The Stationmaster's Cottage Read online

  “Tell me about River’s End, and please, tell me why Gran is being buried there.”

  Two

  A WHITE LOTUS ELITE S hugged the narrow, winding road as Christie, deep in thought, drove it just a little too fast. The top was down, the speed whipping her hair back as the spring sun made occasional appearances through incoming rain clouds across the ocean to her left. The road was high above the water, with a flat expanse of saltbush-covered land to the right and not another car or sign of civilisation in sight. She had been behind the wheel for over two hours.

  After Angus left, Christie packed an overnight bag and black dress. Then, standing at the living room window, thoughts rushed through her head and emotions spun in turmoil. Derek... she needed him right now. Needed him to hold her hand and come to this unknown little town. She longed for his reassurance they would stand together. Instead, he had gone in the other direction, without her. Once again, she was facing a funeral alone.

  As she drove, Christie remembered the conversation with Angus. His eyes had been misty as he spoke of Gran. “Her heart had been playing up for a while. Not that she would admit it. I knew though because the doctor gave her pills and I made sure she took them.”

  Watching her become frail and dependent had been difficult. The fact Dorothy allowed Angus to help so much dismayed him. “In the evenings, she’d sit for a while and talk of her childhood. Of growing up in River’s End and of her family. Her sister.”

  Wide-eyed, Christie turned to Angus. “A sister?”

  He nodded. “Martha is a few years younger.”

  “Does Martha live in River’s End?”

  Angus shrugged. “I don’t know where she lives. Or if she is even still alive, although your grandmother believed her to be.”

  The road had been climbing steadily, and now, as Christie rounded a curve, she spotted a town ahead, at the bottom of the hill on the far side of a river.

  "Many years ago, your family owned much of this town. That is where Miss Dorothy and her sister grew up, and the family home was quite grand for the region. Now, one property remains in the family, and Miss Dorothy was determined to see it again." Angus disapproved.

  Christie slowed as a road sign approached. River’s End. Pop 900.

  After pulling the car onto the shoulder to check Angus’ instructions, Christie filled her lungs with sea air. From up here, the township was small, two shopping streets and houses scattered around. The lazy river made its way to the sea, pooling into a lagoon near a jetty on a kilometre long beach. She nosed the Lotus back onto the road.

  Fifty metres away was the turn-off. The road headed inland for a hundred metres or so before coming across an abandoned railway station. A single track ran beside it, overgrown with weeds and grass. The road on the other side was dirt, filled with potholes, and Christie frowned as she navigated her low-bodied car around them.

  She did not have far to drive, spotting Angus' parked sedan in front of an old, neglected cottage that peered tiredly out from a mass of unkempt trees and bushes. Pickets hung onto the front fence under the weight of long-neglected rose bushes. The front gate lay rusting in the water-filled, shallow grass ditch.

  Christie eased into the narrow driveway and turned the motor off. Behind the cottage, the driveway ended with a single garage, in no better repair than the rest of the property.

  A drop of rain touched Christie's face, so she put the roof up. She stretched and glanced around, seeing only years of abandonment. How sad.

  Angus appeared from the back of the cottage, raising a hand in welcome. Christie crunched her way along the rutted driveway as a shower began in earnest, joining him on a small porch. Rain tapped on the metal roof, and the temperature dropped. Christie shivered.

  "Welcome, Miss Christie, to the Stationmaster's Cottage," Angus announced.

  INSIDE, THE NEGLECT continued in an old-fashioned kitchen. A large window over the sink did little to reduce the dullness of the room. Against one wall, a heavy timber table might have not moved in a century. On the table was a cardboard box, sealed with packing tape. Christie peered down a long, dark hallway.

  “Here are the keys, Miss Christie.” Angus dropped a key ring with three keys beside the box. “I’ve requested the power be reconnected.”

  “Probably not much point though. I’ll be leaving straight after the funeral. I imagine Gran’s estate will want to sell this?”

