The Christmas Key

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  “Sweetheart, on Sunday I want you to take it easy. Tomorrow you’ll be working all day again and I can see how tired you are.” Martin glanced up at the sky. “This was a good idea.”

  “It was your idea.” Christie smiled and sipped her wine. “So, back to Christmas Eve. Who do we know is coming along? Thomas and Martha of course, and Angus.”

  “Daphne and John. Aunt Sylvia and the brat. And Jess.”

  Christie giggled. “The ‘brat’, as you call Belinda, is my right hand here.”

  “And I love her to bits. Barry. Trev, as long as nothing crops up like it normally does when we celebrate anything. Elizabeth.”

  “Is she? I mean, has she told you she’ll be there for certain?”

  “Is this why you asked about ringing around earlier? I hope she will be there. And I hope she and Angus sort this out, but it isn’t our job to do it for them. Is it?” He brushed a stray hair from Christie’s eyes, smiling at her expression. “Finish the wine and I’ll get you home. Let you have some sleep.”

  ***

  “Do you think if I put a bow on you with a card from Martin to Granddad, he might get the hint?” Thomas and Randall ambled down the cottage driveway as the Lotus, with Christie and Martin inside, drove away. “Be the best Christmas present ever, eh?”

  Randall wagged his tail, eyes on Thomas, until he heard the back door open. Thomas watched the dog disappear around the corner of the cottage. At least you’re here today. The morning was already hot, with temperatures forecast to soar later in the day.

  “There you are. I’ve made some lemonade if you’d like a glass?” Martha was on the back porch with Randall, who barely glanced up from the bowl of water he lapped from.

  “Take a whole jug if I stay out here too long.” Thomas followed Martha inside and a moment later Randall padded through the back door. “Still haven’t got the hang of closing doors, have you, dog?”

  Martha poured lemonade into two tall glasses already half filled with ice. “Is he here for the day?”

  “Hope so. Youngsters are going to Warrnambool. Some kind of farmers market on so Martin thought he’d have a look for the party tomorrow night. Apparently Christie is behind with her Christmas shopping, so she refused Martin’s suggestion of breakfast in bed.”

  Randall went into the dining room where he loved the cool of the timber floor beneath the table, so Martha and Thomas made their way there. The trunk still occupied the sideboard.

  “Better move it out and make space for Christmas dinner.” Thomas nodded at it. “I’ll put it back in the entry if you like.”

  “What do you think happened to all of Dorothy’s dolls? There’s nothing in her diary about them, but they must have been valuable, going all the way back to the mid-1800s.”

  “Not in her estate?”

  “Angus never mentioned them. Nor did Christie.”

  “You’d think she’d have kept them for her own children.”

  Martha almost snorted. “The daughter she alienated? Or the grandchild she treated like a stranger? From the time she moved to Melbourne, she lost any interest in being generous, or compassionate, or kind, or—”

  Thomas put a hand over hers. “The complete opposite of her little sister. Who is all of those things and so much more.”

  As if expelling her irritation with Dorothy, Martha drew in a long breath, and exhaled slowly.

  “Better?”

  “I think I’m going to be on edge until I know... well, it isn’t my business, as I said on the jetty, but...”

  “But you’d like to open the shoebox?”

  “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

  “It needs opening. There might be nothing in there to answer any questions. Or something to make the situation worse. With George, I mean, because we’re good now. Aren’t we?” He squeezed Martha’s hand and she curled up the corners of her mouth with a nod.

  “I’ll ring George. See if he’s up to visitors.”

  ***

  1993

  Not content to give George the trunk and keys to the cottage, Dorothy Ryan drove there ahead of him. He wondered how she fitted her new red Range Rover through the laneways of Melbourne. Such a big vehicle for city use. He stopped worrying about her transport problems as they turned into the road to the old cottage.

  Once the home of his best friend, he’d not been here since the day Thomas left, after helping him pack the last of his belongings. His parents had gone, he was about to marry Frances, and the cottage only held bad memories.

