Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘I am so sorry, Amy.’

  As they left their pew, Charles made to leave by the front door, but this time it was Amy who chose to avoid a confrontation.

  ‘Charles, I am as upset as you are. But there is no point in making a scene in front of the entire St Aidan’s congregation. Let us make a dignified exit. And next Sunday we shall attend St John’s instead.’

  On Monday night the Miller family held a reception for the newlyweds at Millerbrooke House. Although Mr Miller had specifically invited Jimmy, he declined to attend. Amy tried to persuade him to change his mind, but in vain.

  ‘He is embarrassed about his English,’ explained Charles when he and Amy were alone.

  ‘The Millers would understand.’

  ‘You and I know that, but he would be uncomfortable trying to keep up with the conversation.’

  So Amy and Charles went on their own, he in his turquoise waistcoat and she in her matching dress. While she had been convalescing in Sydney, she had tormented herself with the picture of an evening like this, imagining somebody else as the object of Charles’s adoration. How life had turned topsy-turvy. The rival from Amy’s daydreams was seated on the sofa. The young lady with the dark ringlets. But she wasn’t called Blanche Ingram. Her name was Flora and she was the sweetheart of Daniel Miller, which explained why she had been seated in the Millers’ pew at Peggy’s funeral. Next to Flora sat another young woman, who wore her hair in golden curls like Amy’s. Judging by the attention Joseph was lavishing on her, it appeared he had found his true love. Amy couldn’t help smiling at the swiftness with which he had transferred his affections.

  ‘Our maid, Matilda, attends your father’s church,’ Eliza whispered to Amy. ‘She told me what happened yesterday.’

  ‘It was as hideous as the night Charles came to the Manse to ask for my hand in marriage.’

  ‘Matilda thought the sermon was cruel. She said you and Charles have several supporters in the congregation, but they are too afraid of your father to speak up.’

  ‘I suspect my mother is one of them.’

  ‘Can you blame her, Amy? She has been forced to choose between you and your father.’

  ‘No, I cannot. It is her duty, I suppose. Still, I miss my family.’

  ‘Of course you do, but you have all of us.’

  ‘I do indeed. And I cannot imagine anything more wonderful than being Mrs Chen. Charles is such a gentle and considerate husband.’

  ‘I told you he is the finest person I know,’ said Eliza with a grin. ‘By-the-bye, Amy, I have some news for you.’

  ‘Have you met a special young man?’

  ‘Of course not. It is far more serious than that! My father has obtained a subscription to The Lancet.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It is a medical journal from England.’

  ‘How will you ever find time to read all these journals, Eliza?’

  ‘I won’t waste my time reading silly novels,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Speaking of journals, another one has arrived in the post from France. I shall need help in translating it. Can we resume our classes, Amy?’

  Amy laughed. ‘Why don’t you come tomorrow afternoon? Then you can stay for Jimmy’s lesson. I am teaching him English and he is teaching me Chinese.’

  ‘Chinese might be useful for a doctor. What do you think?’

  ‘I think a doctor fluent in English, French and Chinese would be unique, especially if she were a woman.’

  ‘Are you making fun of me?’

  ‘No, I admire your determination, Eliza. I just wonder what will happen when a handsome young man comes along and steals your heart.’

  ‘If I were forced to choose between love and vocation, I would choose the latter.’

  ‘Do you think it might ever be possible for women to have both?’

  ‘No, Amy, I do not. Not in a world where men are rulers and women subordinates. Not when women cannot control their own lives or even their ability to procreate.’

  Amy caught her breath. Sometimes Eliza could say the most shocking things.

  Not long after their return, Charles and Jimmy planned to spend a day at the diggings as part of the anti-opium campaign, distributing pamphlets and speaking to the miners. Meanwhile Amy had volunteered to watch over the emporium. Although it wasn’t generally considered proper for a lady to serve behind the counter, she had convinced Charles there was nothing wrong with her helping out now and again.

  ‘Are you sure you can manage on your own, Amy?’

