Martha
A prequel to The Stationmaster’s Cottage
Phillipa Nefri Clark
Martha
Copyright © 2019 Phillipa Nefri Clark
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher and the author.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
Martha is written in Australian English
Cover design by Steam Power Studios
Edited by Nas Dean
Also by Phillipa Nefri Clark
Christie Ryan Romantic Mysteries series
The Stationmaster’s Cottage
Jasmine Sea
The Secrets of Palmerston House
The Christmas Key
Christie Ryan Romantic Mystery Boxed Set
Doctor Grok’s Peculiar Shop (Paranormal Suspense shorts)
Colony
Table for Two
Wishing Well
Coming Soon
Last Known Contact
Contents
1. Beneath the Waves
2. Gone too Soon
3. Alone
4. Martha’s Cottage
5. Lost Forever
6. Failing to Move On
7. Visitors
8. Too Late to Say Sorry
9. Friends Forever
10. A Milestone
11. Good Motives. Bad Choices
12. Out of Reach
13. An Unfinished Plan
14. A Prod from a Friend
15. Memories and Memoirs
16. A Promise on the Beach
17. Memories and Memoirs
18. A Call Home
Afterword
About the Author
Also by Phillipa Nefri Clark
1
Beneath the Waves
1972
Dark.
Dark, silent place.
But warm. Weightless warmth around me.
I’m sinking. Pulled down from the surface.
A single flash of light and I see where I am. Bubbles escape my mouth as I begin a scream but then my brain takes control. I clamp my lips together and get my bearings as the light shudders and fades.
Sand beneath my feet. Huge wooden pylons surround me. I’m under the jetty.
I stretch my arms upwards but my body won’t follow. Something grips my waist. My dress is caught on a pylon nail and I’m not strong enough to pull free.
Utter quiet. Eyes sting. Air escapes my nose. My fault.
I’ve done this.
Around my face, my hair floats. Long hair and long dress. Floating.
Lightning again. And he is here beneath the waves. His eyes beg me to hold on as he nears and I reach for his hands.
His fingers. Mine. They touch.
I sigh in relief. Bubbles surround me as air leaves my lungs and when the sheet of light returns, I smile at him. Thomas fades to nothing.
2
Gone too Soon
1972
Martha gazed into the mirror in the hotel room. She didn’t know how long she’d stood there, but her bare feet were freezing on the tiles, and steam from the shower had cleared from the glass. The sad green eyes staring back were not her own. Surely not. Tiredness formed lines on her forehead and around her mouth.
Too many bad dreams.
She sighed and reached for the solitary, threadbare towel. No wonder she was cold, standing here in an unheated bathroom with not even a dressing gown to warm her damp skin. As she dried her hair, Martha returned to the open suitcase on the bed. She had nothing suitable to wear and would need to find a dress shop somewhere before leaving for the funeral. She’d not thought it through in her rush to get here.
Travelling light meant exactly that. One suitcase contained much of her world. And her world wasn’t geared for the loss of a parent.
If only she’d visited last year. And the year before. Or picked up a phone on his birthday. But weren’t fathers supposed to always be there? It didn’t matter that he was the one who’d left first. Not by much, but he and Mother had abandoned almost everything in the town she knew as home, only to move across the world.
Here in Ireland, the birthplace of Patrick Ryan’s forefathers, he would be laid to rest. No doubt his funeral would be followed by a wake every bit as joyful and drunken as he so often was. Martha’s lips curved upwards. The happiest drunk alive. At least back in Australia.
A glance at the clock beside the bed dragged Martha from her musings. She threw on brown slacks, a soft jumper she’d found at a market, and the short leather boots she’d taken everywhere since she left Australia. Once her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she was presentable enough to shop for a dress she’d need to find space for in the bottom of the suitcase.
One day she’d find her home. A place and purpose just for her. Not yet though. No, not until the dreams left her alone.
She’d been right about the wake. Almost midnight, and the party continued. Cries of ‘to Patrick’, and ‘gone but never forgotten’, filled the house which Mother would now sell. It was nowhere as grand as Palmerston House, the home of Martha’s childhood, now boarded up in the tiny seaside town of River’s End. But perfect for her father. Close to pubs, near the sea, and with a new family of friends.
Lilian Ryan did and said all the right things. Even at this hour, after seeing her husband buried, her strict upbringing kept her focused. Her back was straight and her eyes clear as person after person commiserated or reminisced.
Mother never wanted help, let alone comfort. Even when Martha arrived at the house an hour before they needed to leave for the funeral, Lilian merely offered her tea and spoke of the weather. Only once was there an inkling of a crack in her shell. Just before they left.
