Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  They sipped their tea in silence.

  ‘I think I would like to buy some of this tea, Mr Chen.’

  ‘There is no obligation on your part, Miss Duncan.’

  ‘I know that. Nonetheless, I am charmed by the notion of conjuring up Christmas, simply by smelling your tea.’

  ‘You must remember to drink it as well.’

  He produced a little square tin with a domed lid. On the sides were illustrations of Chinamen in colourful robes, standing among willow trees and flowering shrubs.

  ‘Two scoops?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘When the tin is empty, I shall refill it for you.’

  Amy had been so engrossed in tasting the tea and looking at the silks that she had forgotten there was only a shilling’s worth of coins in her pocket. What if she couldn’t pay him? How embarrassing. She would never be able to face him again.

  ‘That will be threepence,’ he said.

  She sighed so loudly with relief that he added: ‘We can put it on account, if you wish.’

  ‘No, no, I have it with me.’ She placed the tiny silver coin in his silken hand.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Duncan,’ he said, putting it in the tray of a brass cash register at the end of the counter.

  Next minute she was standing on Miller Street, shading her eyes from the sunlight. Lying in her basket were the souvenirs of her visit to Aladdin’s magic cave. If the tin and the fragment of silk hadn’t existed as evidence of her encounter with Mr Chen, she might have thought it all an exotic dream.

  On her return, Amy found her mother dressed and making a pot of tea. She was about to offer Mr Chen’s tisane but decided to keep it for a time when she could be sure it was just the two of them. She had missed her gentle, quiet mother. Whereas Molly Mackenzie was all hustle and bustle, Margaret Duncan was the image of thoughtful repose. Two sisters, both easy to love, yet each so different.

  ‘The doctor says the sickness should have passed weeks ago,’ her mother said, slumping at the table. ‘I’m so glad to have you back, Amy. I can barely cope with the chores, let alone manage the boys.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I wanted to send them to one of the schools in town.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do that, Mama?’

  ‘Your father maintains public schools are unsuitable for a clergyman’s sons.’

  ‘Are there not private schools like Miss Howe’s?’

  ‘They are beyond our means.’

  Amy blushed as she realised her gaffe. Aunt Molly had been paying for Amy’s education for years. ‘In that case, it is fortunate that I am back to help educate them,’ she said, patting her mother’s hand.

  Over the next few days, Amy saw the boys’ antics for herself. Robbie was nine and Billy seven, and both had energy to burn. They had become accustomed to running wild, chasing the chooks, lighting bonfires in the far paddock and disappearing down to the creek. They used sticks to prod the reed-fringed banks, claiming an odd creature called a duck-mole lived there. They were always trying to dislodge it from its burrow. For her part, Amy had dismissed the duck-mole as a figment of their imagination, like a fire-breathing dragon or a mythical unicorn, until the day Robbie appeared at the door, nursing his hand and holding back tears.

  ‘What have you done?’ asked Amy.

  ‘It was the duck-mole. I tried to grab him and he stung me with his claw.’

  Already Robbie’s hand had swollen to twice its size. Amy thanked God that her mother was napping in the parlour. Then she went to tell her father.

  ‘Don’t worry yer ma about this, lass,’ he said, dispatching Billy to find Doctor Allen.

  As the doctor examined Robbie’s hand, he said, ‘I remember when Old Tommy Roberts was shooting duck-moles for their fur. He hit one and sent his dog into the creek to fetch it. But the creature was still alive and barbed the dog with its spur.’

  ‘What happened to the dog?’ asked Amy.

  ‘It died the same day.’

  She gasped, and the doctor continued, ‘I haven’t encountered a case in humans before. And I don’t recall anything in the journals. I think he’ll be all right. Best to keep the boy still. No moving that arm for the next few hours.’

  How could anyone keep Robbie still, Amy wondered in frustration.

  ‘Send for me if he becomes feverish. Otherwise, bring him to the surgery tomorrow and I’ll check the wound.’

  ‘What shall we tell Mama?’ asked Amy after the doctor left.

  Matthew Duncan stroked his beard in contemplation and replied, ‘the truth, of course, but don’t any of ye mention the dead dog or I’ll gi’e ye the strap.’