  ‘Of course, Charles. After all, I am well informed on the subject of tea, having been taught by an expert,’ she teased, skimming her hand along the lids of the boxes. ‘And I can hold a discourse on the silks if required. You may find they have all been sold by the time you return, and that your shelves of porcelain have been rearranged.’ She picked up a red bowl, placed it on the shelf containing blue and white items, and waited for Charles’s reaction.

  But he just laughed and hugged her. ‘We shall be back before nightfall.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t be there after dark.’

  She knew from Eliza’s composition why Charles hated the goldfields.

  ‘Next time you go, I would like to come with you,’ she said. In all the months she had been living in Millbrooke, she had never once been to the diggings. Although her father ran a service every Sunday afternoon for the miners, he hadn’t allowed her to accompany him.

  It was a particularly busy day at the emporium and Amy barely had time to make herself a cup of tea. She was looking forward to Charles’s return so she could tell him about selling a china platter, a brocade tablecloth and a lacquered chest which had only arrived that very week. Just before closing time, a customer who was purchasing a tin of tea remarked affably, ‘That Mr Chen is a real gent.’

  Amy smiled warmly in response.

  Then he added, ‘He’s as honest as a white man.’

  The last sentence echoed in her head. Was it a compliment or something altogether different? Amy knew for a fact that honesty had nothing to do with race or skin colour.

  The following week, Amy and Charles went to the goldfields while Jimmy ran the store. Although it was early in the day, the January sun was already hot, and in spite of her bonnet, Amy could feel her face burning. She wished she possessed golden skin like her husband’s, instead of a pale Scottish complexion which reddened in the heat and freckled in the sunlight. When they reached the hill leading down to the river, she was amazed at the city of tents and bark huts spread out before her.

  ‘Look at the flags, Charles. It is an international assemblage.’ She picked out the blue St Andrew’s cross, the red cross of St George and even the tricolore. ‘What is the flag with the white star?’

  ‘That’s the lone star of Texas.’

  ‘And the star and the bear?’

  ‘California. They had a Gold Rush there too.’

  ‘Where are the Chinese?’

  ‘They have their own camp, on the other side of the river at a place called Chinaman’s Cove,’ he said, pointing across the broad expanse of water.

  ‘Do they choose to live separately for their safety?’

  ‘I suspect so. In spite of Eliza’s courageous resolution, they are still wary. They travel back and forth each day by barge.’

  Charles pulled up the cart not far from a group of Chinese miners who were working a pile of tailings left by the other prospectors. He got down and began calling out in Chinese. The miners stopped work and gathered around him. Dressed in his smart brown suit and hat, he looked as if he had come directly from the city. Then he began to address the crowd. Although Amy couldn’t understand a word of what Charles was saying, she could sense that his address was compelling. Why else would his audience be so silent and still?

  ‘What did you say to them?’ she asked when the group had dispersed.

  ‘I am warning that opium is the path to dissipation and ruin, and they will find themselves spending all their mone
y on the fearful substance and having nothing to send home to their families. And I am reminding them that by frequenting opium dens, they are only fuelling the stories some Westerners spread about the Chinese.’

  During the morning, Charles moved from group to group, repeating his message, while Amy walked among the crowd, handing out pamphlets written in their language, bearing an illustration of an opium pipe with a cross drawn through it.

  At noon she produced a basket with bread and cold meat, after which Charles returned to his speeches. As the light began to wane, she tugged on his arm.

  ‘We must leave before dark, Charles.’

  ‘Just one more group,’ he said.

  By the time he had finished speaking, the sky was almost black, save for a streak of orange over the horizon. Barges had begun to ferry the Chinese miners across the river to their camp. As the couple made their way back to the horse and cart, he stopped abruptly, as if a ghost had crossed his path.

  ‘Don’t move, Amy,’ he said, holding her by the arm.

  ‘What is it?’

  In the fading light he pointed to a hole in the ground. It wasn’t square and reinforced with timber like a European mine shaft, but circular. Peering into the hole, Amy saw that it was half filled with water.

