The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  “Your great-grandparents’ grandparents virtually founded River’s End. Who knows, maybe the Blake family settled around that time as well, but it seems to me something a lot more is in play than who is welcome or not. It sounds like bad blood.”

  “That’s what I think. And those letters, oh Angus, the love Thomas had for Martha! Saving her from drowning in the middle of a storm and waiting months for her to come home but she didn’t. Not ever, I think, although...”

  “Although what?”

  "I'm being silly. It's just I thought maybe Martha had come home. Just after Gran's funeral, I found a pendant on Thomas Blake's headstone that was T and M with a love heart. And there was an inscription in the limestone cliff almost the same. But I've searched everywhere I can think of. There was a newspaper report of an elderly lady found on the jetty – I even went to the hospital, but they'd only say she was released and wouldn't tell me her name."

  “Did you read the note Miss Dorothy left?”

  "Oh! Yes, and I need your help because some of the writing is quite hard to decipher. Something about a box. I think."

  Christie found the note in her handbag and passed it to Angus. He read aloud. “Dearest Christabel, my last request is you find my sister and give her the diary. In the box. It is... in...” he hesitated, caught on the same words as Christie had been. “Maybe inside? Yes, it is inside the dwelling? Not dwelling, but a d to start. And that is a double s. Inside the dress? Oh! Inside the dresser! Yes, come on, I know what she means.”

  Face animated, Angus almost leapt to his feet.

  AT THE DOORWAY OF THE attic, Christie baulked. Angus had unlocked the door and gone straight in, but Christie's feet would not follow. It was a forbidden room, and the consequences of being caught in there by Gran were etched in her memory. Gran might be gone, but the little girl in Christie remembered the anger on Gran's face and the fury in her voice as she dragged her by the arm out of the attic and downstairs to her bedroom.

  “It’s quite safe now. She was protective of her past. Come in.” Angus held a hand out to Christie, and with a gulp, she stepped inside.

  Not much remained of the mix of old furniture and knick-knacks that intrigued Christie so long ago. Just a few packing boxes and an ornate dressing table. It was white with gold handles, gold coloured inserts and its mirror was a perfect oval in a gold frame.

  “This belonged to your Gran when she was a child and is the only piece of furniture I was instructed to keep. To be honest, I’d begun to wonder what to do with it, but perhaps we shall find out?”

  Angus opened the single drawer and there, inside, was a box. About the size of a book, it was made of timber and etched into the lid was a tulip. Painted white.

  Christie and Angus turned to stare at each other in silent recognition of the white tulips at the funeral. Unsure of herself, Christie hesitated to pick up the box, so Angus did, placing it onto the dresser. A tiny padlock kept it secure.

  "Oh, it needs a key," Christie said.

  “You have it. On the keyring from the cottage.” Angus prompted.

  Christie found the keyring in her bag and slid the smallest key into the padlock. It turned and released the lock.

  Inside was a small diary with "1968" on its leather cover. Underneath were two envelopes. The top one was in that familiar hand Christie recognised as Thomas Blake's, and her heart skipped a beat. Her instincts had been right!

  The second envelope was addressed to Thomas at the cottage. With trembling hands, Christie turned it over. From Miss M Ryan. It was a letter from Martha.

  Eighteen

  BACK AT THE APARTMENT, Christie fought her compulsion to read Martha's letter. Gran had explicitly requested Christie to get the diary to Martha. If she read those two letters and found Martha, how would she explain herself?

  Sitting cross-legged on the bed, the tulip box open and the diary to one side, she stared at Thomas' letter to Martha. Addressed to "Martha", with no return address or postmark, this must be the one Thomas sent with the friend. She started to open the letter but realised its seal was unbroken.

  Had Martha refused to read it? Or, had Gran somehow got it first and kept it from her for some unknown reason? Perhaps the friend had not given it to her. So many questions filled Christie's mind, and she had no stomach to find out. She put the envelope down, shattered that all of Thomas' attempts to bring his girl home failed.

