The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  The dog trotted in. “As for you, Randall. Hmm.” Randall wagged his tail before curling up in the basket.

  CHRISTIE SAT IN THE cottage kitchen holding a steaming cup of coffee. Her mind was back at Martin’s house, replaying those moments. The way he watched her was incredibly disconcerting. All of her senses warned he was dangerous and yet she fired up at him. She never showed emotion to strangers, never lost her composure. It was as though he deliberately baited her.

  He had already formed an opinion of Christie. Why would he even care about a person who had never been to this town before, let alone have virtually accused her of having ulterior motives for being here? Who was he? Caretaker of the graveyard or relative of Thomas?

  He affected her in some deep, primal way and her uncustomary rise to his baiting left her vulnerable. Nobody had ever elicited such a powerful, unbidden response from her, not even the most handsome and desirable of actors she worked with. Not even Derek.

  What she did need to do was drive home and pick up more clothes, her laptop and a few supplies. She would use her time until Derek returned to solve these puzzles.

  BACK AT THE APARTMENT, Christie stopped packing half way through, questioning what she was doing. This was her home. Not the cottage. In three weeks, she had a job in London for a series of TV commercials. Instead of running back and forth to River’s End, she should stay here, fill the pantry and fridge with Derek’s favourite foods and make the apartment welcoming for his return in a few days.

  But, the painting’s still there. Gran is there.

  She flopped onto the bed. Gran wanted Christie to know something. Something important enough to take the dying woman back to her original hometown. Derek was wrong about Gran. She loved Christie in her own way and provided a proper education. Adopting Christie and changing her surname to Ryan - the maiden name she’d kept through her marriages - protected the child’s future. The long silences, the coldness and occasional fury from Gran served to teach Christie control over her own emotions. She knew how to please other people, to meet their needs. It was a gift, not a negative. The least Christie could do was fulfil Dorothy Ryan’s last wish.

  Galvanised, Christie finished packing, trying to think of everything she might need. Her professional makeup case had to come as Derek had taken her day-to-day products and hair appliances with him. She tossed her charger and mouse into the laptop bag.

  At the front door, she glanced back at the living room. Only three days ago, she stood at the window, happy to be home. Somehow, she would make things right with Derek and regain the stable, safe atmosphere of their life together. She had to try harder.

  DUSK WAS CLOSING IN when the Lotus passed the Welcome to River’s End sign. Instead of going to the cottage, Christie drove to the clifftop carpark and stepped out into the cooling air. She stretched to relieve the stiffness in her body and headed to the top of the stone steps.

  The ocean resembled a postcard, deep blue with highlights of aqua and pink reflected from the horizon. High tide was a couple of hours away, so the waves near the beach were full and rolled in from a long way out. Long enough for a lone surfboarder to be out there.

  Christie sat on the top step to watch the setting sun, but instead, her eyes focussed on the man riding the waves. Although a fair way out and in fading light, she was certain it was Martin. A moment later, she spotted Randall rolling in the soft sand.

  Her earlier mental image of Martin surfing was a pale shadow of the reality. He radiated power and control as he effortlessly navigated the surfboard out to sea, then back in on a wave. There was an artistry in every move.

  Christie’s car keys slipped out of her fingers onto the step. She picked them up, but not before Randall heard the small sound. Bounding across the beach and up the steps, he planted a wet kiss on her nose.

  “Shh, doggie, no!” she giggled. “Go back to your master!” Instead, Randall dropped himself at her feet, his tail madly wagging. Fortunately, Martin was paddling back out to sea but it would only be a moment or two before he caught a wave back in again.

  “Seriously, you have to go. So do I!”

  After giving Randall a quick hug, Christie got to her feet and hurried back to the car.

  CHRISTIE UNPACKED. The small wardrobe in the bedroom had just enough room for the selection of dresses, pants and tops, plus a couple of jackets she had chosen rather randomly. She had been a bit more conscious about choosing lingerie, socks and shoes, with the drawers filled to capacity and shoes ranging from high heels and boots to slippers and runners lining the bottom of the hanging space. Closing the empty suitcase, her stomach growled.