  ‘It is all right, Charles. You realised the danger in time. Nothing will happen to us. We are safe.’

  When they were seated in the cart, Charles whispered: ‘Do you know why the Chinese dig circular shafts? So that evil spirits cannot hide in the corners. But whether a hole has corners or not, it always has the power to kill.’

  Amy clasped his hand reassuringly. Even though it had been fifteen years since the accident, the little boy who tried in vain to save his drowning father still lived deep inside Charles Chen.

  Now

  Jack Parker was one of those old-fashioned cowboys who tipped their hat to the ladies with a ‘Howdy, ma’am.’ Every night he would knock at Angie’s door. And mostly she would reply, ‘Come in. The door’s not locked,’ and he would appear in his boxer shorts.

  Although he didn’t actually call her ‘ma’am’, he didn’t take her favours for granted. It was partly his innate good manners, and partly that Angie had made a rule for herself. Despite the fact that she might want the comfort of sex and the warmth of his body, there were nights when she would say no. Then he would wish her a goodnight through the closed door and pad across the hall to his room. She would hear him turn off the light and climb into his own bed. It was important that he didn’t become indispensable to her, that she could spend a night without Mr Songbird.

  Lately, he had been confiding in her, as they lay in each other’s arms after making love. Not about personal things, but about River Cove and the endless negotiations with the government and its departments. He had heard rumours of a new tax to be imposed on foreign mining companies. Already other multinationals were heading for more profitable locations. And Jack couldn’t escape the presence of the platypuses. They were looming as the biggest obstacle to the mine, the symbol of everything that might be endangered if the project was approved. All around town, opponents of the project had taken to wearing black T-shirts featuring a fluoro-pink platypus.

  Even when Jack was relaxing on the paved area at the back of the Manse, having a twilight drink, the platypus would be nearby, its circlets of ripples taunting him, so that he would retreat inside and finish his drink in the kitchen.

  ‘You need to learn how to clip their nails,’ said Richard as they stood in the centre of the alpaca paddock.

  ‘Can’t you just clip their nails for me?’ The thought of it made Angie nervous. What if she cut their soft little feet? ‘I couldn’t even bring myself to cut the boys’ nails when they were babies. Phil always did it for me.’ There, she had said his name and her eyes remained dry.

  ‘Well, I suppose I could do it for you,’ said Richard, proceeding to give them a manicure in a very professional fashion, almost as if he were a vet.

  ‘Thanks, Richard. I don’t mind raking up dung or cleaning the feeder, but cutting nails sets my teeth on edge.’

  Richard had brought a photo of his latest alpaca baby. ‘Other people have grandchildren. I have crias.’

  Even though he said it in a joking way, Angie wondered if there wasn’t an undertone.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything so adorable, Richard. Much cuter than a human baby. I hope Snow White gets pregnant. I think she fancies Jet.’

  ‘You’re probably right. He’s a ladies’ man. Handsome, confident, charming. Poor old Tutankhamun doesn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Is this a conversation about alpacas or what?’ Angie asked with a strained laugh.

  He seemed to catch the edge in her voice and changed the subject. ‘Anyway, theoretically, the female can get pregnant at any time. There’s always an egg waiting to be fertilised.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound particularly erotic.’

  ‘They’re animals, Ange, not people. It’s not about eroticism – it’s about reproducing.’

  ‘Well, I hope it happens soon. Snow White wants a baby and I want to be a grandmother.’

  ‘You’d be the best-looking grandma in Millbrooke.’

  Could Richard Scott be flirting with her? Glowing red as cadmium scarlet paint, he quickly changed the subject.

  ‘I have some books on alpaca breeding, Ange. You can borrow them, if you like. I’ll bring them down next time I come.’

  ‘I’ve booked the School of Arts for the Easter weekend,’ Angie told the painting ladies as they drank their tea and coffee in the kitchen before their lesson in the barn. ‘And I’ve been in touch with the school. The principal likes the idea. She wants every class involved.’

