Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘Life was hard back then,’ said Richard. ‘It might have been an accident. Or an illness.’

  ‘Whatever happened, it isn’t bloody fair. Can you imagine what it must have been like for poor Amy, losing the love of her life after less than a year?’

  ‘Mum, get a grip; it’s not as if you know these people,’ said Tim. ‘You’re acting as if they’re your long-lost relatives when they’re just people from the nineteenth century. They have no relevance to your life.’

  ‘Your mum has become very close to Amy,’ said Richard quietly. ‘Through researching her life and painting her portrait.’

  ‘It’s just so sad,’ Angie said. Tears were filling her eyes once more. ‘Sorry.’ She went into the hallway so they wouldn’t see her crying. This time she couldn’t stop. The sobs were so loud she put her hand over her mouth to stifle them. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s okay to cry, Ange.’

  The painting ladies had become stakeholders in Angie’s quest for Amy. When there was finally a pause in the Wednesday morning chatter, she broke the news.

  ‘To die so young,’ said Ros. ‘It’s a tragedy. And they were only newlyweds. Do you know what happened?’

  ‘No. There isn’t any cause of death on the inscription or in the Gazette – I looked in the archives yesterday. But I did wonder if it might have been a racist attack or a robbery or a combination of the two.’

  ‘Surely there would have been a hint of something so untoward on the headstone,’ said Ros.

  ‘Or in the papers,’ said Jennie.

  ‘You’d think so. Maybe it was a riding accident. Or snakebite or even a cut that turned septic,’ suggested Narelle.

  ‘Poor Amy,’ sighed Moira. ‘A teenage widow.’

  ‘Would she have inherited the house and emporium?’ asked Ros.

  ‘It depends on Charles’s will, I suppose,’ said Angie. ‘If he even had one. Who expects to die when they’re twenty-six?’

  ‘I wonder if her parents were there for her, with him being a vicar and all,’ said Tanya.

  ‘I doubt it. The fact that the trunk remained at the Manse is the clue. She never returned for her treasures because she couldn’t or wouldn’t enter that house.’

  ‘Is there any mention of a second marriage on Amy’s headstone?’

  ‘None that I could see, but parts of it were worn away.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe she didn’t marry again,’ mused Ros. ‘Half a century is a long time to be a widow.’

  ‘Perhaps she was like Queen Victoria,’ said Angie. ‘And Charles was her Prince Albert.’

  ‘Yes, but Victoria was middle-aged when Albert died, and Amy was a teenager with her life ahead of her. Surely she could have found someone else.’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t want to,’ said Moira. ‘She might have carried a torch for Charles for the rest of her life.’

  ‘What would you have done, Angie?’ asked Narelle. ‘If you’d been Amy?’

  ‘I can’t imagine marrying again. After all, how could you ever find anyone to compare with Charles Chen?’ Or Phil Wallace, she could have added.

  It was difficult to settle down to work after that. A strange sense of loss lingered into the afternoon.

  ‘I feel as though I’ve just been to a funeral,’ said Jennie.

  ‘Maybe we should have a wake,’ suggested Narelle.

  Jennie and Narelle were working on their portraits for the ‘Faces of Millbrooke’. The layout reminded Angie of the old Hollywood Squares TV show where the celebrities were seated in rows to form a grid. There was Jonathan, the woodworker cum newspaper editor; Doug, the real estate agent; Jim, the solicitor; Ben, the ceramicist; Don, the baker; Brad, the electrician; Bert, the historian; Senior Sergeant Peters; even the mayor himself. Twenty Millbrookers in total.

  Meanwhile Angie was busy on her own project, inking the sketch of the emporium, the last in her quartet of significant buildings in Amy’s life. She was keen to do it justice and her pen hovered nervously over the page. A technically accurate rendering might be satisfactory for the others, but Mr Chen’s Emporium required something extra. A touch of magic.

  After her students had left and Angie was tidying the barn, a thought crossed her mind. Someone was missing from the ‘Faces of Millbrooke’ – the owner of the district’s oldest property. Narelle and Jennie had forgotten all about him. And nobody had noticed. It was just as Moira said – Richard had made himself invisible.

