Mr Chen's Emporium

by Deborah O'Brien

  And what was it about Amy’s little treasures that drew Angie back to them, time and again? Taken individually, they meant little; yet as a group, they formed a collection which bridged two worlds – the exotic silk pincushion, the fan and the tin, all representing the Orient, and the cameo, the perfume and the portrait, reflecting an Anglo-Celtic girl of the era. What did that fusion say about Amy?

  Angie had become a regular at the museum, not just searching for Amy, but exploring the archives and building a mental picture of boom-time Millbrooke. Today, something sent her back to the photos of the 1870s. She worked systematically through every decade until the turn of the century. After three hours she hadn’t found a single caption referring to Amy Duncan. Maybe Amy really had left Millbrooke and never returned.

  Before she went home, Angie paid a visit to Charles Chen in his glass-fronted cabinet. It was something she did every time she came to the museum. She wasn’t sure why. A little ritual, a secret infatuation. As usual, he was waiting for her. There was a confidence about him, a sense of entitlement that she found compelling, yet he didn’t appear arrogant. And he didn’t seem the type of person who would have been subjected to the appalling racism exemplified by the ugly anti-Chinese banner which hung not far from his miniature portrait. Then again, someone who wore Western clothes and appeared to be self-assured might have been even more of a target than a stereotypical ‘Chinaman’.

  Angie sighed. If she had been a young woman in 1870s Millbrooke, she would have fallen hard for Charles Chen. He was the most attractive man she’d ever seen. There must have been plenty of young ladies smitten with him. Did he ever get married, or had he remained a footloose bachelor, like Richard Scott? No, she laughed to herself. Not like Richard. Charles was immaculately dressed and drop-dead gorgeous.

  Jack had slipped back into town like one of those glamorous outlaws from an old Western movie. You knew he shouldn’t be in your house, but you wanted him there anyway.

  A week or two after his return, they were sharing a bottle of white Zinfandel to accompany Tasmanian salmon topped with lemon thyme from the herb garden. There were even kipfler potatoes Angie had grown herself.

  ‘I missed you, Angie,’ he said.

  ‘I missed your talk about gravity circuits and froth flotation,’ she replied.

  ‘You remember.’ He was smiling, showing off those perfect teeth, a credit to American dentistry.

  They sipped their wine in comfortable silence. He was an uncomplicated person to have around. No hidden agendas. No layers. He didn’t nag like Vicky or sermonise like Blake. And he didn’t patronise her like Richard. In fact, Jack was so amiable and laidback, he had slotted into her life without a single drama. Which was why she had to be careful. She could easily become dependent on him. There were signs the process had already started. Simple things like accepting his help in opening a jar or checking the oil in her car. Not to mention the comfort of sharing a meal and a glass of wine, and the reassurance of knowing another person was sleeping in the room across the hall. But what concerned her most about Mr Songbird was the music he made, whistling a tune in the shower, or singing as he worked at his laptop. She could easily get used to that.

  ‘Any decisions on River Cove?’ she asked, making conversation.

  ‘Not yet. We’re still waiting on a couple of assessments. And the pollies want to be damned sure the electorate is onside. They don’t want to lose the seat.’

  ‘What if the mine’s rejected?’

  ‘We’ll cut our losses and leave.’

  ‘No Golden Days for Millbrooke then?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s a total package, Angie. Millbrooke can’t have the tourist attraction without the mine. Songbird can’t keep dispensing favours without receiving something in return.’

  Angie considered his words as she finished her second glass of Zinfandel.

  ‘Have you won enough hearts and minds, Jack?’

  ‘Not quite yet. But I’m working on it.’

  After dinner, they had coffee in the sitting room. As they sat together on the sofa, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. Mr Songbird had soft, cool lips which aroused sensations in her body she’d thought were gone forever. But she reminded herself that Jack Parker had just returned from a fortnight with his family. And Angie Wallace had been a widow for barely a year.

