The Jade Widow

by Deborah O'Brien

  Nobody said a word during the talk – probably because they were all too shocked – but when morning tea was served, a queue formed to ask whispered questions of Eliza.

  After everyone left, Eliza and Amy remained behind to wash the dishes.

  ‘I do hope nobody mentions the details of today’s talk to their husbands or fathers,’ said Amy. ‘Or we might have the police closing down the Society on the grounds of obscenity.’

  ‘It is not obscene, Amy, to know how one’s body works,’ Eliza retorted. ‘It is a necessity.’

  Eliza was taking high tea with Amy in the ballroom of the Emporium Hotel – the glass-walled dining room with its leadlight dome was still under construction – when Amy produced an engraved card from her pocket. Judging by the silver edges and fancy print, it was a wedding invitation. Curious. Eliza knew that it couldn’t possibly be for Nancy and Joseph’s wedding because they were still making a guest list. Besides, as Joseph’s sister, she would have seen it first. She searched her mind for other possibilities. Oh dear. It couldn’t be an invitation to Amy’s wedding to Mr O’Donnell, could it?

  When Amy passed it to her, Eliza had to remove her reading glasses from her bag in order to decipher it. The spectacles were a recent development, a reminder she was getting older and that she couldn’t dither too much longer about personal or professional matters. After reading the text, Eliza was decidedly relieved. It was an invitation to Quong Tart’s wedding addressed to ‘Mrs Charles Chen and Partner’.

  ‘They’ve sent them out very early,’ said Eliza.

  ‘Mr Tart is an organised man. Besides, there is no rule of etiquette which prohibits the posting of invitations many months in advance. Indeed, it is encouraged if the guests live in distant locations.’

  ‘I bow to you on all matters of etiquette,’ said Eliza archly.

  Oblivious to the undertone, Amy asked, ‘Who am I going to take?’

  ‘Well, Joseph is out of the question, now that he is engaged to Nancy. And you can’t take Liam O’Donnell.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in a boundary between employers and their staff.’

  Eliza wasn’t sure if Amy was teasing her or not, so she answered seriously. ‘I don’t. But most other people do, including you. What if word got out? It would ruin your reputation.’

  ‘Charles said those exact words when I suggested we should elope together. But you’re right, of course. It would cause a considerable brouhaha.’

  Eliza looked around the ballroom. The only other customers were an elderly couple taking tea across the far side of the room. All the same, she lowered her voice. ‘Your relationship with Mr O’Donnell is purely professional, isn’t it, Amy?’

  ‘Absolutely. Except for the time I cried on his shoulder.’

  Eliza shook her head. ‘That doesn’t sound professional to me.’

  ‘It was an aberration. I apologised to him afterwards.’

  ‘I am your best friend, Amy Chen. I have known you since we were seventeen. You cannot fool me with these obfuscations.’

  After a moment Amy said, ‘If I were to be completely honest, I do find him most . . .’

  But she didn’t finish the sentence because at that very moment the gentleman in question, dressed in his smart suit and silken tie, appeared at the entrance to the ballroom and strode towards them.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Miller,’ he said in his lilting accent, accompanied by one of his courtly bows. No wonder Amy was taken with him. ‘Excuse me for interrupting, Mrs Chen, but the postman has just delivered a telegram from St Peter’s.’

  Amy’s face turned a chalky white. ‘Will you excuse me, Eliza? I will need to attend to this urgently.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Eliza.

  At the reception desk Amy opened the telegram with shaking hands, while Mr O’Donnell and Eliza stood on either side of her, fearful she might faint.

  ‘There’s been an accident. I’ll have to go to Sydney.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Eliza anxiously.

  ‘The telegram doesn’t give any details.’

  ‘You can still make the afternoon train,’ said Mr O’Donnell, checking his fob watch. ‘I’ll take you to the station.’

  ‘Amy, would you like me to accompany you to Sydney?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘Please,’ Amy replied in a voice husky with emotion.

  ‘I’ll tell Arthur to bring the carriage around to the front,’ said Mr O’Donnell.

  Eliza saw him place his hand over Amy’s and squeeze it. Then he went off to fetch the coachman.