  “I thought you understood. The cottage belongs to you now. Well, it will once the legalities are finalised. So, whether you sell it or keep it, no doubt some refurbishment is in order and that will take electricity.” Angus watched Christie’s face, smiling at the surprise that registered.

  "Mine? Oh, but no. Why would she leave it to me?"

  "Why not leave it to you? Your Gran never did anything without reason."

  That was true. Gran made decisions only after considering all the pros and cons. It might not always be clear why a decision went one way or the other to Christie, but Gran knew. So, why leave a rundown cottage to her jet-setting, estranged grandchild?

  Angus checked his watch. “I have to meet with the funeral home in a few moments. There’s a motel in town on the second street. I’ve arranged rooms there for us tonight, so unless you wish to accompany me now, I’ll head off.”

  “Do you need me to?”

  Angus shook his head. “Stay here for a while, wander through. We’ll meet there for dinner?”

  Christie hugged Angus, hoping he understood how much his presence meant. He patted her back before leaving with a small wave. In his wake, the fresh and vibrant smell of the wet garden wafted in.

  Alone again, the tapping of rain on the roof interrupted Christie's thoughts, and she stood still to listen. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the soothing sound and the garden scent; transported for a moment to a rainy day in her grandmother's conservatory where the heady smells of roses, gardenia and jasmine filled the air. The memory faded as the old-house mustiness overwhelmed the kitchen again. Christie opened her eyes and wrinkled her nose.

  She wandered along the hallway. On the left was a lounge room with an ornate ceiling rose. Old, heavy curtains sagged miserably, and a worn sofa slumped opposite the fireplace.

  Across the hallway was a dining room, empty except for a couple of straight-backed dining chairs against a wall.

  Next to the dining room was a small bathroom with grimy old fittings. In the bath was a torn shower curtain and large flakes of paint from the ceiling. Does Gran want me to become an interior decorator or renovator? She laughed aloud.

  Across from the bathroom was a tiny laundry with no washing machine, some cupboards and a sink. Through a small window beside an external door, a narrow concrete path wound to a broken clothesline.

  At the end of the hallway, two bedrooms faced each other. In between was a built in cupboard. Inside it, Christie found several blankets, a broom, dustpan and brush, and a long-handled tool with a hook. Above her head was a trapdoor with a loop on it. Curious, she nudged it with the tool, bringing down a cloud of dust and debris. She tossed the tool back into the cupboard, closed the door and stood back, coughing.

  After a quick check of each bedroom, which were both small but functional with double beds and wardrobes, she went back to the hallway to stare at the trapdoor. What was up there? More dust and debris, or hidden treasures? Christie shook her head at her ponderings and returned to the relative brightness of the kitchen.

  The cardboard box had her name handwritten on it, so Christie used a key to slice through the packing tape. Inside were two items: a photo album and a cardboard cylinder about sixty centimetres in length. Christie opened the photo album to an old image of Dorothy. Aged around twenty, Dorothy stared gravely at the camera. The backdrop was a lush garden around an impressive limestone house.

  Christie whispered. “So stern!” The grief that nagged all day started to rise, and she closed the album.

  The cylinder was open-ended, and after a bit of fiddling, Christie
eased out a canvas. Stiff with age and being confined, the canvas resisted Christie's first attempt to open it. She tried again, and with a bit of pressure, the canvas unrolled. Christie placed it on the table, a hand on either side to keep it flat.

  It was a nocturnal seascape in oils. Angry waves pounded a timber jetty under the onslaught of a violent storm. Vibrant dark colours perfectly captured the fantastic terror of the moment. A savage streak of lightning hit the sea close to the jetty, illuminating the water around it. So incredible was the detail and clarity, even the droplets of sea spray reflected the lightning. Christie could almost smell the saltiness in the air.

  Her phone beeped, and Christie reluctantly released the canvas, which rolled back up on its own. The message was a text. Have emailed you a new ticket. Departs Tullamarine 3pm tomorrow. Don’t miss the flight. D.

  Christie frowned as she tapped a response. Thanks. Love you.