  Since Moira’s revelations, Angie had pondered whether to tell Richard that she knew about him being an architect. She didn’t want to implicate Moira, and she certainly didn’t want him working out that she knew about his marriage break-up and bout with the bottle.

  One afternoon, when he came to check on the alpacas, Angie said: ‘I was thinking about those drawings you did for me, Richard. The floor plans. They were brilliant. And all your talk about symmetry and classical proportions. Are you an architect?’ She posed the question with a serious face and an unwavering gaze, hoping this would get past his antennae.

  He smiled. ‘Guilty as charged.’

  ‘It’s not something to be ashamed of.’

  ‘Nobody cares what I do. They just assume I’m an ageing eccentric who owns a lot of Millbrooke real estate.’

  Angie started to laugh. ‘But you are.’

  Dismissing her with a frown, he continued: ‘I like to stay under the radar.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It’s a safer place to be.’

  Vicky was coming from Sydney for the Millbrooke Village Fair. Her husband Paul couldn’t make it, and so it would be just the two of them – and Jack, of course.

  When Angie told him about her old friend’s visit, he said: ‘She can have my room. I’ll spend the weekend at the motel.’

  ‘That’s generous of you, but there’s no need. Anyway, the motel will be booked out because of the fair. I’ll put Vicky in the third bedroom.’

  ‘I guess I’d better not call on you then, while your friend is staying.’

  ‘Call on you’ – he was such an old-fashioned cowboy. Shucks, ma’am, I don’t want to cause you any embarrassment.

  ‘We’ll make up for it on Sunday night,’ he promised with a grin.

  Vicky was dazzled by the transformation to the Manse and adored the alpacas.

  ‘I’m going to be a grandmother,’ announced Angie as they patted Snow White on the neck – she hated anyone touching her head. ‘I only found out this week.’

  Vicky looked shocked.

  Angie quivered with laughter. ‘It’s not Blake or Tim. It’s Snow White.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Vicky, staring at each animal in turn. ‘So who’s the father? The brown one?’

  ‘No, he’s a wether.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘He’s been neutered. He can’t make babies.’

  ‘And when is this baby due?’

  ‘January of next year. It’s a very long gestation.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re staying?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  When Jack arrived home on Friday afternoon, Angie could see he was unsettled. There had been a visit from the planning bureaucrats who were intending to stay overnight at the motel. In an hour or two Jack and the team would attempt what he called ‘a last-ditch wooing’. It would take place over dinner at the Millbrooke RSL, where they had booked a private function room because they didn’t want any locals eavesdropping. Angie had wondered about the use of ‘last-ditch’. What exactly did he mean by that? Surely they weren’t going to abandon the project, not when they’d come so far. Perhaps it was just a reflection of Jack’s growing impatience with the whole process, although that was odd, considering he’d been the one to say that in the mining game, it was always one step at a time.

  Lately it seemed the more stressed he became, the more he clung to Angie. She cooked him fancy meals, listened to his problems and soothed his frustrations. But he wanted more – he needed her to love him. It was ironic r
eally, because she was certain he didn’t love her at all. And that’s the way it had to be. Wouldn’t the painting ladies think it weird if they knew the truth? Angie wanted Jack for his body, and Jack just wanted to be loved.

  While Angie, Vicky and Jack had a drink outside in the garden, the platypus was making ripples in the creek.

  ‘They’re amazing,’ said Vicky. It was her first-ever platypus spotting. She tried to take some photos, but the animal was too quick for her, either lying low in the water like a tiny crocodile or duck-diving so fast she could only manage to get a fuzzy image of its back.

  ‘They’re not easy to photograph, are they?’

  ‘They like to retain their mystique,’ said Angie. ‘The Greta Garbo of the animal kingdom.’

  Meanwhile, Jack was preoccupied, excusing himself and wandering out of earshot to make calls. Angie observed him, holding his phone to his ear and gesticulating wildly with his free arm. From a distance he looked like a marionette being manipulated by an invisible puppeteer. What were those bigwigs in the US saying to make him so agitated? And what had happened to her easygoing cowboy? He was acting like a neurotic character from a Woody Allen movie.

