The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  The Stationmaster’s Cottage

  Phillipa Nefri Clark

  2017

  Dedicated to my beautiful sister, Roshan.

  The Stationmaster’s Cottage

  © 2017 Phillipa Nefri Clark

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes study and research, criticism, review, or as otherwise permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission from the author.

  All characters and events depicted, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real person, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Steam Power Studios

  The Stationmaster’s Cottage is set in Australia, and written in Australian English.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  About Phillipa Nefri Clark

  Connect with me

  Prologue

  ONE FINAL TIME, DOROTHY Ryan prepared to play the game. The game from her teenage years, dreaming of a life in musical theatre. Her eyes would close as tight as possible as she hoped with all her might that when they opened, she would be on a stage on Broadway.

  Solo in a dazzling spotlight, she sang her heart out to an enraptured audience. Music filled the theatre as her voice soared to yet another high note. Thunderous applause followed, and she opened her eyes to bow with a flourish.

  The disappointment was always the same. The stage was her bedroom. No audience, only dolls in a row on her bed. The music was her little sister singing to herself in the next room.

  With no vocal ability to speak of, her dreams vanished under the practical guidance of a mother who wanted her children properly educated. Dorothy left the game behind when she departed River’s End at the age of twenty.

  Now seventy-nine, Dorothy was back in her hometown after five decades, clinging to a final wish. She closed her eyes and wished; wished when they opened she would be in her old room in Palmerston House.

  Just a daydreaming teenager again before this lifetime passed like the blink of an eye. Before she lost what mattered. Before her own choices shattered the life of the person she cared most for in the world; choices that destroyed true love.

  Dorothy opened her eyes. She was still here, seated at a small table in a dingy motel room with a lumpy bed and peeling wallpaper. Her wrinkled hands were spotted from age, and her failing heart still pounded uncomfortably in her chest. So much for games.

  She smoothed out an ivory page of delicate writing paper. Few people mattered to Dorothy. Her only grandchild, Christie, was one of them and this letter would say goodbye.

  Her hand hovered over the paper, the expensive pen not making contact as she thought about another letter she had written over a month ago. Had Martha even read it and understood the urgency of her older sister’s request? Dorothy sighed and put down the pen.

  Some things needed saying before Dorothy died and it had taken every bit of her resolve to write.

  Dear Martha,

  I have battled with myself over the wisdom of this letter. After all these years - this lifetime we have been apart – I ask myself if it is right to tell you what happened that night... and in the days and months afterward. Will knowledge give you peace and let you put this to rest? Perhaps your absence from my life for almost half a century has been to protect yourself from finding out. Perhaps you gave up on me.

  I am a coward to have waited until now when my life is so close to its end, but I cannot go to my grave with this burden. You see, I know what happened.

  You need to understand, I acted out of a desire to protect you from yourself. Mother and I had grown increasingly concerned by your poor choices; not only with the girls that you called friends but the danger you insisted on placing yourself in with Thomas Blake. As if a man like that could ever be suitable for you! Yet you ignored our concerns and turned your back on our pleas, spending all your time with him. Mother was beside herself. Did you ever think for one moment of anyone other than yourself back then?

  None of this would have happened, none of it, had Martha ever cared about anything her mother, Lilian, or sister said, instead of following the rather bad example of their carefree father, Patrick. Martha was somehow the perfect combination of both parents, wild and stubborn, generous and passionate like Patrick, as well as proud and selfish, sensitive and protective like Lilian.

  By the time Martha was born, nine-year-old Dorothy already knew to treat the locals with civility but nothing more. She understood the unspoken rules. In the small town of River’s End, the Ryan family were wealthy, influential and quite separate from the community they lived in.

  Martha was different, enchanting all who met her with a gorgeous smile and genuine interest in others. Ah, thought Dorothy, the beautiful one, the smart and funny child everybody loved. Especially me.

  Dorothy sipped on a half-cold cup of Earl Grey. It would have tasted better in one of her bone china cups and properly made by Angus, the only man she had not scared away over the years, mainly, she expected, due to the generous salary she paid him to run her house, but this ageing motel only provided thick white mugs and an old kettle. The need to stay in River’s End had taken precedence over Dorothy’s distaste for the surroundings. No, this room on the back street of the town would suffice until Martha arrived. She glanced at the paper to remind herself to write to Christie, but the other letter filled her thoughts.

  Mother feared for your future and often wrote; asking me to speak with you, reason with you about the boy. Of course, I knew that would be not only a waste of my time but quite likely hasten you into an unsuitable marriage. Thomas, after all, could not have been anything other than a rebellious fling, and Mother should have left things alone from the beginning.

  It was only after speaking with Father on one of his visits to the city, I realised you were quite smitten with Thomas. Father liked him. Typical, for he thought the Blake family to be salt of the earth. Mother and I considered Thomas to be controlling and have few prospects. Father believed him to be of strong character and highly creative. He even said Thomas was perfect for you, as a lesser man would never handle your spirit the way he thought Thomas did. Nobody had ever settled you in a direction, yet Father believed Thomas knew exactly how to manage your wild ways.

