Taming the Wind, page 1
Taming The Wind
Phillipa Nefri Clark
Contents
Important Note
Different Sides Of The Same Coin
Expectations
To Love The Common Things
His To Tame
Observations
Only Time Itself
To Catch The Breeze
Too Long A Secret
At The Edge Of The Pond
What Lies Ahead
A Moment In Time
Our Jetty. Always.
And So, It Begins
Next… The Stationmaster’s Cottage
About the Author
Books by Phillipa Nefri Clark
Three series in one world
Taming The Wind
Copyright © 2020 Phillipa Nefri Clark
* * *
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher and the author.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names.
Editing by Nas Dean
Cover by Steam Power Studios
Important Note
Taming The Wind is set in Australia in 1966 & 1967. It is written in Australian/British English to provide an authentic read.
This story is a prequel to The Stationmaster’s Cottage, but reads as a standalone with a happy ending.
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For Nas
Different Sides Of The Same Coin
How wonderful to escape from Palmerston House before anyone woke, tiptoeing down the stairs (avoiding the creaky ones) and sneaking out through the door beyond the kitchen.
The cool air brushing her cheeks, Martha Ryan sprinted across the dewy lawn to the furthest corner of the property rather than follow the winding driveway to its grand gates. She scrambled over the timber fence, glancing back at the house as a light flicked on. The kitchen staff were always the first up.
When I have a home, I won’t need staff.
She’d cook breakfast each day for her family. Children, at least three or four. A husband who was also her best friend. One who didn’t drink too much each night with his friends and stumble home to an angry wife. The constant fights between the parents she adored were exhausting her.
On the road to the river, she picked up her pace again, longing for sand between her toes and sea spray in her hair.
At nineteen, Martha had her life planned out. A cottage overlooking the ocean. A walnut, handcrafted desk where she’d write books to sell around the world. Volunteering would be in there somewhere, helping others find their way. First though, she would travel for at least a year to distant corners of the planet.
A narrow path beside the river wove beneath a natural gap in the cliff. This was the darkest part of the route, but one Martha knew well enough to walk blindfolded. Only after a winter deluge would she avoid the shortcut, when the river sometimes swelled to dangerous levels through the narrow tunnel.
“Finally!” On the beach, she kicked off her sandals and dug her toes into cool sand with a sigh.
She wandered alongside the river until it formed a shallow lagoon before merging with the sea. The lagoon water was warm, and Martha paddled ankle-deep to the waves, which were contrastingly cold enough to make her squeal and step back. Springtime might mean daffodils and sunny days, but the Great Southern Ocean took its own sweet time to warm up enough to swim.
The tide was low and the sea calm, almost still. Martha climbed onto the old jetty as the sky lightened to her right. She loved this place but rarely got here early enough to sit alone at the end. To have it to herself for a while with no disagreements or stifling if well-meant expectations, legs dangling over, salt on her lips…what a treat.
Which might be short-lived. Martha sighed as a movement along the tideline caught her eye. A man headed her way.
Stay still. He’ll keep walking. Focus on the scenery.
Martha gazed at the horizon as the colours of the sky changed. Fingers of gold and orange intermingled with the dark blue hue of the heavens. Perfect.
The old timber boards groaned under the feet of the walker. Most likely a fisherman, out for his breakfast catch so there was no point being ungracious about the intrusion. Martha planted what she hoped was a bright smile on her face and turned her head in greeting. “How gorgeous is this view?”
He’d already stopped halfway along, as though seeing her for the first time. Not a fisherman. A tiny flutter stirred in Martha despite the rather stern expression on his face. She knew him. In a town so small, everyone knew each other.
“There’s room here, if you’d like to watch the day begin.” She offered.
The last thing Martha wanted was him thinking it was an invitation, so she directed her attention back to the horizon. It didn’t matter if he left. They’d never spoken from her recollection. Martha’s friend circle was wide and eclectic, much to her mother—Lilian’s—perpetual disapproval. As the region’s wealthiest family, appearances mattered. At least to Lilian, and Martha’s older sister, Dorothy. And Thomas Blake would certainly attract their disapproval.
Are you still there or did I scare you away?
The jetty creaked.
“Are you certain I won’t be intruding?”
Martha somehow avoided jumping at his voice. Deeper than she’d imagined, although until one minute ago she’d never even thought about him. Or how his voice might sound.
“Not unless you intend to recite poetry or play bagpipes.” Martha moved over a bit to make room.
He settled beside her, hands on the timber boards either side of his shorts-clad legs. “From English descent, not Scottish, so you are safe from the latter.”
She snuck a glance at him. He didn’t comment on the poetry.
A long silence fell, interrupted by seagulls hovering around the jetty.
Martha stared at silvery, spotted fish darting around seaweed below.
