Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘Do you agree with Tanya about the man drought?’ asked Angie.

  ‘There aren’t many available men in my age group, Angie. And when a man does lose his wife, there’s a string of women waiting to become the replacement. You can see them lining up at the funeral. The next day, they turn up with a casserole or a spag bol, offering solace. Before too long, the silly old bloke will find himself snared. And after a respectable interval, there’ll be a quiet wedding.’

  ‘It sounds as though you’ve had some experience of this.’

  ‘It happened to my best friend’s husband after she died of cancer.’

  ‘Funny how it doesn’t work the other way around, the men lining up.’

  ‘Yes, funny, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think women always cope better when they lose their partner. We’re stronger than men.’

  ‘You’re right, Angie. Just look at you. You’ve come a long way this year. I’ve watched you start to laugh again.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Like a flower unfurling in slow motion in one of those nature documentaries.’

  ‘Perhaps Millbrooke is good for me. Even the winter weather.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll buy the Manse?’

  ‘Richard’s given me a year to decide. But I think I might.’

  ‘What do you know about Richard?’ asked Moira.

  ‘Nothing really, except that he’s a bit of a dero who needs to ditch the beanie and get some decent clothes.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘No, there’s another thing.’ Angie lowered her voice, even though it was only the two of them. ‘I’m convinced he’s an alcoholic.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Narelle said as much. And he spends a lot of time at the pub.’

  ‘Have you ever seen Richard drunk or even hung over?’

  ‘No, but he might be one of those types who can drink and not let it show.’

  ‘Is there anything else you know about him?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he used to be a builder. Or maybe a carpenter. He sketched some rough floor plans for me, and they weren’t half bad. He would have made a good architect if he’d put his mind to it.’

  Angie wondered why Moira was grinning at her.

  ‘Angie, you’re such a card.’

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You and Richard meet up almost every morning, and yet you don’t know a single thing about him.’

  ‘Firstly, Moira, we don’t meet as such. Richard just turns up at the café when I’m having my breakfast. And secondly, what makes you think I’m wrong about him?’

  ‘Because Richard Scott really is an architect, a well-respected one.’

  ‘Okay, I suppose that makes sense. He was talking about passive solar and the integrity of the design. That’s the way architects speak, isn’t it? But you can’t tell me he doesn’t have issues with alcohol.’

  ‘He hasn’t had a drink in years.’

  ‘How do you know all this stuff about him anyway?’ Then Angie hesitated. ‘Oh my God. I wondered how you could be so sure about Richard not being gay. And now it makes sense. The two of you are having an affair, aren’t you?’

  Moira’s whole body began to shake, causing the brown liquid in her mug to spill onto the table.

  ‘He’s not interested in me, Angie!’ she replied, breathless with laughter. Then she mopped up the puddles of tea with a paper napkin. ‘Never has been.’

  ‘So you’ve known him a long time?’

  ‘Ever since he first came to Millbrooke with his wife.’

  Angie’s mouth dropped open. ‘His wife? Richard had a wife?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. It would have been the late eighties, I suppose. He was a first-rate architect from Sydney, specialising in heritage restorations. He’d made his money buying old houses in the inner city, doing them up and selling them at a profit. Then he and his wife came here to inspect Millerbrooke House which was up for sale, after the last of the Millers had died. The place was in a bad way with a damaged roof and broken windows, but Richard was smitten with the Georgian façade. So they bought it and he spent all his time working on the renovations. I guess that’s when the marriage started to go wrong. She missed Sydney and didn’t like being stuck up there in a draughty old house with mould on the walls.’

  ‘So did she leave him and go back to Sydney?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m telling you this in confidence, Angie. Because I trust you. I’d never say it in front of the others.’

  ‘I wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone, Moira.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t long after they moved here that George and I got to know them. We wanted to restore our cottage. So Richard did an assessment and drew up the plans. He and George became good friends. That’s how we found out Diana, Richard’s wife, was having an affair with the local solicitor.’

  ‘Jim Holbrook?’

  ‘No, the one before him. George went up there one night to discuss the renovations and found Richard distraught. She’d left him to go and live with the solicitor. And she’d told him she was pregnant, but it wasn’t his. Apparently they’d been trying for years to have a baby and then the lawyer got her pregnant in the first few weeks.’

  ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘Yes, it was. Richard used to bump into her in town and she had a bulging belly. It was a big scandal, but people have forgotten it now. New scandals, new controversies.’

  ‘What happened to him after that?’

  ‘He started drinking. He let his consulting practice slide. George tried to help him, but he wouldn’t listen. There were a couple of bad years. Then George had his first heart attack and a second.’ She paused to take a breath. ‘After George died, Richard seemed to wake up to himself. He stopped drinking and resumed his design work. He still operates the consulting business from home. But I don’t think he’s ever gotten over Diana. She and the solicitor moved down to the coast years ago. I heard they had a daughter. And poor Richard continued to live in that big old house and spend his evenings drinking with his cronies at the pub – though these days it’s only orange juice.’

