Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  They had taken Vicky’s Audi, plush and powerful. She set the cruise control to 110 and they purred down the highway, singing along to sixties and seventies music. Well, Vicky and Chrissie had sung a series of duets, while Angie sat in the back seat, feeling as though she was fighting off a cold. Finally they spotted a sign saying ‘Tourist Drive. Millbrooke 68km’. It was an asphalt road, but so narrow two vehicles would barely fit side by side. At first there were open fields, dry and brown after the recent summer, with dusty sheep grazing around empty dams, then long stretches of straggly bush. Finally they came to a river, cascading over shelves of rock with sandy swathes of beach along its banks.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Vicky declared.

  After the river the countryside opened up. There were more fields of grazing sheep, but this time the grass was a vibrant green, as if it were a secret place untouched by the prevailing drought. Chrissie drew their attention to a dead wombat beside the road, lying on its back with its stubby legs pointing into the air. The animal had been marked with a red painted cross.

  ‘Thousands of wombats are killed on New South Wales roads every year,’ she said. ‘I read that somewhere.’

  Nobody else spoke for a while. Then a procession of advertising boards heralded the entrance to the town.

  ‘Welcome to Millbrooke – the Heart of Platypus Country’

  ‘Don’s Bakery. Open every day from 6am. Except Christmas Day’

  ‘Millbrooke Antiques. Pre-loved Furniture and Collectables’

  ‘The Old Schoolhouse B&B. Second on right’

  ‘That’s where we’re staying,’ said Vicky.

  A road sign indicated a seventy-kilometre zone. Then an avenue of birch trees in yellow leaf led the way to a bridge with a large plaque set into its stonework, proclaiming: ‘Millbrooke. Established 1836.’

  After the bridge they passed a large park fringed by willow trees.

  ‘Look, Angie, there’s a platypus,’ said Vicky, slowing down and pointing animatedly towards the park.

  Angie turned wearily, only to see a walrus-sized bronze statue atop a block of stone.

  ‘It’s huge,’ said Chrissie. ‘How big is a real platypus anyway?’

  None of them knew for sure, having never seen one.

  Soon they found themselves in the heart of town. Iron lace verandahs and heavy corrugated awnings lining the main street reflected a boom time now long past. There were hitching posts for phantom horses at intervals along the kerb. They turned off the main street into a lane and pulled up outside the Old Schoolhouse, a stone building with dormer windows. When they knocked at the door, they were greeted by a generously proportioned woman who introduced herself as Nola. The interior of her B&B was chintzy and cluttered – doilies and dried flower arrangements on every table and cushions festooned with ruffles, beads and ribbons. Their hostess, who was an uncomfortable match for the décor, was effusive about the delights of Millbrooke. Having lived there six years now, she had passed the acceptance test, she told her guests. If you stayed more than five years, you were no longer considered a ‘blow-in’.

  The three of them browsed in the shops and galleries of the main street and had tea and Portuguese custard tarts in a café at the end of town, its old timber walls lined with shelves of local pottery, all for sale. Then, as tourists are wont to do, they examined the listings in the window of the estate agent. There was a hand-written sign on the door: ‘Closed Sundays for Church.’ It made Angie smile. A step back to a gentler time.

  ‘I like this one,’ said Chrissie, who was a dab hand at gardening. It was a large farmhouse with a wisteria-garlanded verandah, cottage borders and a hundred acres of land.

  ‘Pricey,’ said Vicky. ‘I can’t imagine doling out that much for a property twenty k down the road.’

  Not just a domestic doyenne, Vicky was also a real estate expert.

  Angie hadn’t been paying too much attention. She was simply going through the motions, trying to smile when required and nodding at appropriate moments. Then she saw it. A faded photo of a fairytale house with a high gable and a fretted bargeboard. It reminded her of the gingerbread houses she and Phil had fallen in love with in northern California, only not as ornate. A description was pasted below the photo on yellowing paper with curled edges, as if it had been attached to the window for a long time.

