Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  Reverend Foster’s sermon was gentle and encouraging. He didn’t mention their differences; only that they were a fine young couple with a promising life ahead of them. She prayed it would be so. Finally it was time for their vows. Charles repeated his in a strong, determined voice. Amy spoke softly but didn’t falter. After the minister declared them man and wife, the congregation applauded.

  Suddenly they were outside in the sunshine and the feeling of foreboding was gone. Nobody could separate them now, not even Matthew Duncan.

  After the service, they retired to Aunt Molly’s house for a reception. She had hung a white chiffon bow on the front door and arranged large urns of yellow roses in the drawing room. There were canapés on silver trays and champagne served in crystal flutes. Miss Howe was there and a few of her pupils. Amy wondered about the others. Were they absent simply because it was a school day, or did they find the idea of their friend marrying a Chinaman repugnant? She couldn’t bring herself to ask Miss Howe.

  When Amy went upstairs to change into her magenta dress, she found a large box on the bed. She recalled seeing it once before – in Jimmy’s arms on the night of the elopement. Inside was yet another gown. But whereas the wedding dress was white and virginal, this one was turquoise silk, fit for an Oriental empress. She ran her hand over the fabric, which was lavishly embroidered with sprigs of flowers like a mille-fleurs tapestry.

  ‘My husband had this dress made for me,’ she told her attendants proudly.

  Late in the afternoon, Amy in her new gown and Charles in his smart black suit caught the steamer to Manly. Charles had booked a room in a little hostelry overlooking the ocean beach. After supper they opened the box from the Miller siblings. Inside was a scroll containing a text in Eliza’s writing.

  Dearest Charles and Darling Amy,

  We wanted to give you the best crystal or the most delicate porcelain, but it would not have survived the journey to Granthurst. Not in the Millerbrooke dray, at any rate. Instead, we are offering you our love, friendship and loyalty. If you need any one of us, or all three for that matter, we will be at your service. Do not fear to ask. We love you both dearly.

  Your devoted friends,

  Eliza, Joseph and Daniel

  That night Amy learned what had happened to Aladdin and the princess after the nuptial festivities were over, when the invisible sword was banished from their marital bed. No wonder there was a gap in the story, followed by the words ‘next morning’. It was the most wonderful secret of all.

  Now

  There were times when Angie regretted even dreaming up the ‘Aspects of Millbrooke’ project. It had become bigger than Ben-Hur, or in Millbrooke terms, bigger than the Millbrooke Agricultural Show, the premier social event of the district.

  The painting class, however, had embraced the project with enthusiasm.

  ‘Where shall we hold the exhibition, Angie?’ asked Ros.

  ‘I thought we might try to book a room in the library.’

  ‘Surely we could do better than that,’ said Narelle. ‘What about the School of Arts?’

  ‘We could have an opening night with champagne and nibbles,’ suggested Jennie.

  ‘And Devonshire teas for sale during the day,’ added Moira.

  ‘You could invite entries from the whole community, even the school,’ said Ros.

  ‘And the TAFE students in Granthurst,’ said Tanya.

  ‘We could ask Sam Porter to open it,’ said Moira.

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked Narelle.

  ‘Crikey, Narelle, wake up!’ said Jennie. ‘He’s your local MP.’

  ‘We don’t want bloody politicians involved,’ protested Narelle, neatly ducking Jennie’s allusion to her indifference to politics.

  ‘What about Jack?’ asked Jennie. ‘Angie, you could ask him.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Angie, wondering how she could calm them down.

  ‘We could give the profits to a local charity,’ said Moira.

  ‘Which one?’ asked Jennie.

  A debate ensued about the possibilities.

  ‘We don’t even have our artworks finished yet,’ said Angie, trying to focus them on the task at hand.

  ‘Jennie and I have made a lot of progress on ours,’ said Narelle. Behind them was a large canvas wrapped in old sheets. ‘Do you want to see it?’

  The two women triumphantly unveiled their painting; it was divided into four columns and five rows, each of the twenty rectangles framed by a black border.

