Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘No problem. Do you keep your statements and receipts in a shoebox?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘That’s the standard filing system in Millbrooke.’

  After Jennie and Ros left, Moira stayed behind. Angie made her another cup of tea.

  ‘You know, this internet dating thing isn’t as bad as you think,’ said Moira. Then the genteel widowed septuagenarian with the neatly permed hair went on to explain that she had also ventured into the world of cyber matchmaking. No meetings in person though. Not yet.

  ‘You should try it, Angie,’ she said.

  When Moira saw the shocked look on Angie’s face, she added:

  ‘Maybe it’s too soon. But down the track when you’re stronger . . . You won’t meet a man any other way. Not if you live in Millbrooke.’

  3

  THE GIRL IN THE MAGENTA DRESS

  Then

  Amy finished Mr Chen’s tea sooner than expected, and not in the most pleasant of circumstances. Barely a week after her visit to the emporium she and her mother were sitting in the kitchen, sipping their cinnamon infusion, when the Reverend Duncan returned early from a visit to an elderly parishioner. As he entered the room, he demanded: ‘What in heaven’s name is that dreadful smell?’

  ‘It is a Chinese tisane, Papa,’ replied Amy, instantly regretting the use of ‘Chinese’.

  ‘Did ye buy it from one of the Celestials, Amy Duncan?’

  Amy was tempted to dissemble. Although lying was a sin, evasion was acceptable, particularly when you lived in Matthew Duncan’s house.

  ‘What is a Celestial, Papa?’

  ‘Do not obfuscate with me, lass.’

  She had no choice but to tell the truth. ‘If you mean a Chinaman, then yes.’

  ‘From now on ye must buy provisions at Thompsons’ and keep away from those heathens with their herbs and potions. Ye don’t want to make yer ma ill, do ye? Not in her delicate condition.’

  ‘I find it to be a most refreshing tonic,’ protested Margaret Duncan.

  ‘Poison disguised as a refreshment,’ said her husband. ‘Which store was it, lass? Was it that Chen with his fancy way of speaking?’

  Amy looked down at the table and said nothing.

  ‘He’s the worst of them, pretending to be like us.’

  ‘But Matthew, he attends church at St John’s.’

  ‘It is a ruse to ingratiate himself with Millbrooke society. I’ve heard that when he’s at home, he wears pagan robes and plays cards with his brother.’ Playing cards was among the Reverend Duncan’s most despised social vices, along with dancing and, of course, drinking alcoholic beverages. ‘I wouldna be in the least surprised if he smokes opium,’ he added.

  Amy could stand it no longer.

  ‘Papa, what evidence do you have for saying that?’

  ‘Are ye contradicting me, lass?’

  ‘No, Papa,’ she answered, biting her lip. Although her father’s attack on Mr Chen seemed mean and unwarranted, it wouldn’t do to defend him.

  ‘Once he’s made his fortune, he’ll slink back to his homeland. Like the others.’

  ‘He has a prosperous emporium. That hardly denotes the behaviour of a fly-by-night.’

  Her father glared at her. ‘Yer time in Sydney with yer aunt has made ye far too insolent, Amy Duncan. Now tip the rest of that vile concoction onto the garden, and dinnae let me see ye with it e’er again.’

  The next morning, the sun was lingering on the eastern horizon, not quite ready to greet the day, when Amy donned her magenta dress, ready for her morning visit to the bakery. If she just happened to detour via the emporium on her homeward trip, it would be a secret she would share with no-one, not even Eliza.

  This morning her mother was still abed, too ill to raise her head from the pillow, her father was already at work in his study, while the boys, Robbie and Billy, were respectively milking Lorna Doone, the cow, and collecting eggs from the chicken coop. At the last moment, she grabbed her straw hat with its bunch of velvet violets and trail of ribbons and placed it at a jaunty angle on her head. Then she slipped out the back door.

  It wasn’t until she reached Miller Street that she could admire her outfit full-length in a shop window. With its draped overskirt, the magenta dress was daintier than the navy, but still plain enough to be acceptable to her father, who had pronounced it modest and sombre when she had worn it to her first church service in Millbrooke. Being a man ignorant of fashion, he had only noticed the dark colour. Amy, however, was well aware that the overskirt accentuated the slenderness of her waist, while the purple tones flattered the milkiness of her complexion. As for the hat, it showed off her curls to perfection.

