The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  “You’d always catch me.”

  Thomas tightened his grip. “That’s not all I’d do.”

  Martha laughed again, so Thomas spun her around to face him, taking a step back from the cliff edge at the same time. With undisguised adoration, Martha gazed at Thomas. Ever so slowly, he lowered his mouth to within an inch of hers, and she closed her eyes in anticipation.

  "You need someone to curb your wild nature. Someone with a firm hand," he whispered.

  Martha opened her eyes. “You can’t tame the wind. Or the ocean, except in your paintings.” Her expression dared him to disagree.

  He released her, going back to the easel. Martha glared at him, hands on her hips. As if nothing happened, Thomas took his seat and returned to mixing colours.

  Dismissed, Martha swept her hat off the grass and stalked down the hill dramatically.

  “Bye, Martha.”

  Over her shoulder, Martha threw a terse, “Goodbye, Thomas.”

  Thomas turned to watch her go, grinning.

  NOW, SOME FIFTY YEARS later, Martha's lips softened with a small smile at the memory. Coming home had been unplanned and unexpected. Now she was here, the emotions welling up inside her were as strong as they had ever been. Every single last one of them.

  The sun disappeared behind the clouds. Soaring on the updraft around the cliff, seagulls cawed and drifted, hopefully watching Martha. She watched them back. How lucky they were to fly where they chose, to have no problems other than where their next meal was. They lost interest in her and flew to the beach.

  Martha followed them. Her feet knew the way to the stone steps, but her ankle made the descent much harder than she remembered. One painful step at a time, leaning heavily on the cane, she drew closer to that beloved and hated place.

  In her mind, she saw herself aged twenty, her eyes alight with love and life, running down these same steps without a care in the world. Thomas waited at the bottom, his hand outstretched for hers. He had been twenty-two on this day in her memories, his birthday only a week past. When Martha took his hand, he folded her into his arms and kissed her hungrily. Laughing, Martha slipped away, Thomas chasing her to the jetty. She danced her way to its end, dangling her sandals from her fingers before sitting with her feet dipping into the warm water.

  Their ghostly laughter was almost real as Martha shuffled along creaky old boards. The rain returned as Martha lowered herself onto the end of the jetty. The young couple were gone now. Alone, her tears and the rain mingled into one.

  CHRISTIE SAT IN HER car, staring at the cottage. Parked halfway up the driveway, the dull scrape of her windscreen wipers periodically interrupted the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof. She had no idea what she was doing here. All she did know was that Lizard Island was off the cards. Unsure if she even wanted to be engaged to Derek anymore, she was numb.

  Under heavy clouds and steady rain, the cottage melted into the foliage. Several large trees overhung it, their branches brushing against the metal roof. Oversized bushes intruded on the windows and sprawled across garden beds. Across the front of the property, the rose bushes had grown into a hedge of sorts.

  Christie knew a little about gardening, thanks to Gran’s love of flowers, roses in particular. Tending to the beautiful array of plants in the conservatory and garden was the one thing they enjoyed doing together. Lilies, dahlias, roses and a multitude of others Gran taught her how to properly prune and feed. Yet not one tulip Christie could recall, thinking back to the casket this morning.

  Realising she was thirsty and needed a bathroom stop, Christie dug around in her bag for the keys to the cottage. Her hand touched the letter from Gran. Not yet, she told herself.

  Clutching her keys, she climbed out into the rain, stepping straight into a puddle, soaking her other shoes. This time though, all she could do was laugh. She laughed all the way to the porch where she tossed her heels off and shook the rain from her hair.

  If Derek saw her now, he would be horrified. Shoeless feet, wet hair and damp clothes. Standing on the tiny porch of - what had he called it? Oh yes, a pile of junk in a backwater town. Christie played with the keys in her hand. Well, it was her pile of junk so he might have to get used to it. Before she could change her mind, Christie unlocked the door and went inside.