  ‘We used rolls of masking tape to mark the borders,’ explained Narelle. ‘But when we stripped it off, the black paint had seeped underneath.’

  ‘We fixed it though,’ said Jennie.

  Inside each rectangle they had pencilled in the name of a Millbrooke personality. In a few of the rectangles a finished portrait appeared, recognisable, if slightly caricatured. There was Lisa from the pub and Nola from the B&B. Near the centre was an image which made Angie smile broadly. It was herself, with the Manse in the background.

  ‘So that was why you took all those pictures of me last week.’

  ‘Do you like it?’ Jennie asked.

  ‘I think it’s wonderful.’

  ‘We have a confession to make,’ whispered Narelle. ‘We used photos and traced the outlines.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Angie. ‘They’re your photos. And I think you’ve done a great job. There’s a certain Warholesque quality to it. The images are bold and graphic.’

  ‘That’s because we’re not very good at detail,’ said Narelle. ‘But we did try to follow the principles you taught us in the portrait lessons.’

  ‘We’re calling it “Faces of Millbrooke”,’ said Jennie. ‘Word has spread and now everybody wants to be in it. Even the butcher. It’s going to be hard to say no.’

  Tanya was next. She revealed a view of the town from Mount Millbrooke.

  ‘I’m not very good at landscapes, Angie. It looks like a child has done it.’

  ‘Not at all, Tanya. Your style is called naïve. There’s a long tradition going back centuries. Naïve landscapes are infused with charm and a certain folkloric quality.’

  Ros produced a long panel, a streetscape – one entire side of Miller Street. ‘I took photos and joined them all together. Then I drew it onto the canvas. I still have to do the other side of the street.’

  ‘I’m overwhelmed,’ said Angie. She marvelled at how the necessity of tracing patterns that she’d resorted to in the first class had been picked up with such originality by her students.

  ‘Well, wait until you see Moira’s,’ said Narelle.

  ‘I couldn’t carry it,’ said Moira. ‘It’s too big, so I’ve brought photos instead.’

  Moira’s project was an old wardrobe with two doors and four panels. Each panel had a different scene – the four seasons in Millbrooke.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Moira,’ said Angie. ‘It will be the centrepiece of the show. What would everyone think about it being on our poster?’

  Without a hint of dissent, they agreed.

  Angie was so proud of them she produced a lemon meringue pie she had baked that morning for dinner with Jack. If he was lucky, there might even be a piece left for him.

  ‘I have something to confess,’ Angie said impulsively as she served up the pie.

  ‘Something between you and Mr Songbird?’ asked Jennie.

  Angie ignored her. ‘I feel guilty about this.’

  ‘You’ve slept with him,’ said Narelle. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with Jack Parker,’ responded Angie in frustration. ‘What I’m trying to tell you is I haven’t started my contribution yet. But I promise I’ll have something done for next week.’

  After the women left, Angie began to reflect on her own project for ‘Aspects of Millbrooke’. She knew it would involve Amy; she just wasn’t sure of the details. Like a detective reviewing the evidence, she unwrapped Amy’s things from their tissue and arranged them on the dining room table. They seemed to he
r like a time capsule, representing one year in Amy’s life – the kind of keepsakes a parent might assemble if their child had died. A memory box. But Amy hadn’t died in her teens. She had lived well into the twentieth century. The collection didn’t make sense and Angie was becoming frustrated with the dead-ends.

  She flicked through the pages of The Arabian Nights with its French text and fine engravings. The illustrations were magnificent. It was lucky the book had remained hidden, or some opportunist would have torn out the plates, framed them and sold them for hundreds of dollars as antiquarian prints. To his credit, Richard, who had known about the contents for years, had kept the collection intact in their original trunk.

  As she reached the story of Aladdin, Angie found something folded inside. Four sheets of what appeared to be a story, written in copperplate script with pen and ink. Nobody wrote like that any more. She put on her glasses and began to read. The text was by an Eliza Miller who had lived at Millerbrooke House, Richard Scott’s place.

