‘I’m sorry, Angie. Just got a text. Problems with the drill site in Venezuela.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘I don’t think so. Just an equipment glitch, but sometimes that kind of thing can take a while to sort out.’
‘I was going to do some reading anyway.’
‘Well, don’t wait up on my account.’ He kissed her lightly on the forehead.
After Jack returned to his room, Angie leaned over to her side table where a pile of Amy’s books had been collecting. She took the heaviest volume – the French version of The Arabian Nights – rearranged the pillows and put on her reading glasses. Jack didn’t know about the glasses. She never wore them when he was around. The book fell open at the story of Aladdin. As she flipped through it, she couldn’t help thinking it was almost as long as a novel. She hadn’t read any French since her schooldays, but it wasn’t as difficult as she thought. From time to time a word would stump her, and then she would look it up on her phone. How amazing that the internet could offer instant translations. What would Amy have made of that?
Soon Angie was engrossed in the story of the ne’er-do-well boy who found fame, fortune and love, then almost lost it all. Amy had littered the margins with pencilled exclamation marks. Certain words were underlined two or three times – abstract nouns like désir, passion, amour, extase, tendresse. A young girl’s romantic wish list. A middle-aged woman’s too, for that matter. Angie fingered the impressions left on the paper by Amy’s ardent annotations, and felt closer to her than ever before.
It was clear that Amy had seen parallels between Charles and Aladdin. On a simplistic level, she was right, of course. Both were Chinese merchants who started with nothing, but the fairytale character seemed shallow and greedy compared to the real man. According to Eliza’s account, Charles had been hard-working and noble. Yet, in one respect they were the same. Each had fallen in love and never wavered in his affections. And perhaps that connection, and not the obvious similarities, was the core of Amy’s fascination with the story.
When Angie reached the reunion between Aladdin and the princess, she found a surfeit of exclamation marks and underlining. And no wonder. This was definitely a book of fairytales for adults. She put the book on her bedside table and turned off the lamp.
During the night Angie dreamed that she and Jack were making love. A leisurely and hypnotic fantasy. When she woke at dawn, their bodies were entwined. It wasn’t a dream after all. As she looked at the sleeping man beside her, she pondered Moira’s warning about becoming addicted to Jack. It had troubled her. Was he her drug of choice? Yet he wasn’t sinister or dangerous like heroin. More like a tonic you took at bedtime. Hearty and invigorating in small doses, but trouble if you became dependent on it.
One afternoon Angie dropped in to Richard’s place to return the alpaca books he had lent her. She hadn’t read any of them. She wanted her herd to grow naturally, without human interference. The titles alone were off-putting: Servicing Your Female, Selective Breeding Programs, Studs and Maidens – that one sounded like a porno movie.
While Richard was returning the various volumes to the bookcase in his study, Angie wandered around the room, admiring the architectural details created by clever nineteenth-century artisans. Like all the rooms at Millerbrooke, it was impressive. High ceilings, elegant proportions, glowing timber. In the corner was a large drawing board, piled with tracing paper plans.
Idly she leafed through them. The one on the top looked familiar. Well, well. It was a front elevation of Millbrooke’s Golden Days. In the bottom right corner was a box with the words: ‘Scott Architectural Design’.
Still sorting through the books, Richard was oblivious to Angie’s discovery. She could have easily pretended she hadn’t seen the plans, but there were so many questions in her head, she couldn’t contain herself. ‘Richard Scott, what have you been up to?’
When he turned, his head was tilted to the side, like a dog listening to its owner, the tiny pompom at the top of his hat bobbing in time with the movement.
‘You designed the bloody Golden Days project, didn’t you?’
He was looking at the floor. ‘Yes.’
‘Have you and Jack been keeping this thing secret?’
‘No, Ange. He doesn’t know.’
‘How could he not know? He’s the bloody mining engineer. One of Songbird’s local triumvirate.’
‘Just calm down. Aequam servare mentem.’
‘Don’t you go quoting Virgil at me.’
