The Jade Widow

by Deborah O'Brien

  Angie had read it years ago. A funny story about a French town and the opening of its first public urinal. There was an extremely officious mayor too, not unlike Millbrooke’s own office-holder.

  ‘I remember it. Didn’t the mayor consider the public pissoir the best thing that ever happened to Clochemerle?’

  ‘He did, but the locals hated it.’

  ‘That’s right. And wasn’t there a plot by the residents to blow it up?’

  ‘It was rivals from the neighbouring village.’

  ‘Well, I can’t imagine the citizens of Cockatoo Ridge ever wanting to blow up our amenities block.’

  ‘You never know, Ange. They might be jealous. It’s a state-of-the-art facility, after all.’

  ‘You’re not planning to disrupt the proceedings in some way, are you, Richard?’

  ‘Of course not. What do you think I am, the village idiot? Anyway, I’ll be celebrating the launch of Millbrooke’s latest hostelry. Do you have any bookings yet?’

  ‘There’s a Melbourne couple coming on Saturday. And a woman phoned this afternoon. Said she found me on the regional tourism website. She’s been to Millbrooke before, but not for years.’

  ‘She won’t notice much difference then.’

  True to his word, Richard drove Angie home in time for Lateline. Despite her protests, he insisted on opening the car door and walking her through the lych-gate and up to the front verandah. It wasn’t as if someone would mug her in Millbrooke. The last major crime had been when someone’s garden hose was stolen. At the door the awkwardness returned with a vengeance. He bent over to kiss her but missed her face, landing his lips on her hair instead. In the process he stood on her foot. She wondered if he might try again. For a brief moment she even wanted him to, but he simply said: ‘Will I see you for breakfast?’

  From anyone else, that statement would have carried serious connotations. But from Richard, it simply meant he would be turning up around eight-thirty at the emporium café.

  The morning of the launch, Angie swept the paths and removed the proliferation of weeds which had suddenly appeared in the brick paving beneath her newly erected pergola. The recent rain had caused the weeds to germinate, but it was blasphemy to condemn any kind of precipitation in Millbrooke, even under your breath.

  Beneath the cover of the pergola she arranged tables and chairs to resemble a café. The chairs had been borrowed from the members of Angie’s art class. The tables too. It was an odd assortment that looked fine once she covered them with matching tablecloths she had made from pale green flat sheets, purchased at a discount store in Granthurst. She’d even sewn lead sinkers into the hems to act as weights. It wouldn’t do to have the cloths swept into the creek by a cheeky gust of wind. On each table she placed a white china vase filled with tea roses. Beyond the pergola the alpacas had gathered in their paddock, heads turned expectantly towards her as if they knew there would be guests coming soon.

  Trays of food she’d cooked herself sat on the shelves of the fridge: tiny sausage rolls, little savoury muffins, pizzette, all wearing veils of cling film. In one section the shelves had been removed to accommodate a soaring croquembouche, the perfect celebration cake. For years she’d had mixed success with choux pastry, but yesterday it had worked at the very first attempt. She put the positive result down to the Millbrooke factor. After all, Millbrooke was a place where magical things could happen. A grieving widow, who thought her life was over, could find the path to renewal. A scruffy-looking man in a beanie, whom nobody noticed, could turn out to be one of the most erudite and interesting people she’d ever met. And a rundown, old house that the world had written off could be transformed into a charming home.

  Angie checked her watch. It was already noon and her sons would be arriving any minute. Not to mention Vicky and Chrissie, her best friends from Sydney. She dashed upstairs to shower and change. All the bedrooms had their own bathroom now, even her own. It was the smallest of all, but the most charming. From the time Doug Morrison had first shown her through the house, she had known the bedroom with the arched window and little seat underneath was the one she wanted for herself. It had once belonged to a teenage Scottish girl by the name of Amy Duncan, whose father had been the town’s Presbyterian minister during gold rush times.

