Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  By the time they finished their tea, they’d found it. A photograph from 1873 of two Chinese men, one in an English suit, the other in a loose shirt and trousers, and a European woman holding a frilly parasol. They were standing bolt upright – in the Victorian photographic tradition – outside a wooden building with large windows and double doors. A verandah awning across the front was supported by columns decorated with iron lace brackets. The caption read:

  Mr and Mrs Charles Chen and Mr Jimmy Chen outside their Emporium

  Angie enlarged the image to two hundred percent. Yes, there they were – her old friends, Amy and Charles, together, standing beside Charles’s brother. Everything made sense now – Eliza’s story in Amy’s book, the Oriental treasures in the trunk; all the clues were leading her to this moment. Then she zoomed closer to read the lettering on the window.

  MR CHEN’S EMPORIUM

  IMPORTER OF FINE GOODS AND DEALER IN ORNAMENTAL WARES

  ‘Do you know whether the building still exists?’ she asked Bert.

  ‘Probably not. A lot of those Gold Rush stores were demolished in the bad old days before the government introduced heritage listings. Or they were so extensively renovated that they’re unrecognisable. Don’t get your hopes up,’ he said, printing out the image and handing it to her.

  Afterwards they went to Lisa’s pub for a celebratory drink.

  ‘It’s bizarre, isn’t it, Bert? Celebrating a marriage that took place in the nineteenth century. People would think we were crazy if we told them.’

  They raised their glasses and toasted Amy and Charles. Yet despite her joy at the union, Angie felt a twinge of jealousy. It was irrational, of course, but in her imagination she had wanted him for herself.

  First thing next morning, the printout tucked safely in her handbag, Angie headed for Miller Street. She had no idea where to start, so she decided to be systematic and walk its length, east to west, and then the reverse. But in the back of her mind Bert’s warning was flashing like a hazard light.

  The task proved much harder than she’d expected, mainly because so many of Millbrooke’s buildings seemed to have double doors with windows on either side. The only clue was the dragon design on the verandah brackets, if, in fact, they still existed. She couldn’t remember whether she’d seen that particular motif before. Perhaps Charles had commissioned a foundry to make them just for him. To be honest, she’d never paid much attention to the intricacies of the iron lace decoration which seemed to festoon every second building in Millbrooke. Like a flower, you might appreciate its overall beauty, but it was only when you came to draw it that you noticed the number of petals or the veining on the leaves. In fact, until she began sketching the Manse she hadn’t even bothered to scrutinise the complex pattern of swirls, scallops and fleurs-de-lis trimming her very own verandah.

  Angie was almost at the end of her second lap when she found herself outside the pottery café. Definitely time for a Lapsang Souchong. As she approached the doorway, she glanced at the posts holding up the old awning that protected shoppers from the weather. At the top were rusting iron brackets, one on each end-post and two on the others.

  ‘Dragons!’ she screamed and began laughing in a way she hadn’t done in over a year. A pair of grey nomads, who had just alighted from their motorhome, gave her a curious look and wisely kept walking.

  As she stepped over the threshold, it was as if she were entering the building for the first time. Everything had taken on a new meaning. She half-closed her eyes, a habit acquired from sizing up the tonal values within a painting, and instantly the ceramic bowls, displayed on wooden shelves reaching to the cornices, were transformed into Oriental porcelain. She ran her hand over the cedar shelving and leaned down to smell it. Was there a hint of cinnamon and cloves? Maybe a whiff of ginger too.

  The counter was all steel and Perspex – nothing original there – but the floor was hardwood; wide boards of the type you could only find nowadays at restoration specialists. Through a doorway was the kitchen. Like the counter, it was ultra-modern. What had it been in Charles’s day? A storeroom? An office? She imagined him sitting at his roll-top desk, doing the accounts, dipping his pen into the ink well and wiping off the excess, before writing rows of numbers in copperplate script.

  The waiter looked up from behind the counter where he was making coffee and asked: ‘Your usual, Angie?’

  ‘No, thanks, Ben. Not today.’ For some reason, the thought of a fragrant, floral tea was suddenly appealing. ‘I think I’ll have jasmine tea and one of those currant buns, please,’ she said, pointing to a cake stand topped by a glass cloche.