  When Amy reached the emporium, she was relieved to see one of the doors was open. That meant Mr Chen was already inside, unpacking his boxes and preparing for the day. The smell of exotic spices enveloped her in a fragrant cloud. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the shop. Above her, the brass bells tinkled like fairies’ laughter. Mr Chen was standing at his counter, writing in a ledger. He looked up, as if he had been expecting her.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Duncan. I hope you have been keeping well.’

  ‘I have, Mr Chen. And you?’

  ‘I am fine, thank you.’

  As she walked towards him and her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the shop, she could see a shadow across the left side of his face, almost as purple as her magenta dress.

  ‘Mr Chen, what has happened?’

  ‘An incident, Miss Duncan. Nothing for you to be concerned about.’

  ‘Did you have an accident?’

  ‘Not as such.’

  Amy wondered if he might have slipped from a ladder while arranging goods on the uppermost shelves. Then her instincts told her it was a human hand which had wrought the damage, and she was indignant.

  ‘Did someone strike you, Mr Chen?’

  ‘Please, Miss Duncan, do not be upset. It was a drunkard in the street.’

  ‘Oh dear. Did you call the constabulary?’

  ‘No, it was unnecessary. And I didn’t want to make a fuss. Episodes of this nature are not uncommon. There are people who do not take kindly to foreigners.’

  ‘Foreigners? Aren’t we all foreigners in this land, sir?’

  ‘Save for the native people, Miss Duncan.’

  Amy had never seen a native person, let alone thought about them.

  ‘But, you are right,’ he continued. ‘And some of us appear more foreign than others. Human beings are fearful of anyone who is different.’ Then he smiled. ‘But I wonder if you are the exception, Miss Duncan.’

  Amy could feel a blush rising from her collarbones and up her neck. Soon her face would be as deep a colour as the Chinaman’s bruise. She lowered her eyes, trying to think of a reply. Finally she said: ‘It’s all very well to label commodities such as tea.’ She pointed to the wooden canisters lined up on the counter with their little signs written in Chinese and English. ‘But we can’t put people into boxes. Each of us is unique.’

  He was smiling at her. ‘I see you have brought your tin, Miss Duncan. Would you like to sample a different tea this time?’

  ‘Yes, I would, Mr Chen.’ What was the harm in trying a little tea? After all, she had already flouted her father’s edict by entering the emporium.

  ‘I recommend the Lapsang Souchong. A black tea from Foukien Province.’

  ‘Is that your homeland?’

  ‘I come from Kwangtung which is south of Foukien. They are both coastal provinces, but Foukien has fewer people and many mountains and forests. Would you care to smell the tea leaves?’

  When he opened the lid of the canister, the smell was unmistakable.

  ‘It reminds me of my father’s pipe,’ said Amy.

  Mr Chen laughed. ‘That is because the leaves are dried by smoking them over pine fires.’

  ‘It’s a comforting aroma. My father might even like it.’

  ‘Did he enjoy the tisane?’

  �
�Not exactly.’ She wasn’t going to tell Mr Chen about having to dispose of the remaining tea leaves on the marigold plants. ‘I shall buy some of your smoked tea. And would you kindly write down the name for me? I will never remember it otherwise.’

  ‘Certainly.’ He took a piece of paper from below the counter, a jar of ink and a pen. She watched as he wrote the two words in perfect copperplate – the loop of the ‘S’ as sinuous as a morning glory vine. Then he placed one scoop of tea inside the tin.

  ‘Only one scoop?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Duncan. Then you will return sooner.’

  His eyes met hers so briefly she might have imagined it. She took threepence out of her purse and placed it on the counter.

  He put two pennies on the counter, in the same way she had done. When she retrieved her change, he said: ‘I must apologise, Miss Duncan, for misjudging you. I have done the very thing you’ve just condemned. Placing people in tea boxes.’

