The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  Once, the station was vibrant and busy with the comings and goings of freight trains carrying timber to the city. Now though, it was quiet and overgrown. Like the cottage. Christie headed back to her car, wondering what happened in this sleepy little place all those years ago.

  AT TEN A.M., DOROTHY Ryan went to her final resting place in the small clifftop graveyard. Her casket was the most elaborate the local funeral home had been able to source on short notice, with highly polished timber and gold fittings. White tulips - brought in from a Melbourne grower – covered the casket. All the arrangements were in line with instructions left by Dorothy and carried out by Angus, who now stood graveside with Christie, holding an umbrella over them both.

  The return of light drizzle and grey skies fitted the occasion. Dressed in a plain black Armani dress and heels, her hair wound into a bun, Christie stood rigidly.

  Gran had no other family to bid her farewell. No loved ones or friends who would mourn her passing. Apart from Angus, Christie only knew Jacob Bright, Gran’s attorney. In his early forties, Jacob was tall, bespectacled, and immaculately dressed. He listened impassively to the celebrant.

  Her gaze stopped on a middle-aged couple standing opposite. The woman dabbed her eyes from time to time, and the man had his arm around her waist in comfort. Christie speculated on them. Perhaps past employees or neighbours?

  The celebrant was the wife of the undertaker, and her voice was so quiet Christie had to lean toward her to hear the words of the ceremony. The sound of waves below the cliff and the cawing of hopeful seagulls almost drowned her out at times. These moments were surreal. To be in this beautiful place and see her Gran laid to rest was hard to comprehend and in her mind, she had her own tribute.

  Dorothy Ryan, a woman of strong opinions and principles, wealthy and successful in business. Ostentatious, private, intelligent, and often intolerant of those around her.

  Perhaps beneath the cold exterior was a warm heart and love for those who had been in her life, although Christie had never seen a glimmer of it herself. One could hope.

  Deep down, coldness filled Christie. Just like another funeral. As if yesterday, Christie remembered the worst day of her life.

  THE HOT OUTBACK SUN scorched the red dirt below Christie's feet, uncomfortable in too-small lace-up shoes to go with her black, cut down dress, both borrowed for the occasion. Trishi from next door had plaited her hair in tight braids and told her to be a good girl and listen to the priest.

  She tried to, she did, but her feet and head hurt, and she wanted this stupid speech to be over so she could run home to Mum and Dad. Except, they were here in boxes being lowered into the ground, and her eyes kept crying. Her dress was saturated from the heat and flies buzzed around her face, but all seven-year-old Christie knew was she would never see her parents again. She was all alone.

  Then, a tall man in a hat squatted beside her and smiled kindly. He took her hand and said he would look after her. His name was Angus.

  "Be brave, little one," he whispered.

  NOW, CHRISTIE REACHED a hand out to Angus, and he glanced at her, recognising that same expression on her face.

  He squeezed her hand and mouthed, “Be brave.”

  There was a heavy weight, like a stone, in her stomach.

  At the edge of the graveyard, Martin Blake watched the funeral. A metal bucket with gardening tools dangled from one hand. Dressed in jeans and a weatherproof jacket, his feet were bare, and his shoulder-length, black hair was damp. Strong, chiselled features radiated anger as he stared at Christie.

  The ceremony was over, and Christie tossed a handful of soil onto the casket, whispering, "Goodbye, Gran. I love you."

  As she straightened up, her eyes met Martin's. He stared back openly as if searching for her secrets. Mesmerised by his intensity, Christie could not look away, and a shiver shot up her spine.

  Angus closed the umbrella as the drizzle stopped, and went to speak with the celebrant.

  The female half of the couple rushed around to her side and squeezed her arm as if they were old friends. “Hello, lovey. I’m Daphne.”

  She followed Christie’s line of sight. “Oh, Martin’s back.”

  “Martin?” Christie said. “He appears... angry.”

  Daphne dabbed her eyes again. “I imagine he is, dear. Today of all days. Anyway, we wished to pay our respects to your grandmother.”