  ‘Actually, Angie, they’re choc-chip scones.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, looking closely at the items lying under the glass. How could she have possibly thought they were currant buns?

  When she finished her tea and scones, Angie crossed Miller Street and appraised the café from the other side. Above the awning a parapet stretched right across the front of the building. In the very centre there were three embossed initials. Just like the dragon brackets, they’d been there all along – in plain sight yet unseen. A code waiting to be deciphered:

  M C E

  Wouldn’t Amy be pleased that the twenty-first century woman who had delighted in her treasures was also the one to rediscover the emporium?

  Afterwards, Angie dropped into Moira’s to share the news about Amy and Charles.

  ‘I know about the marriage,’ said Moira. ‘Bert told me this morning when I ran into him at the pharmacy.’

  Angie couldn’t help laughing. Who needed text-messaging when the Millbrooke grapevine worked so efficiently?

  ‘But I bet he didn’t tell you what happened to the emporium.’

  ‘He said you were trying to find it.’

  ‘Well, I did – just now. Guess which building it is.’

  ‘Not the supermarket?’

  ‘No,’ laughed Angie. ‘That would be a travesty.’

  ‘Well, I give up.’

  ‘It’s the pottery café!’

  ‘The place where you have breakfast. That’s a nice connection, Angie. And I’m delighted about Amy and Charles.’

  ‘So am I. I can’t wait to tell the painting class. I thought we might have a little party with cupcakes and champagne.’

  ‘There won’t be much painting done after that!’ said Moira with a laugh. Then her expression changed as something seemed to dawn on her. ‘You know, I’m surprised Amy’s parents allowed her to marry a Chinese man. Wouldn’t a mixed marriage have been taboo in those days?’

  ‘I don’t think they did give their permission. There’s a clue I found in one of Amy’s books. The poem about Lochinvar.’

  ‘I remember “Lochinvar”. We had to learn it by heart when I was in primary school. Those were the days.’

  Hiding a smile, Angie said, ‘Well, as you know, it’s a ballad about a knight who runs away with the woman he loves. There’s one particular line that Amy has underlined so heavily she’s practically cut through the page: “I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied . . .” ’

  ‘So you think her dad said no, and then Amy and Charles eloped? I suppose that would explain why we couldn’t find any record of her marriage in the parish registers.’

  ‘It was such a daring thing to do, Moira, particularly for the daughter of a clergyman. Can you imagine her parents’ reaction when they found out?’

  ‘A real shit storm,’ said Moira with a smile.

  Angie gave her an oblique glance. She had never heard genteel Moira swear before, not even to say ‘bloody’.

  ‘Do you think you would have run off with George if your parents hadn’t approved of him?’ asked Angie.

  ‘It’s academic really. They both adored George. What about you and Phil?’

  ‘Same thing, apart from a hiccup at the start.’ She smiled, recalling her father’s belief that any male who played in a rock band was a sex-crazed hippie. ‘But seriously, I wonder if I would have found
the courage to defy my parents if they’d forbidden me to see him. I’d like to think I’d have been brave like Amy. After all, Phil was the love of my life.’

  ‘Your life isn’t over yet, Angie,’ Moira replied cryptically.

  It was Phil’s birthday. Last year’s, coming only a couple of months after his death, had hit Angie like one disastrous frost after another. Blake had suggested they plant a tree. It was among his better ideas. The three of them had gone to a nursery and chosen a Huon pine, a species whose propensity to live for centuries, even millennia, seemed to provide a glimpse of eternity which Angie had found comforting. This year, she hoped the day would be easier. She had been rallying her inner resources, keeping busy with the sketches of St Aidan’s, the emporium and Millerbrooke House. For her drawing of Millerbrooke, she was using the original architectural elevations in the museum as a guide and guessing the rest because she hadn’t actually visited the house itself. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d evaded so many invitations, how would it look if she went now, when she suspected Richard fancied her? Of course, she might have imagined he was flirting with her. It was so clumsy, it could have meant anything. All the same, she had a feeling there was more to her landlord than the dishevelled eccentric he appeared to be.