  Bewildered by his words, she tipped her head sideways.

  ‘The first time you visited my shop, I only saw a pretty girl with yellow hair.’ His voice was so low she had to strain to hear him.

  ‘I’m ashamed to confess I assumed you to be flighty and frivolous, when, in fact, you are wise beyond your years.’

  Amy didn’t know how to reply to his remark so she gave him an embarrassed smile and wished him good morning. Outside, she took a deep breath. Things which had seemed so simple barely a fortnight ago had now become as complicated as a piece of bobbin lace.

  On her return to the Manse, Amy found the boys playing with their tin soldiers on the front verandah.

  ‘Have you finished your chores?’ she asked.

  Absorbed in their game, they simply nodded. As she entered the house and stole past her father’s study, the pungent odour of his pipe filled the air, indicating his presence. She was halfway down the hall when she heard: ‘Is that ye, Amy Duncan? Come in here, lass. I’ve been looking fer ye.’

  Oh dear. Did her father know where she had been? She would have to make a confession, or at least a partial one.

  ‘Coming, Papa,’ she replied meekly, depositing her hat and basket in the hallway. Gingerly she put her head around the door. ‘I’m sorry, Papa. I was at the bakery.’

  There was a pause in which she prepared herself for the inevitable recriminations, but he only said, ‘Guid. Ye must go there every morning – it will save yer ma having to make the bread. Be sure ye come straight home though.’

  He didn’t sound gruff at all.

  She took a seat on the stiff-backed chair opposite him.

  ‘Normally I would have asked yer ma to listen to my sermon, but I didna want to disturb her, seeing as she is having a wee lie-in. So I thought ye might hear me read it through before we take our breakfast.’

  It was hard to love her father in the way a daughter should, but today Amy could see glimpses of the man her mother had found engaging enough to marry. As he read aloud in his rumbling Glaswegian accent, Amy closed her eyes and listened to his sermon for Pentecost Sunday. She had always been enthralled by the rushing wind and the speaking in tongues.

  ‘What do ye think?’ he asked when it was over.

  Amy couldn’t remember him asking her opinion about anything before.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Papa,’ she said and meant it.

  ‘Guid,’ he replied.

  There was a hint of a smile on his lips.

  Two days later Amy was awake before dawn, lighting the kerosene lamp on her bed-stand and deliberating about what to wear. Not that she had much choice – either her magenta dress or the navy one. The occasion was her birthday and she intended to buy herself a present. Covertly, of course, because birthdays were neither acknowledged nor observed in the Duncan family, apart from Christmas and the Queen’s Birthday.

  Like a wraith, she tiptoed downstairs and out the door. Aunt Molly’s shiny sovereign sat deep inside her pocket, clinking against the small coins she had brought for her morning visit to the baker. Once that task was over and the bread lay warm and inviting in her basket, she strolled down the main street, every step bringing her closer to the intriguing Mr Chen and his emporium. As she approached the store, the clock tower atop the School of Arts began to toll seven o’clock. Was she too early? Perhaps she should do another circuit of Miller Street and come back in ten minutes. Then she noticed one of the red doors was ajar. She pushed it open just enough to step inside.

  Although Mr Chen was nowhere to be seen, he had been busy since her last visit. A new shelf had appeared on the side wall, holding ornaments made of a shiny green substance that looked almost translucent – animals, birds, plants and people, a whole world in miniature, carved with masterful dexterity. As she raised her hand to touch a figurine – a lady dressed in a flowing robe, with her hair pulled into a tight bun – Amy heard: ‘Do you like the jade, Miss Duncan?’

  Her heart began to race. Most likely it was from being caught by surprise. ‘I do indeed, Mr Chen,’ she replied, turning to see him in a red waistcoat dotted with dragonflies. The bruise on his face had faded to a light purple, barely visible on his golden skin.

  ‘And how may I assist you this morning?’

  ‘I am seeking a present.’

  ‘What is the occasion, may I ask?’

  ‘A birthday.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have very few items suitable for children.’

  ‘She is not a child. Not any more,’ she said with determination.