  How the place had deteriorated. Overgrown bushes, the weatherboard walls peeling, the driveway pitted with holes from years with no maintenance. George parked on the opposite side of the road as Dorothy drove through the open gate. By the time she was at the back of the Range Rover, he’d crossed the road.

  “Hurry up, George. I don’t want anyone seeing us here.”

  “Nobody ever comes up here now.” Nevertheless, he reached for the trunk.

  “Wait.” Dorothy pushed between George and the trunk. She inserted a key into the lock and opened the lid just enough to peek inside. George couldn’t see past her and wasn’t interested in what she kept in there. A click and she’d locked it again, taking the key and burying into a pocket. “Pick it up and follow me.”

  He regretted agreeing to this. But the alternative was to face public and possibly police accusations and a probe into the actions of his family. And him. His jewellery shop was his life.

  At the back door, Dorothy fussed as she found the right key, then pushed the door open and instructed George to go ahead. She closed and locked the door before stomping down the hallway in her expensive leather high-heeled boots. It crossed George’s mind that she had done very well for herself with the business degree her mother forced her to do.

  “Once you get this up there, make it invisible. Push it right under an eave and then come straight down again. And remember. Tell nobody. Ever!”

  He’d nodded, unable to find words. How he missed Martha, such the opposite of this aggressive, rude woman. But Martha was long gone, and now Thomas was once again alone, apart from his little grandson.

  ***

  “You look so deep in thought, George.” Martha put a cup of herbal tea in front of him at his kitchen table. “Are you feeling alright, dear?”

  Must everyone keep asking this? “Quite well, thank you. I was thinking about my godson.”

  “He didn’t leave your side for hours, George. When you were unconscious, he watched over you.” Thomas sat opposite, placing a shoebox on the table. “Martin loves you deeply. As do I.”

  “I regret worrying you all. And I’m feeling better than I have in months.”

  “So you’ll keep taking the medication and cut back on the hours at the shop?”

  “Not sure about the shop, Thomas. But yes, I want to see my godson’s children, so I’ve taken this as a wakeup call.” George pointed to his tea. “See, even off the caffeine and regrettably, the whiskey. For now.”

  Underneath the table, Randall sighed and rolled over to sleep, touching George’s foot. “So why do you have Randall?”

  “The children are Christmas shopping. Too hot to leave him at home, besides, he needs time with Martha.”

  “I see.” George smiled. “And this?” He nodded at the shoebox. Something about it was familiar.

  “The reason we’re here when Martin is not in town.” Thomas glanced at Martha as she joined them. “But I need to know you’re up to a bit of history. Maybe something good, perhaps not. Don’t want to be calling an ambulance.”

  The shoebox was old and faded. “I remember these boxes. And the ribbon.” The past wasn’t going away. When he’d first had some coherent thoughts in hospital, it was of his conversation with Martha. None of it mattered now. The secrets were out and Thomas was still his best friend. “Why was Martin with me in the hospital, Thomas? Not you?”

  “I was getting this from the cabin.” Thomas undid the ribbon, letting the velvet strip coil
on the table.

  “You’re not making much sense.”

  “Apparently you asked for someone, dear. Before you really woke up.” Martha's eyes flicked between his and the shoebox. “You wanted to see Frannie.”

  Shame poured into George and he dropped his head. How could this be? Bad enough they knew he’d helped Dorothy hide the trunk, but now... how would Thomas forgive him?

  “You can stop it right now. George, nothing’s changed. You never did anything wrong, and if anything, I’m the one who took Frances from you.”

  “No, Tom, George. Frannie was always in love with you, Thomas. We never saw it. And George, with Thomas single she wouldn’t give up until she married him. If anyone is to blame, it is me for leaving.”

  George shook his head. “Perhaps we all need to stop blaming ourselves and move forward.”

  “Exactly my point of getting this from the cabin.” Thomas took the lid off. “Frannie kept it with her precious bits and pieces and I never opened it, not even after she died.”

  “Do you remember she worked at the fabric shop for a long time? The shoebox is from there. Had several pairs I bought over the years.”