  Over the past eighteen months Amy had come to play an important part in Angie’s life. They were completely different women in terms of age and era, yet they had much in common. The two of them had lost their husbands suddenly – Angie’s to a heart attack, Amy’s to diphtheria at a time when there were no vaccinations. Admittedly, Amy was only a newlywed and Angie had been married for thirty years. But who was to say which situation was worse? The ‘if onlys’ of a marriage never fulfilled or the memories of three decades together? Both were tragedies. Amy had never remarried. Neither would Angie. She had decided that on the day Phil died.

  Amy’s husband, Charles Chen, had been the owner of a Chinese emporium, and when he died, Amy had taken over the management of it. She’d also established a fancy hotel, complete with a fairytale turret and the town’s first and only lift. Both buildings still stood side by side and almost untouched in Millbrooke’s main street. Angie’s entrepreneurial efforts could hardly compare in scale with Amy’s. Nevertheless, she had undertaken the restoration of a derelict building and turned it into boutique accommodation, working through a complex tangle of municipal red tape to have her project approved. Sometimes she imagined that Amy would be proud of her.

  In a few months the Amy Duncan Chen exhibit would be opening at the Millbrooke Museum. There probably wouldn’t be a big ceremony, not in the manner of the amenities block or Angie’s B&B. Bert, the white-haired president of the historical society, liked to keep things low-key, but no doubt there would be a few celebratory drinks after-hours in the dusty downstairs display area.

  An exhibit about Amy’s life had been Angie’s initiative, aided by Richard and her painting class, as well as a significant injection of funding from Songbird Minerals, the American mining company that had aspired to construct a mine on the site of the old goldfields. At the last moment, in the face of local environmental protests and a mooted mining tax, they had lost their nerve and decamped to a more laidback Venezuela together with their cowboy engineer, Jack Parker. Angie’s summer with Jack, a slightly younger man who resembled Clint Eastwood in his heyday, now seemed like a dream rather than a flesh-and-blood relationship.

  She hadn’t heard from him since he left for South America via his home in San Francisco. Not a word. Then again, she hadn’t tried to contact him either. There was no unfinished business between them, no need to keep in touch. It had been more than a fling and less than a love affair. Some people lost a partner and took to drink, others had an affair, usually with someone totally inappropriate. Angie had done the latter. As it turned out, the relationship with Jack had helped her see a possible future when she’d thought there was none.

  Angie disrobed, turned on the taps and stepped into the shower. A jet of hot water scalded her chest. Instantly she turned the cold tap to maximum, but the scalding continued. She turned off both taps and tried the cold water on its own. Barely a drip.

  Cursing, she wrapped herself in a towel and went to the phone beside the bed where she dialled her friend Moira, who always knew what to do in a crisis, even a minor one.

  ‘Moira, I’ve just scalded myself in the shower. There wasn’t any cold water. Do you think I should call a plumber?’

  ‘Are you burnt?’

  ‘A bit red, but I’ll live. I’m more concerned about not having any water.’

  ‘Let me check my taps.’ She was gone for a minute or two. ‘I don’t have any cold water either.’

  ‘What do you think has happened?’

  ‘Just a sec, Angie. I’m going to have a look in the paper.’

  While Moira was away from the phone again, Angie checked the damage to her skin. It didn’t look serious.

  ‘Angie, are you there? There’s
a tiny notice right at the bottom of the back page. It says the council is turning off the water from noon today for approximately three hours. They’re doing some repairs to the water treatment plant. They say we should store water to use during that time.’

  ‘But I have an afternoon tea to organise, and I can’t use water from the hot water service to make tea and coffee. Are they trying to sabotage my launch? Why didn’t they put a note in our letterboxes to warn us, like they do in the city? It’s not as though Millbrooke’s a big place.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll ring Richard. He has a tank. I’ll get him to fill some water containers to bring down. Just in case.’

  ‘Tell him to wash them out first, Moira. You know what he’s like.’

  Diana Goodmann had been sitting in the Gold Rush Café for an hour, lingering over two cranberry juices. She hadn’t wanted a juice at all. Cappuccino was more her style, but according to the café owner, the council had turned off the water supply and, as a result, there was no tea or coffee. A tourist had just walked out in a huff. From behind the counter she could hear mutterings of ‘What does the council think they’re doing turning off the water on a Saturday? It’s peak tourist time.’