  As she pulled away, she placed her fingers on his lips, though not in an encouraging way.

  ‘Not a wise idea, Jack. I can’t afford to get hurt. And you’re a married man.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But you know that most of Millbrooke thinks we’re sleeping together anyway.’

  One morning Angie decided to try the new Gold Rush Café which had opened in the old hotel on the corner of St John’s Road. As she drank her tea, she read through the menu, which contained a page about Millbrooke’s glory days in the mid-nineteenth century, when a small farming community was suddenly transformed into a bustling town, thanks to the discovery of gold nuggets nearby.

  What was the attraction of gold anyway? What made it more desirable than silver? Angie herself had always preferred the latter, even for her wedding ring. But it was the yellow metal, not the silver, which had drawn men across oceans to dig holes with shovels and sift through tailings by hand. Backbreaking work, yet they barely scratched the surface of the treasure-trove, and very few of them became wealthy men. These days, mining companies, with their hi-tech drills, could bore hundreds of metres into the earth, and the men they employed were among the most highly paid workers in the country. What would an old-time prospector make of that?

  Angie had finished her tea and was considering whether to order another, when she saw Richard waving at her through the window. He had tracked her down. He shambled in and took a seat opposite her.

  ‘Where’s your loyalty, Ange? As soon as a glitzy new café opens, you abandon the old place.’

  ‘I just thought I’d try it, Richard. And they make a nice Lapsang Souchong.’

  ‘Have you read the front page of the Gazette?’ he asked, unfurling his copy.

  ‘Not yet. I was reading the historical stuff inside the menu and thinking about the Gold Rush.’

  He pointed to the headline: ‘Millbrookers to Protest Proposed Mine’. ‘Look at this. They’re planning a big parade down Miller Street and a rally afterwards in the park, right next to the platypus statue. And there’s a TV crew coming from Sydney to film everything for a current affairs program about foreign mining companies.’ He put the paper on the table in front of her. ‘Mr Songbird won’t be happy about this.’

  ‘Shhhh,’ whispered Angie. ‘You do that on purpose, don’t you?’

  ‘So what do you think about the mine proposal, Ange?’ he challenged.

  ‘I don’t know, Richard. To tell you the truth, I haven’t given it much thought.’ Didn’t he realise she had to focus all her emotional energy on getting through the day? Couldn’t he see she had nothing left for issues other than her own?

  ‘There’s a Latin proverb which might interest you, Ange. “Even the just may sin with an open chest of gold before them.” That’s the problem for Millbrooke. Aureo hamo piscari. Songbird is fishing with a golden hook.’

  She didn’t bother responding. He reminded her of a headmaster denouncing the evils of smoking in the toilets – his comments could make you squirm, even though you hadn’t been party to the misdemeanour in the first place.

  Then, as he bid her good morning, accompanied by yet another of his piercing looks, Angie wondered if the conversation hadn’t been more about her dealings with Mr Songbird than about the mine itself.

  9

  OUR MUTUAL FRIEND

  Then

  As the long-case clock in the hallway was tolling the half hour, there was a knock at the front door. Amy, who hadn’t been able to eat her dinner, ran to open it. Charles was standing at the threshold in his black suit and a conservative grey silk waistcoat. In his hands were two bunches of flowers.

  ‘Is
your father expecting me?’ he asked.

  What should have been one of the happiest evenings of her life was going to be a nightmare.

  ‘My mother is telling him now. We thought it best to leave it until the last moment.’

  Charles gave her a curious look but said nothing.

  ‘Please come into the parlour, Charles. They won’t be long.’

  As he placed the flowers on the credenza, two little boys peered into the room from the doorway. Then she heard her father’s study door open and the sound of his footsteps as he crossed the hall. Amy had never seen his face look so livid. He ignored Charles, who was standing in the centre of the room, and addressed his words to Amy instead.