  “Oh, George, what a good memory you have! I quite forgot they sold shoes as well as fabric and ribbon.” Martha picked up the velvet. “So, two boxes with red ribbon. One with Tom’s letters to me and the rings.”

  “And whatever is in here.” Thomas moved the box so it was between them all. “Shall we?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  1971

  Frannie wrapped her scarf around her neck for the third time, battling the wind blasting across the Great Southern Ocean on this late winter day. She glanced up the path from Green Bay Lookout, but still no sign of Dorothy. At her feet was a canvas bag. She stared out at the turbulent, grey sea, wondering if a storm was heading across. She needed to be home soon to Thomas and their baby.

  The crunch of footsteps finally came and she turned to Dorothy. Dressed immaculately, as always, the older woman offered no salutation. No niceties. She stopped beside Frannie and glanced at the bag.

  “Everything is there?”

  “Hello, Dorothy. Yes. But I believe it is best for me to keep the rings. The letters. What if Martha visits you and discovers them?”

  “And what if your husband finds them?”

  “He respects my special things. What I keep in my other shoebox.”

  “A shoebox?” Dorothy scorned. “Do you really believe he’ll never look? No, I’ll take the bag and then our... relationship, for want of a better word, is over.”

  Dorothy drew an envelope from her handbag. “As I promised. Enough to feed your child and buy your husband something nice. Or shoes.”

  This was not what Frannie ever wanted. She eyed the envelope. Tom wasn’t making much from his paintings, and she’d had to go back to work a few days a week to makes ends meet. If only George had helped her sell the rings. She shrugged, took the envelope and handed Dorothy the canvas bag.

  “Mark my words, Frances. Never contact me again for any reason. I won’t hesitate to tell your husband what you did. And Martha.”

  As Dorothy stalked up the hill, tears pricked at Frannie’s eyes. What a horrible woman Dorothy was. Not at all like Martha. For a moment, Frannie let herself imagine having her best friend back in her life. Then she saw her wedding ring and smiled. Thomas was worth this. Thomas and their son.

  ***

  Martha’s heart raced as Thomas reached into the shoebox. She wished Christie was here, yet knew it was for the best that this moment was shared by the two men who’d mattered to Frannie. Shared with her, Frannie’s best friend for so long. Her fingers curled into her palms.

  One by one, Thomas laid out the contents of the box.

  A thick, sealed envelope.

  A small notebook.

  A black velvet jewellery pouch.

  George gasped.

  “George? Isn’t this one of yours?” Thomas asked.

  With a nod, George gently opened and emptied the contents onto his palm. Out slid a silver chain. His hands visibly shook as he lifted the chain to reveal a pendant. A silver letter ‘F’.

  “Oh! You made this for Frannie, George.” Martha leaned closer to inspect the pendant. “She kept it all those years.”

  “But... but she told me she’d lost it.” George’s eyes glinted. “I don’t understand.”

  Thomas sighed, and took one of Martha’s hands. “I found it. In the cottage. From... that night.”

  That night. After Frannie took off her clothes in a failed seduction attempt. “I see.” She gripped Thomas’ hand. “You kept it?”

  “Not on purpose. I did find it the night you left me, but Frannie was the last person I wanted to see for a while. It went into a drawer and it was only when I moved out of the cottage it reappeared.”

  “Well, I’m glad you have it back, George.” Martha released Thomas’ hand and picked up the pouch. “There’s something in here. A note.” She smoothed the paper out, revealing Frannie’s handwriting. “Keepsake from George Campbell. A sweet and dear man.”

  “I’m touched.” George nodded to himself with a small smile. He returned the pendant to the pouch, then studied the note before refolding and putting it into his top pocket.

  “Notebook, or envelope?” Thomas had one hand on each.

  “Do you think we should do this?” All of a sudden, doubt flooded into Martha. What if there were personal memories of Frannie’s intimate life with Thomas? Or more about her conspiracy with Dorothy? She knew now how the trunk got to the cottage, but still not why the other shoebox, the one containing her wedding and engagement rings and all the letters Thomas wrote trying to win her back, was inside it.