  TRUDGING ALONG THE beach against sheets of rain, a fisherman pulled his hat further over his ears. Caught out on the rocks by the weather, he had given up the idea of fish for lunch and now wanted a steaming cup of coffee to nestle between his frozen hands. As he passed the jetty, a small movement caught his eye.

  A hunched figure, an old woman on the end of the old structure. Dropping his tackle on the sand, he stomped along the jetty, wondering what she was doing out here, let alone in this rain. Utterly drenched and with both arms wrapped around her body, she was deathly cold and unresponsive. Martha’s eyes were closed and her skin as white as the foam on the waves. The fisherman removed his oilskin and draped it around her shoulders. “Hold on, lady. Just hold on.”

  CHRISTIE TURNED THE kitchen tap. The pipes groaned and rattled before delivering a trickle of brown water. She left it on while she checked the cupboards, finding some old glassware at the back of the one next to the even older oven. The water came out in a clear gush, and after washing a glass, Christie cautiously sipped the contents. It tasted fresh and pure. Through the grimy window, she spotted the source. A large metal tank was almost invisible within the grip of a blackberry bush.

  That done, she visited the bathroom. She ran the tap for a while there as well to wash her hands, before drying them on tissues from her bag. If she was going to stay here, she would need to shop soon. She shook her head at herself in the mirror. Who said anything about staying? No power, no food, no anything that made a house a home. But it is yours, a little voice insisted.

  The rain still bucketed down and, not inclined to venture outside, Christie went for another walk. Worn old carpet in the hallway warmed her cold feet. She revisited the bedrooms, deciding the one on the left was in the best shape. Although missing curtains, its finely striped blue wallpaper was intact and the mattress on the post and rail bed was firm.

  Remembering the blankets in the hallway closet, Christie went to check their condition. On closer inspection, only two of the blankets were usable, the others so worn and holey they would offer little warmth. Christie dropped the better blankets on the bed and returned to the hallway.

  She glanced up at the trapdoor and hesitantly took the long tool out again. This time, when she hooked the loop and pulled, she stepped back to avoid the debris and dust. The trapdoor swung downwards. A pull-down ladder clunked its way to half a metre or so above the ground.

  "Well, well," Christie said aloud. This was getting interesting. The attic in Gran's house always fascinated her with its treasure trove of unwanted furniture and old keepsakes. Not that you would want to be caught there, as it was deemed off limits. So, what was up here apart from dust and darkness?

  Christie put one foot on the ladder. Probably should be wearing shoes, but she wanted to see what was up there. The ladder swayed alarmingly as she climbed. It was awkward climbing in a narrow skirted dress, but she got to the top and took her phone out. Finding its torch, she cast the light around. It was a surprisingly large space with the roof high in the middle. Cautiously, Christie pulled herself onto the floor of the attic and stood.

  Up here, the rain thundered like a relentless waterfall. There was one cobweb-covered window. Beside it was a small armchair with a throw rug tossed over its back. An empty workbench ran along one end of the attic, covered with layers of paint splashes.

  There was little else to investigate. No hidden rooms or secret passages. Disappointed, Christie hesitated at the edge of the open trapdoor, flashing the phone torch around one last time. In the furthest corner, where the roof was low, a dark shape was just visible. It was a small wooden trunk, pushed so far back that Christie had to get onto her knees to reach it.

  Crafted fro
m dark timber, it was about the size of a small suitcase but taller, with a curved top. It was locked. Christie sat back on her heels. Was this where Gran kept her secrets? If the cottage had been the home of the stationmaster until the trains stopped, who had lived here since? Not Gran. Would Martha have lived here? Maybe this trunk was empty, and there were no secrets.

  Only one way to find out. Christie pulled the keys from a pocket. There was the key to the front door, a small key that might be for a padlock, and a long skeleton key.

  “Private Investigator Ryan!” Christie giggled as she inserted the long key and turned it. It went around, and around again, and with a small “click”, the lock opened.

  Almost holding her breath, Christie opened the trunk and flicked the light inside. Adorned with a red velvet ribbon was a shoebox. Nothing else. Christie picked it up with a frown and carried it to the armchair where there was a little bit of natural if dull light.

