The Stationmaster's Cottage Read online

  “Thanks, Frannie. I’m sorry, you know.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to apologise. We all make mistakes and life is full of ups and downs and sometimes we need to accept that and move on.” she said. “Sure about the coffee?”

  Thomas disengaged her arm. “Another time, maybe. Let me know if you hear anything?”

  Frannie nodded. “Bye, Thomas.”

  He turned and headed back the other way. Frannie watched him until he was out of sight.

  ...it did not amount to much as you have not spoken to your friends in town either. Nobody is to blame except for me, so at least speak with your friends and let them know you are okay.

  I will come to Melbourne if I do not hear from you soon. If it is over between us, I need to hear you say it.

  Love,

  Thomas.

  Christie folded the letter, deep in thought. Which friend had he spoken to? He had apologised for doing so, but why? It was so hard trying to read between the lines – to fill in the gaps of information from so long ago.

  He mentioned Palmerston House again, which must be the original family home. Gran had never spoken of it, not that she had ever spoken of River’s End. Who lived there now? She might ask Daphne.

  Christie turned the light off and slid under the covers. The moon was out tonight, shining brightly through the trees. It was so peaceful here. Far enough from the main road to keep almost all traffic sounds away and only the occasional mooing between the cows up the road. So simple a life, and somehow, already making inroads on Christie’s heart.

  CHRISTIE RAN TOWARD the village, puffing misty breaths. Somewhere between night and morning, there was enough light to see the road in front of her. Once on level ground near the river, muscle fatigue set in, reminding her how long it had been since her last run. She reluctantly slowed her pace to a jog, then a walk, panting heavily.

  Below the bridge, the slow, shallow river meandered to the beach. On its far side, a narrow track was just discernible, so Christie crossed over and scrambled down the embankment.

  The track followed the river through a gap in the cliffs, straight onto the beach. It brought Christie out not far from the jetty, so she took off her shoes and socks and jogged to the tideline.

  The air was still and the water incredibly calm. Low tide fully exposed the jetty, even the pylons Thomas mentioned in his letter. Martha’s dress had caught on one and held her below the surface until he found her. Christie shivered as she imagined Martha’s terror and the power of the ocean in the midst of the storm.

  Dawn broke as she stepped onto the jetty and walked to its end, thinking about how happy Thomas and Martha had been at this place. Their first meeting, the proposal. Many early mornings spent together enjoying the beauty of the ocean from this vantage point.

  Christie gazed at water so clear she could see the sandy floor and fish swimming in small schools around the pylons. Thomas had come here in hope, and in growing despair, waiting for his girl to return. So sad.

  “Miss? You okay?”

  Christie jumped at the unexpected voice nearby, and turned to see a weathered older man, fishing pole and tackle box in hand.

  Drawing a startled breath, Christie said, “I’m fine thanks.”

  With a brief nod, the fisherman trudged off toward the end of the beach.

  Puzzled, Christie followed him, running to catch up as he headed toward the stone steps.

  “Excuse me? Why did you ask if I was okay? Is there a problem with the jetty?”

  He kept walking but muttered, “Just with tourists who should stay off the beach this time of year.”

  “I’m not a tourist.”

  The fisherman reached the steps and stopped to adjust his load. “Old lady was. Caught exposure, sitting out there in the rain.”

  “Who? Did you get her name? Is she okay?” Christie sprinted up the steps behind him.

  “Full of questions,” he said, going to an old truck and tossing his tackle in the back. “Ambulance came. End of story, miss.” He opened the door dismissively.

  “Sorry, please wait. She went to hospital. Where?”

  “Only one round here. You sound like a tourist.”

  With that observation, the fisherman closed the door. Frustrated, Christie found herself back at the top of the steps. A dog barked in the distance.

  Christie sat on the top step to put on her shoes and socks whilst she mused over the man’s information. Something was troubling her, some small memory was just out of reach. It nagged at her as soon as the fisherman mentioned the old lady.