  ‘What is this ungodly proposal yer mama is telling me about? I canna possibly countenance the idea of ma wee daughter consorting with a Celestial. It is unnatural. An abomination.’ He turned on Charles. ‘How dare ye consider asking fer Amy’s hand in marriage? It makes me ill to contemplate ye even touching her. Dinnae ye realise that any bairns ye might have would be outcasts? Half-breeds. I want ye to leave ma house now and I forbid ye to see her again. And ye, Amy Duncan, will not leave the Manse without yer mama or me accompanying ye. Ye are not to be trusted.’

  Amy was too shocked to cry. She had expected something awful, but not as vicious as this. She looked at the floor, ashamed of placing Charles in such an invidious position. Finally she heard him speak, slowly and calmly.

  ‘I am sorry if you find it distasteful that I love your daughter and she loves me in return. It is the most wondrous thing that has ever happened to me. A blessing from God. Your God. My God. I thank Him every day for bringing Amy into my life. You have raised a fine daughter, Reverend Duncan, and I will not let her go so easily.’ He nodded to Amy’s mother. ‘It has been a pleasure to see you again, Mrs Duncan. Goodnight, Amy.’

  Amy followed Charles to the door.

  He turned as he stepped over the threshold. ‘I love you, Amy,’ he declared.

  Then Matthew Duncan slammed the door in his face.

  Amy had never defied her father. Not openly. But she had never been so outraged. She looked straight into his eyes, pale against the flushed skin. ‘It seems you have forgotten what the Bible says: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” ’

  ‘Don’t ye dare quote Galatians at me. Perhaps ye have forgotten Ecclesiasticus: “If thy daughter be shameless, keep her in straitly, lest she abuse herself through overmuch liberty.” ’

  Amy took a deep breath. Angry words were forming inside her head. She wanted to say: ‘You may be a reverend, but you are not a Christian. You are rude, ignorant and intolerant. You have humiliated a good man, and you should seek forgiveness.’ But instead she ran down the hall, up the stairs and into her bedroom where she slammed the door so hard the walls shook as if there had been an earth tremor.

  Amy lay in her bed, hitting the pillow because she couldn’t hit her father. He had vilified Charles who, in his goodness and nobility, had turned the other cheek. What generosity of spirit to forgive the vicious words even as they burst forth from her father’s mouth. Or did Charles consider it best not to burn bridges this early in the battle? Did he really think he could win over Matthew Duncan through patient negotiation?

  Clearly Charles was an optimist. He looked forward to better times. He believed in the power of conciliation and arbitration. He would make an excellent diplomat. Amy, on the other hand, didn’t feel diplomatic at all.

  She rose from the bed, wiped her face on a handkerchief, turned up the kerosene lamp and fetched her pen and ink.

  Dearest Charles,

  How can I possibly apologise for the vile behaviour of my father? Please do not heed his words. They are but a reflection of his prejudices. I hate them, but I cannot hate my father. It is a sin to do so.

  Please know you are the finest, most wonderful person I have ever met. This evening you behaved with such dignity and grace that it only made me love you more, if that is possible. Somehow we will be together.

  I cannot sleep tonight and if I could escape this house and be with you, I would. But you would likely send me home because you know what is right and you always adhere to it. I wish I could be like you.

  Yours always,

  Amy

  She blotted the ink, folded the note, placed it in an envelope and slipped it inside her French dictionary, ready to give Eliza tomorrow afternoon. Although Eliza didn’t know it yet, Amy had already designated her as their go-between.

  The next day, when Eliza arrived for her lesson, the first thing Amy did was to hand over the envelope.

  ‘I shall deliver it on my way home,’ she promised. ‘Shall I wait for “Our Mutual Friend” to write a reply? Then I can bring it tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  It was no burden to Eliza who was excited by the intrigue.

