The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  Flicking on the kitchen light, Christie glanced at the table, remembering how those couple of hours with Jess had transformed her. The outer girl was one thing, but it was the growing confidence in herself that turned Jess into such a beautiful young woman tonight.

  Once she had a shower and made dinner, she would reassemble the pieces of her puzzle and see what came of it.

  “WELL, AT LEAST YOU lock this door!” Thomas still had his glass of whiskey in one hand as he and Martin wandered into the studio.

  “The contents of the house are more replaceable than in here.” Martin watched Thomas stand in front of one, and then another of his paintings. From a young age, he learned how to paint from his grandfather, sat at his knee with his own small easel and palette at their home high in the nearby mountains. Growing bored with landscapes, Martin experimented with abstracts and developed his own style from there.

  "You're welcome to comment," Martin said.

  “No need. You know your strengths and your flaws. I’ve always admired your boldness. The intellect you weave through the art.”

  “Some would call it madness.” Martin poured himself a whiskey from the bar and topping up Thomas’ glass.

  “Not worth your time. If someone understands you, they - they are worth your time.”

  Randall padded in and after getting a pat from Thomas, settled himself in his bed.

  "You going away again soon?" Thomas watched the dog, and Martin laughed.

  “Did you enjoy his company that much?”

  “He’s a fine dog.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Something about Martin’s tone alerted Thomas. “And who told you that?”

  “Someone.”

  “Ah. Someone.”

  “The same someone who loaned me what I need to show you. Why I called you.”

  “Well, show me.” Thomas put his glass onto the top of the bar.

  “It’s over here, Granddad.” Martin walked to the central easel, covered with a sheet.

  “Uh oh. You only call me that when there’s a problem. Did you buy something you shouldn’t have?”

  “Oh, I tried to buy it. I’m still trying to buy it.”

  “For goodness sake, Martin, show me the thing!”

  In one quick action, Martin pulled the sheet off.

  Thomas went as white as the sheet and walked away. Back to the bar where he grabbed his glass and drained it in one long gulp.

  Martin folded the sheet, keeping an eye on Thomas. Moments passed as Thomas refilled his glass but ignored the contents, finally walking back to stand in front of his own painting.

  With shaking hands, he touched the image of the jetty. “Where?” His voice was so low, Martin had to move closer to him. “Where did you find it?”

  "It's a long story, and I think we need to be sitting down for it."

  “You said you’ve tried to buy it. Who, Martin? Who from?” He turned to Martin, his eyes filled with tears and his expression halfway between hope and fear.

  ELIZABETH PAUSED IN the doorway of the living room, watching Martha stare at a white envelope in her hands. Her friend had been introspective all through dinner, worrying Elizabeth she may have received bad news at today’s hospital visit. She drew a deep breath as she walked in.

  “Well, how about a sherry to finish the evening?” she headed straight to a tray on the sideboard.

  “Never say no to a sherry.”

  “I shall miss these evenings when you go home.” Elizabeth prompted as she poured sherry into two crystal glasses. There was no reply. Martha was distracted and only glanced up when Elizabeth placed the glass on the table beside her.

  “Oh, thank you, dear.” Martha saw the worry in her face. “I’m alright, Elizabeth. It’s positive news.”

  Elizabeth sighed in relief and sat opposite Martha, taking a sip of sherry.

  “Turns out that young doctor wasn’t so difficult. He’s written me a letter of clearance to fly.” Martha placed the envelope on the table and picked up her glass. “I can go home, Elizabeth.”

  “That’s what you want?”

  “I do want to go back to Ireland, to my little house and garden,” Martha stared at her drink, “but I shall miss you terribly.”

  “Why not stay? Come and live here, with me. There’s more than enough room, or we could find a place of your own?”

  Martha tasted her sherry, listening.

  “You’ve already said how much you love the summer here and after all, this is where you grew up.”

  "You shouldn't tempt me," Martha said. "I would soon become a boring companion and drive your patrons away!"

  Elizabeth laughed. “Boring is something that would never describe Martha Ryan so that is a risk I would take. So, what would make you stay?”

  Martha shook her head, deep again in her own thoughts. The silence stretched out before Elizabeth decided it was now or never to talk about Christie.

  “What about family?”

  “Family?”

  “What about Dorothy’s children?”

  “I lost contact with my sister many years ago. Apart from when our parents died, we’ve not communicated.”

  “So, you don’t know of any children. Grandchildren?”

  “My sister was not the nurturing kind. I can’t imagine her with small children running everywhere, spoiling her garden and muddying her floors.” Her tone was bitter.

  “But she did have a child, darling. A daughter.”

  “A daughter?” Shock filled Martha’s face. “She never told me!”

  “You did say you lost contact with Dorothy a long time ago.”

  “She managed to find me when it suited her! Why wouldn’t she tell me about a child?”

  Martha got to her feet, agitated.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to distress you.”

  “No, I’m glad you told me. It reinforces I need to go home. To my own home.”

  Elizabeth stood up. "Please, darling. Please sit again. There's more to tell you, and it might change your mind."

  “Don’t tell me. No more, Elizabeth. I shouldn’t have come back.”

