  He had a smile on his face. ‘I have thought of another way though. It involves your aunt. Is she on friendly terms with your father?’

  ‘Aunt Molly says the only redeeming feature my father possesses is his love for my mother.’

  ‘So she would be our ally rather than his?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘She was your guardian when you remained in Sydney?’

  ‘I suppose she was. After my parents left for Millbrooke, Aunt Molly would write letters to Miss Howe giving me permission to attend a theatrical performance or a concert. And she always wrote “Guardian” in brackets after her signature.’

  ‘Do you think we could persuade her to give her consent?’

  Amy sat up straighter. ‘I’m sure we could – once she meets you. Otherwise, I could just pretend I’m twenty-one. Then I wouldn’t need anyone’s consent.’

  Charles gave her a stern look. ‘If we go to your aunt,’ he said, ‘we would need to decide whether to travel together or apart.’

  ‘Together, of course. That is what we shall be doing for the rest of our lives.’

  The following afternoon, Amy’s mother asked her to fetch some lemons to make lemon butter. Once she had picked them, she ran to the creek and found Charles pacing behind the rocks.

  ‘Amy, I have devised a plan. I shall commission Mr Thomas, in strictest confidence, via one of his colleagues in Sydney, to seek out a city minister who will marry us. But it is not a matter of arriving one day and marrying the next. There will be a waiting period of three weeks for the reading of the banns. In the meantime, your father will probably come looking for us.’

  ‘We shall hide at Aunt Molly’s. She has a lovely house.’