‘It’s Horace, not Virgil, and I’ll get you a glass of water.’
‘Don’t you dare run away. Sit down and tell me the whole story or I’ll take all your damned hats and burn them. And those horrible flannelette shirts too.’
Looking sheepish, he leaned against his desk. It was a few seconds before he spoke and even then the words were so soft she could barely hear them. ‘About eighteen months ago the US headquarters of Songbird contacted an architectural firm in Sydney about designing a multimedia tourist attraction. The brief was that it had to be integrated within a heritage setting. They commissioned me as their heritage adviser and I ended up designing the whole thing. Back in Sydney they tweaked it a bit and constructed a model. Their name is on the final plans and so is mine – in small print as Scott Architectural Design. Jack doesn’t have a clue who the designer is. Neither do his buddies. They don’t care about the architectural merit or who designed it, as long as it serves Songbird’s purpose. Millbrooke’s Golden Days is simply a lever to win support for the mine. That’s Jack’s job, Ange. Lobbying and sweet-talking.’
‘You always turn things around so that Jack is the despicable villain and you’re the hero. But what about your role in this saga? All along you’ve been haranguing me about making a pact with the devil, when you did something far worse. If this mine is approved, it will be at least partly because of the building you designed. The town might be divided over the mine, but the Golden Days project has huge community support.’
‘You can’t compare my situation with yours.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You’ve been consorting with him.’
‘My relationship – or otherwise – with Jack Parker is none of your business. You and I both took his money. We’re as bad as each other. I’ve been banking his rent every fortnight. And you were probably paid a motza for your efforts.’ She paused to catch her breath. ‘When you started working on the project, did you connect Golden Days with the drilling?’
‘Not for a couple of months. Then I heard about what was happening out at Chinaman’s Cove. Same parent company. And I put two and two together.’
‘Had you finished your design by then?’
‘No, it took almost six months in all.’
‘So you knew and yet you continued to do the job. You’re a hypocrite, Richard Scott.’
She waited for him to justify himself, but instead he said with anger in his voice: ‘Mr Songbird was coming on to you from that very first night at the School of Arts. And you fell for it like a starstruck teenager. Couldn’t you see he just wanted to get into your . . .’
‘My what?’ she challenged.
‘Your house.’ His reply was barely audible.
She picked up her car keys and stormed out of the study, down the graceful hallway and through the panelled front door. She was still fuming as she stumbled towards the gravel parking area where she’d left her car.
Richard Scott, self-appointed arbiter of integrity and secret designer of Millbrooke’s Golden Days, had been playing games all along. Not just with Angie Wallace, but with the entire town.
14
BEAUTIFUL DREAMER
Then
It was the last week of February. Although the Millbrooke days were still hot and humid, the nights had already turned chilly. Amy wondered whether it was the altitude. Was that why the early hours of the morning felt more like Scotland than New South Wales? Shivering in her silk pyjamas, she pulled up the
coverlet. Outside, she could hear the raucous cries of a kookaburra, waking from a nightmare. Then it was silent, and she fell asleep again, until a queasy feeling in her stomach woke her. It happened every morning, but if she lay still for a while, it would always pass. Nestling against Charles, she sighed contentedly as she felt the warmth of his body. After a while she noticed his back was damp and wondered if he wasn’t feverish. She propped herself up on her arm and examined his sleeping face. His brow was wet. Then she noticed his breathing. He was making a dry, wheezing sound. Was he coming down with something?
Quietly she slipped out of bed and put on the jade-green robe Charles had bought to match her pyjamas. By the time she had washed her face and brushed her hair, his breathing was quieter. Nevertheless, she would suggest to him that he stay at home today. Jimmy was perfectly capable of running the emporium on his own.
Adhering to her morning routine, she dressed and lit the wood stove in the kitchen, then went up to the bakery to buy her husband a special treat – some spicy currant buns. She could always smell them at least two shops away. Just as she reached the bakery, her brother emerged from the doorway, basket in hand.
