The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  She laid the letters to Martha out on the table by date, oldest to newest. Their postmarks stretched from 7 December 1967 to 19 March 1968. Some dates were within days of each other and others, more than a week apart. All in a bold, male hand and addressed to Martha. Each was unopened. How odd.

  So, thought Christie, there is an old painting of the ocean and a handful of unopened letters. Oh, and the rings. What was the connection, if there even was one? Christie knew now her predecessors owned this cottage. Built for the stationmasters. Had T. Blake been one of them? What did the painting have to do with the cottage?

  Christie remembered seeing a jetty on the beach when she arrived. The painting featured a jetty, so had it been painted here? The paint splashes on the long bench in the attic could easily have been those left behind by an artist. For Gran to leave Christie the painting, it was either valuable or part of the so-called secrets of the cottage. She discarded the first idea, as Gran would never permit anything of value to be neglected. So, what was its secret?

  Was T. Blake an artist who lived here? Had he – a man, going by the handwriting - painted the seascape, which for some reason had significance to either Gran or Martha? A gift or a commission, or maybe payment for something?

  Christie’s brain was going around in circles. She wanted a big piece of paper to write out what little information she had, to see if any of it matched up.

  Her hand strayed to the ring box, and she found herself holding the solitaire. Who had worn this beautiful ring? The urge to put it on again almost overwhelmed Christie, and she almost threw it back in its box and closed the lid. She sat playing with her own engagement ring, turning it around and around while she thought about Derek.

  He purchased this in London a month before he proposed. Then, at one of Melbourne’s most exclusive restaurants and in typical Derek fashion, he proposed. On one knee in the middle of the place, much to the delight of other patrons and Christie’s discomfort.

  He expected nothing other than a yes and went about telling everyone he could think of. For a full week, they attended parties and dinners to celebrate, mostly held by Derek's work colleagues and associates. It was exhausting, but Christie took it all as a sign of his deep love for her and pride in being her fiancé.

  The ring had been on her finger for two years now. There had never been a proper conversation about wedding dates or plans until Derek's throwaway comment the day Christie came home. She would have happily set a date if he understood she had no other option than to come here. If only he had shown a little compassion and concern, instead of tearing her down.

  Christie sighed sadly and considered phoning Derek. Her love for him was fragile. Better not to risk it yet. Let him call when he wanted to talk.

  AS DUSK APPROACHED, Christie drove into the carpark beside the graveyard. She stopped at Gran’s grave and squatted to touch the tulip, wondering how it got there. Not a relative existed now, unless Martha was alive, or had children of her own. For all Christie knew, there might be a whole Ryan family out there.

  Christie wandered to the edge of the cliff. The sky was clear and the air already cooling as the sun sank toward the horizon. Beautiful slivers of colour stretched across the mirror-like ocean. The stone steps tempted Christie, and before she could change her mind, she hurried to the beach.

  She took off her shoes, loving the crunch of sand under her feet again even if it was cold. Christie meandered along the shoreline, her eyes drinking in the natural beauty and marvelling this place was so unknown. She was glad it was almost untouched, as progress could easily spoil such a region. Derek would have loved it here, but for the wrong reasons, with ideas of housing estates, high-rise hotels and shopping malls.

  She kept half an eye on the incoming waves, adjusting her path each time one came too close to her feet. Her fascination with the ocean was constantly at war with a deep fear of it.

  Approaching the jetty, Christie thought this could be the one in the painting. It reached about twenty metres into the water, high enough to keep above the level of an average high tide. The old timber boards creaked and groaned with the undertow and above, seagulls cawed to each other. Endless waves rushed in, ever higher, leaving a trail of sparkling foam on the sand as they slipped back again with a soft whoosh.

  As daylight faded, she made her way back. At the bottom of the steps, she gazed longingly again at the beach. Turning to go, something on the cliff face caught her eye.

  In the flat, limestone rock to one side of the steps, someone had carved a love heart. It was quite deep and on closer inspection, had a letter T above it and a letter M below.

  "T loves M," Christie said, tracing the engraving with her finger. She stared at it for a moment and took her mobile phone out of a pocket. Standing back a little, she took a few photographs of the love heart. She glanced back at the jetty, deep in thought. From here, under the imminent onset of night, the jetty most certainly was the same as in the seascape.

  FINDING THE KEYHOLE in pitch black was almost impossible, let alone while juggling bags of Chinese food and a bottle of wine. Christie's phone had a flat battery now, so she could not even use its torch. After a few failed attempts, the key found its home, and the door opened. Christie flicked on the light switch with a sigh of relief.

  Starving, Christie had dinner on the table in a few minutes, only stopping to plug in her phone. She scooped up the first mouthful of noodles dripping in satay sauce with pleasure. The peanutty, spicy mix was filled with crunchy fresh vegetables and so delicious.

  The phone beeped, and Christie groaned when she saw it was a missed call from Derek. Of all times for him to ring when the phone was off. There was no voicemail and no follow up text message. She dialled his number and reluctantly pushed her meal away.

  Derek answered with a terse “Give me a minute.”

