The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  “It didn’t sound that bad to me.” Martin hoped Thomas knew where all the pieces belonged.

  "That's because you don't listen! This old beauty was trying to tell you she needs some attention with that little cough she developed. How long since you did anything other than ride her?"

  “I hardly even do that, Thomas. So, it’ll be fixed soon?”

  “If I have the parts, it might be done tomorrow night. I’ll go home in the morning and see. Maybe I should take the dog and spend a week at home?”

  “Maybe I should buy you a dog? Dinner in twenty minutes.”

  Martin headed back to the house, and after closing the shed door, Thomas followed.

  Randall wagged his tail without lifting his head from his food bowl as Thomas climbed onto the deck. The smell of lasagne wafted out, making him hungry. He stared out at the last glimpse of light on the horizon, breathing in the humid air.

  “We should eat out here tonight.” Martin carried the bottle of wine over and topped up Thomas’ glass.

  “Storm coming.”

  “We’ll be done before then. Why don’t you move back?”

  “And live where?”

  “Here of course.”

  Thomas glanced at Martin with his eyebrows raised. “Don’t know if your young lady would appreciate that, son.”

  Martin busied himself tidying the small table.

  “Unless you intend to move over her way.” Thomas grinned to himself.

  “You made it clear the Blakes and Ryans don’t mix.” Martin retorted, not amused.

  “Well, I formally withdraw that statement and release you from any obligation to please me above your own happiness.”

  “Why?” Martin picked up his glass, eyes on Thomas.

  “She’s good for you. Makes you happy.”

  “She makes me cross.”

  “Same thing. Don’t make the mistakes I did. Is dinner ready? Meals matter at my age.”

  Martin kept watching Thomas. “Did Christie talk to you about her theories?”

  “You can’t change the past and whatever Dorothy Ryan thought she knew went to her grave with her.” His tone of voice warned Martin not to pursue it.

  In the distance, a flash of lightning briefly lit up the sky.

  CHRISTIE WANDERED AIMLESSLY about, wearing boy leg panties and Martin's T-shirt. The soft fabric soothed her as if he was close.

  The humidity was oppressive, and open windows made little difference.

  The events of the day filled her mind. She was exhausted, and her hand still hurt where Derek tried to force the ring on. If Martin had not arrived when he did... Christie shut the thoughts away. He had got there in time to throw Derek out.

  Finding herself in the kitchen, Christie realised she was hungry. Another day with a missed meal. She decided to address this before Martin took it upon himself to add to the growing list of bad habits he wished to correct.

  She opened the wine she had picked up earlier this evening. Going into the bottle shop, the welcoming sounds of the pub next door almost drew her in and she hesitated before buying the wine and coming home. Now, staring into the almost-empty fridge, she wondered if she should go back tonight.

  There was only some bread, cheese and olives left. Although the sourdough was a few days old, it still smelt inviting, so Christie sliced cheese and melted it, with the olives, over the bread.

  The small meal was gone too soon, and Christie sadly played with the crumbs. After cleaning up, Christie checked the back door was locked. Twice. She giggled and refilled the glass. She read the label on the wine bottle, remembering Thomas’ approval of her choice and later, Martin saying Thomas wasn’t angry she’d read his letters.

  Of course, Martin might only have told Thomas she had them. It was odd how he said there were no secrets, just terrible mistakes. Did he mean marrying Frannie so soon? The way he recoiled when hearing Martha's name was puzzling. As though Martha hurt him, not the other way around.

  Christie moved into the bedroom, which was marginally cooler than the kitchen. The tulip box was on the bed. She lifted the diary out and saw to her dismay the final letter from Thomas to Martha was there. She had forgotten to add it to the shoebox.

  Was this last letter another declaration of love, or an admission Thomas feelings for another woman? Perhaps Frannie was the reason Martha had run away in the first place. Something happened that night so distressing to Martha she left her ring and her plans to wed Thomas behind.

