Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  Suddenly she was outside the emporium. The clock on the School of Arts showed it was five past eight. How could it be so late? An hour had passed in an instant. The street was filling with people. She panicked as she imagined her family sitting around the kitchen table, wondering what had happened to their bread. Although she knew it wasn’t ladylike, she ran all the way home. Breathless she burst into the kitchen to find everyone silently eating their porridge, even her mother who looked better than she had in weeks.

  ‘The baker was busy and I had to wait,’ said Amy, surprised at how easily a falsehood could glide from her tongue.

  But nobody questioned her, nor did they mention her birthday. After breakfast she finished her chores, removed the stationery from its hiding place in the basket and went upstairs to her room. There she took a single leaf from the box and stared at it for a long time, pondering what to write to Aunt Molly. She was the kind of person who might understand Amy’s fascination with the emporium and its owner. Then again, sharing your secrets, even with a kindly aunt, would be like wishing on a shooting star and telling someone what you had wished for. Once you had let the wish slip out, it could never come true.

  ‘Could you teach me the Viennese waltz, Amy? Please,’ asked Eliza as they perched on a pair of milking stools in the barn beside the Manse.

  ‘Your parents are not paying tuition fees for me to teach you dancing.’

  ‘If you teach me to waltz, you can come to our Queen’s Birthday dance.’

  ‘You have already invited me, Eliza Miller. You cannot take it back. Now let us begin our French lesson.’

  ‘But French is so dull, Amy.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ She produced the volume of Monsieur Galland’s Les mille et une nuits that she had hidden under some straw. The book hadn’t been an easy choice, not with Aunt Molly’s disclaimer still strong in her mind. But Eliza wasn’t a child any more. And the story was so long that Amy could select appropriate passages for translation and avoid anything indelicate.

  As soon as Eliza saw the cover with its exotic illustration she began to smile. ‘This doesn’t look like the primers I used with my governess.’

  ‘Were they little orange books by someone called Lady Bell?’

  ‘Yes, how did you know?’

  ‘That is what we used at Miss Howe’s. I still have my copy of French without Tears. But this book is much more interesting.’

  Amy opened the heavy book at page two hundred and seven – ‘Histoire d’Aladdin, ou la lampe merveilleuse’.

  ‘I know this story,’ said Eliza. ‘I remember my mother telling me about the genie in the lamp. But the princess spoiled everything by exchanging the magic lamp for a new one.’

  ‘She didn’t know about its magic powers. Aladdin should have locked it away when he wasn’t using it.’

  ‘Like my father’s guns.’

  Amy was in awe of Eliza’s many talents. Over the past couple of weeks she had discovered Eliza could shoot a rifle, ride a horse bareback and shear a sheep. She had even delivered a calf. Still, it wouldn’t do to discuss guns or horse-riding, not when there was work to be done.

  Soon they were engrossed in the story of the impoverished Aladdin who wanted to be a merchant. And it wasn’t long before they found themselves standing alongside him, viewing a royal procession passing through the city streets. Inside the carriage was the princess herself. After pursuing the procession, Aladdin managed to catch a glimpse of the young woman without her veil, pronouncing her face perfectly proportioned and her gaze agreeable and modest.

  ‘It’s quite thrilling, isn’t it?’ said Eliza. ‘I fear he has already lost his heart to her. But what a peculiar name she has.’

  ‘Badroulboudour. Yes, it’s a tongue-twister.’

  ‘She should have been called something sensible like Amy or Eliza. Still, Aladdin would have thought her lovely whatever her name.’

  They examined the engraving of Aladdin in his merchant’s finery.

  ‘He is beautiful, isn’t he, Amy?’

  ‘Yes, Eliza,’ she replied. ‘He is indeed . . . ’

  ‘Which would you prefer,’ Eliza asked, ‘a prince with golden hair or someone dark and exotic like Aladdin?’

  Amy was about to supply an answer when she realised the French lesson had turned into something else altogether. Putting the book aside, she said: ‘I think we have read enough for today. I haven’t yet seen your writing skills, Eliza. Perhaps the rest of our afternoon might be spent undertaking a composition.’