  There was background noise of people talking, and soft music and Christie heard Derek speak to someone, followed by laughter. The sounds faded as if he was walking somewhere and then, "Why have you done this?"

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get there.” Christie’s heart sank at his angry tone.

  “Couldn’t? You mean wouldn’t. Tell me, do you even want to be my wife anymore?”

  “Of course I do! Oh, Derek, please understand how much Gran dying has affected me. It’s brought back a lot of memories and a lot of grief.”

  “Which is why you should have done as I said and not gone to the funeral. You should be here with me, not in that nowhere town. A couple of days up here, some friendly company and a few cocktails and you’d be yourself again. Not moping about someone who rejected you.”

  Christie went numb. “Why don’t you understand?”

  "I do understand. That's the problem, Chris. From the day we first met, I knew you needed a man who would guide you through life. You're too trusting and generous. I mean, those are admirable qualities, but it doesn't get you anywhere, and you'll end up being badly hurt."

  But you’re hurting me now! What did he want her to say? Apparently, nothing, as he was happy to continue.

  “You need to learn to stand up for yourself. To say no more often. No to jobs that take you to the other side of the world. No to those pro bono sessions at the hospitals. No to people who want you to drop everything to suit themselves.” he laughed shortly. “Even no to me sometimes, instead of always saying sorry. Just tell me what you’re thinking instead of going along with my ideas all the time. You should have said you didn’t want to come with me.”

  There was a long silence, and the music and laughter got louder again. "I did want to go with you, Derek. I did."

  "Well, you're not here. Are you in the apartment?"

  “No. I’m staying at the cottage tonight.”

  In the background, a woman called out, “Derek, your entrée’s getting cold!”

  “Just think about what I’ve said. You need to change yourself if you want our relationship to go forward. It’s over to you.”

  “What do you mea
n?”

  "Just think about our conversation, Chris. I'm not happy at all, and that's your doing." Derek hung up.

  Christie sat staring at the phone, wide-eyed and shocked. “Christie,” she whispered. “Not Chris. Christie.”

  Was he going to leave her? She had never seen this Derek before, and his words about her job and especially her pro bono work was a shock. I thought you were proud of me. Her hospital work meant so much, helping people regain their confidence after an accident or burn with special make-up techniques.

  She had lied. Although she had been adamant about wanting to go with him, part of her knew it was not true. To tell Derek she wanted to stay home for a while would have hurt him. Either way, she would have hurt him.

  THE WINE WAS DELICIOUS, Christie decided. The first glass disappeared. It warmed her and took the edge off the anxiety and pain from the phone call. In the absence of a real wine glass, she half-filled a water glass.

  She took the bundle of letters and her refilled glass of wine to the bedroom. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she sipped the wine as she sorted them again, from the first date to last.

  It went against her nature to read someone else’s mail, but who would this hurt? Fifty years old, never opened. Nobody but the author apparently ever read them, so who knows what they contained or why they were in Gran’s cottage. Christie reached for the oldest letter.

  Six

  RAIN THUNDERED ON THE metal roof of the attic. Motionless, Thomas stared into the night; a towel tossed over bare shoulders and pants clinging to him, soaked through.

  The storm was directly overhead and relentless lightning turned night into fractured day. In the centre of the attic were two easels, each with a canvas. One was blank; ready for the first strokes of a brush, but the other was a completed portrait of Martha sitting on the cliff top, surrounded by spring flowers, her eyes brimming with amusement.

  The long bench held pots of paint, brushes and rags. The armchair beside the window was almost new, its fabric bright and a throw rug tossed carelessly over its back.

  A shuddering rumble of thunder stirred Thomas and he moved away from the window to stand in front of the blank canvas. Contemplating it for a moment, he slipped his hand into a pocket and retrieved Martha’s engagement ring. It was cold between his fingers as he placed it on the edge of the easel.

  Taking the towel off his shoulders, he dried his hair, his expression as empty as the canvas.

  IN BOXER SHORTS, THOMAS made his way to his bedroom, the one on the right of the attic staircase. He dangled a whiskey-filled glass from one hand and carried an almost empty bottle in the other. The single bed was a mess with blankets and sheets thrown about and the pillows side by side. Two empty glasses perched on a bedside table.

  Thomas pushed the other glasses aside to make room for his whiskey glass and the bottle. Straightening the blankets and sheets, he piled one pillow on top of the other, before dropping onto the side of the bed. Utter weariness descended on him and he ran his hands through his hair.

  Lying back, Thomas stared at the ceiling as his mind replayed the events of the evening. Martha falling into the sea and his desperate swim to save her. Martha’s anger. Her sorrow and stubborn pride. Martha running into the night.

  He reached out to pick up his glass and his arm touched something on the bed... a pendant. Not Martha’s, with their initials intertwined. This one was on a silver chain with the letter F as the pendant. Thomas picked it up, his knuckles turning white as he crushed the letter within his palm.

  ALMOST A WEEK LATER Thomas had waited long enough for Martha to come to him. He’d gone to Palmerston House, prepared to accept the contempt of her mother, the anger of her sister, even the half drunken forgiveness of her father, if only to have one moment with Martha.

