The Stationmaster's Cottage

by Phillipa Nefri Clark

  The moment passed, and he waded into the sea. A few feet in, with water lapping his ankles, he turned to Christie.

  “Tell me why you’re afraid.”

  “Of the ocean?”

  “How many fears do you have?” He crossed his arms.

  “I told you, it’s a childhood thing. That’s it.”

  “Did you nearly drown? Get taken by a rip?”

  “No. It will sound silly, but Gran forbade me from going into the ocean. She once caught me swimming at St Kilda Beach and...”

  "Your Gran's not here now, and you're a woman, not a child. Don't allow her reasons to be your reasons." Martin held his hand out, as he had the previous evening.

  Christie took a couple of steps forward, stalling when her feet sank a little, and her toes got wet. Exasperated with herself, she clenched her hands

  "Ask me a question," Martin suggested.

  “What?”

  "Ask me a question, and when you're close enough to take my hand, I'll answer it."

  “Any question?”

  "Give it a go, and we'll see."

  This was what Christie wanted since their first conversation. Now he was handing it to her. On his terms.

  “How much do you want it, Christie? The answers you seek?”

  How much indeed. Christie’s mind went into overdrive at the possibilities. This might be the only chance to ask the questions that haunted her. She focussed on Martin’s eyes, using him as an invisible lifeline.

  “Okay. Did Thomas ever live in the Stationmaster’s Cottage?”

  “Come here and find out.”

  Shivering as if in the snow, Christie waded to him. It was only a few feet, but each step sent a flight response to her brain. Her eyes never left his and then, he had her hand in his again.

  “Good girl. Yes, Thomas did live there.”

  “Oh! How long for?”

  “Is that the next question, Christie? Choose carefully because there will be a limit.”

  Martin let go of her hand before she could react and stepped back a few more paces. Now alone, with the water halfway to her knees, Christie had to fight the instinct to go back to the safety of the beach.

  “Next?” Martin prompted.

  “Did Thomas paint the seascape and if so, how did it get to my grandmother’s estate?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  Christie was sure a glimmer of amusement flicked into his eyes.

  "It's a two-part question," she retorted, "but fine, I'm pretty sure he did paint it, so how did it become part of my grandmother's estate?"

  Martin offered his hand. This time, Christie had to draw more deeply on her resolve to get to him. The water was above her knees when she did. There was approval in his eyes now, and she began to be a bit proud of herself.

  “The water is inviting, isn’t it? Just warm enough to make you want to slip into it and become one with the current.”

  “I’m asking the questions today.”

  “That’s a tricky question because I don’t know.”

  He saw Christie’s disappointment and sighed. “I’ll expand on this one because there’s no answer. That painting disappeared when Thomas was in his early twenties. That’s all I can tell you.”

  This tied in with the letter when Thomas described sending a painting with Martha’s friend. A friend who delivered a different message, one that shattered Martha’s heart and driven her away from River’s End for a lifetime. Somehow, between writing his final letter and sending it to Martha with the painting, he changed his mind.

  Martin tried to release Christie's hand, but she clung to him. The next steps would take her waist high, and her eyes widened in alarm.

  "You're doing well." He squeezed her hand, and she reluctantly let go.

  “Next question?” He trailed his fingers in the water as he retreated. When the water was just over his hips, he stopped. He planted his feet apart to let him balance as a mild undertow rippled beneath the surface.

  Christie watched Martin adjust his stance as the deeper water pushed and pulled at him. It was a calm sea, but she was frightened. Just get to him.

  “Who did Thomas marry?”

  A flash of reluctance crossed Martin's face before he controlled it. This was getting closer to home, and it took a moment until he held his hand out.

  Trying to imagine the sea was a swimming pool, Christie somehow covered the distance between them. It was more than the need for an answer that drove her; she wanted his respect.

  “I don’t understand why it matters who Thomas married.”

  “It does.”

  Martin sighed. “Frances Williams.”

  “Frannie.”

  “That’s what Thomas called her. Now, we need to move down the beach a bit. Away from the jetty. Let’s swim.”

  “Swim? No, I couldn’t!”

  "Sure you can." Martin pulled both of her hands up around his neck and slid backwards into the sea, drawing her with him, so his body supported hers.

  Shocked, Christie clasped her fingers together, eyes wide and body rigid.

  "That won't work," Martin said. "Relax, oh, and feel free to kick. We'll get there faster."

  Christie giggled, and her fears evaporated. She was safe. Protected. Despite his suggestion, he needed no help from her. His strength made her feel invincible. They drifted through the ocean as one, their bodies moulded to each other. Christie yearned for time to stop, just for a while. It was surreal.

  Martin slowed and put a foot down to test the depth. He let a small wave carry them a little further in, and stood up in waist deep water. Christie braced herself against the tug of the tide.

  "You should be proud, Christie. I'm proud of you." Slipping his arms around her waist, he steadied her. She let her hands touch his chest, and he tightened his hold a little. She swayed but not from the current, from a need to be against him again.

  “Thank you.” Christie’s lips stayed half-open.

  “For showing you the ocean is safe or for answering some questions?”