  Martha walked to the doorway. Tears coursed down her cheeks and she wanted to pack and go home.

  “Martha, please wait, dear. I won’t mention it again.”

  Something in Elizabeth’s voice made Martha stop.

  “You are my dearest friend. I wish things were different, but they’re not and staying here just... it just hurts too much. Too many memories.”

  Elizabeth nodded sadly. It had been a mistake to mention Martha’s family, or maybe, the mistake had been waiting too long.

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN HOURS ago, and the moon shone brightly above a glassy ocean. Martin stood alone, motionless at the edge of the cliff, not seeing the beauty in front of him.

  Thomas had reacted badly. Shock, followed by sharp anger and bitterness.

  “Why? Why would this be in her estate?”

  Martin had no answers. After covering the painting with the sheet, Thomas stormed out of the studio. An hour of silent drinking later, replacing emotions with whiskey, Thomas staggered to the guest room. Randall went with him, curling up on the floor at the end of the bed.

  For a while, Martin watched Thomas sleep, his heart broken for the man who raised him. A man who lived for the colours he transformed into paintings.

  The passion this painting ignited in Thomas made Martin even more determined to buy it. Perhaps not for its artist anymore, but for him. As a reminder some things are not meant to be. That some things are best left alone.

  Martin turned his attention to the opposite cliff. Not far from there, Christie was no doubt asleep. She was the one thing he knew he had to leave alone.

  Twenty-Three

  CHRISTIE WAS FAR FROM asleep. Laid out on the kitchen table were all the clues. The laptop displayed a montage of photos from the beach - the love heart in the cliff face, the ocean, and the jetty. Thomas’ letters were in a neat pile, with the final one unopene
d at the top, Martha’s letter beside them. The rings and pendant lay alongside each other on a silk scarf from Christie’s wardrobe. Gran’s diary remained in the open tulip box next to the photo album. Only the painting was missing.

  How do the pieces fit? Secrets kept by Gran and others. For what purpose? To protect or to harm? Everything kept coming back to this cottage.

  Keys to both the cottage and the trunk in the attic.

  The shoebox in the trunk contained unopened love letters and unused wedding rings.

  Why did Gran have the keys to the trunk? That implied Gran knew what was inside. Why would she hide the property of Thomas Blake? Was it possible whoever last lived here left the trunk key by accident?

  That was a promising theory. Until Christie picked up the keyring and saw the one that opened the tulip box. No, Gran knew. The keys were all linked.

  There was the painting. Kept for too long inside a cylinder, concealed from the world, from its artist. Frustrated, Christie picked up the pendant. She should have taken it to the police station. It was valuable, at least to its owner. Yet here it was, in her hands. That day, at the graveyard, she learned Thomas Blake was dead. It was ridiculous to believe this pendant, on his headstone, could be coincidental, so who left it there?

  Christie closed her eyes, searching her memory. She found the pendant the day after the funeral. At the time, she had other worries, so let it go. Now, she forced her mind further back.

  When she had been driving out of River’s End to go to the airport, something caught her eye in the graveyard. The earthmoving machinery had gone, as had all signs of the funeral. Someone was there. A woman. Yes, an elderly woman, standing before the headstone of Thomas Blake.

  Christie’s eyes flew open. Martha.

  Who else would have been there except Martha, saying goodbye to her own sister and visiting Thomas’ grave?

  Christie remembered the single tulip placed on Gran’s grave.

  Why didn’t I stop? Upset, Christie got up and flicked on the kettle. She would have prevented Martha coming to harm that day and found her only relative in the world. How would she find her now?

  Christie’s head dropped with tiredness. All she craved was sleep. Changing her mind about coffee, she systematically turned off the kettle, computer and lights. Sinking onto her bed a few moments later, she was barely awake enough to take off her dressing gown and slip under the sheets. Wrapping her arms around a pillow, she realised she did not miss Derek at all. Her love for him disappeared overnight. Perhaps she never loved him.

  Christie did not mind being alone, but as she drifted into sleep, her mind played tricks on her. Strong arms held her close against a rock hard chest. In steady unison, his heartbeat with hers as he watched over her, keeping her safe while she rested. Smiling, Christie slept.

  DEREK STOOD IN THE foyer of his building, takeaway coffee cup in one hand and briefcase in the other. As usual, he was the first to arrive, his day already planned out until evening. In spite of the full day ahead, he was wasting time here again. Staring at the painting.

  Over Ingrid’s objection, he had chosen this one. Clients already commented on it. He had no idea what it was about, but Christie had educated art sense, which made this a worthy investment.

  The fact Christie knew the artist was interesting. That she had defended him even more so. This painting, Sole Survivor, or its artist, meant something to her and Derek intended to find out what.

  MARTIN WOKE TO THOMAS talking to Randall on the deck. The sun was only making a presence when he took two cups of coffee out a few moments later.

  Thomas accepted the coffee with a grunt. Randall came over for a pat before dashing down the steps, and Martin sat on the other deck chair.

  Martin watched his grandfather, noticing the deep lines in his face were more visible than usual. Thomas was miles away, his eyes on the distant horizon. They drank their coffee in silence, each in their own thoughts.