  A moment would be enough. He would apologise for letting her believe for even a second there could ever be anyone other than her in his life. He would slip the ring back onto her finger and kiss her tears away. Stubborn or not, Thomas knew Martha loved him.

  Nobody was at the sprawling, two level limestone and timber house. Deflated, he trudged back along the long driveway. As he reached the road, Patrick drove through the gate, winding down the window as he stopped the car.

  “Give ye credit for trying, lad. Just too late.”

  “Too late for what? Where’s Martha, sir?”

  “Sworn to secrecy. Lilian made me promise I’d never tell ye.” Patrick watched Thomas closely, seeing the hope leave his eyes.

  Thomas stood beside the car, his shoulders slumped and his expression defeated. Why had he expected Martha to be here? She had said she was leaving, so why had he waited?

  Patrick liked Thomas and was disappointed in the break up. All this conspiracy to keep Martha’s whereabouts from the boy was ridiculous.

  “Thank you, sir. Goodbye.” Thomas nodded to Patrick and turned to leave.

  Patrick sighed. “Wait a bit. Here.” Pulling a pen and notebook from his coat pocket, he scribbled an address, tore the page out and held it out.

  “She’s with her sister in the city. But ye need to know her mother’s staying there for a while, so maybe write her a note, don’t just show up. Ay?”

  Thomas visibly brightened. “Yes, I mean, thank you. I’ll never tell you gave me the address.”

  Patrick shrugged. “I’m always in trouble so it is of no matter. She does love ye, son.” Winding the window back up, he continued to the homestead.

  Thomas put the page in his pocket. “And I love your daughter, sir. Very much.”

  An hour later, Thomas posted his first letter to Martha.

  CHRISTIE UNFOLDED THE letter. The paper was thin and fragile and had a masculine scent. It was a few lines long.

  Dear Martha,

  I know you are hurt and must feel disappointed in me. For that I am deeply, truly sorry. But sweetheart, being away will not make things better. Being home again, here, in my arms, will help heal your hurt feelings. I promise to explain everything when I see you. No more running and no more secrets. Please come home soon.

  Love, Thomas

  Christie folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. A lover’s quarrel with Martha running away upset. Running away to stay with Gran. What had Thomas Blake done to hurt her? No more secrets... what secrets?

  Christie put the letter aside and opened the next.

  Dear Martha,

  I know only a few days have passed, but it feels like months to me. The other night – I was wrong to let you leave like that. I thought you would feel differently in a day or two. I will never go against my instincts again. Once we are married, you will not run away if we argue because I will deal with it differently. You will learn to listen to me instead of using your pride as a barrier. I hurt you, yes, but what you are doing now is hurting us both, so time to end this ridiculous separation and come home. If your mother and sister refuse to bring you home, phone me and I will be there in a few hours. No matter how difficult it might be for you to return, it will lead to our life together.

  Love,

  Thomas

  Christie read the letter twice, trying to understand what Thomas meant. The tone of his words was different from the first, being more resolute than apologetic.

  After putting this letter into its envelope, Christie picked up her glass and sipped the wine. The way Derek sometimes spoke to her was similar to the last letter. Listen to me. Do as I tell you. Somehow, it was different though. Thomas wrote with love and equity of blame. Derek just blamed Christie.

  She sighed, realising the glass was empty. Well, she had no plans to drive anywhere tonight. Christie wandered barefoot to the kitchen, surprised at how warm the cottage had stayed after the sunny afternoon.

  Taking the bottle of wine back to the bedroom, she changed into soft pyjamas and slid into the sheets to continue reading. The next letter was postmarked four days later. It was several pages long and in a different tone again.

  My beautiful girl,
<
br />   I went to the jetty at dawn, as I have done every morning since that night...

  Thomas stood at the end of the jetty as the first flicker of dawn lightened the starry sky, gravely contemplating the calm water lapping against the pylons. All he could think about was the moment Martha slipped off the jetty and into the stormy sea. The hair on his skin rose as he recalled the heart stopping moment he thought he would never find her.

  Either way, she was gone. Her absence left his heart empty and he longed to turn around and see her running down those stone steps, her face alight with happiness. How this happened was still something of a blur. He had been at fault, yet not at fault. Certainly, this had been none of Martha’s doing but her leaving was making this worse.

  What mystified him was the lack of communication from Martha. She never stayed angry for long and yet not one reply to his letters. Even if she wanted time away, he would have thought it a safe bet she would have written back. She must be hurt to stay silent for so long and that cut at Thomas. To know he had been instrumental in damaging their relationship was incomprehensible. Time to fix things.

  The sea glistened in front of Thomas as the morning rays touched it and he sat on the edge of the jetty. Removing his shoes, he dropped his feet into the warm water, as he and Martha had done together so often.

  This jetty meant so much to them both. It was here they had first spoken. Thomas often came to sit on the jetty early in the day, before anyone was about. It cleared his head and let him paint pictures in his head before committing them to canvas. One spring morning two years ago, he walked halfway along the timber boards before seeing someone sitting on the end.