  ‘My children will be exhibiting in the same exhibition as their mum,’ said Tanya.

  ‘That’s a good thing,’ said Angie.

  ‘Not if their paintings are better than mine.’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘I was thinking the little ones might like to work on a theme – animals and birds of Millbrooke.’

  ‘You know which animal they’ll choose, don’t you?’ said Narelle.

  ‘How’s your project going, Angie?’ asked Moira.

  ‘I’ll show you.’ After all her equivocating about what to do, she’d finally decided on the subject – Amy’s Millbrooke. Carefully she removed a sheet of drawing paper from between two pieces of cardboard. It was a pen and ink sketch of the Manse, so detailed that every intricate curl of the cast-iron lace was visible. There was a sigh of admiration from the painting class.

  ‘This is just the first,’ she said. ‘I’m going to do a series.’

  ‘What other buildings do you have in mind?’ asked Moira.

  ‘That’s the problem,’ replied Angie. ‘There’s St Aidan’s, of course, but apart from that, I don’t know. I’ll have to do some more research. I know Amy was still alive in 1919, because her name appears without “deceased” after it on her mother’s headstone. But whether she was living in Millbrooke or not is another question.’

  The day after the painting class, Angie began work on her sketch of St Aidan’s, a plain, no-nonsense kind of church you might expect to see on the American prairies. Although she didn’t dislike the ‘old maid’ quality, its austerity was difficult to transfer to the page. After an hour she gave up, went inside and made herself a cup of tea. Tea was always conducive to clear thinking. Before the cup was even empty, she decided to visit the museum. Perhaps there was something in the archives she’d missed.

  It was lunchtime when she arrived and the information desk was unattended. She didn’t want to go directly to the archives room without permission so she decided to visit the beautiful Charles Chen instead. A shiver ran down her spine whenever she set eyes on the little portrait. A coup de foudre, repeated every time she entered the room and found him waiting for her.

  You couldn’t fall in love with a painting, could you? Only in one of those sad old Hollywood movies with Jennifer Jones a
nd Joseph Cotton.

  When she returned to the entrance, Bert was smiling at her from behind his desk.

  ‘Angie, you’ll be pleased to know our microfilm copies of the Millbrooke Gazette are now digitised.’

  He showed her where the folders were located on the computer desktop and left her to it. In spite of her intention to work through the pages briskly, she soon became immersed in the stories, personal notices and classified advertisements. When she looked at her watch, it was three o’clock and she was still in 1872.

  At quarter to five Bert appeared at the door to tell her the museum was closing in fifteen minutes. She didn’t fancy the idea of being left alone among the dusty showcases and cobwebby corners. Not even the thought of Charles Chen, ensconced in his cabinet, smoothing his moustache, rearranging his tie and giving his orchid a tweak, could tempt her to stay in the museum after hours.

  She was just about to call it a day when she caught sight of his name in an article concerning the crusade against opium. It was dated January, 1873. At the end was a sentence which caused Angie to catch her breath:

  Mr Chen is accompanied on his regular excursions by his brother, Mr Jimmy Chen, and on occasions, by his wife, the former Miss Amy Duncan.

  ‘Strike me lucky!’ said Angie aloud. She had never used that expression before. Wasn’t it something her grandfather used to say?

  ‘Strike me lucky,’ she repeated, this time more of a whisper, and looked up to see Bert standing beside her.

  ‘I gather you’ve found something,’ he said.

  Bert placed the ‘Closed’ sign on the front door and made them both a cup of tea.

  ‘If you go back to the pictures folders, you might find a photograph of them together. Charles Chen was important enough to have his portrait painted, albeit in miniature, so you never know.’

  ‘But Moira and I looked at every photo right up until the mid-1880s. And I checked a second time.’

  ‘You were looking for Amy Duncan, not Mrs Charles Chen. You could easily have missed her if the image was fuzzy or in a context you weren’t expecting.’