  None of this made sense. Every single letter penned by Thomas reinforced his love for Martha. He spoke of their plans and his determination to bring his girl home. To send her a painting of the night they separated was a bold move. He must have known her well to prove his love by reminding her of their last time together.

  Christie picked up the other letter, the one from Martha to Thomas. Yet another lost letter. Lost? No, hidden. She read it. Then reread the words that still confused her.

  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.

  Thomas tried to contact Martha. He had written letter after letter. He even phoned, but Dorothy had moved. In desperation, he agreed to allow a friend to take the painting and one last letter to hand to Martha.

  Instead, the friend told Martha Thomas was about to marry another woman. Frannie.

  Before she could stop herself, Christie swapped the letter for Gran’s diary. Gran was definitely not returning from the grave and had made it clear she wanted this information to go to her sister. Well, short of finding Martha, Christie was the closest thing to anyone who cared now.

  1st January 1968. Martha is still here with me. Still fussing about Thomas and what happened that night and fretting he has not been in touch. If I had given her even one of the letters he has written, no doubt she would have gone running back to River's End. Every time one arrives, I remind myself this is for her own benefit. In spite of his actions that saved her life, the man is not suited to Martha, and one day she will understand. She cried at Christmas time but is otherwise beginning to cheer up and even came out with me last night to celebrate the New Year.

  Christie dropped the diary and stood up. No. It was inconceivable Gran was responsible for this! For keeping Thomas’ letters from Martha and deliberately steering her into a new life? Oh my god, how could she do this? Upset, Christie retrieved the wine bottle and glass from the kitchen. There was lightning in the sky now, far away and silent.

  After pouring a fresh glass of wine, Christie picked up the diary again. Almost a month of entries went past without mention of anything other than Gran’s boyfriend and her work. Martha’s name appeared again.

  21st January 1968. I almost gave in. Yesterday, Martha and Thomas should have been married. She would not get out of bed until last night and sat by the window with tears going down her face for hours. Why she has not got on a train and gone back to talk to the boy is beyond me. Pride and probably fear of rejection I suppose. It made me think about what I have done to her.

  Christie had to walk back to the kitchen again to get the box of tissues Martin offered her earlier in the day. Why would Gran have done this to her own sister? Even if she believed Thomas was the wrong man, how could she have justified this to herself?

  20th February 1968. I am getting frustrated with Martha. In spite of my encouragement for her to find a job or study she likes, her heart stays with Thomas Blake. There must be a way to break this bond and free Martha to find a new future. Frances has insisted on meeting with me this week, and although I cannot stand the girl, she helped before and might help again.

  No, Gran! Christie was unable to digest what she was reading. She and Frannie had some kind of relationship, and with a deep sense of foreboding, Christie flicked through the diary for the next entry about Martha.

  26th February 1968. Frances has a suggestion
I struggle to agree to. Keeping letters from my sister is one thing, but to be party to an outright lie? It is clear Frances has strong feelings herself for Thomas Blake, but she refused to reply when I asked if he returns them. I suspect he does not.

  What would make Thomas marry Frannie if he did not even love her? Something was missing from this diary. There had to be more to the story.

  28th March 1968. It is done. Martha never wants to see Thomas again, and I stood by and let that happen. I thought I would be happy this day has finally come, but the light has gone out of my sister's eyes. The hope, the love and her irrepressible joy of living have been extinguished. I cannot repair this, and I can never, ever let her know the truth. All I hope is one day she understands I do love her so much.

  Christie burst into fresh tears, her heart broken anew for Martha and Thomas, and her love for Gran shattered.

  SLEEP EVADED THOMAS. It was the incoming storm making him restless. In the foot-well of his car was the shoebox Christie had given him, and although he planned to keep it shut, its existence burned a trail of questions through his mind. Thomas had been shaken by Christie's resemblance to Martha. But she was not Martha, and Martha had chosen another over him.