  THE OLD MANSE BUILT CIRCA 1870

  CHURCH LANE

  BUILT IN THE VICTORIAN ROMANTIC STYLE, THIS

  HISTORIC WOODEN HOUSE FEATURES

  FORMAL SITTING ROOM, SEPARATE DINING ROOM,

  THREE BEDROOMS, TWO BATHROOMS

  AND A KITCHEN WITH ORIGINAL EARLY KOOKA STOVE.

  TWO OPEN FIREPLACES. NEW CORRUGATED STEEL ROOF.

  OUTDOOR LAUNDRY.

  A LARGE BARN ADJOINING THE HOUSE COULD BE

  CONVERTED TO BECOME A STUDIO OR GALLERY.

  ON THREE ACRES OVERLOOKING THE PLATYPUS HOLES OF

  MILLBROOKE CREEK.

  TRULY A RENOVATOR’S DELIGHT.

  She must have been staring at it for a long time because Vicky remarked, ‘Renovator’s delight. You know that’s real-estate-speak for decrepit dump.’

  ‘Let’s go and have a look at it anyway,’ Angie said with such determination the other two just stared at her.

  Vicky produced the town map their host had given them. ‘Here’s Church Lane,’ she said, pointing with a long acrylic nail. ‘We can walk. It’s no distance. Nothing is in this town.’

  In five minutes they were there, standing outside a picket fence, overgrown with burgundy briar roses that only partly concealed the peeling paint. A ‘For Sale’ sign stood next to a wooden lych-gate opening to a path which led to the front door. The walls appeared to be cream, but it might have been layers of dirt disguising the original white. There was a new roof in heritage green that looked promising. An arched window sat in the gable end facing the front, with a sheet of plywood in place of glass.

  The land around the house was thick with long grass stretching down to a creek that meandered its way across the bottom of the garden. Several grey boulders seemed to have been randomly scattered there.

  ‘Oh, look at the rocks,’ Angie said. ‘They remind me of the dolmens and menhirs in Brittany – primeval monoliths.’

  ‘It’s a pile of ugly old stones, Angie,’ said Vicky. ‘Don’t kid yourself.’

  But nothing Vicky could say could put Angie off.

  ‘I wonder if we’d be able to take a look inside,’ she said, stooping to open the lych-gate and avoid the thorny roses.

  Before Vicky could stop her, she was walking through the gate and up the path to the front door. She knocked, but nobody answered, so she tried to peer inside the front windows, which were draped with sheets. Stepping back to the edge of the verandah, she surveyed the downstairs façade. There was no doubt the house was shabby, yet it retained a sense of pride, as if it had once been beautiful and longed to recapture the past.

  ‘Let’s go and see whether the agent will take us through,’ she suggested, watching Vicky and Chrissie exchange wary looks.

  ‘It’s lunchtime. They’ve probably closed for the day,’ said Chrissie.

  ‘It can’t hurt to check,’ replied Angie.

  Morrison Real Estate was still open.

  ‘The Manse has been on the market for two years,’ said Doug Morrison, the agent.

  ‘That seems like a long time.’ Vicky spoke with an air of authority.

  ‘It’s a fact of life in a small country town,’ he said. ‘Things were busier before the government closed the branch line to Granthurst. Now the redundant railway station is an antiques centre and there’s a daily bus to Sydney. But most of my vendors aren’t in a hurry to sell.’

  ‘What other choice do they have?’ whispered Vicky in Angie’s ear.

  After lunch he took them on a tour. The walls and ceilings were water-damaged and in need of a fresh coat of paint. The kitchen was primitive. No hot water, a single power point and an Early Kooka stove th
at might have come from the 1930s. The upstairs bathroom contained an instant hot water heater and an old stained bath. Its downstairs counterpart had been refurbished with a new shower and modern toilet – the only room to have been updated.

  But Angie didn’t see the flaws. She was taken with the high ceilings and decorative plaster cornices, the elegant fireplaces and long central hallway with its dado rails and embossed metal panels. She ran her hand over the carved baluster of the cedar staircase and pronounced it smooth as silk. In the smallest upstairs bedroom she was drawn to a window seat from which she could see distant mountains and a dark line of trees defining the creek as it snaked towards the main river some kilometres away.