  ‘You didn’t tell me he was gorgeous,’ whispered Vicky.

  ‘The ladies in my painting class are smitten with him,’ Angie whispered back.

  ‘He oozes charm, doesn’t he? But not of the used car salesman variety.’

  ‘Mr Songbird’s charm runs deep.’

  ‘Are you sleeping with him, Angie?’

  Angie just smiled.

  ‘You are, I know you are!’

  Later Jack left for his dinner at the RSL, and Angie and Vicky ate at the Italian restaurant.

  ‘So you’re sleeping with a married man,’ said Vicky who had never been known for her tact. ‘No kids, I hope.’

  ‘Actually he has two boys.’

  ‘You never mentioned he had children.’ Her tone was serious.

  ‘Vicky, it’s not forever. For either of us.’

  ‘You mean it’s just a fling?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’d call it. Not really a fling, but not a great love story either.’

  ‘What about the wife and kids?’

  ‘I’m no threat to them. He loves his family and I’m still in love with Phil. I could never see myself growing old with Jack. Once the mine is up and running, he’ll fly away home.’ As an afterthought, she asked: ‘Do I sound callous?’

  ‘Not callous. Just different to the Angie I know. But I guess I only ever saw you with Phil.’

  ‘I was a different person then. I wouldn’t have dreamed of sleeping with someone I didn’t love. But now I’m in a strange place where the old rules don’t apply. It’s enough that I like Jack. I don’t need to love him.’ She lowered her voice, even though the restaurant was full of tourists and there wasn’t a local in sight, other than the waiter. ‘To tell you the truth, Vicky, Jack and I have very little in common, apart from . . .’ She cut the sentence short, suddenly aware that the waiter was approaching with their bottle of wine.

  On Sunday, Richard offered to show Vicky over his house, followed by afternoon tea. It meant she would catch all the Sunday afternoon traffic on her way back to Sydney, but she didn’t seem to care. She wanted to see the grandest house in town, she said. Angie suspected Vicky was also curious about her mysterious landlord.

  The man in question answered the door, wearing a striped woollen cap and camouflage gear. Perhaps it was a misguided attempt at dressing up. All the same, the visit went smoothly. Vicky was suitably impressed by the Georgian architecture, and Richard served them tea and homemade pumpkin scones in the drawing room. As they were saying their goodbyes, Angie remembered the flowers she had brought to lay on Amy’s grave.

  ‘Richard, do you mind if we pop down to the graveyard before we leave?’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.

  She collected her flowers from the bucket in the back of the car. Yellow roses from the Manse and Singapore orchids from the florist in town. She had wanted cymbidiums to match the yellow orchid worn by Charles in the painting at the museum, but they were out of season.

  At the base of the headstone shared by Amy and Charles was a little bouquet of wilted flowers. It was hard to determine what species they had once been. Daisies, perhaps. The February heat had fried them to a crisp brown. Nevertheless, it was good to see someone else had paid a visit to the Chens. As she took the dead flowers away and replaced them with her own, she looked up at Richard. His eyes were squinting more than usual, owing to the sun, and also because he was smiling.

  ‘Does he wear that crazy hat all the time, or was it just for my benefit?’ asked Vicky when they were in the car driving back down the gravel road to Richard’s gate.

  ‘He has a range of headgear – caps, beanies, beagle hats. They hide his antennae.’

  ‘Antennae?’

  ‘The ones he uses to pry into other people’s business.’

  ‘And what’s his business?’

  ‘He’s an architect.’

  ‘Well, that explains it.’

  Angie glanced across to see if Vicky was smiling, but she wasn’t.

  They had almost reached the Manse when Vicky said: ‘I think he has a crush on you, Angie.’

  ‘Who? Jack?’

  ‘No, Richard. Your landlord.’

  ‘Richard? That’s ridiculous,’ she protested. All the same, she clearly remembered the day when he’d seemed to be flirting.

  Once they were back at the Manse, Angie waited for Vicky to pack her things and rush away. Instead, she sat down at the kitchen table and accepted Angie’s offer of a cup of tea. Finally she announced: ‘I don’t really need to be back in Sydney until tomorrow. Do you mind if I stay another night?’