  Today though, all the psychological preparation, not to mention the busyness of the last weeks, didn’t mean a thing. She could feel a major crying jag threatening, one of those gut-wrenching sessions that left her wrung out for days.

  Mr Songbird had set off early for the drill site, creeping out so quietly Angie hadn’t heard him. He’d even made his own breakfast and put the cereal bowl in her newly purchased dishwasher afterwards. The perfect lodger.

  On a day like this, she thought to herself, it might be better to be surrounded by people. Then she wouldn’t surrender to the crying. So she picked up her handbag and sunglasses and headed for the emporium café – that’s what she called it now. Maybe in the future it would become common usage among Millbrookers, just as Jack Parker was now familiarly known as Mr Songbird.

  On the way she bought a Sydney paper and the Millbrooke Gazette. The café was busy with the last of its regular breakfast diners. Angie noticed one of the anti-mine campaigners, her T-shirt emblazoned with a shocking-pink platypus, sitting in the corner facing towards the wall. At a table for four, the plants lady was drinking coffee and writing frantically in one of those old-fashioned legal pads. Was it her next film script? Would it be a whimsical story about the eccentric habitués of the emporium café? Angie liked to think so.

  She was about to open the paper when she heard a soft cowboy voice asking: ‘Is this chair taken, ma’am?’

  ‘I thought you were at River Cove.’

  ‘Yeah, I put in a few hours out there, but I have a meeting with the regional planning guy from Granthurst at eleven. We were intending to come here, though that might not be such a good idea.’ He inclined his head towards the platypus woman who was bent over a folder with her back to them. ‘I’ll just text him with a new meeting place. What’s that café up the hill called?’

  ‘The Gold Rush Café. Corner of St John’s.’

  ‘Are you going to eat those sausages, Angie?’

  She pushed her plate towards him. ‘I’m not hungry. I only ordered them out of habit.’

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ He had adopted his concerned look, the asymmetry of his face accentuated by the raised eyebrows and lopsided half smile.

  ‘It’s Phil’s birthday.’ She hadn’t intended to tell him.

  There was a pause during which he seemed to be searching his brain for the significance of a man called Phil.

  ‘Oh, your husband. I’m sorry.’ He reached over and patted her hand. ‘I’ll take you out for dinner tonight. That will cheer you up. We’ll go to the Italian place.’

  Angie smiled despite herself. How inappropriate to ask her out to dinner on her dead husband’s birthday. But Mr Songbird didn’t seem to notice. He thought he was being kind, trying to take her mind off Phil.

  ‘I’ve thawed a leg of lamb,’ said Angie, ‘so we probably should eat at home tonight.’

  ‘Well, in that case, let’s go out tomorrow night.’ He had finished her plate. ‘Must fly. Keep your chin up, Angie.’

  It was fortunate that songbirds were renowned for their melodies rather than their empathy. Otherwise, you might let them into your heart when you were at your most vulnerable.

  As Jack stood to go, he bent over and kissed her on the mouth. Just a brief kiss, but significant to an outsider observing the widow and the miner. When he walked to the counter to pay, Angie scanned the room to see if anyone had noticed. Then she spotted her landlord coming into the café. He and Jack crossed paths at the door. There was an exchange of greetings, like two cowboys tipping their hats, and Mr Songbird was gone.

  ‘Anyone sitting here, Ange?’ The question was loaded with innuendo.

  ‘It’s all yours.’

  ‘Another Lapsang Souchong?’ he asked as he placed his order.

  ‘No, thanks. I really should go. I have a sketch to finish.’

  ‘Of what?’

  She couldn’t very well tell him it was a drawing of his own house. ‘My contribution to the exhibition.’

  ‘I saw the poster. You girls are getting serious about this, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s a serious thing, Richard.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.’

  ‘Some people might think we’re just a bunch of dilettantes with pretensions.’ After she said it, she realised it was probably an accurate description.

  Suddenly her phone rang. When she answered it, she heard Phil. For a moment she thought he’d come back to her. Then she realised it was her son.