  It was an homage to Charles Chen.

  Why would a piece of writing by Eliza Miller be sitting inside Amy Duncan’s book? Were they friends? Even so, why give Amy your story? Angie couldn’t wait to tell the painting ladies about her discovery. No doubt they would have their own theories as to its significance, but surely Charles Chen had to be the link. Could there have been a romance between Charles and Amy? It seemed unlikely – a Chinese man and a Scottish girl. Not in the 1870s. Unless Amy had harboured a secret crush on him. Just like Angie’s. Yet another connection between the two of them – Amy infatuated with the flesh-and-blood man and Angie with his miniature portrait.

  12

  HIC SUNT DRACONES: HERE BE DRAGONS

  1872–1873

  On the third day of Christmas Amy and Charles returned to Millbrooke as Mr and Mrs Chen. Charles was of a mind to go directly to the Manse to speak with Amy’s father.

  ‘Now we are married, he will have to relent. He will realise my intentions have always been honourable. He will see we are happy. And he will welcome you back into his life.’

  Amy didn’t believe that, and she wasn’t ready for a confrontation with her father, not while she was still basking in the glow of her honeymoon. Instead, she suggested they go to Charles’s house in Paterson Street. After all, she had never been inside.

  From the street it resembled most of the residences in Millbrooke: single storey, timber construction, tin roof with a verandah stretching around three sides. However, one aspect differed very colourfully from its neighbours – a glossy red front door. As Charles carried Amy over the threshold, she entered a world which could have been created by Aladdin’s genie.

  The parlour contained an overstuffed sofa and stiff velvet armchairs of the kind you might expect in the house of any well-to-do merchant, except that they were strewn with red brocade cushions, trimmed with gold tassels. Rosewood side tables held brassware and cloisonné bowls. The walls were hung with traditional English landscapes, but also hand-painted Chinese scrolls. At the far end of the room stood a cabinet whose glass doors bore a criss-cross pattern of mock bamboo. Amy ran her fingers over the intricate fretwork.

  ‘It is called Chinese Chippendale,’ said Charles.

  Behind the glass a collection of Staffordshire figurines was arranged among pieces of blue and white Oriental porcelain. She discovered a statue of Lord Nelson and a pair of English spaniels. There was even a china figure of George Washington.

  ‘Lord Nelson and General Washington,’ said Amy. ‘They are my heroes.’

  ‘Mine too,’ Charles said.

  Over the fireplace was a large scroll decorated with a dragon looking towards the sky. Below it she spotted a miniature painting among the porcelain boxes arranged on the mantel.

  ‘Charles, it’s you,’ she exclaimed with delight, ‘in your turquoise waistcoat.’ Carefully she picked up the tiny picture and placed it in her hand. ‘It’s exquisite. Look at the details. Imagine being able to paint something so small.’

  ‘It was a gift from my family – my Millerbrooke family. I shall commission the same artist to paint one of you so that we can be together on the mantel.’

  Amy beamed. She had never dreamed of having her portrait painted, even in miniature. That was for rich people.

  Then Charles took her by the hand. ‘Now come and see our bedroom.’

  Behind a gold-leaf screen decorated with birds on the wing and twining flowers hid a four-poster bed covered with a jade-green silk coverlet and piles of embroidered pillows.

  ‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ said Amy. ‘I’m afraid I should never want to leave this room.’ She sat down on the bed and patted the coverlet. ‘Come here, husband.’

  They sat together, hand in hand, and Amy felt abundantly blessed to be the mistress of this house, wife of this man.

  ‘I suppose you should show me the rest of the house,’ she said after a while.

  ‘Jimmy’s room is across the hall,’ said Charles, ‘but he will be staying at the emporium now we are back.’

  ‘No, he must remain here, Charles,’ said Amy. ‘It is his home too.’

  ‘Well, he is not here now, Amy,’ said Charles with a wicked smile, ‘so let us celebrate our first day back in Millbrooke.’

  And they spent the afternoon in their silken bed.