  The correspondence ended after the first exchange of letters. Though Eliza found it a great adventure, Charles felt unhappy about involving his sister in the subterfuge. So they devised something better, a way of meeting face to face which precluded the use of messages or the involvement of a third party. It was simple and foolproof. Charles would be at the creek at five every afternoon, hidden behind the largest outcrop of boulders. If Amy couldn’t come, she would place a bucket outside the back door. But most days there was no problem. It was almost suppertime. Everyone was busy. She only had to concoct a reasonable excuse to allow her to be absent for a few minutes – picking vegetables, collecting eggs, fetching lemons from the tree by the creek.

  Today Amy slipped out under the pretence of picking parsley to accompany the fish her mother was cooking for supper.

  ‘There is a solution, Charles, if you want us to be together,’ she said, once they were seated on a low boulder out of view of the house.

  ‘Of course I do. But while your father refuses to give us his blessing, there is no solution.’

  ‘But there is. Do you remember “Lochinvar”?’ She recited the lines from Sir Walter Scott.

  One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

  When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

  So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

  So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

  ‘Amy, that is only a poem. If we eloped, he would never forgive you. There are still diplomatic channels we should pursue.’

  ‘All the channels have been exhausted, Charles.’

  ‘Surely not. And to take such a rash course of action would only reinforce your father’s notion that I am an evil seducer trying to abduct his daughter. Then there would never be a reconciliation.’

  ‘Charles, I have learned something during eighteen years of being Matthew Duncan’s daughter. There is no negotiating with him. He has become more obstinate by the day, more hardened in his prejudice. I feel as though I’m suffocating in that house.’

  ‘But, Amy, I don’t want you to be estranged from your father.’

  ‘If it has to be that way, I can accept it. If it is the only way to be together, we must do it.’

  ‘I am not convinced of that.’

  ‘You haven’t changed your mind about me, have you?’ As soon as she said the words, she felt guilty for having asked such a wheedling question of Charles, more so when she heard his answer.

  ‘Never. How could you ask me that, Amy? I love you more than I could ever have imagined.’

  And then he proved it by kissing her with such passion that she understood what Monsieur Galland had meant when he wrote Aladdin burned with desire for his princess.

  Now

  The old Millbrooke cemetery filled a couple of acres at the western side of town. According to the information sheet Angie had found on the shelves of the tourist office, the oldest graves dated back more than a hundred and fifty years. There were miners and merchants, pastoralists and pioneers, tradesmen and artis
ans. English, Scottish, Irish and those born in the colony. Angie wandered through the cemetery, noting the different sections, delineated by low picket fences – Anglicans, Presbyterians, Methodists, Congregationalists and Catholics.

  A few old rose bushes survived among the weeds which had taken over the pathways between the graves. Finally she made her way to the section marked ‘Presbyterian’. It didn’t take her long to find the Duncans. The grave lay within a fence composed of cast-iron spears. A large grey headstone sat in the centre of a block of marble. Around it the grass was interspersed with clumps of yellow jonquils. Three names appeared one below the other:

  In Loving Memory of

  Peggy Ann Duncan

  Dearly loved daughter of

  Matthew and Margaret Duncan

  Died 13th June, 1872

  Aged four days

  Safe in the arms of Jesus

  Revd Matthew Duncan

  Incumbent of

  St Aidan’s Millbrooke

  Native of Scotland

  Emigrated 1864

  Died 15th June, 1894

  Aged 63 years

  Asleep in Christ

  Margaret Jean Duncan

  nee Macdonald

  Beloved mother of Amy, Robert and William,

  And Peggy (deceased)

  Much loved wife of Matthew (deceased)

  And dear sister of Molly (deceased)

  Died of pneumonic influenza

  21st August, 1919

  Age 84 years

  R.I.P.

  May angels guard thee in thy rest

  Although they had all three been dead for such a long time, Angie felt strangely sad to find them here. Then she realised the good news. Margaret Duncan’s inscription indicated that, as late as 1919, Amy was still alive, aged in her mid-sixties.