  So, what was Martha’s part in all of this? Christie picked up her envelope to find the postmark, but there was none. Just a stamp. Its seal was also unbroken. Another unread letter but this one had not even been posted.

  Christie opened Martha’s letter before she had time to stop herself. With shaking hands, she slipped out a single piece of paper.

  Dear Thomas,

  You promised you would wait! You forced me to promise to return! And I would have, once I had a chance to calm down and be able to speak with you rationally. Yet, there was not one word from you, nothing.

  Just a phone call or a letter would have done. Anything at all to reassure me you still wanted me to keep my side of the promise. That you still love me and meant what you said that night. Instead, there was only silence. Now I know why.

  She told me all about it. Gloated in fact. By the time you read this letter, you will be just days away from getting married to someone else.

  I want you to be happy, I do. But Tom, it should be our wedding. It should have been us together, forever. My heart is broken. Truly broken. I shall love you until I die.

  Martha

  Christie read it twice, then a third time. How could Thomas Blake have married someone else so soon? Who had gloated - Gran or the friend who had been the go-between? Had Martha ever known Thomas waited for her or understood the depth of his love and determination to have a life with her? Who interfered?

  Poor Martha. Waiting and hoping for a sign Thomas still wanted her to come home. After whatever happened between them that night, Martha needed something more to believe in than a promise he possibly may have regretted in the light of day.

  Why was love so complicated? Christie’s mind wandered as she returned the letter to its envelope. Thomas and Martha loved each other deeply, passionately, in a way Christie thought possible only between the covers of a romance novel.

  The little snippets she remembered of her parents were of a couple who held hands and laughed a lot, but their love died when they did.

  Gran married four times. Rebecca's father died young, and Gran divorced her last husband not long before Christie came to live with her. There were no more husbands after that, and the only time Gran ever referred to her marriages was in a tone of contempt for the men involved. No true love there, if any love at all.

  Christie always believed she would fall in love with someone who loved her just as much. She thought Derek was that man and considered his lack of affection and need for attention to be a normal part of his personality.

  This past week, Derek had tried so hard to make up for his unkindness, but now Christie knew he was capable of being quite cruel. The pain of his selfishness and lack of empathy were a stark contrast to the sense of peace and belonging found in her cottage.

  River’s End was always in the back of her mind these days. The smell of the garden when it rained, the warm crunch of sand under her feet on the beach. Randall’s soft eyes and the sheer glory of the sunset the night she stood, barefoot, on Martin’s deck, dressed in his T-shirt and sipping the local wine as she inhaled the heady scent of jasmine and sea spray.

  Those moments were magic. Etched in her memory. Martin had said to her the evening was not real and she was with the wrong man. Strangely, that made things even more chaotic. It occurred to her she may be living with the wrong man.

  PERCHED ON A STOOL, Derek impatiently checked his watch as Christie spotted him in the Atrium Bar. As she crossed the floor to meet him, Christie was unaware of the admiring glances she drew from other patrons. Hair braided to one side, she wore a short, body-hugg
ing silk dress in ruby red. Carrying a black clutch bag and wearing simple black shoes with a low heel, she was elegant and beautiful. Derek saw her and stood up to kiss her cheek.

  “Fashionably late?”

  Christie calmly smiled, not prepared to let him bait her over a few minutes delay.

  Without asking, Derek ordered two glasses of champagne. "Sexy dress. Appropriate, as always."

  “Um, thanks.” Christie assumed it was a compliment. “So, what’s the occasion?”

  “Do we need one? Seeing as you didn’t want to leave Melbourne before you head off to London, I thought this would be a fun way to spend an evening instead.”

  Two glasses of champagne arrived, and Derek handed one to Christie before picking his up and offering a toast. "To us."

  Christie clinked her glass against his. “To us.”

  They sat in silence, sipping champagne. It was early still, and the gorgeously appointed, popular bar was starting to fill.