  “Both. I just wish...”

  Martin shook his head. “No more questions today.”

  “I guessed that. It’s sad Thomas never saw his painting again.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Um, because he’s dead.”

  Martin released Christie in surprise. “Thomas most certainly is not dead!”

  Bewilderment filled Christie. She had seen his gravestone. Without thinking, she spun around and started swimming for shore.

  “So, now you can swim in the ocean.” Martin shook his head.

  Twenty-Four

  CHRISTIE KNEW SHE HAD to get to the graveyard. How could Martin say his grandfather was alive when Christie had seen his grave with her own eyes?

  Once on the sand, she took off at a sprint. Martin must think her to be crazy, but she had to find out for herself. If Thomas was alive, everything changed. Everything.

  She raced up the steps, unaware of the cold stone under her bare feet. It was only at the top she stopped, desperate for air. For a few seconds, she stood with hands on her knees, gulping in oxygen, clothes and hair soaking wet. She straightened and scanned the graveyard.

  Approaching Thomas’ grave, Christie vividly remembered Martin, his eyes angry, preparing to tidy the plot. He had obviously abandoned the job because long tufts of coarse grass still surrounded the headstone when Christie found the pendant the following afternoon.

  Now, the grass was short, there were no weeds, just a small row of newly planted, brilliant blue lobelia at the base of the headstone. Christie read the inscription.

  Thomas Blake

  Son of Thomas and Frances

  Husband of Anna

  Beloved Father of Martin

  Christie gasped. This belonged to Martin’s father, not his grandfather. How could she have misunderstood?

  The next grave had a similar headstone, with white lobelia adorning its base. Christie reluctantly read the inscription, af
raid of what it would reveal.

  Anna Blake (nee Crossman)

  Adored wife of Thomas and sister of Sylvia

  Deeply loved Mother of Martin

  Oh my god, both of Martin’s parents are dead.

  Like hers.

  Unaware she was crying, Christie forced herself to the last grave. There was purple lobelia at the base of the headstone.

  Frances Blake (nee Williams)

  Loving Mother of Thomas Jnr and Wife of Thomas

  Shaking, Christie went back to the first grave and sank to her knees.

  How had she missed this? Long grass had hidden enough of the inscription to let her jump to incorrect conclusions. Instead of checking properly, perhaps via public records or local knowledge, she assumed Thomas was dead.

  “Are you satisfied?” Martin’s voice was tense as he stood behind Christie, staring over her head to his family’s resting places. “Thomas is alive but his son, his daughter-in-law and his wife all rest here. Killed by a driver who’d had one or two drinks too many.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Martin.”

  No wonder he had been so adamant about taking her car keys away that night. He could have lost it entirely with her but instead calmly insisted she not drive. To lose nearly all of your family in one terrible accident was something she understood.

  “How old were you?”

  "It doesn't matter. It happened." His voice choked with long-buried emotions.

  "My parents died in a car accident when I was seven." Christie volunteered. "They were travelling to a remote town to deliver medical supplies, and I never saw them again."

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Christie turned glistening eyes to him.

  “Why are you crying?” he asked curiously. “For your parents?”

  “Yes. And for your parents and your grandmother. For Thomas. For you.”

  Martin shook his head. "Don't. It was a long time ago, and we're both adults now."

  Christie stood and went to Martin. She rested her palm flat against his chest, where his heart was.

  “Inside, we’re always their children. This pain you and I hide from the world... it keeps us connected to their smiles, their voices and love. That way, we never forget them.”

  Grief flooded Martin's face, and he gathered Christie in his arms, holding her close. She heard the steady beat of his heart and wrapped her arms around his waist. He tightened his embrace, and they stood for a while in silent understanding.

  "I left your sandals at the top of the steps," Martin said.

  “Thank you.”

  Martin released Christie, and reluctantly, she dropped her arms. He went to his father's grave. Christie wanted his arms back around her. Instead, she followed him.

  “I thought this belonged to your grandfather.”

  “Clearly.”

  “Is that who you wanted to show the painting to? Is Thomas here?”

  “No more questions, Christie. Go home and put some dry clothes on.”

  Christie only half heard him, thinking instead about the pendant. Had Martha drawn the same wrong conclusion about Thomas? “Why did he change his mind?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Christie failed to register the sharp edge to Martin’s voice.

  “Why did he marry Frannie?”

  “Why do you call her that? Thomas was the only one who did.”

  “Just from the letters. Her name is mentioned as Frannie.”

  Martin turned to Christie, arms folded and his expression hard. She gazed at him, realising in dismay he was shutting her out again.

  “He had such love for Martha—”

  “You have his letters?” His words cut across hers, demanding an answer.

  “I told you that, ages ago. Well, that I had love letters. I thought you knew they were his! I have other things. Rings. Photos he may want.”

  “You read his letters? His private letters.”

  “I thought... I thought he was dead. Martin, I would never...” Christie almost wept at the contempt on Martin’s face.

  “You really are a Ryan.”

  “You don’t understand, Martin, I’m trying to help!”

  “Then help us both and go back to the city.”

  The words hung between them.