  It was dark when they finally arrived at the school. Eliza paid the cab driver while Amy practically bolted through the gate.

  ‘Wait for me!’ Eliza called as she tried to catch up with Amy, who was already halfway down the path.

  When they reached the front door and rang the bell, the matron appeared. ‘Come with me, Mrs Chen. Charlie is in the sick bay.’

  Breathless, the two women followed her.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Amy asked frantically.

  ‘It’s a broken arm. The doctor has just set it. He hit his head as well, but there is no sign of a concussion so far.’

  Eliza grasped Amy’s hand. Even though the evening was warm, her skin was icy cold.

  ‘How did it happen?’ Amy asked the matron.

  ‘The headmaster wishes to discuss the circumstances of the accident. He would like to see you before you visit Master Chen.’

  ‘I want to see my son right this minute,’ said Amy. ‘He has only been in your care little more than a month and look what has happened.’

  Eliza appointed herself mediator. ‘If it’s only a broken arm and a knock on the head, another few minutes won’t make any difference. I think you should speak to the headmaster first.’

  After a moment Amy said, ‘All right. But then I want to see Charlie.’

  The matron took them to Doctor Ross’s office, where Amy introduced Eliza and he asked if they would care for a cup of tea after their train journey.

  ‘No, thank you, Doctor Ross,’ said Amy. ‘I would like to know what happened to my son.’

  ‘I am sorry to say, Mrs Chen, there was an incident in the playground this morning. One of the boys said something to Charlie and an altercation ensued.’

  ‘Altercation?’

  ‘The boy is in sick bay with broken ribs. Your son hit him rather hard.’

  ‘Charlie hit another boy? But he’s the gentlest soul in the world.’

  ‘According to the witnesses, his behaviour indicated quite the opposite.’

  Amy had turned pale. Eliza wondered whether her friend was about to faint. This couldn’t be happening. Charlie didn’t hit people. He was like his father. He turned the other cheek.

  ‘Would you like the matron to fetch the smelling salts, Mrs Chen?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said, her hands shaking.

  ‘If, as you say, Charlie hit the other boy, how did Charlie get hurt?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘Apparently a third boy intervened and punched Charlie, who fell on his arm and fractured it.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Amy exclaimed.

  ‘That boy has been questioned, Mrs Chen. He claims he was only defending his friend.’

  ‘Could I see Charlie now?’ Amy asked impatiently.

  ‘Of course. I’ll take you to the infirmary directly. By the way, Charlie has his own room. We thought it best to separate the two boys.’

  Charlie was sitting up in bed, his left arm in a sling. With his right hand he was pressing an ice pack against his forehead.

  ‘Oh, Charlie,’ said Amy, rushing towards him but unable to give him a hug on account of the sling.

  ‘Hello, Mama,’ he said sheepishly. Then he spotted Eliza at the door. ‘Aunt Eliza! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to check on my larrikin nephew.’

  ‘It isn’t funny, Eliza,’ said Amy sharply.

  ‘You really didn’t need to come all this way,’ said Char
lie. ‘I’m perfectly fine.’

  ‘Any headaches or dizziness?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘The doctor asked me that already.’

  ‘Then let me check your arm,’ said Eliza. ‘I want to be sure it has been set correctly.’

  Amy sat on the edge of the bed, watching Eliza undertake her examination. Afterwards she said, ‘He might still develop a concussion. They’ll need to keep an eye on him for a while. And you, Charlie Chen, must stay in bed and rest until the doctor tells you otherwise.’

  ‘What about his arm?’ Amy asked.

  ‘It’s lucky he broke his left and not his right. He won’t be able to use it for a while but it doesn’t appear to be a serious fracture.’

  ‘Do you want to come home to Millbrooke?’ Amy asked Charlie.

  ‘Until my arm is better?’

  ‘No, I mean permanently. Surely you don’t wish to stay at St Peter’s after this incident?’

  ‘He mightn’t have any choice,’ Eliza butted in.

  ‘Are you referring to expulsion?’ asked a shocked Amy.

  ‘Doctor Ross has already told me he won’t be expelling me,’ said Charlie, ‘or suspending me either.’

  ‘What about the other boys?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘He is going to counsel us, whatever that means.’