  “I made reservations for Rosetta.”

  "Oh, yum. Perfect choice, honey." Christie put her hand on Derek's, and he squeezed her fingers before letting go to pick up his glass again. He watched her gaze around, enjoying the laughter and music.

  “There’s a bit to talk about.” He interrupted her thoughts. “Something happened today which I think you’ll find interesting. Well, you will because it affects you.”

  That got Christie’s attention.

  “So, I told you Ingrid is opening an office here in Melbourne?”

  Christie nodded, wondering where this was going.

  “Well, we’re considering a merger.”

  “Wow. That’s a big move. I thought you preferred full control?”

  "I do. But this way, I can grow the business faster, and Ingrid will buy me out when I want to retire. Until then, I'll still be the boss, but she brings experience in carving out new regions, not just estates. It'll open up ventures beyond anything I've done before."

  “New regions?”

  “There’s so much need for housing.” he laughed. “Got a call from some developer about River’s End. He’s already put one estate in and wants more.”

  Christie’s heart sank. “Bryce, by any chance?”

  "That's him. Told him it is yours, not mine, and if you said no, it is no."

  “You said that?”

  “Sure did.”

  Christie leaned across to kiss Derek. “Thank you, honey. You’ve no idea how that makes me feel.”

  “Nah, don’t worry about dealing with his type. I want to see your cottage. I really do, baby. The way you talked about it at dinner the other night made me realise how much it means to you.”

  “I’ll be back before Christmas.”

  After emptying his glass, Derek glanced at his watch again. “Need to get going.”

  DINNER WAS DELIGHTFUL. Rosetta was a sophisticated Italian restaurant owned by iconic chef Neil Perry. With an enchanting smile, Christie absorbed the stunning city views, white scalloped curtains, marble flooring and hand-blown chandeliers.

  She and Derek had eaten at Rosetta a few times in the past, and tonight she had her favourite main, the pan-fried snapper, accompanied by a glass of Italian red wine and followed by refreshing lemon gelati.

  Derek directed the conversation to the time they met and their early days together, reminding Christie how much he loved her. There were no more mentions of his planned merger again, nor River’s End. Christie believed at last he understood. The way he resisted what must have been an enticing approach by Bryce was impressive and gave Christie hope for their future again.

  Hand in hand, they left Rosetta and wandered through the complex. Instead of heading to the VIP gaming room that Derek frequented, he led her through the Palladium and to the River Room, one of many function areas of Crown. Outside the door was a banner advising an art exhibition “Coastal Splendour”.

  “Shall we go in?” Derek said.

  “Sure. But I thought you didn’t like art galleries?”

  “Not really. Just want to find something to put in the foyer at work. To mark the merger. New beginnings and all that.”

  Christie loved art but could not remember ever seeing any with Derek. He said once that apart from the masters, artists were only a step up from beggars. She pushed that memory aside as she drank in the beautiful offerings on display. Most were traditional oils depicting Victorian coastal scenes, with a few watercolours and charcoal sketches.

  “What about this one?” She paused in front of a sunset over St Kilda Beach, the long pier silhouetted against a red sky.

  "Sunsets are so yesterday, don't you think?" A female voice behind them interrupted, and Christie closed her eyes for a moment in recognition.

  “What a pleasant surprise!” Derek spun around to Ingrid. Christie opened her eyes and forced a smile.

  "Hello, Ingrid," Christie said. If Derek wanted to meet up with Ingrid, why not say so?

  “How... pleasant to see you again.” Ingrid turned to Derek. “I saw a rather intriguing piece that might fit the bill. Perhaps a little large though.”

  “Well, let’s go and see. Are you coming?” Derek included Christie almost as an afterthought. Ingrid hooked her arm through his. Dressed in a long silver dress slit right up to her left thigh and wearing high stilettos, she exuded a confidence Christie found quite intimidating.

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll browse.”

