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CHRISTIE SIPPED ON hot coffee whilst she stared out of the kitchen window into the darkness of night. Her mind overflowed with possibilities about this little town and the two families connected by more than a broken engagement.
Martin must be a descendant of Thomas Blake. Probably his grandson, which led to an interesting question. Who was Martin’s grandmother? If Thomas and Martha had reconciled, Martin was Christie’s second cousin. Family.
Yet, it did not fit. Martin knew she was Dorothy’s grandchild, so why not have introduced himself as her cousin? Why this hostility and why, for that matter, would Gran not tell Christie herself?
No, Thomas must have married someone else. Christie’s thoughts raced. What if Thomas had been unfaithful to Martha during their engagement, which resulted in the broken relationship and a child?
Christie sighed. The letters spoke of loyalty, love, and a total commitment, so there must have been another reason for the split. She needed to know if they reunited before she spoke to Martin again. She had to keep reading.
***
IN THE NEXT TOWN, ANOTHER woman also stared out at the night. Instead of almost total darkness outside, Martha Ryan’s room in Green Bay Hospital overlooked the main street, which this early in the evening was busy with cars. She sat in the visitor’s chair beside her bed, a hospital dressing gown around frail shoulders.
Tomorrow, if the doctor approved, she would be going home. At least, going back to what had once been her home. She recalled little of the ambulance whisking her here from the beach, or the worried faces of nurses who admitted her. She did remember the gruff kindness of the fisherman and the smell of his oilskin. Mostly, she remembered Thomas was dead.
All this time. All these wasted decades. To see him one more time would have been enough. Had she known he was dead, not even Dorothy’s plea to reunite would have brought her back to River’s End.
To think of her strong, young Tom buried on the clifftop was unbearable. The gut-wrenching, shuddering loss overwhelmed Martha. Because this was final. He was gone.
For the first time in her life, Martha was truly alone. Whatever future lay ahead was bleak and sad. At this moment, she believed she would mourn Thomas until the day she died. Her heart remained true to him.
***
CHRISTIE CONTEMPLATED the bundle of letters. So far, she had read six of them in order and each expressed growing concern over the long break in communication. Why had Thomas not gone to where Martha was staying? Was Lilian – Christie’s great grandmother – so intimidating a grown man feared to confront her? He seemed to get on well enough with Patrick, so why had he not gone to him for more information? For that matter, why not pick up a phone and call her? It was all a mystery. The next letter was a few lines long.
Dear Martha,
Today is one month since you left. Christmas has come and gone and my gift to you is at your house, left with the housekeeper. It is almost the New Year and this must be our turning point.
Meet me on the jetty on New Year’s Day, Martha. If you do not, I shall accept you no longer wish us to be together.
It is entirely up to you now.
Love,
Thomas
The ultimatum was a surprise; so risky when one party was clearly not interested in engaging. What would she have done, if Derek had insisted she made a choice between Lizard Island and Gran’s funeral? It hurt Christie’s brain to think about that too closely, so she unfolded another letter instead.
Sweetheart, forgive me.
I put pressure on you to act when you may not be ready. The last letter means nothing.
That night, you nearly died when you fell into the sea and I could not find you. I was almost at my own final breath when, by the sheer fortune of a lightning flash, I saw you. Your dress had snagged on a pylon and your hair drifted around your face. You were like an angel, your hair floating like a halo. At that instant, I knew I could never let you go and yet, only moments later, you were gone.
Everything was my fault, my doing. Regret and sorrow overwhelms me at times. We were happy, so happy.
Is it possible, my darling we can be together again? Tell me there is a chance, that I have not ruined this. You are my one true love, the only love I will ever know.
I will meet you anytime, anywhere you want me to. We can move to Paris if you wish. Get far away from River’s End and start a new life for ourselves. Just do not give up on us.
Love,
Thomas
Martha almost drowned. Thomas saved her life, apparently in the middle of a storm. Something happened between them that drove Martha to run away and so far, not return.
Christie yawned and giggled. She was turning back into a country girl – early to bed. She decided to read another, this one dated almost a month after the last. This was the longest so far and Christie tucked herself into bed to read.
Dear Martha,
I no longer know where you are or if you are even getting my letters. Palmerston House is boarded up and people say your parents have left for an extended trip to Ireland. No staff are there; even the horses are off the property. Is it possible your father gave me the wrong address and not one of my letters reached you? My enquiries about your sister’s address have not been successful. I am unfamiliar with the city and at a loss at how to find you.
The railway is closing the line next month so my father will retire. The last stationmaster. They have been offered the cottage to rent cheaply, so will stay for a while at least.
There is nothing here for me, yet how do I leave? Every morning I wait on the jetty for you and every morning I go home disappointed. I paint no more. I work enough hours a week to pay my way and that is all I do. Work and wait.
Martha, this cannot continue. I love you as much this moment as I ever have and I need to find you. I had to speak to one of your friends. Forgive me, but I had to...
Thomas waited across the road from a fabric shop at closing time. It was still light and the two young women came out of the door chatting, locking it in their wake, were dressed in pretty summer dresses.
“Frannie!” he called, crossing the road.
Frannie and Fiona, the other young woman, stopped in surprise. Frannie glanced at her reflection in the store window to check her hair, before turning to Thomas with a smile. He tried to force a smile in return with no success.
“Hullo Tom.” Frannie was thrilled to see him, smile or not.
“Shall I stay?” Fiona whispered loudly, blushing when Thomas glanced at her. Frannie shook her head. Reluctantly, Fiona left her friend with Thomas.
“I wanted to ask you something, if that’s okay?”
“Anything. Shall we have a coffee?” Frannie tried to gauge if Thomas was in a happy mood or still the misery he had been since Martha left town.
“Um, coffee? No. I just need a moment. To ask about Martha.”
Disappointed, Frannie glanced after Fiona, who was almost at the corner. “At least walk me home, Tom. We can talk on the way.” Without waiting for him to refuse, Frannie followed Fiona. Thomas hesitated before catching up.
“So, about Martha?” Frannie prompted.
“Have you... have you heard from her? Since that night?”
Frannie thought about her answer, offering a quiet and sad “No.”
She glanced at Thomas, who frowned at her reply.
“Tom, I’m sure she blames me as much as you. Dorothy and I, and for that matter, Fiona, spoke for hours at your party, so I imagine she is upset with us all.”
“You did nothing wrong.” Thomas said. Frannie was her best friend so if she had cut connections with her too, maybe she was serious about not coming home.
Frannie slipped her arm through Thomas’. “Thank you for saying that. All I know is she went to stay with Dorothy. Have you called? Or written?”
“Written. Lots of letters but not one reply. I thought she must have gone somewhere else and hadn’t received them.”
“Well, there is someone I could ask. Someone she went to school with in the city, to see if they have heard from her and know where she is. If you’d like me to ask, that is?”
“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, gazing 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.