  Although the owner didn’t seem anxious for Diana to leave and there were plenty of empty tables, she was feeling restless. She hated being in the one spot for too long. Under the tablecloth her legs were jiggling, telling her it was time to go. She had read the menu two or three times already. There was a blurb recounting the café’s former life as a haunt of bushrangers and shady ladies during the gold rush era. Apparently a gang with an Irish name – not Kelly – had shot one of their own members in this very building and buried him under the floor.

  She had also scoured a copy of the local rag, which had been abandoned on the adjoining table, looking for mention of a certain someone from her past, but there was nothing. The front page story was about today’s big event – the opening of the new amenities block. There was no real news in Millbrooke. Never had been; never would be. It was a backwater with pretensions.

  Briefly she considered turning up at his door, but that might be crass. Then again, meeting by chance in the street or one of the shops or cafés wasn’t ideal either. She needed to have the upper hand. It was his role to be surprised and hapless.

  The town hadn’t changed, not its appearance anyway, although a few of the old buildings had been revamped with brightly painted façades and new signage. Thank goodness. Those faded old signs left over from the nineteenth century saying ‘Haberdashery’ or ‘Mercery’ or ‘Saddlery’ gave the place such a shabby look. While the streetscape remained unchanged, the inhabitants were different. The town was full of blow-ins. But the old guard would still be around, people like Moira, with family histories in Millbrooke stretching back generations, tucked away in their houses on a Saturday, avoiding those damned tourists with their city ways and bad manners. On any other day, Diana would need to be careful in case one of the diehards recognised her. That cunning old Moira would spot her right away, even though her long dark hair was now short and streaked with glittering blonde highlights. Diana didn’t want anyone alerting the man in question to the fact she was in town. Not before the chance meeting, the fairytale reunion when all would be forgiven.

  Diana knew, from the way men looked at her and the accompanying frowns on their wives’ faces, that she was still attractive. But just to be sure, she’d had some work done recently – nothing major. An injection of filler here and there, an anti-wrinkle treatment and a chemical peel. The cosmetic dermatologist had promised her she would look thirty-five. She’d replied that forty would do. But her neck was the giveaway. There were crease lines she had to conceal with a glamorous chiffon scarf. All the same, with her tight-fitting shirt and even tighter jeans, she looked pretty good for a woman of a certain age.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As ever, I am grateful to the friends, both city and country, who have provided warm encouragement and generous feedback, in particular, Judy Allen, Pelagia Billiris, Gilly Burke, Margaret Grainger, Barbara Hayes, Kerrie James, Judy MacGraw, Jan Norris, Joyce Spencer and Chrissie Whipper. Heartfelt thanks to Jo Hill, Marilyn McCann and Angelika and Richard Roper for their valuable suggestions.

  Many thanks to Sean Doyle of Lynk Manuscript Assessment Service for his wise advice and to Carrolline Rhodes for her ongoing support and mentoring. My dear friend and fellow writer, Jan Dawkins is a lifeline whenever I need honest feedback and a boost to my spirits, while my literary agent, Sheila Drummond, has done an amazing job of championing both Mr Chen’s Emporium and The Jade Widow.

  I am indebted to the outstanding team at Random House Australia: my publisher, Beverley Cousins for constantly inspiring me with her ideas and insights; my publicist cum guardian angel, Kirsty Noffke (how could I manage without her?); my talented editor, Elena Gomez, who knows this book and its characters as well I do – perhaps better; marketing whiz, Tobie Mann, for her great work behind the scenes; and designer extraordinaire, Christa Moffitt.

  A big thank you to those readers across Australia and New Zealand, who have sustained me with their kind comments. And special thanks to the Professor for ‘designing’ the non-hydraulic, non-electric ascending cabinet.