  By the time she had looked inside the barn – a repository of old building materials and cardboard boxes filled with browning copies of Post and People magazines – Angie was in love.

  ‘A perfect space for a studio,’ she said, almost to herself.

  After breakfast on Sunday morning, Angie returned to her room to pack. Then she phoned the agent, who was on his way to church.

  ‘I love the house,’ she told him. ‘But I’m not in a position to buy it – for many reasons.’

  ‘Well, there are other options,’ he began, but Angie had seen Vicky loitering in the hallway. ‘Just a moment,’ she said, and pushed the door closed with her foot.

  When she emerged from her room a few minutes later, it was with a gusto she hadn’t felt for a long time.

  ‘Well, thank goodness you’ve seen sense,’ said Vicky. ‘The Manse was a terrible idea.’

  ‘Actually, I’m going to meet Doug later this morning at that cute café with all the pottery for sale. The owner’s coming too. He might be prepared to lease the house.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Perhaps you missed the end of the conversation,’ said Angie, feeling smug.

  ‘You mean you want to move down here and pay rent for a place that’s barely liveable?’

  ‘I could rent out the Sydney house. That would bring in a healthy income. And it would give me time to decide whether living in the country suits me or not.’

  ‘That’s insane, Angie.’

  ‘It’s not insane. It’s keeping my options open.’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to do something like that, why not choose a nice little renovated cottage?’

  Angie smiled benignly. ‘Where’s the challenge in that?’

  She arrived a few minutes early and looked around for the real estate agent, but he hadn’t turned up yet, so she ordered a cup of tea at the counter and chose a table near the window. The café was empty, apart from an elderly man sitting at the back, wearing a woollen cap pulled low over his forehead and a checked flannelette shirt which should have been thrown out years ago. She began leafing through a magazine from among a selection on the shelf beside her. A few minutes later she heard: ‘Excuse me, are you Mrs Wallace?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied tentatively, looking up to see the man in the beanie. His chin was covered in stubble which spread like grey moss onto his cheeks.

  ‘I’m Richard Scott. Owner of the Manse.’

  Angie tried to conceal her surprise. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Scott.’

  When he extended his hand, she shook it, feeling calloused skin. Then she waited for him to say, ‘Call me Richard’, but he didn’t. Obviously one of those old fogeys who were sticklers for formality.

  ‘Doug Morrison sends his apologies,’ he said, taking a seat opposite her. ‘He forgot that his wife had invited the in-laws for lunch. Doug’s in charge of the barbecue.’

  ‘No problem. I’m sure we can handle things on our own.’

  ‘He tells me you’re interested in the Manse.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love with it. I suppose I shouldn’t be saying that to the owner. You’ll want to charge me a massive rent.’ She laughed nervously.

  ‘I gather you’ve ruled out purchasing the property. At least for the time being.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Doug mentioned your circumstances.’

  Thank goodness for that. She hated having to tell people, even strangers.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ he continued.

  ‘Thanks.’ Even though he had only offered clichéd condolences, tears were welling. Hastily she blinked them away, but one had already escaped, rolling down her cheek and onto her neck. At that moment the waiter arrived with a tray which he unloaded onto the table, and Angie was able to take advantage of the diversion to dab at her eyes and swipe a tissue across her dripping nose.

  ‘I hear you’d like to use the barn as a studio,’ Mr Scott said, adding three teaspoons of sugar to his tea.

  Resisting the inclination to wince, she responded, ‘Yes, I’m an artist. Well, I used to be. I haven’t painted for a while. Not since . . .’

  Another tear had dropped. If she wasn’t careful, it would become a gushing tap.

  ‘This town attracts artists,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s the old buildings and green countryside.’

  ‘It seems so idyllic.’

  ‘Nowhere is idyllic, Mrs Wallace. Not even Millbrooke. There are always issues.’

  ‘Are you trying to talk me out of living here?’ she asked lightly.

  ‘No, just being honest.’

  ‘So what kind of issues might I encounter in Millbrooke?’