  ‘I wonder why he still spends so much time in the pub,’ said Angie. ‘You’d think that would be torture for him.’

  ‘Lisa welcomes him there. She has a collection of oddballs from all over the district. Nobody else notices them in their beanies and worn-out clothes. In fact, everybody’s so used to them, they might as well be invisible.’

  After a moment Angie said, ‘In the mornings when I see Richard in the café, I’m always caught up in my own life. And he’s just a foil, someone I bounce my problems off. I’ve never given much thought to what his story might be. I guess that’s pretty selfish.’

  ‘It’s been a time in your life when you’ve needed to be selfish, to take care of yourself. Now you can start to reach out to people again.’ Moira smiled at her and took her hand. ‘Do you remember our first painting class? Everyone was chatting and nobody was in a hurry to get started. I could see you becoming stressed, looking at your watch, wondering if you should hurry us along. You didn’t realise we’d come as much for the social side as for the painting. It was the same with the lace-making and the quilting before that. You might think it’s an art class, but it’s really our weekly therapy session.’

  That evening Angie and Jack were having their usual drinks on the terrace.

  ‘Angie, in all these weeks we’ve been together, you’ve never asked anything of me.’

  ‘Why would I? You’re always helping around the house – making your bed and loading the dishwasher.’

  ‘I didn’t mean housework. I was talking about you wanting something deeper – emotionally.’

  ‘I thought the boundaries were clear from the start. After all, you’re married. And I’m not looking for a grand romance.’

  ‘Women always want more.’

  ‘Not this one. I like things exactly as they are.’

  ‘But, Angie, don’t you love me
just a little?’

  He sounded like a little boy craving his mother’s attention. Had Jack been expecting Angie to fall in love with him? She really couldn’t blame him – grown women became simpering adolescents in Jack’s presence, even the happily married Ros. He could be endearing and tender, but Angie could never love him, not even a little. Not while she was still in love with her husband. And she couldn’t just extinguish a love story that had lasted more than three decades, as she might snuff out a candle.

  Angie was silent for so long, Jack began tickling her ribs, trying to tease the information out of her. Just as she was begging for him to stop, she came up with a response she thought would please him.

  ‘You’re lovable, Jack. Very lovable.’

  ‘But you don’t love me, do you?’

  It might have been her imagination, but Jack Parker seemed miffed.

  13

  SECRETS AND SONGBIRDS

  Then

  Amy and Eliza had resumed their daily lessons and were grappling with the French scientific journal. Their work was assisted by a medical dictionary Charles had acquired for them in Sydney. Sometimes Eliza would stay for supper and afterwards Jimmy would join them for their language lesson. Amy tutored Jimmy in English, using Bible stories Eliza and her brothers had read as children. For his part, Jimmy taught Amy and Eliza to speak Chinese by way of drawings, mime and simply pointing to objects.

  Amy was fond of Jimmy. He reminded her of Charles. Not just in looks, but in his gracious manner. Jimmy respected their privacy, keeping to himself in the evenings and knocking loudly on the back door before he entered the house, even though the door was never locked.

  Charles confided to Amy that their mother had sent a letter in which she expressed her desire for Jimmy to return home and find a bride. She feared her younger son might also fall in love with a white girl. To Amy, that implied Charles’s mother didn’t approve of him marrying her, but she said nothing. After all, her own father had done far more than disapprove. He had castigated them in the most public way imaginable.

  One afternoon in February, Eliza arrived to find Amy catnapping on the sofa.

  ‘I thought we had a lesson this afternoon, Amy Chen, and here you are in dreamland.’

  Amy yawned and stretched her arms. ‘I’m sorry. I have been so tired of late.’

  Eliza frowned and lowered her voice. ‘When were you last on the rag?’

  ‘Eliza!’ How could she be so vulgar? Female matters weren’t things to be mentioned in polite society, even by a girl who wanted to be a doctor. Aunt Molly, who was the most progressive of people, had never brought up so intimate a topic, and after Amy’s mother showed her how to sew rags together, the subject hadn’t been broached again.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m talking about, Amy?’

  ‘Of course.’ Then she whispered her answer: ‘In December.’

  ‘When exactly?’

  ‘Oh dear, Eliza, I don’t remember. Why do you need to know such information?’

  ‘It is important, Amy, to confirm my suspicions or otherwise.’

  Amy knew there was no point in arguing with Eliza. She would persist, no matter how hard she protested. ‘The second week in Sydney.’

  ‘And you haven’t considered the absence of your monthlies to be odd?’

  ‘No. Isn’t it because I’m a married woman?’

  Eliza laughed. ‘Who told you such a ridiculous thing, Amy? Or did you invent it in your imagination? The reason they have stopped is that you are with child.’

  Amy’s eyes widened. ‘A bairn?’

  ‘Yes, and it may have begun on your honeymoon.’ Eliza counted on her fingers. ‘Which means you and Charles will have a baby in September!’

  It was such a shock Amy couldn’t speak.

  ‘You’re happy about the baby, aren’t you, Amy?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I am also fearful. I saw Mama screaming in agony. I wish the story about the stork was true.’