  Placing the box on her lap, Christie tugged the ribbon, and it slipped off. The shoebox must have been decades old, as the brand was indiscernible and the cardboard was spongy. Inside, a black ring box was perched on top of a bundle of letters tied up with more red velvet ribbon. Christie removed the lid of the ring box.

  On a bed of black silk lay two rings. A simple gold wedding band and a solitaire ring.

  "Oh, my." Christie held the box up to the window to see them better, but it was too dark, so she replaced the lid and put it back in the shoebox. Now, this might qualify as a secret. Or, it might be someone's rings accidentally left behind. Whichever, Christie knew she needed more light and something on her cold feet.

  HALF AN HOUR LATER and Christie was more puzzled than ever. Taking advantage of a break in the rain, she made a dash for the car to retrieve her overnight bag and the box. Dry socks warmed her feet, and her shoes were now perched on the windowsill facing where the sun would be, should it decide to make an appearance.

  She picked up the wedding ring and squinted at the engraving on the inside.

  Forever Taming the Wind

  The ring was exquisitely made, as if by a master jeweller. The solitaire was every bit as beautiful in matching yellow gold, with a stunning brilliant cut diamond in a six claw setting. Christie removed her own ring and tried this one on. It fitted as if made for her finger.

  Christie compared her ring with the solitaire. Her three stone, halo diamond ring was set in platinum, and while it was sparkly and expensive, lacked the simple perfection of the other ring. She pulled it off, filled with guilt for thinking that way.

  She glanced at her phone, reminded she needed to let him know her change of plans. Before she put it off any longer, she dialled his number. It went to voicemail.

  "Hi honey," she began, "please call me when you get this. I'm sorry, but I won't be there today. Um, I... I need a few days to myself. The funeral and everything was hard, and I need a little time to work through it all. Sorry. I love you lots and will make it up to you, I promise. Please don't worry about me. Just enjoy your time up there. I'll talk to you soon. Love you."

  No doubt he would be upset and probably had every right to be. Instead of enjoying a long-awaited break together, he was alone and disappointed by the turn of events that were outside his control. Christie pushed aside the thought she would be on her way to him now if he had been more understanding.

  Instead of dwelling on it, she took the bundle of letters out of the shoebox and slipped the ribbon off. There were a handful of letters, each addressed to Miss M Ryan, care of Miss D Ryan at a Melbourne address. The handwriting was bold and masculine with the return address of T. Blake, 37 Station Street, River’s End. This cottage. All the letters had stamps, and postage marks and all of them remained unopened. How strange. There was no return to sender message on them, so presumably, they had found their way to Martha and been ignored.

  Christie flicked through them. The timespan ranged across three months in 1967 and 1968. Who was T. Blake? For that matter, how had they come back to the cottage where they originated, and who kept them in this shoebox for all of these years? Angus had been right about secrets!

  The sun came out, bringing instant warmth. Christie went to the window. Outside, the wet trees glistened under a clearing sky. There was peace here.

  The sound of heavy footsteps on the porch, followed by a creak and a bang, interrupted this new found peace. Christie waited for the knock that did not come, so after a moment she peered outside. Nobody there. She went to the driveway, watching her step. A van was pulling away, with Municipal Power across its side.

  Back inside, Christie tried the light switch, rewarded with a brightly lit kitchen. Well, that made the decision easier. At least for tonight, she would stay here, and tomorrow she would work out what she wanted to do with the cottage.

  Five

  WITH THE SUN OUT, IT was as though all the people living in town emerged. Christie circled the block for a parking spot, aware her car was drawing the interest of almost everyone she passed.

  Hungry and in need of supplies for the night, she’d ventured into River’s End. By freshening her makeup and changing into yesterday’s clothes, Christie’s self-confidence rose.

  The town was old, with late nineteenth-century architecture modified to accommodate modern trends. Shops had housing behind or above them. Along one side were cafés and takeaways, a jeweller, a couple of clothing shops, a bakery, and a pharmacy next to a house converted into a medical surgery. On the other side was a small supermarket, two real estate agents, a newsagent, a bank was also a post office and a butcher. Public hotels were at either end of the main street, one with a bottle shop attached.