  The pain tonight was almost as raw as on that stormy night nearly fifty years ago. He had seen Martha come within seconds of drowning, and then she left. Not dead, but dead to him nevertheless. The shoebox with its letters was a stark reminder of the anguish left behind after she had gone. Always expecting her back, but not able to make it happen.

  He stood at the edge of the cliff, remembering another time close to this spot. A day when he was mixing colours to paint a seascape and Martha had come up behind him, summer in her eyes and her long hair glistening in the sun. He painted her instead. A portrait crafted by the hands of a young man who was deeply in love.

  Thunder rumbled low and long. In moments, it would rain, but for now, Thomas wanted to stare out over the sea. From here, he could see the jetty, its end already covered in waves. So like that other night.

  Those letters. The rings. How had they got there? Unless Dorothy brought them with her before dying, he could not imagine how they made it into the attic.

  SO TIRED OF CRYING, Christie sadly flicked through the rest of the diary, right up to the end of December. There was no further mention of Martha. About to return it to the box, Christie noticed a slight bulge at the back. There, taped between two pages, was another letter. At least, it was an account of events. Not even sure she wished to find out more about Gran's duplicity, Christie opened one page filled with Dorothy's neat writing.

  This is not for you to read, Martha, should you find this. However, if you do, understand as your big sister I have certain obligations to protect and guide you. Mother is not strong enough, and Father loves you regardless, so it is up to me to ensure you take every opportunity they worked so hard to provide.

  That night, I made some poor decisions. I anguish over those choices now but months have passed, and the future is set in stone. If only you had not sent your friend to entertain me. This might not have all occurred, and instead, you would have wed Thomas, and your life would not be my responsibility. The night was almost over when your friend came back to speak with me, this time with an idea...

  Guests began to trickle out, and the music changed to slower songs. Martha and Thomas kept dancing, their arms around each other. Wanting to leave but not sure whether to slip away or wait for a break in the music, Dorothy's heart sank when she saw Frannie head her way again. She was not interested in more commentary about how unsuitable a match Thomas and Martha were, even if it did echo her own thoughts. Frannie sat beside Dorothy and leaned in to her as if part of a conspiracy.

  “I made a decision.” Frannie had an air of excitement. “I can’t let Thomas marry Martha without him knowing how I feel! I just can’t.”

  “I see.” Dorothy wondered whether it was alcohol speaking or if the girl was mad. Thomas was clearly smitten with Martha and barely noticed Frannie this evening even with her too tight dress and impressive cleavage.

  "Yes, so after the party I'm meant to be going to Green Bay with some of the girls, but I intend to miss the bus."

  “Bus? You mean train.”

  "You haven't heard? The line is closing and buses are replacing passenger trains for now."

  Dorothy could not imagine the town without trains. It allowed her family to flourish and now, what would happen to Patrick and his business?

  Frannie prattled on. "The station is right next door to Tom's place, and I happen to know his parents have left to visit friends in the city so he will be all alone."

  “You plan to tell him tonight? After his own engagement party? What if Martha is there?”

  “Well, that’s where you come in. I was hoping you might make sure Martha is well away from the cottage tonight to give me a chance.”

  “You want me to help you break up my own sister’s engagement?”

  “Don’t sound so outraged. I know you don’t like Tom and besides, all you’ll be doing is stopping her see something that might upset her more than needed. She is my friend, you know!”

  It was at this moment I saw an opportunity. Frances was unlikely to make a difference to Thomas' feelings for you. If anything, he would reject the girl's half-drunken advances and send her home. Nothing would come of it, and this one chance to change things would slip away.

  Looking back, I should have told you about Frances’s duplicity and let you and Thomas sort her out. Instead, I chose a dangerous path that almost resulted in your death. My intentions were loving. I hope you know that...

  Back at Palmerston House, after the party, Martha was at a loose end. The air was thick with humidity, and she sat out on the verandah for a while, playing with her engagement ring. Dorothy brought them both a glass of iced tea, joining her on the timber seat.