  ‘I was going to call you later, darling. And Tim as well.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I wish we could be together today.’

  It was difficult to hold a personal phone conversation when there was a man sitting opposite her, wearing a pixie hat which covered antennae that could pick up every nuance. Whether the aerials were the metal kind or similar to those horny growths protruding from a giraffe’s head, she hadn’t yet determined.

  ‘We thought we might come and visit you,’ said Blake. ‘Not this weekend, the one after. Is that okay with you, Mum?’

  Thank goodness Mr Songbird had scheduled a trip to Canberra for Wednesday week. He would be away until the following Monday. The boys knew about Jack’s existence, of course, but she had implied he was a nerdy old engineer. She wasn’t sure how they would cope with a handsome cowboy living in their mother’s house.

  ‘That would be lovely, Blake. I miss you both so much, especially today.’

  ‘Have you been all right?’

  ‘Kind of.’ She didn’t want to say anything in front of Richard, even though he appeared to be engrossed in her copy of the Gazette.

  ‘It’s natural to be upset on a day like this, Mum. It’s called anniversary syndrome.’

  Trust Blake to have a diagnosis.

  ‘Are you still having those denial dreams? The ones about Dad recovering.’

  ‘Actually, they haven’t happened in quite a while.’ What did that mean? No doubt Blake would tell her.

  ‘That indicates you’re making progress.’

  ‘So it’s a good thing?’

  ‘Yeah, it looks like you’re coming out of denial. But grieving isn’t a straightforward process, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was. So where am I now?’ she asked warily, not expecting to hear: ‘You seem to be angry.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m perfectly calm,’ she said, moderating her voice accordingly.

  ‘It’s repressed anger, Mum. You’re resentful at Dad for leaving you. That’s probably the reason you’re not seeing him in your dreams.’

  ‘But it doesn’t make sense. It’s not as though he ran off with another woman.’ She had dropped her voice to a whisper, aware of the man opposite her. ‘He had no choice in the matter.’
r />   ‘You understand that on a rational level, but your subconscious has a mind of its own.’

  She heard him chuckle at his little pun.

  ‘You really need to look after yourself, Mum,’ he said, sounding serious again.

  ‘But I do.’

  ‘I’m speaking in an emotional sense. You’re fragile right now. You could easily do something you’d regret down the track. You might even find yourself falling apart.’

  ‘I’m not the type.’

  ‘It happens. People do all kinds of things to ease the pain. Drinking too much, taking drugs, having an affair.’

  ‘No likelihood of any of those.’ Angie laughed, perhaps a little too heartily. ‘Anyway, I’d better let you go, sweetheart.’ She didn’t want to discuss her feelings any longer. ‘Thank you for calling me today. I love you, darling.’

  ‘Ditto, Mum.’

  As she looked across at Richard, his hat bent over the newspaper, she could almost hear the antennae humming beneath their woollen covering.

  On a Wednesday in early February Angie found herself with only one student – Moira. The others were at an open day at the school, except for Jennie who was in Granthurst, visiting her latest internet man. They intended to meet in a café overlooking the park – a neutral setting, as advised by the dating website – and if all went well, they would have lunch together.

  ‘And then what?’ Angie had asked tentatively.

  ‘I’ll come home. I never sleep with them on the first date. They’d think I’m an easy lay.’

  ‘So you wait a month or two?’

  ‘Not necessarily. The second date is negotiable.’

  Angie didn’t know whether to be shocked or to laugh out loud. Fortunately the conversation had taken place over the phone and Jennie couldn’t see her twitching face.

  Angie and Moira observed the usual tradition of coffee and cake before the lesson, but because there were only two of them, the introductory banter extended to lunchtime, and they still hadn’t started to paint. Moira had lived in Millbrooke all her life and knew everybody’s secrets. She didn’t gossip though. Moira was discreet. You could trust her as a repository of your confidences. Unlike the others, she never disclosed the details of her own internet adventures, even though it seemed to Angie that there had been several, if not in person, then of the online variety. Moira was a seventy-year-old woman still interested in men and presumably in sex. It was intriguing and, Angie had to admit, inspirational.