  The dog barked again, closer this time, drawing Christie’s attention. It was Randall, engaged in a game of frisbee with Martin. Shoe laces tied, Christie watched unnoticed, smiling at the sheer excitement of the dog every time the disc went up in the air. It headed toward the steps with Randall in pursuit, but instead of trying to catch it, he raced up the steps to Christie, his tail wagging furiously.

  Christie scratched behind his ear as Martin approached. Stopping for a second to retrieve the toy, his eyes met Christie’s, before he jogged off in the other direction.

  “Randall? You coming?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Ah, Randall is it? Go on.” Christie nudged the dog and he tore back down the steps to race after Martin.

  For a moment, Christie considered following Randall and trying to speak with Martin about Thomas Blake. First, she needed to get her painting back and gather more information. She might get one chance at asking questions and it would be prudent to have thought through what she wanted to ask.

  Much of what she had already learned came from a few old letters and some throwaway comments. The fisherman’s words added more speculation and Christie knew she had to get some facts.

  BACK AT THE COTTAGE, Christie took a quick shower, wishing it were longer but not enthralled by a dramatic drop in water temperature after a few moments. The fact-finding would have to wait a bit whilst she found someone to help her get things right here.

  After breakfast, Christie rang Barry, the builder Daphne recommended. Over a background of hammering, he agreed to call by. That done, Christie worked her way through the cottage to list the areas to address with Barry.

  Every room had problems, from the ceiling in the bathroom to the flooring in the majority of the cottage. Light switches and power points were loose. Some were more cosmetic in nature, such as the drooping curtain rails in the lounge room that Christie thought she could fix herself. Others though would require professional attention.

  For the first time, Christie had a proper walk through the gardens. The front fence was ready to collapse, so a new one was in order, along with a replacement gate. The clothesline would be another casualty and a decent path to it would be safer than the crumbling, old bricks.

  The outside of the cottage was difficult to evaluate behind the overgrown bushes and trees. The weatherboards might have rotted and the cottage be subject to rising damp. Or, they may only need sanding back and repainting.

  The back part of the garden was divided by a fence covered in a passionfruit vine on one side, a flowering wisteria on the other, and a wrought iron gate in the middle. With a bit of persuasion, the gate opened with a protesting squeak and Christie stepped through. Although the grass was long and the trees years overdue for proper feeding and pruning, Christie was delighted to find an orchard.

  She wandered from tree to tree; identifying apples, apricots, plums, lemons, pears and what appeared to be a cumquat. She laughed in pleasure at the discovery of an old vegetable patch and compost heap. What a wonderful find.

  Christie gazed around at her lush, if bushy surrounds, overcome with a sense of belonging. Without a doubt, she had fallen in love with this little place. It was a world away from her apartment, and even further from the glamorous hotels, movie sets, and lavish parties her career afforded. Filled with character and charm, it was hers.

  ON THE OTHER SIDE OF River’s End, Martha Ryan sat on a stone bench near a pond, gazin
g around at a garden she had not seen in some fifty years.

  Many years ago, she met Elizabeth and her husband Keith in Egypt. They were travelling the world after learning they could never have children. Elizabeth had a quiet sadness that pulled at Martha’s heart. Over the space of a week, the three became friends, culminating with a dash to an Alexandria hospital in the middle of the night when Martha slipped and hurt her ankle. They kept quiet the fact she was illegally climbing a pyramid and the friendship flourished with the secret.

  They stayed in touch and when Elizabeth mentioned they wished to purchase a bed and breakfast somewhere near the sea, Martha told them to contact Dorothy and make an offer on Palmerston House. Boarded up for years after Patrick and Lilian died, Dorothy sold the family home without realising her sister was involved.

  Now, she was here again, because Dorothy had chosen to die in their hometown and Martha had been silly enough to travel from Ireland to try to attend the funeral. Just an hour or two earlier and she would have been there to see her older sister laid to rest. Not that Dorothy would have known, but it was the right thing to do.