  Eliza was frowning. ‘I’m not talented at inventing stories, Amy. My governess said I had no imagination.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to invent a tale. I want you to write something real. About the person you most admire.’

  ‘I suppose I could write about my grandfather, Captain Alexander Miller. He served under Admiral Nelson at Trafalgar.’

  ‘How wonderful.’

  ‘Yes, he was only a junior officer then, but later he became a master of his own ship. After years of service with the Royal Navy, he was granted two thousand acres of land here in New South Wales. So he emigrated with his family and built a grand villa which he called Millerbrooke House. “Miller” for himself and “Brooke” with an “e” for my grandmother’s family. And that is how the town got its name.’

  ‘But it’s Millbrooke, not Millerbrooke.’

  ‘When people began to settle here, the name was shortened. Nowadays everyone assumes the town was called after the flour mill on the creek, but it is really in honour of the Millers and the Brookes.’

  ‘That is an admirable story, Eliza. It will make an excellent composition.’

  A smile began to curl at the corners of Eliza’s mouth. ‘I’ve just thought of someone else whose story is equally worthy. Could I write about two people instead of one?’

  ‘No, that would be far too confusing. Surely you can choose between them.’

  Eliza seemed to sulk for a moment, before asking, ‘How long do I have to write this?’

  ‘Let us say half an hour. If it’s not finished, you can complete it at home.’ Amy knew how much Eliza detested home lessons. Even if her hand was sore and heavy at the end, the story would be completed on time. They retired to the dining room of the Manse where Eliza sat at a table with a writing paper and pen and ink.

  ‘If I am rushed, there will be smudges,’ she warned.

  ‘Your time has already begun,’ replied Amy.

  Eliza dipped her pen in the ink well and began writing furiously, barely stopping to replenish her pen or blot the page. Amy imagined that ‘someone else’ referred to Eliza’s father, Mr Miller, who was much loved and respected by everyone in Millbrooke. In the meantime Amy began planning her next geography lesson for the boys. They were such restless creatures that she had decided to use their energy in a game, finding capital cities on the linen map of the world her father had purchased for them from Mr Moffitt’s stationery store in George Street, Sydney. There would be a prize of a penny for the boy who found the most capitals from the list Amy had composed for them.

  At the end of the half hour Eliza was still writing. Amy brought her a cup of tea and gave her another fifteen minutes to finish.

  After Eliza and her horse Neddy left for home, Amy read the story, pencil poised to correct any errors. But she found herself so engrossed in Eliza’s narrative that the pencil soon slipped from her hand.

  Someone I Admire

  by Eliza Miller

  I was only a baby when the person I most admire came into our lives. He arrived by ship from Canton with his father who was seeking to make his fortune in the goldfields and then return to his wife who had remained behind with their younger son.

  The boy and his father had only been at the Millbrooke gold diggings a week or two when everything changed. It was night-time. The little boy heard a scream and went to investigate. He discovered his father had fallen into one of the deep holes which littered the diggings. It was half full of icy water and his father�
��s head was barely visible above the surface. The boy ran for help. Soon people were lowering bamboo poles into the hole. Finally they were able to drag the father out, but he was barely alive. Someone rode into town and returned with the doctor. However the man could not be revived.

  That night the doctor took the boy back to town. The next day my parents, John and Charlotte Miller, who had recently lost a son and a daughter to illness, decided to make the fatherless boy part of their family. He was so small they thought he was only eight, when he was actually eleven, the same age as Joseph, two years older than Daniel and eight years older than I.

  Nobody could pronounce his Chinese name so my parents called him something which sounded similar – Charles. He was educated with my two brothers in our family schoolroom next to the kitchen. My grandfather, Captain Alexander Miller, took a special interest in him, and they spent hours together, poring over old maps and planning imaginary journeys.

  Charles was a cheerful, obedient boy, but he hated to set foot on the goldfields. It reminded him of the night his father died. He didn’t want to be a miner or have anything to do with gold. He said it was a curse. Instead, he set his heart on opening a great store in the main street of Millbrooke, selling ornamental wares from his homeland.