  Dorothy shook her head crossly. No point going over it all again. She needed to write her farewells to Christie. As she picked up the pen, another memory intruded, and her hand trembled. It was 1967. The year that changed everything.

  PATRICK RYAN STOOD by Dorothy's lounge room window, contemplating the hustle and bustle of Melbourne city several floors below. The outlook was straight down the main street filled with mid-afternoon shoppers, cars and workers. Patrick helped himself to a glass of whiskey from the small bar Dorothy kept, mostly for his visits.

  “Father, you’ve got a long drive ahead!” Dorothy scolded.

  Patrick
tapped the window. “Do ye see the Clydies now?”

  Dorothy rolled her eyes behind his back. “The streets are getting too busy for the horses, Father, and besides, we don’t have milk delivered to the apartment.”

  Patrick turned around. “All this progress - does it not make ye want to come home?” A third generation Australian, Patrick nevertheless spoke with the soft Irish accent of his father and grandfather. It was somehow out of place in Dorothy’s modern apartment.

  She shook her head, not sure how to answer. Her life had been in Melbourne since boarding school days, punctuated by long summer school holidays in River’s End she tolerated for her mother’s sake. The reality was she loved the progress, loved her job as a trainee manager at a department store, and rather loved the young man she was seeing. Going “home” would stifle her.

  “Before I know it, Martha will be all married and gone as well. Both my girls disappearing in the blink of an eye.”

  “What do you mean, married? Martha won’t marry Thomas Blake!” Dorothy was alarmed.

  “Have ye not spoken to yer sister in so long? Young Thomas has our Martha all worked out. She might not always like it, but he has the upper hand there and them being wed will change her ways.” Patrick chuckled and drained his glass. "Ye be coming to the engagement party when they have it?" He put the glass back on the bar and picked up his jacket from the back of a chair.

  “Engagement? I think I must.”

  “I shall tell yer sister to hurry up and arrange that party so both my girls will be together again.”

  If Martha was engaged to this boy, Dorothy needed to speak with her. It may not be too late to change her mind, and if anyone could talk sense into Martha, it was her big sister.

  NOW, HER MIND REFUSED to release the past, and her heart overflowed with anguish. The letter. She desperately hoped Martha received the letter.

  I should have stayed in the city, or left the country, anything other than come home for your engagement party. It was evident from the moment I returned to Palmerston House the relationship was serious. Mother refused to attend your party of course, and I was terribly worried for her state of mind. All she ever wanted, Martha, was for you to finish your education and marry well. You need to understand she had nothing at all to do with the events we speak of now.

  You were surprised I attended your big night in the local hall. It was as though you did not know what to do with me, so you sent one of your friends to keep me company. She was quite the chatterbox about her feelings around your engagement. Thomas' parents left early. Father was there for quite a while but wandered off to meet one of his cronies for yet another whiskey. There was one chance to change everything, and I found myself in the position to set the wheels in motion.

  Please come to River’s End, dear. Please come home and let us speak one more time. I would come to you, but my heart is not strong and more travel is out of the question.

  As always,

  Dorothy

  With both hands on the table to support her weight, Dorothy stood up. Every bone hurt and her heart thumped oddly, as it was prone to do now. She shuffled to an armchair in the corner of the room. The memories of 1967 spun around in Dorothy's head, and she leaned back, eyes closed.

  LIMESTONE CLIFFS TOWERED above the perfectly curved, white sands of River's End beach. Midway along its kilometre shore, a shallow river cut through the sand, forming a lagoon near the tideline. Close by, an old jetty somehow resisted years of exposure to the open ocean to stand firm against the assault of the high tide.

  Although well after midnight, the air was hot and sultry with a whisper of a breeze to offer relief. Out over the Great Southern Ocean, a storm silently brewed. It drifted towards land, lightning flashing ominously within rain-laden clouds.

  Cut into the face of one cliff was a steep staircase of narrow limestone steps. At the top of the steps, twenty-one-year-old Martha Ryan stood motionless. Heavy, dark brown hair framed a face of Celtic beauty then flowed down her back, almost to her waist. Emerald green eyes, usually alive with light and mischief, were as dark as the night and glistening with unshed tears. An ankle length, dark green dress accentuated her slender figure. Around her neck, she wore a pendant, an "M" and a "T" entwined, and on the third finger of her left hand, a solitaire diamond ring.

  She cast a tormented glance over her shoulder. A hot wind preceded the storm, lifting Martha’s hair and in spite of the heat, she shivered.

  “Where are you, Martha?” From a distance away, a man cried out. Thomas Blake.

  Martha ran down the steep steps at breakneck speed. At the bottom, she threw off her shoes and gasped as the still-hot sand burnt the soles of her feet.

  Closer now, Thomas called again, exasperation resonating in his deep voice. “Martha, for god’s sake! Stop!”