  Robbie couldn’t use his arm for a couple of weeks, but in all other respects he was fine. And the duck-mole incident put an end to the boys’ worst escapades. In the meantime Amy returned some structure to their lives. Three hours of lessons every morning – spelling, grammar, arithmetic and geography. There was no misbehaving because their father was directly across the hallway in his study, where a leather strap lay waiting to be used on a recalcitrant child. Of an afternoon Matthew Duncan would tutor them in Latin and Greek. Although Amy secretly wondered about the relevance of ancient languages to a life in the colonies, she held her tongue. Her father believed a gentleman’s education was not complete without a thorough grounding in the classics.

  Among the tedium of establishing routines for the boys and helping her mother with the housework, there was a saving grace. Amy had acquired yet another pupil – seventeen-year-old Eliza Miller, who lived in the grandest house in the district and had been schooled at home by a governess. With the formal part of her education over, her parents had planned to send her to a finishing school in Europe before launching her into Sydney society, but Eliza had other ideas. She had been born in Millbrooke and intended to stay there. When her parents heard about the arrival of the Presbyterian minister’s daughter, fresh from Miss Howe’s School for Ladies in Sydney, they approached the Reverend Duncan about the possibility of his daughter tutoring Eliza in English and French and perhaps some other niceties like calligraphy.

  At first Amy had been apprehensive about the prospect. She was only six months older than Eliza. What could she teach a wealthy girl who had been educated for years by a governess? Fortunately Eliza turned out to be friendly and open-minded, neither stuck-up nor a know-it-all. For the first week, Amy insisted on being called Miss Duncan, but soon they were simply Amy and Eliza.

  Friday afternoon was Eliza’s grammar lesson. After they parsed an entire page of Mr Dickens, noting nouns in apposition and verbs in a variety of tenses and moods, Amy rewarded her pupil with an early finish. While a delighted Eliza rode home, Amy took a walk along the creek in the direction of the main street. She dithered in the haberdashery with no particular purchase in mind, which was fortunate indeed, seeing that she had left her purse at home. Afterwards she found herself standing on the boardwalk opposite the emporium.

  In the fierce light of a Millbrooke afternoon, the store looked much like the others in Miller Street – low, verandahed buildings with tin roofs glinting in the sun. She began to wonder if she had been investing a special significance in the proprietor and his wares which was merely a product of her overactive imagination. Yet, as she gazed across the street at the blood-red doors and iron lace dragons, it seemed to her that this really could be an oasis of beauty in a dusty provincial town, a storehouse of possibilities in a world dominated by ironclad discipline and unbending rules. She was even tempted to pay a quick visit to Mr Chen to verify her theory, but the emporium was bristling with customers – ladies, immaculately coiffed and daintily attired. Amy’s own hair had not been brushed since the morning, and she was wearing a dowdy calico apron over one of her mother’s old dresses. Even if the emporium had been empty, there was simply no question of going there today.

  Now

  In her first month at the Old Manse Angie had learned that nobody was who they seemed. The amiable waiter in the pottery café had turned out to
be a ceramicist, the creator of the shiny bowls and plates that lined the walls. Then there was Lisa, a friendly woman of around Angie’s age, who owned the Millbrooke Arms. In a previous life, she had been a chef of some renown in a hatted Sydney restaurant. The elderly woman who sold plants every Saturday from the back of her ute was an award-winning screenwriter. The woodworker whose shop was only open on Fridays and Saturdays was also the editor of the local paper. And Nola from the B&B had been an actress in a series of seventies soap operas. This winter she was to be director of the annual Millbrooke Follies. Lisa said the town attracted refugees from the city seeking to reinvent themselves. She had christened their migration ‘the Millbrooke phenomenon’.