“Is she running late?” Lilian had checked the window for the third time.
“Mother?” Martha’s heart sank, hoping against hope her mother wasn’t talking about Dorothy.
But she was. “Shouldn’t your sister be here? Perhaps her flight was delayed. Or she couldn’t get a taxi to bring her this far. Oh, I should have arranged someone to meet her—”
“Dorothy isn’t coming.” Martha enfolded her mother in her arms, wishing she’d stop hoping. For an instant, Lilian’s shoulders dropped, but then she stepped away from Martha’s embrace.
“I see.”
“Dorothy should be here. There’s no ‘I see’ about it.” Martha had crossed her arms. “She had time and she certainly has the money for the airfare.”
Lilian had shrugged and walked away. “I’ll fetch my purse.”
And now they were at the end of the wake. Drunk men and sympathetic women spilled out onto the driveway, until at last the house was quiet. Martha locked the front door and collected the last of the plates. In the kitchen, Lilian stood at the sink, fingers in the water, eyes closed.
How will she cope?
As much as her parents disagreed on almost everything, their love was true. Enduring. And now Daddy was gone forever and nothing would ever be the same. Whatever that meant.
“I’ll finish this, Mother. You go to bed.”
With a nod, Lilian opened her eyes, then dried her hands on a tea towel. “Will you
stay a while, child?”
“I…I can’t. There’s only one bus and I’ll miss the connection to London if I don’t leave first thing. I’m sorry.”
Lilian took Martha’s hand and squeezed it. There were tears in her eyes. Martha swallowed to push down a sympathetic rush of emotion.
“You’re a good girl, Martha. And I made a terrible mistake.”
“Mother?”
“I think it was my fault. I should have accepted…him.”
An icy shiver ran down Martha’s spine. “Who?”
“Your Thomas. He wasn’t a bad boy. I’d just forgotten what young love felt like.” Lilian kissed Martha’s cheek. “I’m going to bed.”
Lilian released Martha’s hand and shuffled to the door, exhaustion in every step. She’d aged in front of Martha today. The strong woman, opinionated and unafraid was buried beneath a quiet grief. But what she’d said spun around Martha’s mind.
“How was any of it your fault, Mother?” Martha caught up with her. “He chose someone else.”
“Things are never as they seem, child. Goodnight.”
“What do you mean?” But Lilian was gone, her heavy footsteps slowly heading to the staircase.
3
Alone
1972
Passengers chatted as the old bus rattled over yet another bridge. Martha rubbed her hands together, wishing she’d bought gloves.
A cup of tea with Lilian early this morning, before daylight forced its way through heavy mist, was strained and quick. Her mother looked as though she’d cried all night. Barely a word passed her lips and when Martha asked what she’d meant about Thomas and Dorothy, all she got was the shake of her head.
Only when Martha picked up her suitcase near the front door did Lilian grasp her arm, eyes wide.
“Move here. Please, child.”
“Here? But I’m studying for another year in England.”
“Can’t you transfer to Ireland? We’re not so far from Dublin and you could live here and wouldn’t need to work.”
The bus pulled over to let a stream of cars pass. Martha stared out of the rain-streaked window at the grey sea. Nothing like River’s End, where the ocean went on forever beneath a deep blue sky. Where she was born and raised and where she belonged.
Where I once belonged.
Another year and she’d be a teacher. Not the future she’d once imagined but a practical and satisfying career. Mother did understand, but was alone and afraid and for that, Martha hurt. She wished she’d had more time to stay. Mother should return to Australia, to Palmerston House. At least she had friends there and would be closer to Dorothy.
With a jolt, the bus got going. It needed to make up time if she was to reach Dublin before the boat left.
There was no point worrying about Mother. When Martha needed her most, she and Dad simply upped and left the country. What was meant to be a long holiday in the country of his ancestors became permanent.
And neither she nor Dorothy were consulted. Just informed that Palmerston House would remain boarded up indefinitely until they decided what to do with it.
Dorothy had been furious. She’d stomped around her apartment in Melbourne shouting about the responsibilities always put on her shoulders. The next day, Martha had packed her small collection of clothes. She had waited until Dorothy returned from work and quietly said her goodbyes.
The last words she heard from her older sister was as she had abruptly shut the door behind Martha. “Don’t expect me to fix this when it all goes wrong.”
She had pulled her shoulders back, held her head high and by the time she had descended to the ground floor, all the tears were wiped away. Martha had stepped out onto the evening street in Melbourne and never looked back.
Her past was in Australia, and soon, Ireland. Father was gone, Dorothy didn’t care, and Thomas… Martha’s fingers curled around each other.