  Almost before she finished the sentence, they hurried off together. A waiter with a tray of drinks paused near Christie, and she gratefully accepted a glass of white wine with shaking hands.

  Christie wandered along a row of abstract artwork, her stomach churning. Was this what their future would be? Ingrid appearing without notice and taking Derek’s attention? If so, what hope did they have of moving forward to a marriage?

  One painting caught Christie's eye, and she stopped directly in front of it. Incredible use of colour turned a simple beach scene into a fantasy world. The sky was emerald and the sea its darker reflection, but with streaks of red and the hulking remnants of a misshapen shipwreck near land. A silver sun melted like a puddle into the horizon. A misshaped man dragged an anchor twice his size to an amethyst shore.

  It was a fascinating, multifaceted painting with the initials MB in one corner. Below the painting was a brief on the artist.

  SOLE SURVIVOR

  Martin Blake is a reclusive artist living on the Victorian west coast. Specialising in abstract visions of the sea and creations using locally sourced sustainable timber, he rarely offers pieces for public sale. He recently spent over a month travelling to regional and remote Victorian youth centres teaching basic art and woodwork skills to disadvantaged teens at risk. Sole Survivor represents the human ability to rise above tragedy.

  Christie did not realise she was reading aloud until noticing the couple at the next painting cast her odd glances. This confirmed Martin was indeed one of the Blake family and he was an accomplished and even exceptional artist. What she kept rereading was the information about his other work. Helping troubled youth.

  Her mind went back to the first time she had seen him. At Gran's funeral, in the drizzly misty rain, he stood watching her. There had been an underlying emotion about him she thought was anger, and when she said that to Daphne, the response had been, "I imagine he is, dear. Today of all days."

  Christie had taken that to mean he had an issue with Gran and her family, and time had proven that. Daphne also said he was “back”, so perhaps he had returned from his month away and had come to the graveyard expecting to work uninterrupted on tidying Thomas’ grave. Finding a funeral party in attendance may have caused the reaction. After all, if he had just returned, how would he know it was Gran’s?

  She sighed. This artist, this man - Martin Blake - was as complex and compelling as the painting in front of her. Now another layer revealed itself, showing compassion and care that rarely made it to his eyes.

  "Do you like this?" Derek was right beside Chris
tie, and she jumped. He stared at the painting as if it was graffiti on the side of a building. Ingrid still had her arm through his and her eyes on Christie, as if waiting for a reaction.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Too... weird. But the colours are pretty.” Derek was bored.

  "It's so typical of abstract art which I think is merely the work of a disorganised mind." Ingrid declared, and Derek nodded in agreement.

  “Well, clearly neither of you have met the artist if you think that!” It came out more forcefully than Christie intended, but as Derek and Ingrid turned as one in surprise, she did not care how she sounded.

  “And you have? Met the artist?” Derek’s voice had a hard edge.

  “I have. And he has one of the most logical, intelligent minds I’ve encountered. The word disorganised is the opposite of this artist.”

  Christie finished her glass of wine as Derek stared at her. She gazed back at the painting, not sure what to do now. Over the music and talk in the room, she heard Derek speak to Ingrid, who wandered away. Derek put an arm around Christie's waist as if contemplating the artwork, but his embrace was too tight for comfort.

  “Why don’t you have an early night? I know you don’t gamble so there’s no point hanging around for a few hours to keep me company.”

  It was on the tip of Christie’s tongue to ask if Ingrid would keep him company instead but she controlled herself. It was clear Ingrid would spend the evening with Derek and that the two women were not about to become friends.

  “That way you can do the rest of your preparations for London.” Derek continued. “You have your e-ticket now?”

  “No. In fact, I still have no confirmation of this job. It is strange as everything was on track.”

  “Odd. Maybe you should chase it up.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s lunchtime in London. Go home and sort it out.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  “Clearly you’re not yourself tonight. I’m going to go buy a painting and spend some time at the poker table. Give me a call once you know about London if you want.”