  Back in the kitchen, Christie plugged her in her laptop and left it charging on the old table whilst she prepared dinner. On the way back, she shopped at Green Bay, the previous, larger town. Now, she made a meal from sliced tomatoes, salad leaves, olives, feta, grapes and shallots. The sourdough bread from the bakery was crusty, freshly baked and a perfect accompaniment drizzled with a little olive oil.

  Christie plugged a dongle into her laptop for internet access. She scrolled down the emails to the one Derek sent from the airport with her revised e-ticket. She read the brief message. “Don’t miss this flight, Chris.” It could read as a loving reminder he was wanting to see her soon, or as a warning of some sort. She sat back in her chair, sad again.

  She could have told Angus her commitment was to Derek and although she loved Gran, she could not attend the funeral. Derek would have felt supported and Angus would have understood, even if he was disappointed. Without the cottage, instead of puzzling over secrets and difficult men, Christie would be sipping a cocktail on the beach with Derek.

  Yes, that would have kept Derek happy and she would have done her best to enjoy the holiday. But her heart and mind would have been here in River’s End, knowing she let Angus down and failed Gran.

  It was a no-win situation. At least now, she had said a proper farewell to the woman who had taken her in all those years ago. She had also learnt more about Derek than in all of their previous time together.

  Christie closed the laptop and left it to continue charging. She wanted to keep reading the letters from Thomas to Martha and get some closure on their relationship. Even though it was still early, Christie changed into pyjamas and dressing gown and put her slippers on, feeling a bit spoilt to be so comfortable. Derek would have thought her ill to be dressed for bed straight after an early dinner.

  In her bedroom, Christie relaxed on the bed and reached for the box of letters, hesitating at the memory of Thomas’ headstone. Before, she imagined him still alive and with Martha. Now, she knew that not to be the case and their paths would never cross.

  Why she even thought that possible or desirable was a mystery, as some fifty years had passed since these letters were penned, and Thomas could have been anywhere in the world. What a heartbreaking story this was turning out to be. Christie opened the next letter.

  Dear Martha,

  Today I found a photograph. I remember the day it was taken, how cold the wind was and how cross you were with me... at first...

  It was a windswept, wintry day on the beach. Thomas and Martha walked hand in hand toward the lagoon. Trudging through the soft sand a few metres behind them was a young woman, a camera in her hand. Frannie Williams was Martha’s best friend, much to Lilian’s dismay, who disliked the young woman and thought her to be common.

  “Um, aren’t we meant to be taking photos?” Frannie called out, already tired of the wind. Martha stopped to let Frannie catch up, but Thomas kept walking.

  “Tom? Frannie’s taking our photo!”

  There was no response from Thomas, so Martha struck a pose for Frannie.

  “He’s so rude!” Martha remarked. “Just take my photo, ‘cos I’m better looking than him.”

  Dramatically, she gazed off into the distance while Frannie played with the focus on the camera.

  Thomas sneaked up behind Martha and grabbed her. She squealed and tried to escape
but he wrestled her onto the sand.

  “Thomas Blake, let me go! Oh, there’s sand in my hair now!” Martha pushed against his arms as he laughed and held her even tighter. “It’s not funny!” she fumed.

  Frannie took a few photos of them on the sand. She lowered the camera to watch as Thomas captured Martha’s lips with his and kissed her until she stopped struggling. As soon as she did, Thomas let her go, getting to his feet and extending his hand.

  Martha pretended not to see it and stood up on her own, shaking the sand off her clothes and out of her hair.

  “Stubborn girl.” Thomas said.

  He laughed as Martha stalked off, back toward the stone steps.

  “You shouldn’t do that!” Frannie scolded. “She’s sensitive.”

  “Sorry.” Unapologetic, Thomas sprinted after Martha.