  Instead of stopping, Martha flew toward the tideline, where the sand was wet and cooling and presented a firmer running surface. Lifting the skirt of her dress above her knees, she raced along the beach until forced to an abrupt standstill at the edge of the lagoon. It overflowed as a king tide forced the fresh water back from the shore.

  Heart pounding in her ears, Martha frantically sought sanctuary. The old jetty was close by, blanketed in darkness. Without thought, she reached its rickety boards and hurried along them. The sky lit up with a flash of lightning and Martha skidded to a halt at the sight of huge waves covering the end of the jetty. The rapidly rising water lapped at her toes, and she turned around to retrace her steps.

  Twenty-three-year-old Thomas Blake stood on the sand at the end of the jetty. Reaching down, he unsteadily removed one shoe at a time. Still dressed from their engagement party in black pants and a white, unbuttoned shirt, his expression was one of pure frustration. He tossed his shoes and socks to higher ground, crossed his arms and stared at Martha.

  "Go away!" Martha's voice was shaky. "Don't follow me. You have no right!" She took a step back, unaware how precariously close she was to the edge of the timber boards.

  “Either you come off the jetty right now, or I’ll come and get you. Martha, I mean it, I’ll carry you back to the cottage and I’ll—” A sudden crack of thunder directly overhead cut him off.

  Startled, Martha jumped and lost her footing as a wave crashed over the boards. With a small scream, she slipped into the swirling water and disappeared.

  Throwing off his shirt as he ran along the jetty, Thomas scanned the water where Martha fell. She surfaced for a second or two before the power of the ocean and weight of the waterlogged dress dragged her back under.

  Thomas leapt into the angry waves, frantic in his search of the water around him. “Martha! Martha, where are you?” he cried in desperation.

  From halfway along the beach, an echoing scream went unheard as thunder bellowed across the shore. "Martha! Oh my god, Martha!" Dorothy Ryan watched in horror as Thomas dived below the waves and emerged empty-handed.

  DOROTHY’S EYES FLEW open. She sat upright on the armchair, disoriented. Bit by bit, she remembered. River’s End. November 2016. The memories of that night almost fifty years ago were raw.

  She had to make sure Martha learned the truth before it went to Dorothy's grave with her. A wave of dizziness made Dorothy's ears ring as she struggled to her feet. The room appeared to darken for a moment, and Dorothy clutched at her left shoulder. Somehow, she reached the table and sat down. She scrawled a few words on the blank paper, her face white and grim from pain, her thin lips shaded blue. Her handwriting became illegible, and the pen slipped from her hand. Angus would know what to do.

  Dorothy forced her body to the sagging double bed. Despite the pain, she removed her shoes and placed them neatly on the floor. From an open cardboard box on the bedside table, she extracted a small photo album. Her breath ragged, she lay on her back, closed her eyes and willed her heart to steady, as her mind drew her back to that night on the beach.

  IN PANIC, DOROTHY RAN toward the jetty. She saw Thomas appear for a second and dive under again. W
ith a deafening crash, lightning struck the top of the cliff on the far end of the beach, and Dorothy screamed.

  This was too much to bear. The seconds dragged like minutes, and still, there was no sign of them. She was a weak swimmer, but she had to do something. As she tentatively stepped onto the jetty, there was a disturbance in the water, and Thomas burst up, Martha in his arms. They both gasped desperately at the air to fill their depleted lungs.

  Thomas fought his way to the beach, one arm holding Martha for dear life. In the shallows, he stopped, utterly spent. The waves washed over them. Then, as though she weighed nothing, Thomas lifted Martha into his arms and stood up. With shaking legs, he staggered to the soft sand higher on the beach and there, sank to his knees, still cradling Martha, who wrapped both of her arms around his neck.

  They stayed that way as the storm closed in. Shuddering gulps of oxygen gradually slowed to calmer breaths. The heat of the night began to dry them.

  Dorothy retreated into the darkness. Every instinct told her to run to Martha and hold her tight in her arms, yet she forced herself away. Thomas Blake risked his own life to save her sister from certain death. Perhaps Mother had been wrong about him. Perhaps she had been. It was in Martha’s hands now.

  Martha seemed to have drifted into a half-sleep, safe in Thomas' arms. He stared at her as if in shock she was there. She stirred and gazed up at him.

  “Damn it, woman. You could have died, throwing yourself in the ocean!”

  Martha pushed herself out of his arms, falling unceremoniously onto the sand. She glared at Thomas as she got to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand. Hair soaking wet, dress ripped, her makeup ruined, Martha was a picture of ethereal beauty even with the anger on her face. Thomas stood and held his hand out again. Martha walked away.

  "It's not what you think," Thomas said. "You don't understand."

  Martha swung around to face him. “Understand? Oh my god, Thomas. I saw you!” Tears coursed down her cheeks. “It’ll be all over town tomorrow. She’ll tell everyone. How could she? How could you?”