On the makeshift stage a rock band was playing. Although they weren’t very good, she couldn’t help noticing the bass guitarist. So did her girlfriends. Except for Vicky who said, ‘Watch out for bass guitarists, girls. They’ll only break your heart.’
‘Come on, Vicky,’ one of them giggled, ‘tell us about this mysterious musician from your past.’
‘It was Paul McCartney,’ she replied, provoking further laughter. ‘As a kid I had a poster of him on my bedroom wall. I’ll never forget how devastated I was when he married Linda. I wanted him for myself.’
After the band finished its set, the guitarist came over to their table and introduced himself as Phil. The girls were flirting with him, except for Angie, who was so shy she could barely look him in the eye. Phil went off to do another set, and she was sure she’d seen the last of him. But right at closing time, when only she and Vicky remained, he appeared at her side, so close she found herself blushing. He asked for her phone number and walked them to the bus stop.
The next day, he rang to invite her to the movies. After she hung up the phone, she was so excited she rushed into the lounge room to tell her parents.
Her dad asked, ‘What does this fellow do for a living?’
‘He plays in a band,’ she responded without thinking.
‘No daughter of mine is going out with a musician.’
It turned out that Phil Wallace was really a fourth-year medical student, doing pub gigs on Friday and Saturday nights for the hell of it – and to make some money. Five years later, when he was a resident at a major Sydney hospital, they got married and lived happily ever after.
Until the heart attack, which was like a full stop in the middle of a sentence.
7
THE VANISHING PLATYPUS
Then
One afternoon, when she had finished making a stew for dinner and it sat simmering on the stove, Amy decided she would visit the main street. On her morning trips, she always avoided Mr Chen’s Emporium, even crossing the road so as not to walk past the door. Nevertheless, its magic lived on in her imagination, and its owner figured often in her thoughts. He had called her wise – not just once, but twice. She had held that word close to her, like a talisman, even though she didn’t feel wise at all, certainly not in matters of the heart.
She had searched her novels for a scene similar to the events at the Millers’ dance, but she could only find one such instance. It occurred when Mr Rochester left Jane after she saved him from the fire in his bed. That night they exchanged intimate looks and next morning he rode off without a word. Of course, there was a reason for his hasty departure, though Jane wasn’t aware of it at the time. Only after her doomed wedding ceremony did she learn Mr Rochester was married to the mad woman in the attic. Charles wasn’t married though. Amy knew that for a fact. But he might well have a secret sweetheart, a Blanche Ingram with dark hair and a sophisticated demeanour. If Charles loved someone else, that would account for him running off. As for his asking Amy to dance, he had done that out of duty, having seen her sitting by the wall without a partner. An act of politeness towards someone he considered a wallflower, albeit a wise one.
Determinedly she brushed her hair, pulling it into a tight knot at the nape of her neck and capturing it in a crocheted hairnet. As she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above her bureau, she realised the smart coiffure had done nothing to improve her wan complexion. Even when she pinched her cheeks to make them rosy, she resembled one of those clowns in a travelling circus. Two red spots set in a ghostly white complexion. Still, it would have to do.
Sometimes a winter’s day in Millbrooke could produce a blue sky brighter than anything Sydney could offer. Today was such a day. There was a chill in the air that the townsfolk liked to describe as ‘brisk’. Shivering in spite of her shawl, Amy dallied outside the drapery, examining every piece of fabric in the window, trying to postpone her visit to the emporium. Yet it had to be done. Even if she and Charles were only to be acquaintances, she couldn’t keep avoiding him. And though her feelings for him seemed unrequited, she could love someone who didn’t love her, as long as the words remained unspoken. While they were secret, they could exist. Hadn’t Little Dorrit pined in silence for Mr Clennam and Jane Eyre for Mr Rochester? They might have won those gentlemen in the end through steadfastness and loyalty, but they had never taken a happy ending for granted.