  The doctor had forbidden travel until after a check-up in a few days, so her flight home was on hold. The sound of a shutting door alerted her to Elizabeth’s approach, so Martha centred herself, forced a smile onto her face, and hoped she could make it through without succumbing to memories that threatened to tear her apart.

  Nine

  THE GROWL OF THE LOTUS’ motor turned heads as Christie drove along the main street in town. She parked outside the bank, checked her makeup in the rear vision mirror, and stepped out into the early afternoon sunshine.

  Over on the far corner at the café, patrons sat under open umbrellas enjoying a late lunch or coffee. Such a difference from the other day in the rain, when she met with Angus and Jacob to discuss Gran’s estate. Had it only been two days ago? Already, the cottage and town were familiar and appealing. She decided to wander for a while to see what was on offer in the little town.

  The bank was a community brand with a generic ATM in the wall. Christie withdrew a few hundred dollars, in case the tradesmen wanted cash. Next door was a newsagency that included a Post Office. Christie decided to go in there last and pick up some large pieces of lightweight card to mind map the puzzle Gran left.

  Next was the lovely little Chinese restaurant. Closed now, it had a cheery “Open at Five O’clock” sign on the door. Christie hesitated, panic clawing at her stomach as she remembered the conversation with Derek that interrupted the meal.

  Mouth-watering smells of freshly baked pastries wafted out of the bakery and Christie peered in at the enticing selection in the window. Belinda spotted her and waved, so Christie waved back with an unexpected surge of happiness.

  After a couple of clothing stores, the second last shop on the block was a hairdresser. It was busy and well set up and Christie wondered whether they had a make-up service. The thought puzzled her. She already had a career. She shook her head and pushed open the door to the real estate agents.

  John was standing behind the counter, leaning down to write something. He glanced up with a welcoming nod. “Miss Ryan, how are you?”

  “Christie, please. I’m well thank you.”

  “Get in touch with Barry?”

  Only an hour after phoning, Barry Parks arrived. After wandering around the cottage, eyes missing nothing, he chuckled when Christie complained about the lack of hot water. Telling her he could not promise anything, he made a phone call.

  “He dropped by this morning, so I wanted to thank Daphne for the referral.”

  “Excellent. Daphne is off work today so I’ll let her know. What did Barry suggest?”

  “He is a miracle worker. There’s someone fixing my hot water system as we speak! Oh, and he is sending me a quote.”

  “A quote? Ah, so we’ll be seeing more of you. Or...” he let the question hang.

  “Let’s see what Barry recommends. I did want to ask something though. If you know, of course? Is there a property around here called Palmerston House?”

  “Well, yes. It’s a bed and breakfast but is one of the original homes in the area.”

  “Oh! The one around that fork in the road near the cliff?”

  “That’s it. Owned by Elizabeth White for a number of years now.”

  The phone began to ring and John answered it with an apologetic nod. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Sorry, I might be a while. Is there anything else I can help with today?”

  “You’ve been a big help, thanks John. Say hello to Daphne, please.”

  John nodded as he returned to the phone call and Christie wandered back out to the street. So, Palmerston House, the original Ryan family home, was now a B&B. Maybe the owner, this Elizabeth White, would have some history to share.

  MARTIN’S STUDIO WAS flooded with natural light. Randall lay flat on his side, fast asleep in a pool of sunlight and Martin glanced at him when he murmured in a dream, his feet twitching.

  Taking a dustpan and brush from a hook, Martin swept cut offs and shavings from the workbench, tossing them into a bin. He wiped the area with a clean cloth before wandering to an easel in the middle of the room.

  It was the seascape, invisibly repaired and framed in locally grown mountain ash. The subtle timber brought out the beauty of the painting even more and Martin struggled to take his eyes off it.

  Martin could paint, but never a scene as complex and heart stopping and detailed. This painting captured a moment in time and held it still forever. It told a story of unleashed power that could crush... yet had a wondrous life about it. So perfect.