  "Your grandmother was a good woman," Thomas announced.

  Martin looked at him in surprise.

  “Nobody’s perfect. Just remember that.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “So, tell me about her.”

  “Who?”

  Thomas turned to Martin. “This mystery someone who is smart enough to know that Randall is a fine dog.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Not an answer.”

  “There’s nothing to tell you.”

  "Martin James Blake," Thomas warned.

  Martin sighed. “The painting.”

  “What about it?”

  “I should have left things alone. I’m sorry, Granddad.”

  “Are you changing the subject, son?”

  There was a long silence, and Thomas narrowed his eyes as he worked out what Martin was not saying. "She's one of them."

  “Dorothy’s granddaughter, Christie.”

  “Well, that’s not going to work now, is it?”

  “I know. God, Thomas, don’t you think I know?”

  Martin stood and held his hand out for Thomas’ coffee cup. Thomas stared at him.

  “You’re trying to buy it from her. Don’t, son. I don’t want it.”

  “But I do.”

  Handing his cup over, Thomas got to his feet.

  “Some things are best left in the past. I might get some more sleep.”

  He squeezed Martin’s shoulder before heading inside. Martin shook his head and muttered to himself, “and some things can’t be left alone.”

  CHRISTIE'S SLEEP WAS restless, broken up by dreams of loss and longing that woke her more than once. When she fell into a proper slumber, it was almost dawn. It was another two hours before she stirred. A long shower helped her wake up, but even after breakfast, she was out of sorts.

  Her mind kept straying to the beach yesterday, to Martin’s offer to help her overcome the fear she had of the ocean. Why did he care? He was impossible to understand, guarded and almost obsessive about privacy one minute, gentle and insightful the next.

  She remembered his response to learning Derek had chosen to go to Lizard Island and leave Christie to deal with Gran’s funeral alone. He had taken her fingers in his. “You shouldn’t be okay with it.”

  Now, she agreed. She should never have accepted such disregard for her feelings and wellbeing. Leaving Derek was the best decision of her life. Going out onto the back porch, Christie surveyed the garden and decided to put an hour or two into gardening. Then, perhaps she would visit the beach before it got too warm.

  THE TIDE WAS LOW WHEN Christie, in shorts and tank-top, reached the shore. As soon as her feet touched the sand, she took off her sandals, holding them aloft in one hand. Nobody else was around as she wandered to the jetty. At its end, she stood for a while, consumed with peace. Nothing matched this serenity and natural beauty, and she hoped it stayed this way for a long time.

  After a while, she realised she was not alone. Martin was in the sea, swimming alongside the jetty. When he reached the end, he trod water, watching Christie. Dropping onto the timber boards, she let her legs dangle over the edge.

  “Where’s Randall?”

  “At home.”

  “All alone?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Martin climbed up the side of the jetty and sat next to Christie.

  Unsuccessfully, she tried not to stare at him. Water droplets trickled down his torso. He ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back, which made him seem younger. He smelt of the sea.

  “So, who’s looking after him?”

  “You love asking questions, don’t you?”

  “The issue is you don’t like answering them!” Her tone was sharper than intended, spoken out of frustration.

  Martin gave her a long, concentrated stare, reminding Christie of the day she rolled her eyes at him. A sense of scary anticipation shot through Christie. She dropped her eyes.

  As if he could read her mind, Martin half smiled. "Relax. Today is about conquering fears, and you need to focus on that
."

  Christie glanced at him, her voice soft. “I said I could manage.”

  “How do you propose to do that? You were frozen in place yesterday. Waves frighten you, or maybe open water, but you love the ocean. I see it in your eyes.”

  Not knowing how to respond, Christie stood. Martin joined her, pointing to the clear, calm water a few feet below them.

  “See the fish?”

  Christie peered down and was enthralled with a school of spotted fish darting in and out of graceful seaweed. “What are they?”

  “King George Whiting. No doubt you’ve eaten this species, but these are babies. Too young to catch.”

  “The water is virtually transparent!”

  “It’s calm and safe. Walk with me.” Martin wandered back to the beach leaving Christie on the jetty, hands on her hips. He was so bossy. Before he could turn around, she dropped her arms, not wanting him to see the defiant gesture.

  She caught up with him on the sand where he stood, contemplating her. Christie shuffled her feet, playing with the sand, uncomfortable thoughts about him throwing her in the sea racing through her mind.

  He grinned, then held out his hand. “Come with me.”

  Almost as afraid to take his hand as go in the water, Christie hesitated. Stop it, she told herself crossly. He isn’t interested in you. She almost grabbed his hand to convince herself, catching her breath as electricity surged through her.

  Martin led her to the edge of the ocean, the hard sand cool and firm below their bare feet. Christie turned and tossed her sandals high up onto the soft sand, and Martin chuckled. She laughed in response, her eyes sparkling.

  “Where is that new phone of yours?”

  “At home.”

  “And your house keys?”

  “And you say I love questions!” Christie grumbled. “Here. Inside a zipped pocket.” She patted the seat of her shorts. Martin hesitated, as though he had more to say.