She stood at the doorway of the emporium. Inside, a man was bent over, unpacking boxes. It reminded her of the March day she had first discovered Aladdin and his treasures. Anxiously she waited for him to turn and face her, but he continued to work, oblivious to her presence, so she raised her hand and rang the brass bells near the door to catch his attention. For some reason, their tinkling sounded hollow. When the man turned, she saw it wasn’t Charles but his brother.
‘Good afternoon, sir. I am seeking Mr Charles Chen.’
He replied in broken English. ‘He go Canton.’
Amy’s heart was racing. Canton? That was China. Had she misheard? ‘Mr Chen has left for China?’
His brother nodded.
Suddenly the silks were no longer bright and the teas had lost their fragrance.
‘You want buy silk?’
‘No, thank you.’ Panic was sucking the air from her lungs. ‘I must speak to Mr Chen. When will he be returning to Millbrooke?’
Charles’s brother didn’t seem to understand. ‘He in Canton.’
She began to cough – a wheezing, rasping death rattle.
‘You need doctor?’ he asked.
She couldn’t breathe. Bent in two, she whispered, ‘No. Just some water, please.’
He rushed out the back and returned with a cup.
‘You drink this. Make you better.’
She took little sips, gasping for air between each one. It was jasmine tea.
He pulled a stool towards her, one of the little wicker seats from her birthday party with Charles. As she sat there, focusing only on her next breath, finally she began to feel better.
‘You go doctor, miss. You sick.’
His gentle manner reminded her of Charles. Tears began to fill her eyes and she wiped them away with her hand.
‘Thank you, sir. You have been most kind,’ she said, her voice still raspy. ‘I shall visit again when Mr Chen returns from Canton. Good afternoon.’ Her words were running together. She stumbled out of the store and crossed the road without looking. Although a man driving a horse and cart almost ran into her, she continued down the street, seeing nothing but a blur through her tears.
Charles had gone to Canton. He had run away like Mr Rochester.
In the days after she learned about Charles’s departure for China, Amy threw herself into her household chores and duties at the church. She tried to fill her mind with anything other than thoughts of him, but a deep malaise had overtaken her. Her chest ached and she was beset by coughing fits. At night as she lay in bed, trying not to cough because it would waken her mother, she imagined she was the heroine of one of her novels – Elizabeth Bennet, Amy Dorrit or even George Eliot’s Maggie Tulliver. What a silly girl that Maggie was, not knowing whom she loved, when Amy had no doubts whatsoever. Finally, as the day was breaking, she would fall asleep, but she didn’t dream about Charles. He was gone from her life. He didn’t even appear in her dreams.
One afternoon, while the boys were studying the classics with their father, and her mother was napping on the chaise longue in the parlour, Amy wrapped herself in a warm shawl and walked down to the stream at the bottom of the garden. She found a low boulder, sheltered from the wind, and sat there, looking into the water. A pattern of circular ripples caught her eye. As they dissipated, new ripples appeared a few yards further down the stream. Floating low in the water, there was something brown, resembling a log. Then the brown object disappeared under the water in a duck dive. But it wasn’t a duck. Could it be a water rat? More ripples appeared. Concentric circles. In the very centre, the brown log was back. Am
y crept to the edge of the bank and peered around a stand of reeds. The creature had a bill, a furry coat and a tail shaped like a paddle. It was little more than eighteen inches long. Like a magician vanishing amid a flash of smoke, the animal disappeared with a splash. She knew the creature’s name and what awful things it could do with its hind claws. Yet it seemed so sweet. The boys must have tormented it to make it react in such a hostile manner.
The animal was back again, floating on the surface for several seconds. Amy thought its white-rimmed eye was looking at her. Then it was gone again, leaving only a trio of bubbles on the surface as a souvenir of its presence. Although she didn’t take her eyes off the surface, the duck-mole did not return.
Suddenly she was weeping. She didn’t even hear the swishing sound of someone coming through the long grass. It was not until a figure sat beside her on the boulder that she looked up and saw it was Eliza.
‘Amy, has something happened to your mother?’
‘No, she is much better, thank you.’
‘What is it then? Are you thinking of little Peggy?’