  Christie turned away from Martin to Daphne. Her short, curly brown hair had streaks of red through it, and behind thick glasses, her mascara had run. Dressed in black pants and jacket that were too tight for her rounded figure, she nevertheless seemed at home with herself.

  "You must be so sad!" Daphne prattled as she beckoned to her husband. Without giving Christie a chance to reply, she continued. "As I said, I'm Daphne, and this is my husband, John Jones."

  John reached them as she finished her sentence and reached his hand out to Christie to shake. “We’re sorry for your loss.” John was as rounded as his wife was and had lost most of his ginger hair. He wore a cheap gold watch and shiny black shoes with a worn black suit.

  Christie mustered up a smile. “Thank you for coming. You knew Gran?”

  Daphne beamed and took John’s arm. “John’s the local real estate agent. He knows everyone! Now, how long are you staying, dear?”

  “I need to leave within the hour. I’ve got a plane to catch this afternoon, so a short trip this time.”

  Daphne glanced at John. “Oh. So, you’ll come back to settle the estate up?”

  John squeezed Daphne's hand in a silent warning, but she ignored him. "I'm sure we'd be most happy to handle the sale of the cottage if you intend to sell it?"

  Angus beckoned to Christie from the other side of the grave.

  “Um, I have to go, I’m sorry. But thanks again for being here for Gran.” Christie shook both John and Daphne’s hands.

  Daphne patted Christie’s arm comfortingly. “It’s been so lovely to meet you, dear. Now, here’s John’s card, so don’t be afraid to call or drop in anytime.”

  Angus gave Christie a questioning glance as she approached and she shook her head, still puzzled.

  “Jacob would like a few moments with us. When do you need to leave, Miss Christie?”

  Christie wound her arm through his. “I’ve got a little time.”

  “We’ll go to the café on the corner near the motel? It shouldn’t take long.”

  Christie nodded and dug her car keys out of her handbag as she walked beside Angus to the carpark. They passed Martin, who watched them from his knees beside an unkempt grave. Beside him, the gardening tools lay scattered. His hair and jeans were now soaked through, but he seemed oblivious to anything other than Christie.

  She forced a small smile when Martin’s eyes met hers again. His expression stayed hard, unsettling Christie. Martin stared after her, tossed the tools back in the bucket, picked it up and strode away.

  THE SMALL CAFÉ WAS quiet, colourful umbrellas folded and its outdoor seating dripping wet. Christie, Angus and Jacob sat inside, beside a condensation-streaked window.

  Jacob extracted a large yellow envelope from an expensive leather briefcase. Christie nursed a coffee between cold hands, watching Angus stir sugar into his tea. Jacob politely refused a drink, wanting to get on with this, and now, took some papers out of the envelope.

  "Right, well Dorothy was quite explicit with her instructions." Jacob began. Christie hid a smile, of course, Gran would have been.

  “There has to be a proper reading of the will etcetera,” he continued, “but this is the overview. The vast majority of her estate is to be sold and the funds distributed to several charities she supported for many years.”

  Gran never once mentioned charities. Christie was pleasantly surprised.

  “Angus will receive an income equivalent to his current pay for the rest of his life, plus the choice of either the Bentley or the Range Rover. Of course, you are entitled to contest this.”

  “I won’t b
e contesting her will.”

  Jacob shuffled through the papers. "Now, Dorothy made it a condition you attend her funeral, and you visit the old cottage. You have done both, so it will now become your property."

  “Why? I mean, what about her sister, Martha?”

  “She’s not mentioned in the will. Dorothy left you the cottage.”

  “What will I do with it?”

  Jacob shrugged. “Sell it. Live in it. Rent it out. Dorothy signed a change of ownership several weeks ago on the basis the conditions were met, so once I action it, the cottage and its land will be yours.”

  Angus leaned forward. “If I may say so, Miss Dorothy left it to you for a reason. There are secrets in that cottage. Questions needing answers.”