  Tonight was to be Angie’s reunion with Jack.

  ‘Of course you can stay, Vicky. Do you want to go somewhere for dinner? I can make a booking.’

  ‘No, thanks. Just a toasted sandwich would be fine.’

  The next morning, Angie took Vicky for breakfast at the emporium café. Richard passed the window, waved, but didn’t come inside. Perhaps he knew this was girl-talk.

  ‘Angie, there’s something I’ve been trying to tell you all weekend.’ Vicky was staring into the powdered chocolate on her cappuccino as if it could predict the future.

  ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that.’

  Was it going to be a guessing game, Angie wondered.

  ‘It’s Paul,’ Vicky said, not looking up from the coffee. ‘He’s having an affair.’

  At first Angie thought it was a joke. Not Paul. He and Vicky were a given. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I saw them together. In a café in Darling Harbour, holding hands. Alfie was with them.’

  Angie had to think for a second. Of course. Alfie was the dog.

  ‘How dare he involve Alfie in his sleazy affair?’ Vicky stirred her coffee but didn’t drink it. ‘When he came home, I confronted him and he started to cry. It was pathetic.’

  ‘I can’t believe he’d do something so stupid.’

  ‘Neither could I.’

  ‘How did he meet her in the first place?’

  ‘He takes Alfie for a walk every morning. Around Blackwattle Bay. And she was walking her bloody dog. They started having coffee together and then . . .’

  ‘How long has it been going on?’

  ‘A few months, or so he says.’

  ‘Oh, Vicky, I’m really sorry. Are they still seeing each other?’

  ‘He claims it’s over, but I don’t believe him. He’s texting all the time and making furtive phone calls out on the balcony. And last week I had a call from my skin therapist to confirm an appointment for a top-up.’ Vicky was a devotee of wrinkle injections. ‘I told her I’m not due for a couple of months. Then she replied, “Sorry, Mrs Lamb, I’ve just realised that it’s Mr Lamb’s appointment, not yours. Can you remind him?” I was shaking so much I could
barely hold the phone. He’s always made fun of my cosmetic enhancements and now he’s doing it himself. And if it’s over, why is he having top-ups?’

  Angie couldn’t supply an answer. Instead she said, ‘You and Paul have always been so solid – maybe it will burn itself out.’

  ‘Do you really think so? I’m no expert in this kind of thing. I’ve never had an adulterous husband before now. Well, not that I know about. And I’ve never had an affair.’

  Angie frowned. ‘So you think I’m some kind of expert in extramarital relationships? That I’m doing to Jack’s wife what the Blackwattle woman is doing to you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it that way, Angie. They’re completely different situations.’

  But Vicky didn’t sound convincing. They finished their breakfast in an icy silence which hardened by the minute. Finally, when Angie could stand it no longer, she broke the impasse. ‘It’s probably a belated mid-life crisis, Vic. Any day now he’ll wake up and realise what an idiot he’s been.’

  Vicky answered as if the awkwardness had never happened. ‘I hope so. I should have guessed there was something amiss. After Phil died, Paul started to talk about seizing the day and enjoying life before it was too late. I thought it was just a string of empty catchphrases, but he actually went out and did it. Do you know the worst part, Angie? She’s thirty-eight years old. How can I compete with that? Whether I spend a fortune on wrinkle injections or not.’

  On Monday night Angie sat in bed, awaiting Jack’s knock. She had dimmed the bedside lamps so that the room glowed with an even light which was becoming to ladies of a certain age – bright side lights were the enemy of mature skin; everyone past fifty knew that. She had donned a new nightie she’d found on a recent shopping trip to Granthurst. Turquoise silk with coffee lace and shoestring straps. With her hair piled on top and the scanty outfit, she felt like Miss Kitty from Gunsmoke.

  ‘Angie, are you awake?’ The question was accompanied by the customary tap at the door.

  ‘Yes. Come in. The door’s not locked.’ It was a script they performed like actors.

  Jack was dressed in a towelling robe. That was strange. He rarely wore a robe – Mr Songbird liked to show off his cowboy physique. Instead of getting into the bed, he sat on the edge.