  The rain stopped. Christie opened the back door and let the wet garden smell into the kitchen. She stared outside at the overgrown greenery, wondering how long it was since somebody loved it. Who had lived here? Not Gran, who Angus said grew up in a grand house. Where was Martha and why had Gran never mentioned her? Her sister should be the one to inherit the cottage. One question led to another and Christie told herself to stop. It was time to find the motel.

  The box with its painting and photo album under her arm, Christie locked the door and made her way back to the car. The long grass was soaking wet of course, saturating her shoes in seconds. She hated wet feet with a vengeance, and her only other shoes were the black heels for the funeral. She put the box on the passenger seat, loathing the squishy sensation as her feet touched the pedals.

  Christie backed out of the driveway and turned onto the road, the potholes now water filled. The late afternoon was misty from the rain and the deciduous trees, their leaves just emerging, were like shadows lining the street. Behind them were paddocks dotted with cows. At the end of the road, Christie turned right and drove down the hill.

  A few hundred metres along was a small graveyard, perched on the edge of a cliff and bordered by a gravel carpark. A small truck was in the carpark, and a digging machine was in use. Christie realised with a gasp they were digging Dorothy's grave, and she almost swerved off the road as her eyes filled with tears. She slowed the car and forced the pain back down.

  Just before the township, a bridge crossed the broad, slow river. It flowed through a gap in the cliffs facing away from the town. The beach itself was not visible from here, hidden behind the cliffs, but there appeared to be a narrow walkway to it beside the river.

  Christie turned into the second street and saw the motel. It was old and rundown and proclaimed itself as "River's End Motel" with a vacant sign flashing. Angus' sedan was in front of one of six rooms in a row, so Christie parked beside it.

  The growl of the Lotus’ motor must have alerted Angus, for he came to the doorway before Christie turned the motor off. The deep lines on his face were more pronounced than usual, but he smiled as he came to greet her.

  “I’ve checked you in, so all you need to do is go inside and relax for a bit.” He took her overnight bag from the car and followed Christie inside.

  “I’m sorry for the surroundings,” he began, “not a lot of choice in such a small place.”

  “It’ll be fine, Angus. Just for tonight, it’s fine.” Christie answered with a strained voice.

  Angus gave her a questioning glance.

  "My feet are wet," she said and burst into tears.

  ANGUS INSISTED CHRISTIE have a long, hot shower to warm up again and to compose herself. While she showered, Angus laid out a pair of his own socks on the bed. He placed the wet shoes on top of the oil-filled heater, which he hoped would not do them any long-term damage. He was flicking through menus when the bathroom door opened and a much calmer Christie came out. She spotted the socks and mouthed "thank you" at Angus before slipping them on.

  “Ah, now how about a cup of tea?” Angus said, about to get up.

  "Stay there, I'll make us one." She switched the kettle on, put tea bags and sugar into two heavy white mugs, and found a small carton of milk in the bar fridge. "Oh, it's still two sugars?"

  Angus nodded. “Not much about me has changed, Miss Christie. Just older.”

  Christie finished making the tea and brought the mugs to the table. She spotted her shoes upside down on the heater. “Thanks for that. And the socks. And putting up with my silliness.” Christie gazed into her mug.

  “Unless you were in a swimming pool, you never liked having wet feet, even as a young child.” Angus chuckled to himself.

  "The grass needs cutting. And the garden is overgrown. The bathroom is falling apart, and the windows don't open." Christie sipped her tea.

  “So, you like it.”

  “It’s rundown and neglected and old. Why did Gran own it? Who lived there and where are they now? And what should I do with it?”

  Angus shook his head. "So many questions I can't answer. What I do know is your great-grandparents owned it, back when they provided timber to many regional towns. The railway was extended here because of the timber trade. They built the cottage more than one hundred years ago for the stationmaster to live in."

  Christie puzzled over this. “So the cottage is all that remains?”

  Angus nodded and passed the menus to Christie. "There's not a lot to select from, unfortunately."