  When Charles was fifteen, my grandfather died. In his will he left a bequest to Charles to be claimed on his majority. Five years ago, he used the inheritance to buy a store in Miller Street which became his emporium. Then he sent for his younger brother, whom everyone calls Jimmy, because they cannot pronounce his Chinese name either, and the two of them ran the business and lived in the back room.

  The store was so successful, Charles was able to buy an acre of land in Paterson Street where he and Jimmy built a house in the hope their mother might join them. Charles even returned to China to fetch her, but she said she was too old to move to a strange land with different customs.

  The little Chinese boy, who looked younger than his years, is now as tall as Joseph and Daniel. They make a handsome trio. Sometimes, on a Sunday morning in St John’s Church, I have heard a collective sigh from the ladies of the congregation as the boys walk down the aisle to take their places in our family pew. I love all three, but the one I admire most is Charles. Although there are some townsfolk who mistrust and dislike him because of his race, there are others who hold him in high esteem on account of his hard work and gracious manners.

  He is the finest person I know.

  The End

  When Amy finished reading Eliza’s composition, she couldn’t help smiling. She would never have guessed that her Chinese merchant was also a well-loved member of Millbrooke’s oldest family.

  Now

  After a long day washing down her bedroom walls with sugar soap, Angie gave herself a reward – dinner at the pub. The Millbrooke Arms was a landmark, standing at the top of the rise at the eastern end of town. Its green iron roof and tall chimneys were the first glimpse of Millbrooke for any visitor arriving from the east. In the old days it would have been a feat for tired horses or bullocks to pull their load up that hill, only a block or two from the last changing station on the mail run, and yet so far.

  There was a sign in the bar claiming it was the longest continuously operating hotel in Australia. When Angie commented on the fact, Lisa, the publican confessed: ‘I’m not sure that it’s true. There are dozens of pubs around Australia making the same claim. Many of them aren’t original – just rebuilt on the original site. At least our Georgian inn is still there underneath all the additions. It dates back to the 1830s.’

  In 1860 it had been given a Victorian makeover – an extra floor, a wrap-around iron lace verandah and a coat of stucco over the original stone blocks. What vandals those Victorians must have been, thought Angie. It appeared they had messed with most of Millbrooke’s original buildings, constructing parapets and adding iron lace in an attempt to show off their assets. Still, it gave the town a certain mystique. When you caught sight of a side wall crafted in granite or sandstone, you knew there were layers beneath the florid exterior. The layers were what made the town interesting.

  Lisa’s pub was painted orange. She said a heritage expert had taken paint scrapings and discovered the startlingly bright hue was the earliest colour to be used on the Victorian façade. Angie had always felt uncomfortable entering the public bar of a country hotel on her own, but not here. It was the kind of place where nobody would turn to look, let alone leer. Did it have something to do with the preponderance of unattached women in Millbrooke? When she made the observation to Lisa, the publican whispered in reply, ‘Millbrooke is a haven for women of all persuasions.’

  Was that some form of code? Did Lisa think Angie was gay, or was it just a general statement? That session with the painting ladies had left her unnaturally attuned to codes and connotations.

  Angie ordered her meal from the bar, bought a glass of white wine and found herself a table in the corner. Three people were sitting at the cedar bar. The old mirrored shelves behind it, reaching as high as the ceiling, held bottles of spirits. It could have been a saloon in any Western movie. Except the place was almost empty. How did Lisa survive with so few drinkers and one lone diner?

  ‘How are you managing at the Manse?’ It was a male voice, soft and mellow, not unlike an announcer on a classical music station.

  When Angie looked up, she saw her landlord in a woollen pixie hat and shabby shirt. The voice didn’t match the scruffy exterior.

  ‘Pretty well, thanks.’ She prayed he wasn’t going to join her.

  ‘I hear you’re teaching art classes,’ he said, taking a seat at the next table.

  He must have seen the ad in the paper. ‘I hope you don’t mind me using your house for my classes. Perhaps I should have asked you first. But it’s just one day a week. And only five ladies.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mrs Wallace. I’m not from the council.’