  Meanwhile Angie had run an ad in the Millbrooke Gazette offering painting classes – watercolour and acrylic. She supposed that she herself might be the latest example of the Millbrooke phenomenon – a nondescript fifty-something widow, who was actually an artist. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when she’d become nondescript, yet over the past decade the woman who used to turn heads when she entered a room had morphed into someone the world barely noticed. Phil had reassured her she was still attractive, but perhaps that was because he continued to see her as the teenage girl he’d first met in a Newtown pub. He had never noticed the strands of grey in her shoulder-length hair, the fine lines on her face, nor the stretch marks on her stomach. As for her art, it hadn’t been the great career she’d envisaged. A couple of solo exhibitions before the boys came along and then it had fizzled out. With the long hours Phil had spent at the hospital, someone needed to be the mainstay in the children’s lives and Angie had embraced the role. She enjoyed being secretary of the P&C, helper at the canteen, coordinator of the school fete, mother of the dux (Blake) and school captain (Tim). But one day the boys left home and she and Phil were empty-nesters, missing their offspring yet enthused by the possibilities ahead of them – the B&B they’d dreamed about for years, the painting career Angie had left behind. Then the man who had been a constant in her life for more than three decades woke with a crushing pain in his chest and died in the ICU two days later.

  The ad in the Gazette produced five students – all women. When one of them confided on the phone that she had never painted before and was apprehensive about her skills, Angie reassured her: ‘Everyone has an artistic side; we just need to tap into it.’

  In the centre of the dining room she set up a big folding table with a groundsheet to protect the wooden floor. Then she primed five stretched canvas squares with Naples yellow hue. It was the colour Cézanne had used as the base for his paintings. Cézanne was Angie’s favourite artist. She loved his use of autumn colours and the way he deconstructed objects into planes and angles. On the table she arranged a collection of blue and white Chinese vases and a matching ginger jar – luscious curving shapes with glossy surfaces that caught the light. The vases used to live in the yellow bedroom of the house that she and Phil had shared for thirty years and which was now leased to a young couple, no children, no pets. When she pictured the room and its bed, tears welled. But it wasn’t the uncontrollable flood that would have once left her empty and exhausted. After a few minutes she resumed her preparation, picking a bunch of yellow tea roses from the garden, fullblown, ready to drop their petals, and placing them in one of the vases. Today the class would paint a still-life – Chinese porcelain with roses.

  When the students arrived, it was obvious that they knew one another – they had completed a term of lace-making classes together and a year of quilting before that. One of them had brought a tray of chocolate mint slice, another a tin of ANZAC biscuits. They sat at the table, sipping tea and chatting. Although Angie wondered whether she should encourage them to start sketching, nobody seemed to be in a hurry.

  ‘It’s a lovely old house,’ said Jennie, a young blonde woman in her early thirties with a cheerful face. ‘I’ve always wanted to see inside.’

  ‘Heaps of work to be done, though. It would give me nightmares,’ said Ros who was in her fifties with curly brown hair and long acrylic nails like Vicky’s.

  ‘Don’t listen to Ros, love. Just take your time.’ Moira was a softly spoken woman of about seventy, wearing an immaculate white linen shirt which Angie feared might not be so clean at the end of a day’s painting. Moira used to be the town’s librarian, until the council forced her to retire at sixty-five. Now she was working there as a volunteer. ‘Ever since George died, it’s helped to fill the time,’ she’d told Angie over the phone, her voice faltering as she said her husband’s name. Another grieving widow. Angie had felt an instant bond.

  ‘The house has been waiting for years for someone to do something with it,’ Moira continued. ‘The family who used to live here let it go to the pack.’

  ‘They were only tenants,’ said Tanya, who worked part-time as a receptionist at Morrison Real Estate. Then she flushed with embarrassment. ‘Of course you’re a tenant too, aren’t you, Angie? But you’re different to the others. You’ll bring an artist’s flair to the decoration.’

  ‘Thanks, Tanya, but right now I’m overwhelmed by it. I’ve started little jobs all over the house, and nothing is finished.’

  Finally they began to do a preparatory sketch. Angie suggested they work on a sheet of tracing paper and then transfer it to the canvas. As she looked at the emerging drawings with their wonky vases and unrecognisable roses, she knew it had been a wise idea to work on paper first. Eventually she dashed off a drawing herself, copied it onto tracing paper and gave each of them a pattern.

  ‘Don’t feel disheartened,’ she said. ‘Drawing is the most difficult skill of all. You’ll find the painting process much easier. Really it’s just about the application of colour and the play of light and shade.’ She tried to sound persuasive.