  This painting had been stored away for decades to the point of risking its viability. Somebody had deliberately hidden it from its artist and its intended recipient, making Martin angry and sad at the same time.

  Randall woke up and stretched, lifting his head. Martin glanced at his watch and went over to Randall. Squatting beside the dog, he scratched his chest, smiling as glazed pleasure filled Randall’s eyes.

  “Go back to sleep. I won’t be long.”

  Randall’s tail thumped against the timber floor as Martin headed for the door.

  CHRISTIE CROSSED THE road to the jewellers, admiring the beautiful brickwork and gleaming windows. It was an old building, almost lost in time. The windows displayed porcelain ornaments, brass figurines, crystal pieces and jewellery. Above the door was a simple sign. River’s End Jeweller. Est. 1902.

  Inside, the shop was dark and cool. Behind a long glass counter was a wall of clocks, tick-tocking in a staggered rhythm. In every cabinet, Christie saw quality, sparkling creations. A genuine, old-fashioned jewellery shop.

  The door closed behind her with a jangle, and a woman emerged from a doorway in the wall of clocks. In her late forties, she had a stern face with greying hair piled up in a messy bun.

  “Can I help?” she said. Then, she considered Christie’s appearance and forced a smile. “I mean, what can I help you with? I have some lovely diamond earrings that would suit you so well.”

  Christie returned the smile. “Perhaps another time. I was wondering if you have someone here who could help me with a couple of rings. Just hoping for some information on them.”

  The woman stopped smiling. “What kind of rings? What kind of information?”

  “A wedding ring and engagement ring. They’re quite old and—.”

  “If you want them valued, you need to see George. He’s not here.”

  ‘Okay. When should I come back?”

  “Later. Or tomorrow.” The woman stared at Christie.

  “Okay. Well, thanks for that. I’ll try again later. Or tomorrow.” As Christie left, she wondered if this woman was related to the ones in the supermarket. Should she laugh or feel offended? The extremes in this little town were surprising, as though split between super friendly and super suspicious folk. Something bothered her though from the brief encounter.

  She stared at her reflection in the window. Her h
air was in a slick ponytail, fastened with a pretty butterfly jewelled clasp. Her makeup was perfect, her shirt and pants were casual but designer. She wore low-heeled leather sandals and carried a small Valentino shoulder handbag.

  The woman had been quite curt at first, as though Christie had interrupted her. Then, she offered what was probably an expensive pair of earrings. Christie knew the Lotus gave an impression of wealth, but did the way she presented herself intimidate some of the locals?

  Christie sighed and decided she had had enough of window-shopping for today.

  THE SUPERMARKET YIELDED locally made cheese and a selection of fresh vegetables and fruit. As Christie approached the checkout, her heart sank a little to see the same woman serving as on her last visit. Nevertheless, she smiled and said hello and this time the woman nodded and grunted something that might have been hello.

  The lure of the bakery was too tempting for Christie and she found herself back inside, almost drooling over the delicious array of baked goods.

  “Here for eclairs this time?” Belinda beamed.

  “Hm. Enticing, but that apple slice has my name on it!”

  “Oh, well let’s see!” Belinda opened the glass cabinet and peered in. “Now, what was your name and I’ll find it.”

  Christie laughed. “I’m Christie.”

  Belinda slid an apple slice into a bag with tongs. “Yes, definitely has Christie written on it,” she laughed as well as she closed the cabinet. “I’m Belinda.”

  “I know.” Christie pointed to the name badge and Belinda rolled her eyes at herself.

  “I might take a sourdough loaf as well, please.”

  “Awesome choice. Mum uses her own starter so each batch is quite unique.”

  “So this is a family business?”

  Belinda finished wrapping the sourdough loaf in crisp paper and placed it next to the slice on the top of the counter. “Mum bakes and runs things. She’s the real deal, a single super-mum. I help out. Jess, well Jess studies a lot. She’s smart. Now anything else today? I have some cupcakes I iced myself!”