Amy felt ashamed. She wasn’t crying for Peggy but for herself. Wiping her eyes with her hand, she turned towards Eliza. ‘It’s kind of you to be concerned about me, Eliza, but I can assure you I am fine. However, there is something I need to ask you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Why has Charles returned to China?’
‘Some weeks ago – it must have been shortly after little Peggy’s passing – he received a letter from his mother, saying she was very ill. So he left immediately for Sydney and boarded a ship for home.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It didn’t cross my mind. Anyway, you must have worked it out when you went to the emporium and saw Jimmy minding the store.’
‘I haven’t been there. Not since before the Queen’s Birthday. Not until today.’
‘Well, I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss. But speaking of Charles, I do hope things go smoothly for him with the Chinese authorities.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Manchus have a rule that all Chinese men should wear a pigtail, even those returning from overseas. But Charles says he is not prepared to comply with such edicts, that it is just another way for the Manchus to impose their will on ordinary Chinese people.’
Amy had no idea what Eliza meant by Manchus, but they sounded exceedingly unpleasant.
‘Father says there is no need to worry,’ said Eliza. ‘Charles is travelling on his British passport and they cannot touch him.’
‘I am pleased to hear that,’ said Amy, failing to stifle a sob. ‘And I trust his mother will make a speedy recovery.’
Suddenly Eliza seemed to grasp the reason for Amy’s tears. ‘Amy Duncan, is it possible you have feelings for Charles?’
When Amy didn’t answer, Eliza continued, ‘Now I remember I saw you waltzing with him that night in the barn. Don’t you realise that Charles can never marry a European girl or even a Chinese girl living in the colonies? Sooner or later he is required to return to China to find a suitable bride. It is his mother’s dearest wish and I don’t think he could ever disappoint her.’ Eliza lowered her voice. ‘I suspect she might even be feigning illness to expedite matters. Speaking of which, Amy, you’re doing the exact opposite. Pretending to be well when you’re so poorly. Now let’s get you inside beside the fire. You’ll catch your death out here.’
Amy dried her eyes on her sleeve. If she had been silly enough to imagine a future with Charles, it would never happen now. But she could hold on to the feelings and no-one need ever know. And as soon as her mother was well enough, she would leave Millbrooke and return to Sydney. Her aunt would help her find a position as a governess with a good family. She might only be eighteen, but she had made a grown-up decision. She would never marry, not if she couldn’t have Charles Chen.
The following Sunday, Amy was in the ante-room next to the church vestibule, putting away hymn books after the Sunday service, when she overheard Doctor Allen speaking with her father.
‘I am concerned about your daughter’s health, Reverend Duncan.’
‘She is well enough, Doctor. She cooks and cleans and tutors the wee lads.’
‘But have you looked at her face? She has a deathly pallor. And surely you must have heard her coughing during the service today.’
‘It is just the winter grippe. She will pick up once the weather grows warmer.’
‘I’m not so certain about that. I fear the cough could easily turn consumptive. She needs to rest and regain her strength.’
‘I could send her to her aunt in Sydney, I suppose.’
‘I do believe that would be for the best. Otherwise, you might be burying a second daughter before the year is out.’
Amy remained in the semi-darkness of the ante-room, stifling a cough and reflecting on what the doctor had just said. Consumption. Surely not. That was the dreadful disease which had claimed sweet, young Helen in Jane Eyre. Suddenly she felt icy cold. Pulling her shawl around her shoulders, she checked that the vestibule was empty. Then she slipped out of the church and crossed the road to the Manse.
As she entered the house, her father called to her from his study.
‘Lass, I have decided ye need a holiday to clear yer lungs and bring the roses back to yer cheeks. Dinna worry about yer ma. The parish ladies will help out in yer absence.’
The very next morning he bid Amy accompany him to the Post and Telegraph Office in the main street. He had never sent a telegram before and so he spent a long time composing his message in order to keep the words to a minimum. Then they both watched the postmaster tapping out the letters. All being well, it would be delivered to Molly Mackenzie by the Newtown Post Office later in the day, informing her of her niece’s arrival at Redfern terminal on Friday afternoon.