  Jacob closed his briefcase and stood. “I must go, so thank you both for your time. I’ll be in touch.” After shaking hands, he nodded and left.

  Christie turned back to Angus. “What secrets, Angus? What’s in the cottage?”

  Angus took his time before answering. “All I know is they concern your Great-Aunt Martha.”

  Christie glanced at her watch.

  “Before you go, Miss Dorothy left a note. For you.” Angus reached into a pocket and withdrew the page with its shaky writing, folded neatly. He held it out to Christie, and after a moment, she took it.

  “Read it when you are ready. It was... unfinished. Left at the motel. I’ve not read it.”

  “Gran died at the motel? Not...” Christie gulped.

  “No, not in our rooms. I’m so sorry, I should have told you.”

  “But why? Why did this all happen, Angus?”

  "She had her reasons for coming here, and once she made her mind up, there was no changing it. I do know she wanted to see her sister again."

  Was Martha alive? What did Gran want to tell her? Why had Gran thought Christie could uncover some old family secret in a cottage? The reminder on the phone interrupted her musings.

  “Please keep in touch?”

  “Of course I shall. I’ll be packing up Miss Dorothy’s belongings to dispose of as she wished. Should I come across any information on your great-aunt, I will let you know.” Angus stood up and offered Christie his arm.

  Together they walked to Christie's car, both deep in their own thoughts. When they stopped, tears rushed to Christie's eyes, and she took a deep, steadying breath. Angus was one of life's gentlemen, and she had forgotten how much she cared for him. She made a silent resolve to visit him more often.

  “Well, here we are. Now, you have a safe drive back and enjoy your holiday.” Angus gave Christie a big hug that almost left her breathless.

  As he left, Christie called after him, “Angus, thank you.” Raising a hand to acknowledge her, he wouldn’t turn around for his eyes were also teary and this parting left him alone for the first time in many years.

  Christie sighed and got into her car, turning off the second reminder.

  A FEW MOMENTS LATER, Christie slowed the car as she passed the graveyard on the cliff, glancing across to where she had stood to say farewell to Gran. It was deserted, except for a woman who leant on a walking stick at the grave where that man, Martin, had been.

  The phone rang, and Christie touched the button on her steering wheel to answer as she increased her speed on the open road. It was Derek.

  “On your way, baby?”

  "I just left River's End, so will get to the airport with time to spare." Christie passed the turnoff to the cottage.

  “Glad to hear it. I was beginning to think you might not have wanted to come with me.”

  “Oh, that’s not true. I miss you so much.”

  "Well, it's been a bit rough without you, Chris." he paused for a moment to take a sip of a drink. "A bit embarrassing, arriving here without you. I mean, this is a couple's paradise, and there I was more like a single."

  Christie assumed he was joking around. “A few more hours and I’ll be there, honey. What’s the plan for tonight?” The road started to curve.

  “I made an appointment at the spa for you. Facial and hair first. We’ll get you into something sexy for dinner and take you to meet some of the people I’ve been getting to know. Well, I already knew Ingrid from a conference in London and her husband, um, oh yeah, Leon, he’s with her. Don’t know what he does but you’ll get on alright with him.”

  The phone went silent, and Christie realised a response was expected. "But, we'll have dinner alone, won't we?"

  Derek seemed oblivious to the small plea in her voice. “It’s already arranged for us to have dinner on the terrace with them. Champagne, lobster, the works. We can go dancing afterwards if you want.”

  “I was hoping to spend some time alone with you. I’d like to tell you what’s been going on.” Nothing sounded worse to Christie than having to meet strangers tonight.

  There was silence from Derek’s end. Christie took advantage of a wide shoulder to pull over. “Derek?”

  “I think you’re being a bit selfish, Chris. You know, I’ve been tolerant about you taking off for a road trip rather than come with me. The least you can do to make it up is meeting my friends when I ask.”

  “Road trip? It was my grandmother’s funeral, Derek! How can you begrudge me one day to pay my respects to her? I’ve apologised for my change of plans more than once, but how is it selfish to want to spend tonight with my own fiancé?”