‘I’m not allowed to talk to you,’ said Billy sheepishly.
‘Don’t then,’ Amy replied.
He continued to stand there, as if he were reluctant to go home.
‘How is your arithmetic?’ she asked. ‘Have you remembered how many poles there are in a perch?’
‘That is a trick question because they are all the same.’
‘Well then, Billy Duncan, I wonder if you know how many rods are in a pole.’
He started to smile. ‘It is the same trick.’
‘How many yards in a rod, pole or perch?’ she asked.
‘Five and a half.’
‘You are right. You must have had a good teacher.’
‘It was you.’
‘I know.’
They both laughed.
‘You don’t look like an evil woman, Amy.’
‘I’m not, Billy.’
‘But Papa says you are married to the devil.’
‘He’s wrong. I am married to the best man in the world. You must come and have afternoon tea with us one day and you can see for yourself.’
‘Maybe I shall. But I won’t tell Papa.’
He gave her a hug and ran down the hill towards Church Lane. She blinked the tears from her eyes and entered the bakery.
As soon as she got back, Amy checked on Charles, who was awake, propped up against the pillows. She made him a cup of tea and placed it on a tray next to the currant buns. At the last moment she added a yellow rose from the bush outside the back door and carried everything into the bedroom. Sometimes it was pleasant to be served a tray in bed. She often recalled those indulgent mornings of her convalescence at Aunt Molly’s.
‘You have come down with a fever, Charles. I think you should stay home today.’
‘It is nothing, Amy. Just a cold. I shall feel better after breakfast.’ His voice was hoarse and his face glossy with sweat. He drank the tea but left the buns.
‘I’m not hungry, my darling,’ he said. ‘I shall eat later.’
She watched him put on his clothes. Except for the sweating and the raspy voice, he didn’t seem ill. She brushed his hair with a tortoiseshell hairbrush until it was shiny as silk. Then he kissed her and went off to work.
Towards lunchtime Amy filled a basket with bread and slices of chicken she had cooked the day before. She added some boiled fruitcake and covered everything with a clean cloth. As she did most days, she walked to the emporium to have lunch with Charles and Jimmy. Sometimes, if the store was busy, Amy would stay and help behind the counter for an hour or two before returning home for her lesson with Eliza. Today, it was quiet and Charles was in the storeroom, doing the accounts. When he looked up, she saw his face was glistening.
‘You are ill, Charles. I am taking you home now and calling Doctor Allen.’
Before he could protest, she said: ‘Don’t argue with me, Charles Chen. Because you will not win.’
Doctor Allen checked Charles’s breathing and looked down his throat.
‘I fear it is an attack of quinsy. I have seen several cases of it already this month.’
‘What is quinsy?’ asked Amy.
‘An infection of the tonsils which causes difficulty in swallowing.’
Charles added in a hoarse voice: ‘Isn’t quinsy the affliction that killed George Washington?’
Amy looked at him in horror. ‘You are not going to die. Washington was an old man. You are young and strong.’
‘It can be serious, Amy,’ said Doctor Allen. ‘If the swelling of the tonsils becomes extreme, the patient cannot swallow food or drink.’
‘How do we prevent that?’ she asked.
‘We will commence by putting Charles in a hot bath to induce sweating.’
‘But he has a fever already.’
The doctor continued as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Then you should dry him thoroughly and wrap him in blankets. I also recommend a poultice wrung in hot water to be applied to the neck area. And a sip of brandy wouldn’t hurt.’
Amy followed Doctor Allen’s advice, but she was doubtful about its efficacy. When Jimmy returned from the emporium, she sent him up to Millerbrooke with a note for Eliza.
An hour later, Eliza arrived with a pot of vegetable broth. When Amy described Doctor Allen’s treatment regime, the young woman looked askance.
‘I do not see how the hot baths and sweating will help,’ Eliza said, confirming Amy’s own judgment. ‘But it may be possible to break up the blockage in his throat by using steam.’