“I should have accepted him. He wasn’t a bad boy.” That’s what Mother had said last night.
“Then why didn’t you?” Martha whispered.
The woman in the next seat glanced at her. Martha looked out of the window again, avoiding her own eyes reflecting back in the glass. Outside, the sky was brighter, the rain stopped. The bus slowed as they entered a village, then stopped to let a group of school children cross. Their laughter made Martha smile. They waved at the bus and she waved back until they ran through the gate of a tiny primary school.
One day she’d be a teacher, waiting for her class to arrive. Nurturing young minds and hearts and helping them reach for their dreams. Probably in London, where demand was high. As the road went up a hill, Martha might have been back in River’s End. Curved, narrow roads, the sea, and small town folk.
Perhaps there were jobs for teachers in towns like this. She’d be close enough to Mother to keep an eye on her, but far enough away to still have a relationship with her. And far enough away from River’s End to keep the heartache at bay.
4
Martha’s Cottage
1977
It was hers.
Martha braced herself against the icy wind flying off the Atlantic Ocean to run to the front gate for the third time in an hour. Snuggled into a heavy jacket, a scarf controlling most of her hair, she couldn’t stop grinning.
At the little iron gate, she turned. The white stone cottage smiled back at her. It knew she was about to transform it from a worn out, unloved house into a warm and pretty home. To anyone else, it was overgrown, in need of some basic repairs, and too far out of town to be bothered with.
The last point wasn’t quite true, it actually was only a ten-minute walk. Martha loved the idea of walking to work every day, even in the cold. And at the worst, the school bus could collect her along its route.
Between the gate and the front door, grass grew through a brick path. On either side were the remains of narrow garden beds. Well, she’d be planting some bright and pretty flowers once she found out what grew here.
A particularly strong gust of wind shook the gate and Martha glanced behind. Across the road was a wide grass verge and then a rocky descent to a pebbled beach. Not quite the white expanse of soft sand she was used to, but it would do. The sky was heavy with rain clouds and as they scuttled her way, Martha scampered inside, closing the red door behind her with some effort.
She’d moved in two days ago and had so little, but it didn’t matter. The fireplace was lit and warmth radiated through the room which was part living area and part dining, with a cosy kitchen looking over the sea. The kitchen was dominated by a wood stove which she’d already discovered was cantankerous.
There was an old fridge but she had ordered a new one from Dublin, along with a bed to replace the quite horrible one in the larger of two bedrooms.
“If I can sleep comfortably and stock up on fresh food then there is little else I urgently need.” She’d told the realtor, who’d shrugged. He was relieved to sell, from what she could tell, and wasn’t local. The cottage was last owned by an elderly woman who’d been moved into care in the city and it was her family who wanted it sold.
Martha peered out through the windows. “Well, I shall love you as she once did. And never leave you.”
That said, she opened the last of her boxes from England, emptying the contents onto the heavy timber dining table. Since arriving in London six years ago, she’d collected enough to live on, but not enough to hold her to one place. And she’d moved often, particularly the first couple of years, living more out of her suitcase than anything.
This box followed her from Australia. Dorothy grew tired of holding onto items Martha forgot to pack when she left and tracked her down in London. After one look inside, Martha taped it up and never opened it again. Until now.
When Mother and Dorothy had persuaded her to spend time in Melbourne, she’d packed with no interest in the future. Her world had crashed around her and it was Dorothy who eventually took over, gathering a selection of Martha’s possessions.
From
her desk at Palmerston House was a framed photograph of the family when Martha was ten. She remembered the day well, as Father had made non-stop jokes about the camera stealing his soul. She touched his face with trembling fingers.
There was a bunch of letters tied up with string, all from Dorothy, written after she left Palmerston House to begin her life in the city. It was soon after the family photos were taken, and kept Martha close to her big sister. For a while, anyway.
A bundle of paperbacks was a welcome find. Reading something other than exam papers and timetables was such a pleasant thought.
At the bottom was a small jewellery box. Martha picked it up, her heart racing. It would be silly to open it. Why make herself sad? And yet, she suddenly wanted to see it again.
Inside the box was a gold pendant. Two letters—T and M—entwined. The chain was fragile and perfect. “Oh, Thomas.”
Her hands shook and she closed the lid, then shoved it into the box. She replaced the tape the best she could. There was a cupboard near the back door and Martha pushed the box into the bottom, behind a broom and mop.
She was so cold. The fire was all but out and the sun completely gone. Martha’s heart yearned for another time, another place. But, this was her home now. Her little school was depending upon her. This cottage needed her.
Martha Page 1