  On the first Sunday after their homecoming – the last in December – Amy and Charles set off to attend the morning service at St Aidan’s. As they made their way down the aisle, hand in hand, heads turned like marionettes on strings, and whispers hummed like bees swarming through the congregation. They took a seat in the second row, behind Margaret Duncan and her sons. When the boys turned around to check the source of the ruckus, they could not contain themselves.

  ‘Mama, it’s Amy. She’s back!’

  Robbie and Billy stood in unison, as if to embrace their sister. Amy’s mother turned and gave her a quick smile, before telling the boys to sit still because the service was about to begin.

  At that moment Reverend Duncan entered the chancel from the vestry and climbed the steps to the lectern. The organist began to play the first few bars of ‘And Can It Be That I Should Gain?’. As the congregation rose from the pews, Matthew Duncan saw Amy and Charles. His face turned a molten red and his mouth dropped open, though not in song. Amy flinched at the thought that he might stride down from the lectern and give vent to the violence she could read in his face. But he did not move. The congregation was already in full throat.

  No condemnation now I dread;

  Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;

  Alive in Him, my living Head,

  And clothed in righteousness divine,

  Bold I approach th’ eternal throne,

  And claim the crown, through Christ my own.

  ‘No condemnation now I dread,’ whispered Charles to Amy.

  She held his hand and breathed deeply. ‘There is nothing he can do to us,’ she whispered to herself.

  ‘Today I am abandoning the sermon about the Three Wise Men that I had planned to deliver on this fifth day of Christmas,’ announced Matthew Duncan to the congregation. ‘I intend to tell ye a story instead. Children, listen well. It is a warning about the dangers of dealing with the devil.’

  Amy swallowed hard. She had not expected this, that her father would make his feelings public.

  ‘Once upon a time there was a wee white duckling. Her parents raised her to be virtuous and god-fearing. Instead, she grew up to be headstrong and deceitful. One day, they sent her to do the messages and warned her not to go near the slant-eyed mole. But the silly duck was tempted by the fancy wares the mole was selling. He persuaded her to come inside his burrow where he gave her a magic potion disguised as tea. No sooner had she taken a wee sip, than she found herself in his thrall. When the father duck learned about her visit, he made her promise ne’er to see the mole again. But she began meeting him in secret. Soon he convinced her to run away with him. Aided by a flock of wild ducks who should have known be
tter, the mismatched pair travelled to a distant city known for its licentiousness. There they broke the laws of God by consorting with each other. A duck and a mole – it was a perversion. A few weeks later, they returned, thinking all would be forgiven. But how could her parents forgive the wee white duck when she had openly defied them?’

  Amy felt Charles’s hand gripping hers. She didn’t dare look at his face. Silently she prayed: Please, God, let this be over soon.

  ‘The duck and the mole paraded around the town as if they were the Prince and Princess of Wales. But their sins wouldna go unpunished. One day the duck laid an egg. When it finally cracked open, she screamed in horror at what lay inside. Instead of a fluffy white duckling, there was an ungodly creature no-one had e’er seen before. Instead of feathers, it was covered in fur. Where there should have been a delicate beak, a leathery snout protruded like a deformity. And the eyes were so tiny, it could scarcely see. The creature was a travesty. A mongrel. The child of the devil. Can anyone tell me the name of the offspring of the white duck and the slant-eyed mole?’

  In the front row Robbie put his hand up. ‘A duck-mole, Papa.’

  ‘That is correct, Robert. And there is an important lesson to be learned from the story of the duck and the mole. When ye consort with the devil, ye will be punished.

  ‘ “But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death.” Revelations 21:8.

  ‘We shall now sing hymn number two hundred and thirty-nine, “Praise My Soul the King of Heaven”.’

  Amy’s throat was dry. She couldn’t sing. She looked across at her husband. His cheeks were flushed, but he was standing tall and singing with conviction.

  As soon as the benediction was over, Reverend Duncan left the chancel, proceeding down the aisle with his gaze fixed straight ahead. Margaret Duncan turned around with tears in her eyes.