  “Up to you, bride. Last thing I want is to upset you, or you.” Thomas looked at George. “There’s a reason Frannie kept these things though, and if it gives you both, and me, some peace of mind, then I vote we do.”

  With a touch of his top pocket, George nodded. They both turned to Martha.

  “Very well. But then it’s done. We put it all behind us.”

  Thomas picked up the envelope. “No stamp.” He turned it over. “No names, nothing. Let’s take a look inside.” He grinned suddenly. “Could be money.”

  Martha rolled her eyes. “Open it, old man. Surprised you didn’t suggest it had a restaurant voucher inside.”

  “There’s a thought.” He broke the seal and lifted the flap. “Err... you two won’t believe this.” Thomas pulled out a letter, and a wad of twenty dollar notes. Crisp, perfectly lined up and tied with string. “I was joking.”

  “They look brand new.”

  “They are, I think.” Thomas peered at the top note. “Feel new, but look how old they are. Must be from the sixties, maybe seventies.” He counted the wad and his jaw dropped. “There’s one thousand dollars here.”

  “May I?” Martha slid the letter closer. “This is Dorothy’s handwriting. I wonder if this is the final key to the past.”

  ***

  1971

  Dorothy Ryan counted the notes again. Surely one thousand dollars would secure the silence of the only person who could harm her reputation. And reputation meant everything to a young woman in a business world filled with male contenders ready to pounce on her hard-won career. One day, this amount of money would be there in her bank account for the taking, but the notes she now tied with string were a secret gift from her mother.

  Lilian owed her this. It was her mother who’d refused to accept Thomas Blake as a suitable suitor for Martha. Lilian who’d turned her back on her youngest daughter’s engagement party, leaving Dorothy to make decisions which led to such disastrous consequences. With a heavy sigh, Dorothy slipped the cash into an envelope.

  Martha was gone, travelling somewhere overseas with no contact for the past two years or more. Father heard from her from time to time, but not one word to her sister, as if she somehow suspected the truth. Regret stabbed Dorothy and she put down the unsealed envelope, and
gazed at her favourite photograph. How different things might have been. But they weren’t. It was important the secrets she shared with Frances Blake stayed secret. Dorothy took a pad of fine writing paper from a drawer.

  Dear Frances,

  Once you read this, destroy the letter. This serves as our final communication.

  You will find a sum of money enclosed. Use it however you wish, but understand this is in exchange for your silence, now and in the future. No good will come of bringing our past association to the notice of your husband, my sister, or any other person. I am confident you would not wish your son to know your part in the fallout from our regrettable relationship.

  For I do regret what happened to my sister, more than she will ever know. You may have what you wanted – the husband and son rightfully belonging to Martha – but I have nothing from this.

  My sister is lost to me. All that remains are the memories of our childhood. The dolls we’d play with. The songs I would sing to Martha, hoping one day to perform to a wider audience. Regrets follow me everywhere. The photograph that accompanies this note is a reminder to you of what you helped destroy. Remember this before you divulge a word.

  Dorothy Lilian Ryan

  ***

  “Martha? Look... this was inside the envelope.” Thomas held an old photograph.

  She didn’t want to see it. Turmoil bubbled through her veins, into her heart. Such cruel words to Frannie. To use her own son against her. Yet the bitterness about Dorothy’s own destiny cut her deeply. Mother forbade Dorothy to follow her dreams and directed her into the commercial world, expecting she’d come home to River’s End and revive their flagging timber business.

  Instead, Dorothy accepted a lucrative job in the city. And when the timber yards closed, their parents boarded up Palmerston House and left for Ireland. She was left with no family or friends.

  Martha folded the letter and put it down, then finally looked at the photograph. Two girls. Five-year-old Martha sat on fourteen-year-old Dorothy’s lap, playing with one of the precious dolls from the trunk. Both were laughing. A happy moment captured forever. The photograph that accompanies this note is a reminder to you of what you helped destroy.