  “You choose. I’m not hungry.” Christie finished her tea and stood up. “If it’s okay with you, I’d rather order takeaway.”

  Relief crossed Angus’ face, and Christie’s heart went out to him again.

  AFTER AN EARLY, SMALL dinner of pizza, Angus said goodnight and went to his room.

  Longing to hear Derek’s voice, Christie dialled his number and sat, cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with her hair.

  After a few rings, Derek answered with his customary “Derek here.”

  "Hi, honey. How was the trip?"

  There was a pause before Derek answered “Lonely.”

  “What’s our room like?” Christie kept her voice light. “I’m in a dingy old motel room, so would rather hear about ours.”

  Derek audibly sighed on the other end. “It’s a villa, and it’s stunning. It overlooks the sea, which is like liquid gold. The bed is huge. But empty.”

  “Sorry. I’ll be there tomorrow night.”

  After another long silence, Christie began to rush her words. “There’s a cottage here, near an old railway station. Gran left it to me for some reason, so I’ll sell it of course. It’s rundown and—.”

  Derek cut her off. “So your wealthy grandmother left you some crappy dump in the middle of nowhere. Sorry baby, but that sucks. That’s why you should have come with me. I’m the one who loves you.”

  Christie hesitated before replying. “I love you too. But, Gran did love me.”

  There were voices in the background at Derek's end, and he spoke to someone and laughed at their inaudible reply. "I have to go, baby. There's a couple here I've met before, and they want to do cocktails. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" His voice was calm again.

  “I can’t wait. Sleep well.” Christie said.

  Derek cut the connection, and Christie was unsure if he even heard her. She had been reluctant to go to Lizard Island and now, because of Gran, they were apart. Christie curled into a ball and stared into the darkness.

  AT ABOUT THE SAME TIME, high on a cliff above River’s End, Martin Blake stood gazing out to the horizon. The sinking sun cut ribbons of red through a still-misty sky. The sea was calm and the air cool and crisp.

  As if starving for the sight of the ocean, Martin devoured the view through dark brown eyes. Powerful shoulders tapered into a lean, muscular waist. He wore jeans and carried a leather jacket in one hand. On the ground was a large duffel bag, and at his side, a golden retriever.

  Martin dropped his spare hand onto the dog's head. The dog leaned against him, tail wagging. Toge
ther, they watched as the sun set over the Great Southern Ocean.

  Three

  CHRISTIE WOKE BEFORE sunrise after a restless night. Still heavy with jet lag, her body clock refused to believe it was so early. Overnight, the rain had returned, leaving the bitumen outside glistening below the streetlights.

  Over an instant coffee, she downloaded the e-ticket to her phone and set a reminder for leaving River's End. When the soft light of dawn peeked through the clearing sky, Christie had had enough of being in the gloomy room. She tossed her handbag into the car and got behind the wheel, glancing at the box on the front seat. When she got back from Queensland, she was going to get that painting framed and work out the significance of it. Of all of this.

  The drive back to the cottage took little time, and Christie parked across the road, thankful the drizzle had stopped. Instead of going up the driveway, she wandered along the road. From here, it was clear the garden continued well past the garage, extending alongside the railway for a couple of hundred metres. The fencing turned into old barbed wire and posts at odd angles but was part of the property.

  She took a few photos with her phone. Perhaps when Derek saw them, he would soften his stance and be as intrigued as Christie was. Tonight she would be back in his arms and this awful day just a memory.

  Christie wandered back past her car to the old boom gates standing guard on either side of the railway crossing. A narrow stone platform housed an even narrower building. Curious, she followed a pathway up a slope to the platform. At least, it once must have been a pathway but weeds and time had taken over. The platform was a bit crumbly on the edges but otherwise solid. A sign hung from one screw on the wall of the building. River’s End Station.

  The building itself was little more than a covered waiting area and a boarded up ticket office. How sad that what once was a bustling little station had only ghosts to keep it company. No trains, no need for the station. Peering at the single line, Christie remembered reading about a change in the gauge of train lines in the past. Perhaps this station had been a casualty.