  ‘Do they check on people?’

  ‘If they know you’re running a business from home. OH&S. Fire regulations. But not for a group of ladies having a pleasant day of painting and conversation. Even the Millbrooke Council wouldn’t be that petty.’

  Something about his manner made her feel anxious, like a child whose classmate has been reprimanded and feels guilty by association. ‘I’m using the dining room as a studio, but I’ve covered the floor with a groundsheet.’

  ‘I’m not worried about the floor. I’ve had a family renting that house whose kids used to ride bikes inside.’

  Angie winced. Those beautiful floors. ‘Eventually I’d like to use the barn for my classes, but it’s . . .’

  ‘Full of junk?’

  ‘It certainly needs tidying. Though I suspect there are some treasures among the trash.’

  ‘I’ll come over one day and clear it out for you. There’s still room in my shed at Millerbrooke.’

  ‘No hurry.’

  Angie’s dinner had arrived, and so had her landlord’s.

  ‘The lamb shanks are good,’ he said from the adjoining table, noting they had ordered the same thing. ‘It’s Millerbrooke lamb.’

  Angie sipped her wine. He seemed to be drinking orange juice. It was hard to make out his facial features for stubble, but after Narelle’s comment, Angie looked carefully for the telltale signs. She couldn’t see whether his cheeks were flushed or not, but he didn’t seem to have a drinker’s nose.

  ‘Have you painted anything since you arrived?’ he asked between mouthfuls.

  ‘I’m about to paint my bedroom. The one with the window seat.’

  ‘I thought you would have chosen the large bedroom.’

  ‘No, I like the small one.’

  ‘It may have belonged to the girl with the golden hair.’

  ‘Which girl?’

  ‘I don’t know who she was, except that she must have been a daughter of one of the early Presbyterian ministers. When I bought the house, I found a lot of old things – furniture, odds and ends. Right at the bottom of the upsta
irs linen cupboard, there was a battered trunk. The lid was stuck and I had to pry it open. It contained a pile of old books and some little keepsakes. And there was an old sepia photo of a girl. I took the trunk back to Millerbrooke and stored it in my shed, along with a chest of drawers.’

  ‘Is it still there?’

  ‘Yes, somewhere at the back. I’ve accumulated a lot more things since then.’

  He reminded Angie of Steptoe, or was it his son? She could imagine furniture and boxes crammed into the rooms. Piles of old newspapers. Cobwebs forming fretwork brackets in the corners, home to daddy-long-legs spiders and dead flies.

  ‘Do you know anything about the history of the Old Manse?’ she asked.

  ‘Only that it was built in 1870, not long after the church. It’s strange really. The church is typical Calvinist style. Sombre, dour, unadorned. And then they built the Manse which is a complete romantic fantasy.’

  ‘Perhaps the builder got carried away,’ suggested Angie. ‘Like a hairdresser who takes it into her head to colour your hair some exotic shade, but you only discover it after the shampoo and blow-dry.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

  Had she offended him? She had wondered about that stupid cap. Perhaps he was bald.

  ‘Anyway, I’d love to have a look at the contents of the trunk,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll drop it off to you. And I have some cans of paint if you need them.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘White.’

  Angie frowned. ‘What kind of white? Warm? Cool? Titanium?’

  ‘We blokes aren’t good at colours, Mrs Wallace. It’s just an all-purpose white. But you could have it tinted. What colour did you have in mind?’

  ‘Naples yellow hue. The colour of hollandaise sauce.’

  ‘You mean the stuff the café puts on my eggs Benedict?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I suppose that wouldn’t be too bad.’

  What a peculiar person he was. Not unintelligent. In fact, quite the opposite. A sixty-something bachelor who owned a lot of property. So why hadn’t he been snapped up by one of Millbrooke’s single women? Was it the drinking problem or the clothes or both? Maybe he was one of those men so far outside the social norms that a woman would need to be desperate to contemplate a relationship with him. And even the painting ladies with their racy chitchat weren’t that desperate.