  By lunchtime everyone had transferred the design and they paused for Angie’s vegetable soup and spelt bread from Don the baker.

  ‘Just the ticket on a cold day,’ said Ros.

  ‘How was your date, Jennie?’ asked Narelle, who had straight brown hair to her shoulders and a practical nylon tracksuit.

  ‘Don’t ask. It said on the website that he’s self-employed, but it turns out he’s actually unemployed. Hasn’t had a job in years.’

  Narelle was laughing. ‘When are you going to learn the code, Jen?’

  ‘Code?’ asked Angie.

  ‘Yeah, you can’t take a profile at face value,’ said Tanya. ‘For instance, “loves to dine out” means “loves to dine at your place”.’

  ‘And “looking for companionship” translates as “seeking sex”,’ said Narelle.

  They were all giggling. Yet for a bemused Angie, it was a foreign world. ‘So, Jennie, are you really looking for a partner on the internet?’ she asked tentatively. Jennie was an attractive woman. Surely she wouldn’t have a problem finding men.

  ‘We all are,’ said Tanya. ‘It’s not like living in the city where you can meet men in nightclubs or bars.’

  ‘We’ve had our disasters though, haven’t we, girls?’ said Jennie. ‘Remember Jamie.’

  There were cries of ‘Sleazebag!’ and ‘What a loser.’

  Jennie explained: ‘I used to drive over to Granthurst to see him. He couldn’t get enough of me. Then one Sunday, after we’d been going together for six months, he announced: “I’m bored with this.” When I asked him what had changed to make him say that, he said: “Nothing. That’s the problem.” And it was over, just like that. It turned out he’d met someone else – on the internet!’

  Angie must have gasped because Jennie said: ‘It’s fine, Angie. I’m okay about it now.’

  ‘Are you all doing this internet dating thing?’

  ‘Yeah, except Ros,’ replied Narelle. ‘She’s happily married.’

  ‘Aren’t there any nice men in Millbrooke?’

  Angie’s question provoked hysterical laughter.

  ‘It’s a man drought,’ said Tanya. ‘A rain shadow when it comes to finding a partner.’

&
nbsp; ‘The eligible ones are taken,’ said Narelle. ‘As for the rest, they’re either partial to the drink or a bit crazy.’

  ‘Or they’re gay,’ said Tanya.

  ‘What about Richard Scott?’ asked Angie. ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Are you interested?’ asked Tanya.

  ‘In my landlord? Hardly. I just thought he might be a candidate for one of you.’

  ‘Never even considered it,’ said Jennie. ‘He must be pension age if he’s a day.’

  ‘And he needs a complete makeover,’ added Narelle.

  When there was a brief pause in the conversation, Moira said, ‘I know for a fact that Richard Scott isn’t married and he’s definitely not gay.’

  Angie gave Moira a curious glance. How could she know Richard wasn’t gay, unless . . . ? No, a relationship between the well-groomed widow and Angie’s shabby landlord was too bizarre to contemplate.

  ‘Then according to Narelle’s theory,’ Ros chipped in, ‘he must be crazy.’

  ‘Just a bit unconventional,’ said Moira.

  ‘For an unconventional bloke, he’s done pretty well for himself,’ said Ros. ‘Millerbrooke House must be worth a motza.’

  ‘But he’s an alcoholic, Ros,’ said Narelle. ‘He almost lives at the pub.’

  ‘If he’s a drunk, how did he accumulate all that property?’ asked Angie.

  ‘Probably inherited it,’ said Tanya.

  ‘Moira, you’ve lived here all your life,’ said Narelle. ‘Give us the goss.’

  ‘It’s nobody’s business but Richard’s,’ she replied firmly.

  Which put everyone in their place.

  The afternoon broke up at three when Narelle and Tanya, both single mums, went to collect their children from school.

  ‘I’ll have to go too,’ said Jennie who was divorced with no children. ‘I have a client coming at three-thirty.’

  Angie must have given her an odd look because she added: ‘I’m an accountant.’

  Embarrassed, Angie said: ‘In that case, you might be interested in doing my tax return when the time comes.’