  The small supermarket was bursting with products on high shelves. Christie could not believe her luck finding a sheet set, pillow, and a towel. To those she added toilet paper, paper towels, garbage bags, cleaning products, and a kettle hiding behind some vases, some long life milk, and instant coffee, plus a mug, and plastic cutlery set.

  At the checkout, two middle-aged women – one on either side of the counter - were deep in conversation, but as Christie approached, they stopped and stared at her. She smiled and loaded her purchases. In silence, the woman behind the checkout scanned Christie’s items and packed them into a box. The other woman stood back to watch.

  “How are you?” Christie asked them, getting only a grunt in return. Unfazed, Christie took her purse out and found some cash. “Nice to see the sun.”

  Finished, the shop assistant merely held her hand out for the money. After thoroughly checking each note, the woman handed change and a receipt back without a word.

  “Thanks for that!” Christie picked up the box, a little puzzled by the standoffish manner of the women.

  Next, she went to the bakery, which boasted a tempting array of pastries, cakes and all manner of baked delights. Doubting the quality of the oven in the cottage, she decided to buy lunch and tomorrow’s breakfast now, and come back into town this evening for dinner.

  The girl behind the checkout was about eighteen, excessively made up, with rings through her nose and eyebrow. Her name badge said Belinda. She openly admired Christie’s clothes. “Is that your car outside? The white sports car?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Wow, cool. You must be pretty rich.”

  Christie laughed. “Hardly. Just a bit lucky to get an amazing deal.”

  “Wish I was lucky! Don’t think I’ll ever own anything that fantastic. Now, what delicious offerings may I help with?”

  Christie chose a couple of croissants for tomorrow and a freshly made salad roll for lunch. As Belinda got these, a younger girl dressed in school uniform and carrying a backpack hurried into the shop and straight around the counter.

  “Hey Jess,” Belinda glanced up, “there’s lunch on the table.”

  Jess glanced around on her way to the backroom, giving Christie a glimpse of her face. About twelve, she was pretty but had a long, light coloured birthmark on her left cheek.

  "Thanks," she
mumbled as she rushed through the door.

  Belinda glanced after her. “Jess, you’re fine.”

  There was no response from the back room, and Belinda put Christie's food into a carry bag. "There you go; the croissants are a local favourite. Next time, try the éclair. They're a bit spesh too."

  Christie paid and thanked Belinda, mentally ticking off her shopping list as she headed back to the car.

  AS SHE EASED THE CAR into the driveway, Christie unexpectedly smiled. The rainy skies were now blue, and the air was warmer. For some reason, the cottage was calling her. It might have caused a rift with Derek, but something was appealing about this funny little house.

  Christie ate her roll perched on the corner of the kitchen table, her eyes drawn to the open shoebox. This whole mystery surrounding Gran and her sister was puzzling. Something had driven a wedge between them, and the answers might be in those letters. She intended to find an address for Martha and let her know, as gently as possible, that Gran passed away.

  Before doing anything though, she made the bed and cleaned the bathroom. The methodical job of cleaning was oddly relaxing, and the result of a serviceable bathroom and ready to sleep in bed left Christie satisfied.

  She glanced at her watch. Almost three. Her flight would be leaving, and she should have been on it. How could her life have changed so fast? She should have been able to handle the whole thing better, and make Derek happy as well as fulfil Gran's final wishes.

  Sad and worried, Christie returned to the kitchen. Her relationship with Derek had always been tranquil. No arguments or hurtful words, until the last day or so, when Gran’s funeral derailed his plans. He had to be hurt to have written off Christie’s loss as less important than his own needs.

  Christie got a glass of water and sat at the table, mentally shaking it all off. She unrolled the canvas, marvelling at the sheer beauty and detail of the painting. The top right corner had a small tear needing attention before any more damage occurred. There was no apparent signature on the painting.