  By the time Frannie got to the steps, Martha was sitting on Thomas’ lap, cuddled up in his arms...

  Looking at that photo, I remember the taste of salt on your lips and the way the wind made your hair into a silken ribbon. Those memories comfort me but they taunt me as well. I need you back. Please, Martha? Please come home.

  Love,

  Thomas

  Christie found the photo album that had been in the box with the painting. This time, she went past the photograph of Gran and found one of a striking young woman on a windswept beach, posing in a theatrical stance. Her eyes and cheekbones were much like Christie’s and her long hair had the same wave in it. So, this was Martha.

  The next photo was again of Martha, but this time with Thomas, his arms around her and his eyes on her face. Christie drew her breath in sharply. Through his letters to Martha, she had visualized him as being a handsome man with strong features. What came as a shock was his resemblance to another man. Thomas Blake and Martin could almost have been brothers.

  Eight

  CHRISTIE SIPPED ON hot coffee whilst she stared out of the kitchen window into the darkness of night. Her mind overflowed with possibilities about this little town and the two families connected by more than a broken engagement.

  Martin must be a descendant of Thomas Blake. Probably his grandson, which led to an interesting question. Who was Martin’s grandmother? If Thomas and Martha had reconciled, Martin was Christie’s second cousin. Family.

  Yet, it did not fit. Martin knew she was Dorothy’s grandchild, so why not have introduced himself as her cousin? Why this hostility and why, for that matter, would Gran not tell Christie herself?

  No, Thomas must have married someone else. Christie’s thoughts raced. What if Thomas had been unfaithful to Martha during their engagement, which resulted in the broken relationship and a child?

  Christie sighed. The letters spoke of loyalty, love, and a total commitment, so there must have been another reason for the split. She needed to know if they reunited before she spoke to Martin again. She had to keep reading.

  IN THE NEXT TOWN, ANOTHER woman also stared out at the night. Instead of almost total darkness outside, Martha Ryan’s room in Green Bay Hospital overlooked the main street, which this early in the evening was busy with cars. She sat in the visitor’s chair beside her bed, a hospital dressing gown around frail shoulders.

  Tomorrow, if the doctor approved, she would be going home. At least, going back to what had once been her home. She recalled little of the ambulance whisking her here from the beach, or the worried faces of nurses who admitted her. She did remember the gruff kindness of the fisherman and the smell of his oilskin. Mostly, she remembered Thomas was dead.

  All this time. All these wasted decades. To see him one more time would have been enough. Had she known he was dead, not even Dorothy’s plea to reunite would have brought her back to River’s End.

  To think of her strong, young Tom buried on the clifftop was unbearable. The gut-wrenching, shuddering loss overwhelmed Martha. Because this was final. He was gone.

  For the first time in her life, Martha was truly alone. Whatever future lay ahead was bleak and sad. At this moment, she believed she would mourn Thomas until the day she died. Her heart remained true to him.

  CHRISTIE CONTEMPLATED the bundle of letters. So far, she had read six of them in order and each expressed growing concern over the long break in communication. Why had Thomas not gone to where Martha was staying? Was Lilian – Christie’s great grandmother – so intimidating a grown man feared to confront her? He seemed to get on well enough with Patrick, so why had he not gone to him for more information? For that matter, why not pick up a phone and call her? It was all a mystery. The next letter was a few lines long.

  Dear Martha,

  Today is one month since you left. Christmas has come and gone and my gift to you is at your house, left with the housekeeper. It is almost the New Year and this must be our turning point.

  Meet me on the jetty on New Year’s Day, Martha. If you do not, I shall accept you no longer wish us to be together.

  It is entirely up to you now.

  Love,

  Thomas

  The ultimatum was a surprise; so risky when one party was clearly not interested in engaging. What would she have done, if Derek had insisted she made a choice between Lizard Island and Gran’s funeral? It hurt Christie’s brain to think about that too closely, so she unfolded another letter instead.

  Sweetheart, forgive me.