  ‘So you really want to stay,’ Amy said.

  ‘Of course I do. I like it here.’

  Amy rose from the corner of the bed where she was perched and walked to the window. For a long time she gazed at the dark sky. Finally she said, ‘That doesn’t make any sense, Charlie.’

  ‘On the whole,’ he said, qualifying his earlier statement, ‘I like it here.’

  ‘What did that boy say to you?’ Amy asked.

  ‘Something about me being half-Chinese.’

  ‘Exactly what did he say?’

  ‘I can’t repeat it,’ he replied quietly.

  ‘Amy,’ said Eliza, ‘why don’t you go and partake of that cup of tea the headmaster offered while Charlie and I have a little chat.’

  Amy and Eliza spent the night at Aunt Molly’s, and Charlie remained in the infirmary. As the two women lay side by side in Molly’s guest room, wearing borrowed nightgowns, Amy whispered, ‘Eliza, are you awake?’

  ‘I am now,’ came a muffled growl.

  ‘You know, I just cannot make any sense of Charlie reacting so violently. Being called a name – even a Celestial or a coolie or something of that nature – is no reason to hit someone.’

  There was silence from the other side of the bed.

  ‘I still recall the time his father was struck by a drunkard,’ Amy continued, ‘and sustained a horrible bruise to his cheek. Charles could easily have retaliated – he was certainly big and strong enough – but he chose not to. I’ve always taught Charlie that whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.’

  There was a long silence before Eliza replied, ‘Sometimes it’s hard to turn the other cheek when the slur is directed at one’s mother.’

  Amy rolled over to face Eliza. ‘What did that other boy say?’

  ‘I can’t repeat it,’ said Eliza. ‘I promised Charlie. But I can assure you that if someone had said those words about you in my presence, I would have responded in the very same way.’

  When Charlie arrived home for the Easter holidays, his arm was almost better. On Saturday afternoon Eliza came to Paterson Street to help Amy make hot cross buns.

  ‘You would tell us, wouldn’t you, Charlie,’ Eliza asked as Charlie hovered nearby waiting for the sweetly scented buns to come out of the oven, ‘if there had been any further trouble with those boys, or if you were being bullied?’

  ‘Nobody dares to bully me, Aunt Eliza. Not after what I did to George.’

  ‘You do know that fighting is wrong, don’t you, Charlie?’ said his mother.

  Charlie cast her a sheepish look. ‘I don’t seek out trouble, but I will not run away from it either.’

  XX

  AMY

  Saturday 15th May, 1886

  By the time of Sir Henry Parkes’s visit to the Emporium Hotel, the tradition of hot hand towels had become well established. It was Timothy’s job to start preparing them as soon as he heard the sound of the train whistle.

  In her navy-blue dress and matching frippery, Amy stood under the portico, watching for the hotel’s open carriage to come over the top of the hill and head down Miller Street. Beside her, Charlie was wearing his best suit and Timothy his porter’s livery.

  In accordance with Mr O’Donnell’s chart, the wallpapering and furnishing of the Oriental Suite had been completed in plenty of time for Amy to add fresh flowers, soaps, towels, a selection of reading matter and all the little luxuries she hoped Sir Henry would appreciate. She had placed crested notepaper, pens and ink bottles on the secrétaire and filled its niches with curios she thought might interest her distinguished guest. Then she had smoothed the silken bed linen and plumped up the pillows, even though Mary, the maid, had done a perfectly good job of it in the first place. Above the bedroom, the viewing space boasted sparkling window-glass and upholstered seating, scattered with silk cushions in jewel colours – amethyst, emerald, ruby and sapphire. It was a place fit for a king . . . or for a certain distinguished gentleman, who had been Premier of the colony on three occasions and was renowned for his wit and style.

  Suddenly the carriage appeared at the crest of the hill, with Arthur in the box seat. Amy strained to see the passengers. She could make out three gentlemen wearing tall hats and dark suits. One of them she knew already – Millbrooke’s Mayor, who had been at the station to greet the visitors. The local Member of Parliament was away on a trip to England or he would have been there too.