Amy woke on Saturday morning in the pretty guest room of Aunt Molly’s terrace house. The maid had just delivered a breakfast tray with a boiled egg, fresh bread, jam and a pot of steaming hot tea. It reminded Amy of the time Jane Bennet was recuperating at Mr Bingley’s house after she fell ill with a fever. Like Miss Bennet, Amy was unwell, though not so poorly she couldn’t appreciate the well-appointed room or the thoughtfully prepared tray. The only thing missing was the dashing gentleman. He, of course, was far away, having taken a sea voyage to his native land. How long was a journey to Canton, she wondered. Much shorter than her own trip from Glasgow to Sydney Town. That meant Charles might have already disembarked. Perhaps he was even now being summoned to meet the father of his bride-to-be.
The arrangement between Mr Chen the Elder and the young lady’s father would have been made years ago, when Charles was a small child, in the very same way that the Sultan had organised the betrothal of the young princess to the Chief Minister’s son in Monsieur Galland’s story. Now, all that remained was for the father to inspect the grown-up Charles and bestow his approval. And how could he fail to be impressed with Charles Chen? The perfect son-in-law: clever, congenial and industrious. As for the young Chinese maiden, she would be delighted at her fortune in having been delivered such a handsome husband.
As Amy prodded at the shell of her boiled egg, she allowed her mind to wander to the inevitable day when Charles would return to Millbrooke a married man, with his lovely bride beside him. It might not be for some months, not until spring or even summer. By then, Amy would be fully recovered and back at the Manse helping her mother. Even though she might hide herself away, doing chores and tutoring the boys, one day she would have to venture out. And eventually she would run into the happy couple, promenading along the main street, or more likely at the Miller house where Eliza’s father would be holding a reception for the newlyweds. Unaware of Amy’s feelings for Charles, Mr Miller would insist that she come. After all, she was almost a member of the family now. Joseph might even drive down to the Manse to collect her.
Everyone would be assembled in the grand drawing room, sipping golden liquid
from crystal glasses. When she first glimpsed Charles and his bride, standing close together, their hands touching, Amy might utter a tiny gasp, but she would conceal it by placing her lace fan in front of her face. Then she would lower the fan, her expression composed and inscrutable. No-one would see her shock or pain.
Charles would introduce his bride, a woman as beautiful as the Oriental princess decorating the engravings in Monsieur Galland’s book. Golden eyes, bronzed skin and glossy black hair caught in a bun, adorned with an ivory ornament, a gift from her new husband. Her gown would be crafted of pastel silk patterned with butterflies and blossoms. She would nod politely, because she knew no English, and then gaze adoringly at Charles.
At this point, Amy could go no further. She put the egg aside and took a sip of tea to settle her stomach.
‘Good, you’re awake,’ said Aunt Molly as she entered the room to check on her patient. ‘I want you to eat all your breakfast. We need to fill those hollows in your cheeks before I can send you back to your dear mother.’
In Amy’s first week in Sydney Aunt Molly summoned her medical practitioner, Doctor Fullerton, to examine her niece.
‘She has a serious chest infection, but it’s unlikely to be consumptive,’ he said. ‘I suggest regular hot lemon and honey drinks to relieve the congestion. And I recommend daily sessions of back massage to open the airways. I shall return at the end of the week to check her progress.’
Although it should have been blissful to recuperate in Aunt Molly’s elegant house, Amy couldn’t really enjoy the pampering because she felt guilty. Instead of helping her mother, she was in Sydney, being waited on as if she were Queen Victoria visiting the colonies.
New thoughts about Charles were puzzling her too. He had seemed such an honourable man. After all, he was Eliza’s most admired person, and she had grown up with him – yet he had flirted with Amy to make Blanche Ingram jealous and then sailed off for home to meet his familial obligations by marrying a Chinese bride. Had he been dallying with both Blanche and Amy? Surely not. Yet the other alternative caused her just as much pain. Could it be true that Charles had never been dallying with her in the first place, that he wasn’t even interested?
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