  I put pressure on you to act when you may not be ready. The last letter means nothing.

  That night, you nearly died when you fell into the sea and I could not find you. I was almost at my own final breath when, by the sheer fortune of a lightning flash, I saw you. Your dress had snagged on a pylon and your hair drifted around your face. You were like an angel, your hair floating like a halo. At that instant, I knew I could never let you go and yet, only moments later, you were gone.

  Everything was my fault, my doing. Regret and sorrow overwhelms me at times. We were happy, so happy.

  Is it possible, my darling we can be together again? Tell me there is a chance, that I have not ruined this. You are my one true love, the only love I will ever know.

  I will meet you anytime, anywhere you want me to. We can move to Paris if you wish. Get far away from River’s End and start a new life for ourselves. Just do not give up on us.

  Love,

  Thomas

  Martha almost drowned. Thomas saved her life, apparently in the middle of a storm. Something happened between them that drove Martha to run away and so far, not return.

  Christie yawned and giggled. She was turning back into a country girl – early to bed. She decided to read another, this one dated almost a month after the last. This was the longest so far and Christie tucked herself into bed to read.

  Dear Martha,

  I no longer know where you are or if you are even getting my letters. Palmerston House is boarded up and people say your parents have left for an extended trip to Ireland. No staff are there; even the horses are off the property. Is it possible your father gave me the wrong address and not one of my letters reached you? My enquiries about your sister’s address have not been successful. I am unfamiliar with the city and at a loss at how to find you.

  The railway is closing the line next month so my father will retire. The last stationmaster. They have been offered the cottage to rent cheaply, so will stay for a while at least.

  There is nothing here for me, yet how do I leave? Every morning I wait on the jetty for you and every morning I go home disappointed. I paint no more. I work enough hours a week to pay my way and that is all I do. Work and wait.

  Martha, this cannot continue. I love you as much this moment as I ever have and I need to find you. I had to speak to one of your friends. Forgive me, but I had to...

  Thomas waited across the road from a fabric shop at closing time. It was still light and the two young women came out of the door chatting, locking it in their wake, were dressed in pretty summer dresses.

  “Frannie!” he called, crossing the road.

  Frannie and Fiona, th
e other young woman, stopped in surprise. Frannie glanced at her reflection in the store window to check her hair, before turning to Thomas with a smile. He tried to force a smile in return with no success.

  “Hullo Tom.” Frannie was thrilled to see him, smile or not.

  “Shall I stay?” Fiona whispered loudly, blushing when Thomas glanced at her. Frannie shook her head. Reluctantly, Fiona left her friend with Thomas.

  “I wanted to ask you something, if that’s okay?”

  “Anything. Shall we have a coffee?” Frannie tried to gauge if Thomas was in a happy mood or still the misery he had been since Martha left town.

  “Um, coffee? No. I just need a moment. To ask about Martha.”

  Disappointed, Frannie glanced after Fiona, who was almost at the corner. “At least walk me home, Tom. We can talk on the way.” Without waiting for him to refuse, Frannie followed Fiona. Thomas hesitated before catching up.

  “So, about Martha?” Frannie prompted.

  “Have you... have you heard from her? Since that night?”

  Frannie thought about her answer, offering a quiet and sad “No.”

  She glanced at Thomas, who frowned at her reply.

  “Tom, I’m sure she blames me as much as you. Dorothy and I, and for that matter, Fiona, spoke for hours at your party, so I imagine she is upset with us all.”

  “You did nothing wrong.” Thomas said. Frannie was her best friend so if she had cut connections with her too, maybe she was serious about not coming home.

  Frannie slipped her arm through Thomas’. “Thank you for saying that. All I know is she went to stay with Dorothy. Have you called? Or written?”

  “Written. Lots of letters but not one reply. I thought she must have gone somewhere else and hadn’t received them.”

  “Well, there is someone I could ask. Someone she went to school with in the city, to see if they have heard from her and know where she is. If you’d like me to ask, that is?”