  As the three gentlemen alighted from the carriage, Amy had no doubt as to which one of the two strangers was Sir Henry – it had to be the imposing gentleman in the frock coat and silk hat. Meanwhile Timothy offered hot towels to the newcomers, explaining it was an old Chinese custom, and Amy smiled at their delighted reactions. Then the Mayor introduced her to Sir Henry.

  What a striking man he was. Larger than life, with his confident manner, mane of white hair and matching beard. On anyone else the hairstyle could have looked excessive or just plain eccentric, but it gave Sir Henry the air of a mediaeval monarch.

  ‘Sir Henry, may I introduce my son, Charlie?’

  Sir Henry shook hands solemnly with Charlie. ‘What a fine young man,’ he said, ‘but he can’t possibly be your son . . .’

  Amy held her breath. She hadn’t imagined Sir Henry to be a bigot. Then again, it was his government which had introduced the Influx of Chinese Restriction Act five years earlier.

  After a moment he continued, ‘Because you are far too young to have such a grown-up boy.’

  ‘You are too kind, Sir Henry,’ she said, relieved to be proven wrong.

  ‘I have been most remiss, Mrs Chen, in not introducing my personal secretary, Mr Mitchell. You already know the Mayor, of course.’

  Amy nodded at Millbrooke’s most esteemed citizen.

  ‘Would you care to see your room, Sir Henry? We have given you the Oriental Suite.’

  They took the ascending cabinet to the top floor.

  ‘I saw one of these contraptions when I was last in London,’ Sir Henry said as they alighted from the cabinet, ‘but I’ve never ridden in one before. I don’t like the idea of being shut in. Though I have to admit I did rather enjoy today’s ride. Perhaps it was the delightful company.’

  Amy blushed despite herself. Sir Henry had to be seventy if he was a day, yet he remained a most compelling man. ‘Here we are, sir,’ Amy said, opening the door to his suite and awaiting his reaction.

  ‘My goodness, it’s very opulent, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘And that must be the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. I’m quite inclined to take a little nap before this evening’s dinner.’

  Amy blushed yet again at his mention of the bed. Just then Timothy appeared with a tray
of tea and scones.

  ‘You’re spoiling me, Mrs Chen,’ Sir Henry said. ‘I won’t ever want to leave.’ Then he spotted the pile of books Amy had left on the desktop and examined the spines. ‘Keats, Wordsworth, Tennyson – all my favourites. I write poetry myself, you know. I’m not in the same class as Lord Tennyson, of course, but I persist in my verse-making nonetheless. Actually, my daughter and I stayed at Farringford on our last trip to England.’

  ‘Farringford?’

  ‘Lord and Lady Tennyson’s estate on the Isle of Wight.’

  ‘How wonderful,’ Amy sighed. ‘I simply adore his poetry. Did you meet the Poet Laureate in person?’

  He laughed. ‘I did indeed. In fact, I consider him to be a friend. We spent many glorious hours walking on the downs and taking tea on the lawn. And in the evenings he would read his poems to those assembled in the drawing room. Do you have a favourite Tennyson poem, Mrs Chen?’

  Amy began to recite:

  ‘Only reapers, reaping early

  In among the bearded barley,

  Hear a song that echoes cheerly

  From the river winding clearly,

  Down to tower’d Camelot . . .’

  ‘Ah, “The Lady of Shalott”. Methinks you possess a romantic disposition, Mrs Chen.’

  ‘I suppose I used to. A long time ago.’

  ‘What happened to change things?’

  ‘My husband died. He was only twenty-six.’

  ‘I am very sad to hear that.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Henry.’ The tears were building as they always did whenever she spoke about Charles’s death. In order to stem them, she resumed the role of hotel proprietor. ‘Just ring the bell should you require anything, sir. By the way, the spiral staircase leads to the viewing room. After your nap you might care to take a look. The vista is quite breathtaking.’

  As the clock chimed seven, sixty guests had assembled in the foyer of the Emporium Hotel, awaiting the appearance of the guest of honour. Not that they were complaining. A team of waiters and waitresses, borrowed by Mr O’Donnell from the other establishments in the town, were circulating trays of canapés and offering glasses of sherry. Meanwhile, the Miller family’s cook had been recruited to help Mrs Watson in the kitchen.