  “I’m sorry.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

  “I do mean it. But I also have to finish what I started.”

  Christie took a hesitant step toward Martin, who put up his hand and shook his head. “I’m so angry with you right now. So disappointed.”

  Without another word or glance, he spun away and stalked back to the steps. Too upset to follow, Christie sank back onto the grass. In a heart-wrenching moment, Christie knew why this man affected her so much.

  Somewhere between their disagreements and tenderness, the understanding and misunderstanding, the secrecy and honesty; somehow Christie had fallen in love. Totally, irrevocably in love with Martin Blake.

  MARTHA WAS RATHER IMPRESSED with herself. Not accustomed to modern forms of communication, she nevertheless managed to book her flight home to Ireland using Elizabeth’s computer. Now, the printed ticket was in her bag.

  “I don’t mind driving you all the way to the airport.” Elizabeth arrived with a plate of sandwiches and put them on the coffee table near Martha.

  "It isn't necessary, dear. The bus trip from Green Bay is pleasant, and it connects with the bus to Tullamarine Airport. It will give me a chance to watch the scenery one final time."

  Elizabeth sat opposite. “This is farewell.”

  “There’s always a spare room in my little home.”

  “And I may take you up on that.” Elizabeth was sad. “I have enjoyed your company so much.”

  Martha helped herself to a sandwich. It would be so easy to stay here in River’s End for the remainder of her days. The town had only changed a little, and still had the charm she loved as a young woman. As her ankle mended, the desire to walk along the beach or even up the hill to the clifftop had increased. To sit in that meadow again in springtime, the flowers tickling her legs and breeze ruffling her hair... it was a bittersweet thought.

  What would her life have been, had she controlled her temper that night? Marriage, children. Grandchildren now. The home Thomas once promised to build her would stand upon that cliff where he painted her portrait. But there was no Thomas, and besides, he had chosen another. Frannie.

  “Martha? Are you okay?” Elizabeth saw her friend’s shoulders slump.

  “Hm? Yes, just lost in thoughts. Memories.”

  “Would you like to talk about them?”

  “Some things are better left in the past.”

  “Perhaps. I see your sadness though and can’t help but think I can tell you things that would make you happy again. If you’ll let me.”

  Martha knew what Elizabeth meant. Something about Dorothy’s daughter. In this day of computers and the internet, if anyone wanted to find her, they would.

  “Let’s have dinner in town tonight. My treat.” Martha changed the subject with a forced smile. “I can’t recall the last time I had a pub meal.”

  “And I don’t believe I’ve ever had one here!”

  “Well, about time. A counter meal and glass of local wine to toast our last evening?”

  Elizabeth nodded, knowing she would be wasting her breath to protest.

  THOMAS WAS MAKING LUNCH when Martin stormed in. “Have a shower, boy. You’re dripping water from that long hair of yours.”

  "My hair is just fine, thanks, Thomas."

  “Then have one to cool you off.”

  Thomas piled ingredients onto thick chunks of bread, tossing a piece of meat to Randall, who sat at his feet.

  “Granddad?”

  “Oh dear, there’s that granddad thing again.” Thomas started cutting the sandwiches.

  "After my shower, we need to talk."

  “No, first we’ll need
to eat. Not getting any younger, you know. Every meal counts.”

  Martin shook his head and stalked off to his bedroom. Thomas stared after him, wondering what else Martin could say that would shake his world. Seeing his painting had been enough, but somehow it seemed that was only the tip of the iceberg.

  CHRISTIE STRAIGHTENED her hair in front of the bathroom mirror still patchy with condensation from her shower. The repetitive task of segmenting her hair, brushing then running the hot tongs through it was soothing. Every so often, she stopped and stared at her reflection.

  She could not have fallen for Martin. His firm gentleness in the ocean obviously affected her judgement. By giving her courage, he had taken her heart. His harsh words in the graveyard were a sharp reminder of the other side of his nature. Now though, she understood he had been protecting his grandfather this whole time.

  Thomas Blake was alive. If the pendant meant anything to him, he should have it, along with his own letters and the rings intended for his wedding day.

  What will I say to Thomas? Once her questions would have filled a book, yet now she just wanted to apologise for reading his private letters. All she longed for was Martin to respect her, to forgive her, to trust her.

  She sighed as she unplugged the tongs. She would pack up all of Thomas’ belongings and return them to him, even if it meant angering Martin further.

  DEREK PUSHED OPEN THE door to River's End Real Estate, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering floral scent from a plugin freshener. Daphne pushed her lunch to one side, trying to swallow the mouthful she had just taken. She stared at him appreciatively, admiring his well-cut suit and handsome face. She did like a redhead, being married to one, and this young man had enough tinge of copper to get her attention.

  “Don’t rush.” Derek flashed a charming smile which he dropped when he turned away to peruse the wall of properties for sale. His practised eye discarded most of them, only finding a new estate of interest.

  "Please forgive me; on my own, so lunch is between clients!" Daphne stood up and came around the counter to offer Derek her hand. "I'm Daphne Jones and my husband John is the principal here."

  Derek shook her hand. “Yes, I’ve heard decent things about him.”