  Christie turned the motor off, and the sounds of the nearby ocean filled the air. Her heart thumped uncomfortably, and her shoulders tightened.

  "Don't get snappy with me." Derek's voice was hard. "It was your choice to go, and it's my choice who we'll socialise with and when on the holiday I paid for."

  "Please don't be angry." The overwhelming fear of upsetting their relationship filled Christie. "I appreciate you arranging the holiday and feel bad about the poor timing, but I'm on my way now. Honey?"

  Derek's voice remained cold. "If a person you barely knew, and a pile of junk in a backwater town mean more than I do, well, of course, I'm angry. And hurt."

  Christie started shaking as bewilderment swept through her, hands gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.

  “Are you there, Chris?”

  "Christie. You know I prefer to be called Christie." Her voice was calm, her self-control back. The shaking stopped, and that heavy stone dropped back into her stomach. "I'm going to have to call you later."

  “And I expect you to be in a better frame of mind once you arrive. Understand?”

  He hung up.

  No, she did not understand. Not one bit. A weak sun forced its way through the clouds as Christie started the motor. After a moment’s hesitation, Christie did a U-turn and headed back to River’s End.

  Four

  THE WOMAN IN THE GRAVEYARD glanced at the sports car as it drove past, distracted by the roar of its motor. She had quite a love of fast cars and seeing a Lotus here in this sleepy town was a bit surprising. Once out of sight, she lost interest and returned to contemplating the headstone in front of her.

  Long grass and weeds masked the bottom half of a white headstone. There was a name etched into the stone. Thomas Blake. She silently mouthed the name.

  Time had treated Martha Ryan well. Her face was still beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful with the lines of life. Her hair had greyed naturally and was cropped short. Around her neck was the pendant with the letters M and T entwined. No rings or other jewellery. She wore a short-sleeved summer dress and bandage on her left ankle.

  “I came back, Tom. I did,” she said to the headstone, “and look at you.”

  She turned her back on that grave and hobbled to Dorothy’s. The machinery that filled it in was leaving as she arrived and the ground around the site was still soft. A white tulip lay forgotten on the ground. Martha leaned down to reach it, using her cane to keep balance.

  "Until we meet again," she whispered, placing the tulip on the new earth.

  Martha returned to Thomas' grave and with shaking ha
nds, removed her pendant, holding it up to gaze at one last time before setting it upon the headstone. The sun broke through the clouds, and the pendant glinted. As if satisfied, Martha nodded.

  Walking with her injured ankle was a struggle and Martha took care on the uneven ground as she approached the edge of the cliff. She gazed at the white beach below, the jetty high above the tide. Then, Martha turned her eyes to the cliff all the way at the other end of the beach. How different things had been in 1966.

  NEAR THE JAGGED EDGE of a grass-covered clifftop, a blank canvas was on an easel. Thomas Blake sat before it, deep in concentration as he mixed colours. Coming up the hill behind him, Martha as lovely as summer itself in a simple white dress and hat. Her hair flowed over bare shoulders, and she had a hint of mischief in her eyes. Realising Thomas was unaware of her presence; she picked a daisy and tickled his neck. Absently, he brushed it away, so she did it again and this time, he reached up and captured her hand.

  Martha giggled and gave him a heart-stopping smile. She carelessly threw her hat onto the grass and retrieved her hand to run through her hair, letting the strands fall with sunlight through them.

  "I just had to escape Palmerston. Mother is getting the house ready for Father's birthday party, and I simply couldn't bear listening to her going on and on about the guest list!" Martha walked to the edge of the cliff and glanced at the sea far below.

  Replacing his brush, Thomas watched Martha. "Be careful," he warned.

  Martha laughed and stretched her arms out. She lifted herself onto her toes, her fingers wide as if to catch the breeze. Thomas was behind her, his arms whipping around her slim waist. Martha was startled but relaxed against his muscular body.

  “That wasn’t a suggestion.”