  ‘Well, for starters, there’s a foreign mining company nosing around the area.’

  ‘Foreign?’

  ‘American.’

  ‘Oh,’ she replied, unsure how she was supposed to react to that.

  ‘They’re drilling holes and taking samples out by the river.’ He sighed loudly. ‘When I was a kid, Australia rode on the sheep’s back; now it’s all about mineral resources and commodity prices.’

  ‘Times change, Mr Scott. And I’d rather have a mining boom than a recession.’ It was a throwaway line, something she must have heard on the TV or the radio.

  ‘You make it sound so cut and dried,’ he retorted, giving her a withering look. ‘But there are long-term repercussions to consider. It’s a wildlife haven out there.’

  For a while they drank their tea in uncomfortable silence. Then Angie asked, ‘Is this mine close to town?’

  ‘Potential mine,’ he corrected like a schoolmaster. ‘It’s a few kilometres east of here, near the place where the Chinese had their camp in the Gold Rush days. Being across the other side of a wide river, it made them feel safer. Less chance of drunken white miners going on a rampage and attacking them in their sleep. The Chinese used to commute by punt to the diggings. That’s why it was called Chinaman’s Cove. Nowadays, only oldies like me use the original name. Millbrooke Shire Council changed it a while back in a burst of political correctness. They thought it might offend someone. So they came up with “River Cove” instead. Then they had new road signs made at rate-payers’ expense.’ He snorted in disgust. ‘Bloody council.’

  What a prickly character he was, one of those grizzled old curmudgeons Walter Brennan used to play back in Hollywood’s golden age. But at least her tears were gone.

  Finally she said, ‘Well, I don’t think this mi . . . potential mining project is relevant to me or my decision to rent the Manse.’

  After a long pause he replied, ‘In that case, I suppose we should discuss money. Would four hundred dollars be reasonable?’

  Four hundred a week. She wouldn’t think twice about it in the city, but that was a bit steep for a rundown rural house, albeit a charming one. Perhaps Mr Scott was expecting her to bargain with him.

  ‘It’s more than I expected,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Well, how about three-sixty? That would work out at ninety a week.’

  Angie felt her face flush. He’d been talking about monthly rent, not weekly.

  ‘I need to pass this by my sons before I make any decisions.’

  ‘Of course. No obligation. The house is just sitting there. I’d be glad to have someone living in it. It needs a human presence to make it feel wanted. Not that I�
��d expect you to renovate the place.’

  ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind doing a bit of refurbishing. Nothing structural, of course.’

  They spent another half hour discussing the technicalities and agreed that Angie would phone Doug during the week to let him know her decision. Then they shook hands at the door and he sauntered down the street in his funny hat, while Angie headed in the direction of the antiques shop where she had arranged to meet Vicky and Chrissie.

  ‘What was the owner like?’ asked Vicky as she picked up an old porcelain plate, turned it over and read the brand name.

  ‘A bit odd. Looks like an old tramp, but Doug told me on the phone that he owns a big Georgian house just out of town and several shops in the main street.’

  ‘Millbrooke’s unlikely property mogul,’ said Chrissie. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He likes the idea of the Manse being occupied rather than sitting there bleak and empty. And he’s prepared to offer it at a nominal rent.’

  ‘So he should,’ said Vicky.

  ‘There would be a year’s lease, and he won’t sell it during that period.’

  ‘As if anyone would want to buy it.’

  ‘I might. At the end of the twelve months, if I found that I liked living in Millbrooke.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked Vicky.

  ‘I would rent it for a year. And during that time I might give it a coat of paint and do some work in the garden.’

  Vicky shook her head. ‘He expects you to fix the place while you’re renting?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a renovation as such. Just a tart-up. He’d pay for the paint.’

  ‘But you mightn’t buy the bloody place. Then all your work would be for nothing. And if you did decide to buy it, what’s to stop him charging you another hundred thousand for the privilege of owning a house that you’d fixed up?’

  ‘He’s agreed to lop twenty thousand off the current price if I buy it at the end of the lease.’