  ‘Don’t be anxious, Amy. There are anaesthetic measures which can relieve the pain – chloroform and ether. I have read about them in my journals.’

  ‘Why weren’t these measures used to alleviate my mother’s distress?’

  ‘Some doctors believe it’s a woman’s duty to bear the pain.’

  ‘Will Doctor Allen allow me to have this chlor . . .’

  ‘Chloroform. I shall insist on it.’

  ‘What if the baby is born feet first?’

  ‘It is too soon to worry yourself about that, Amy. And it is unlikely you will have a breech birth.’

  ‘That is a relief.’

  ‘There is something else. It would be best not to tell Charles that you are with child. Not for a month or two.’

  ‘But why? Surely he will be pleased?’

  ‘I have no doubt. But you should be aware that things can go wrong during the early months.’

  ‘Now I am even more frightened.’

  ‘You must be careful not to overexert yourself. And some doctors say you should avoid loud noises as the shock can dislodge the baby.’

  ‘You are so well versed in the subject of babies, Eliza, are you sure you don’t want to become a midwife rather than a doctor?’

  ‘I’m certain. I shall continue to read my journals and deliver calves and foals. And one day a letter will come from the university offering me a place as a student in the faculty of medicine. Professor Pasteur once said that scientists should prepare their minds for the time when chance favours them. And that is what I intend to do.’

  Now

  While Angie’s boys were in town for the weekend, she finally accepted a lunch invitation to Millerbrooke. Richard had been quite insistent about it, which she found peculiar. In the past, his invitations had always been easy to decline.

  Because it was her first visit, she considered taking a gift – a plant or a box of chocolates. But Richard didn’t do presents, and a bottle of wine was out of the question. So she made a tarte tatin, using the abundant harvest of Royal Galas from her apple tree. The trick was to add just a few drops of lemon juice to balance the sweetness of the brown sugar. They had lunch in Millerbrooke’s vast dining room at a table which was longer than Angie’s ten-seater. Richard was full of surprises. The house was elegant and uncluttered. And he could actually cook. Yabbies from the dam, followed by his free-range chicken. As she looked around the dining room, Angie wondered if he didn’t have his own aesthetic, based on creating beauty in his surroundings, rather than worrying about his personal appearance.

  After lunch he took them on a tour. If the Old Manse was quaint and romantic, Millerbrooke was a grand colonial mansion.

  ‘What do you call this style?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Georgian. It’s all about symmetry and classical proportions.’

  At the back of the house a series of outbuildings formed a courtyard. Richard showed them the old kitchen where the cook used to prepare the meals and the adjoining schoolroom in which the Miller children were educated by a governess.

  ‘There’s one more thing you should see,’ he said, sounding as excited as a child at Christmastime.

  They followed him towards a stand of elm trees.

  ‘It’s a graveyard!’ exclaimed Angie. ‘No wonder I couldn’t find any Millers in the town cemetery.’

  ‘Yes, they’re all here.’

  The graveyard was delineated by a low box hedge. Angie found Captain Miller immediately. His was an impressive obelisk with an urn on top. There was a joint headstone for John and Charlotte. Behind them was their daughter, Eliza. Angie couldn’t help thinking she had only recently met Eliza, courtesy of the story hidden inside Amy’s book. And here she was in her grave.

  In loving memory of

  Eliza May Miller

  A pioneering woman

  Who departed this life

  6th June, 1927

  Aged 72 years

  ‘Dans les champs de l’observation

  le hasard ne favorise que les

/>   esprits préparés.’

  Blessed are the dead which die in

  the Lord

  What was the significance of the French quote, Angie wondered. She took a photo of the inscription and resolved to search on the internet.

  Next to Eliza were Joseph and his wife. The younger brother, Daniel, was missing. Perhaps he had moved away. Towards the back was a large headstone with an arched top, shaded by a rose bush heavy with yellow flowers. Parts of the inscription were covered in mould; other sections had worn away. In places the stone looked bleached, as if someone had tried to scrub it clean.

  It was such a surprise that for a few seconds Angie couldn’t breathe. She had found Amy but lost Charles.

  Richard made her a cup of tea.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ange. I thought you’d be pleased about finding Amy. But now I see it was silly of me not to break it to you gently.’

  ‘How long have you known?’ asked Angie, blotting her eyes.

  ‘I only twigged to it recently when I started cleaning up the gravestones. The ones at the back were in the worst condition. That was when I found Amy and Charles. But I didn’t get far with the clean-up because the stone kept disintegrating and I realised I was doing more harm than good.’

  Angie hadn’t touched her tea. ‘I can’t believe Charles is dead. Sometimes I visit him in the museum.’ The boys were giving her puzzled looks. ‘His portrait, I mean. Bert and I had a celebration when we discovered Charles had married Amy. I liked to think of them having a long life together as Mr and Mrs Chen; I even imagined him breaking through the cultural barrier and becoming president of the chamber of commerce or mayor of Millbrooke.’ She stared into her tea cup. ‘What a waste. He was so young.’