  “I am so glad you’re staying tonight. We can all have breakfast together. I’ll make pancakes.”

  “You must be so tired though. Such a big day today!” Dorothy kept an eye on her watch.

  “Yes, but it’s a happy kind of tired. I miss Thomas already.”

  Dorothy took a deep breath. “You two did not get much time to say goodnight, did you?”

  “No. There were so many people all leaving at the same time and somehow we only managed a quick kiss.”

  “Do you think he will still be up?”

  “Of course! But if I walk all that way at night he’ll be cross with me.”

  “Why not let me drive you?”

  Martha’s eyes widened. “Would you? I thought you don’t approve of Thomas?”

  "I shall have to get used to him if you plan to marry him. Go freshen up, and we can leave in a few moments."

  It took so little to persuade you to go to the cottage. When I stopped the car outside, you were puzzled by the lack of house lights and speculated Thomas may not be home. I suggested you go and see and I would wait for you. I still remember your smile as you got out of the car, wanting a few more moments with Thomas. I saw you walk up the driveway and suddenly stop as a light came on in a room. It seemed as though you were going to tap on the window, but you froze...

  Martha stared through the window into Thomas' bedroom, her hand raised to tap on the glass, her face alight with anticipation. The colour drained from her face, and her hand dropped to her side. She stood, unmoving, for more than a minute.

  She gasped, “No!” and backed away, onto the driveway. She turned to run, unaware Thomas had flung the window open.

  “Martha?”

  Martha ran past Dorothy’s car, toward the railway line. Dorothy put her hand on the ignition then stopped. She needed to know what happened.

  The back door slammed and Thomas, his shirt open, raced onto the road. With barely a pause, he gave chase.

  Dorothy slipped out of the car. She needed to follow them, but first, she had to speak with Frannie.

  The back door was unlocked, and Dorothy made her w
ay straight to the bedroom. Frannie sat on Thomas' bed, wrapped in a sheet, and wailing sobs making her face red and blotchy.

  “Oh my, whatever did you do?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t get a chance to!”

  “Stop carrying on! What did Martha see?”

  Frannie found a handkerchief and blew her nose noisily. "I came to see Thomas and told him I'd missed the bus and could I please stay the night. I asked him for a glass of something, and he told me I could use his bedroom."

  “And?”

  “Um, and I got undressed. You know, I waited until I heard him coming down the hallway and I took my dress off and undid my... well, you know. And he walked in.”

  Dorothy wanted to slap the girl. “I thought you were going to tell him you cared, not turn into a little tart! No, don’t start crying again, tell me what happened next.”

  “He told me to put my clothes back on and then saw Martha outside and ran off after her. Now he hates me!”

  Dorothy had no sympathy whatsoever for Frannie and did not bother to wait around to hear any more. By the time she turned onto the main road, she saw Thomas at the top of the stone steps. Lightning flashed as she drove into the graveyard carpark.

  HEARTBROKEN, CHRISTIE read the account of the storm. Of Martha falling off the jetty and disappearing below the waves, how Thomas bravely found her. In her mind, she saw Thomas carry Martha from the sea, soaked to the bone and clinging to him. No wonder Gran had been so adamant on Christie staying out of the ocean.

  When she read about Gran overhearing Thomas promising to wait for Martha, it was all too much, and Christie curled into a ball and wept.

  After a while, needing, yet dreading to know the rest of the story, Christie washed her face and made coffee as the storm drew closer. Gran and Frannie conspired to destroy Thomas and Martha’s relationship. What she did not understand yet was how they kept them apart.

  FRANNIE WAS A DETERMINED young woman, and she made Thomas believe she had been so inebriated she undressed without thinking of where she was. When she found out he was coming to Melbourne to find you, she talked him into letting her bring a letter instead. She gave me that letter as well as the painting.