  ‘So it’s for a lady.’ He began to pace around the room, surveying the goods. ‘I wonder what she might like? A necklace perhaps?’ He held up a string of purple beads.

  ‘A most attractive choice, Mr Chen, but unfortunately this lady does not wear jewellery.’

  Then his gaze rested on a collection of hair ornaments, intricately carved out of bone. ‘Do you think an ivory clasp might be appropriate?’

  ‘Sadly she is not permitted to wear adornments of that ilk.’

  ‘You seem to be well acquainted with the lady’s tastes and requirements, Miss Duncan.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Amy replied with a blush. She would have to tell Mr Chen the truth. He was not a person with whom she could equivocate. ‘I have a confession to make. It is I who is having the birthday.’

  ‘Really? I would never have guessed.’ Although he maintained a straight face, she knew he was smiling inside. ‘Many happy returns of the day.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said demurely.

  ‘A lady never reveals her age, does she?’

  ‘I have no such aversion.’

  ‘Then may I be permitted to ask which birthday you are celebrating?’

  ‘It is my eighteenth.’ She longed to pose the same question of him, but couldn’t summon the courage.

  ‘We should have a tea party, Miss Duncan. In honour of your special day.’

  Before she could remonstrate with him, he had disappeared into the back room. In his absence she browsed the shelves, looking for something she could buy which would escape her father’s detection. She was about to give up when she discovered boxes of stationery decorated with plum blossoms and peony roses. Now this was the perfect choice. She could use the beautiful paper for her correspondence with Aunt Molly and conceal it at the bottom of her bureau.

  In a few minutes Mr Chen was back with a lacquered tray which he placed on a low table, its legs writhing with dragons. ‘Let us imagine we are partaking of a sumptuous feast, even though it is only jasmine tea and currant buns.’

  ‘I’m very fond of currant buns,’ she replied.

  ‘Likewise,’ he said with a smile.

  Perhaps one day she might encounter him at the bakery, away from his emporium. What would he be like without his delicate porcelain and fragrant teas? Would he remain dazzling, or would he just be a dapper gentleman in a silk waistcoat?

  ‘Please take a seat, Miss Duncan,’ he said, moving two wicker stools towards the table.

  As they sat opposite each other, sipping from tin
y cups and conversing as friends, she longed to remain locked in the moment like a jade figurine on Mr Chen’s shelf. But that fanciful notion was quickly replaced by a worrying thought. What if a St Aidan’s parishioner came into the emporium and caught her socialising with its proprietor? If her father found out, there would be no more visits to Mr Chen. She might even be locked up like Rapunzel and never let out again.

  Mr Chen must have sensed her disquiet because he said: ‘Your family will be waiting for their bread. You had best be leaving. But you must choose your present before you go.’

  ‘I think I shall buy a box of your stationery. I’m quite taken with the floral motifs, though I fear the paper is so exquisite I shall be reluctant to write upon it.’

  ‘Just as tea is there to be drunk, the paper is meant to be used,’ he said as he placed the box in her basket.

  ‘Is it from China?’

  ‘Of course. The Chinese were the first to make paper.’

  ‘Really?’ She was sadly ignorant of Chinese history.

  ‘A thousand years before the Europeans.’

  ‘My goodness!’

  ‘Can you guess what material they used?’

  Amy shook her head.

  ‘Mulberry bark. Are you familiar with mulberries, Miss Duncan?’

  ‘I am indeed. We had a tree in our garden in Sydney. And I used to keep silkworms in a box and feed them the leaves.’

  ‘We might think it is a vast world, but there are many connections,’ he said softly.

  The way he looked at her made her blush. ‘How much is the stationery, Mr Chen?’ she asked, by way of changing the subject.

  ‘It is a gift, Miss Duncan. For your birthday.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Please do not deny me such a small gesture.’

  Amy didn’t know how to respond. She knew she should insist on paying, yet part of her wanted to accept his offering. Finally she said: ‘Thank you, Mr Chen. You must allow me to reciprocate on your birthday.’

  ‘In China we all become a year older at the lunar new year. However, my real birthday is in April.’

  ‘That’s almost a year away,’ she replied, ‘but I shall not forget. Good morning, sir.’