Jimmy boiled a kettle and they filled a bowl with hot water so that Charles could inhale it. Meanwhile Amy stood at the door, not wanting to interfere and feeling utterly helpless.
‘Be careful not to scald him,’ she said in a strained voice that didn’t seem to belong to her.
‘I will test the steam first,’ Eliza reassured her.
Charles’s neck had become swollen and that frightened Amy. So did the harsh cough which almost rent him in two. After the inhalation he expelled a plug of greyish mucus which Eliza disposed of in a spittoon.
‘The blockage is gone, thank the Lord,’ said Amy.
Charles was breathing more easily.
Later that evening, Doctor Allen returned. He sent Amy to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, while he spoke with Eliza in the sitting room.
‘I am afraid it might not be quinsy at all, but something more sinister. I am particularly concerned about the swelling in his neck. It is symptomatic of black canker. Some people know it as putrid throat.’
‘I had it, Doctor Allen, when I was a baby, long before you came to Millbrooke. My mother has always called it the strangling angel. Children all over the district died, including my older brother and sister. That explains the gap in years between Daniel and myself.’
They heard a cry and turned to see Amy standing in the doorway.
‘Why is it called the strangling angel?’ she asked in an unsteady voice.
‘In some cases, it strangles the sufferer so they cannot breathe,’ said Doctor Allen. ‘But people survive the black canker, Amy. Look at Eliza. Now try to get some rest. I shall return in the morning.’
Once the doctor left, and on his advice, Eliza collected sage leaves from the herb garden, steeped them in boiling water, and strained the cooled liquid to make a gargle. However, when Charles tried to use it, he gagged and almost choked.
‘We shall make a hot lemon and honey drink instead,’ said Amy. ‘It helped me when I was ill.’
Amy fed it to Charles from a spoon. Afterwards he seemed stronger. The wheezing was gone and soon he was asleep.
‘Do you think the crisis has passed?’ Amy asked Eliza anxiously.
‘I do not know. But while Charles is sleeping, you should too.’
Amy began to climb into bed next to Charles.
‘You really should sleep
in another room, Amy. Don’t you remember Professor Pasteur’s theory about germs?’
‘Yes, of course I do. It is a most peculiar idea.’ She was in no mood to discuss Eliza’s invisible creatures.
‘Not at all, Amy. I have been reading in The Lancet about a Professor Lister and his antiseptic principles in surgical practice. He too believes in the existence of germs, only he calls them “minute organisms”.’
What did any of this have to do with Charles? Sometimes Eliza and her medical talk could be exceedingly tedious.
‘Germs can spread easily,’ continued Eliza, oblivious to Amy’s growing impatience. ‘Anyone who touches Charles must wash his hands. And it is best if you do not go too close to him.’
‘Charles is my husband. I need to be close to him, especially when he is poorly.’
‘You are with child, Amy, and you cannot afford to fall ill.’
‘What about you, Eliza? You have touched Charles today. Why is it that you can do these things and I cannot?’
‘Because I am immune.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I have endured the black canker. And it is unlikely I will catch it again. Now go and take a nap on the sofa and I shall watch over Charles.’
But Amy was having none of it. ‘Eliza, I know you mean well; however, I intend to sleep in my own bed. With my husband. And you cannot tell me otherwise.’
While Amy slept, she dreamed of Charles and the baby. It was a boy, and he was talking to his father. Even in a dream, she thought it strange that a bairn could speak, but then she decided he must be very clever. Charles and his son were conversing in an animated fashion about all manner of things – George Washington, Lord Nelson, the price of a bolt of silk. When she woke, she remembered the dream. She was going to have a little boy who would be happy, healthy and smart. Nothing like the abominable chimera prophesied by her father.
Towards morning the coughing and wheezing returned. Sometimes there would be a brief respite when Charles would close his eyes and rest, but his voice was barely a whisper, and his neck so swollen it was no longer in proportion with his face. They gave him water through a paper straw.
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