  To my wonderful family – thank you for understanding that writing is my passion and I cannot live without it.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ‘ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND’ AND

  ‘THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS’

  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and its sequel, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There (1871) by Lewis Carroll (the pen-name of Charles Dodgson), were Victorian bestsellers and have remained in print ever since. I have always treasured a richly illustrated 1904 copy of Alice, which was passed down from one generation of my mother’s family to the next. As a small child, however, I did find aspects of the story quite frightening. Returning to it from an adult perspective, I am dazzled by the subtext, which explores notions of identity in a world of nonsense and disorder. And like Eliza Miller, I’m inclined to see Alice as a nascent suffragette, whether Carroll actually intended to create that impression or not.

  SPELLING

  Soudan/Sudan

  In the body of the novel, I have adopted the French name, Soudan, which was in common usage at the time. It appears in the newspapers of the era, prefaced by the definite article. The French spelling was still being used as late as 19 July, 1919, on a banner carried by the Soudan Survivors’ Association during the Peace Day march in Sydney.

  HISTORICAL TRIVIA

  • The Great Western Hotel in Katoomba, opened in 1882, became the Carrington in 1886, renamed in honour of Lord Carrington, who replaced Lord Loftus as Governor of New South Wales.

  • The incident referred to in Chapter X where a group of women voted in a Victorian election is a true story, which occurred in 1864. The wording of the Victorian Electoral Act of 1863 mistakenly gave the right to vote to all ratepayers listed on council rolls. The law was changed in 1865, closing the loophole. More details can be found in the ‘Women in Parliament’ section of www.parliament.vic.gov.au.

  SOURCES

  For a nineteenth-century colonial perspective on the Sudan/Soudan campaign, I have used the following sources, courtesy of the National Library of Australia’s wonderful Trove website: The Argus, The Maitland Mercury and Hunter River General Advertiser, The West Australian and The Sydney Morning Herald (particularly the articles on the Embarkation and ‘Reception of the New South Wales Contingent to the Soudan’, 24 June, 1885).

  The websites of the Australian War Memorial and the 1/19th Battalion, the Royal New South Wales Regiment (http://www.first battalionassociation1rar.org.au) provided comprehensive information about the NSW Contingent.

  In imagining the Embarkation, I was particularly inspired by four images: a coloured lithograph (artist unknown) depicting the troops in their white helmets and red jackets marching down Gresham Street to the Quay, Arthur Co
llingridge’s evocative contemporary oil painting of the occasion and a black and white photograph by Charles Bayliss, which are all in the collection of the Australian War Memorial, as well as a glass plate negative from the Powerhouse Museum.

  When I was writing Eliza’s pioneering medical career, I found the following sources especially useful and eminently readable: ‘Early Women Graduates’, by Lise Mellor and Vanessa Witton at the Faculty of Medicine Online Museum and Archive, University of Sydney; Vanessa Witton’s article, ‘Dagmar Berne’s Story: The Different Road of the First Female Medical Student’ in the Radius Alumni Archive, Winter, 2008; and ‘A History of Women’s Entrance into Medicine’ in ‘Histoire de la Santé’, Bibliothèque numérique Medic@ BIU Santé, Paris by Natalie Pigeard-Michault and Karine Debbasch (translation). A contemporary quote contained in the latter gave me the idea for the ‘hermaphrodite’ comment. This paper also provided information about the segregated seating arrangements in lectures.

  The US National Library of Medicine’s website was very helpful in researching how Caesarian sections were performed in the latter half of the nineteenth century.

  In terms of my fictional renditions of real-life historical figures, the superb Australian Dictionary of Biography www.adb.anu.edu.au (Australian National University) was an excellent resource for checking facts and dates.

  For the imaginary encounters with the famous merchant, Quong Tart, I referred to a variety of sources including Margaret Scarlett Tart’s charming book, The Life of Quong Tart: How a Foreigner Succeeded in a British Community, first published in 1911 by W. M. Maclardy (University of Sydney Press) and Chinese–Australian Historical Images in Australia (www.chia.chinesemuseum.com.au). The evocation of Sydney Arcade, which no longer exists, was inspired by old lithographs and architectural elevations from the collection of the State Library of NSW.