He was intruding. There was a presence about Thomas drawing her attention away from the sea and the sky. How had they never spoken? His father was the stationmaster and with his mother, Thomas lived in the cottage built by the Ryan family decades ago to support the train line they’d financed.
“Do you know what species those are?” Thomas nodded to the fish.
“Of course. King Whiting. Sillaginodes punctatus. And before you correct me, these are babies. Juveniles.” Martha raised her chin.
“Do people usually correct you?”
Thomas turned his head to face her. His expression was kind. It was the only word she could summon.
“Mother, usually. Or Dorothy, when she’s home. Anyway, I’m Martha.”
“I know.”
“Oh.”
He knows who I am.
“Your parents employ my father. They own our house.”
He might as well have added ‘control our lives’. Martha’s stomach tensed at his tone. She recognised the mix of bitterness and acceptance. It mirrored her own feelings.
Different sides of the same coin they were.
Expectations
Had he allowed his discontent to show? There was a flicker of something in Martha’s eyes. This was her family he spoke of. For all he knew, she was the same as Lilian and Dorothy, women who’d walked past his mother without little acknowledgement on more than one occasion. Patrick was different. Her father was a man of the people, particularly when whiskey or beer was on offer.
Thomas had expected a deserted jetty. Wanted a deserted jetty. How he treasured the time alone on its end, formulating a painting before committing it to canvas, or planning a sketch. Sometimes, like today, he’d intended to think.
Yet another discussion over dinner last night had resulted in bad feelings. Not that anyone would admit to them. Dad just grunted and left the table to go straight to bed. Always the excuse of an early start but he rose after Thomas each morning. Mum refused to let Thomas help her wash up, humming to herself as she put each plate down a little louder than necessary.
I can’t be what you want.
They were good people who wanted their son to have a living. A future. Marriage to a local girl, grandchildren for them to spoil, a secure job doing what Thomas’ father did, and his grandfather and great grandfather had. Stationmaster of Rivers End station, or more accurately, the Ryan family’s timber mill train line.
“You’re an artist.”
Martha’s voice carried no judgement of his earlier words. She sounded curious and when she smiled, his doubts of her sincerity vanished. The young woman he’d only ever seen from a distance, laughing with her friends or riding her horse along the beach, was cut from a different cloth than most Ryans.
“I am. But how did you know?”
“Everybody knows. And you were in the newspaper when you won the oil painting section at the Warrnambool arts show last year. Such a beautiful painting of the river.”
A warm flush rose from Thomas’s neck to his forehead and he dropped his head. “Than
ks.” Little more than a mutter. “My mother entered it without telling me. Never should have won.”
“Yet, it did. She must be proud of you.”
Debatable. Probably. But Mum always sided with Dad. Even when his own father destroyed… Thomas shook his head. What happened those years ago was in the past.
“I’d love my mother to be proud of me. She disapproves of almost every choice I make and in the same breath, reminds me how Dorothy is fulfilling her destiny.” Martha stretched her toes down to touch the surface of the water. It was a bit too far. “So, I agree and make my plans to escape.”
“To follow your sister to Melbourne?”
“My goodness, no! She is welcome to get a degree in business and return to take over from Father and make the business great again. Except…” Martha leaned toward him, her long hair dropping forward to brush against his arm. “I suspect Dorothy is fond of a young man in the city and may never return.”
Martha sat back and gazed at the sea, oblivious, it appeared, to the effect she’d had on Thomas. His heart thudded, and his skin tingled where her silky hair strands had touched him.
He wanted to paint her, here at the end of the jetty. In her white dress, dark brown hair glistening under the rising sun, face animated with a joy of living he’d never seen in another person. How though would he, the lowly son of a stationmaster, capture the beauty radiating from Martha?
“I have to go home.” She was scrambling to her feet and Thomas stood. “We have a dinner party tonight and Mother expects me there all day helping prepare.”
“Is it what you want to do?”
She wrinkled her nose. So cute.
“Not when it’s for stuffy businessmen. But these men order the timber and keep the line running which puts food on the tables of many families in Rivers End.”
Said casually, the message was clear, and it stung. The Ryan family were this town. Martha’s home—Palmerston House—stood for more than a show of wealth. It served as a reminder of how much the simple people of the region owed to one powerful family.
Martha wasn’t his to paint. Or share dreams with. Or anything other than nod to as they passed in the street.
“Are you coming?”
Thomas blinked. What had he missed?
With a laugh, Martha grabbed his hand and tugged. “Let’s go and splash in the lagoon like kids before going back to the real world.”
To Love The Common Things
Thomas haunted Martha’s thoughts for days. Their paths hadn’t crossed again, not since laughing their goodbyes after spending far too long in the lagoon. Somehow her sandals had fallen into the deepest part of the water and her attempts to retrieve them resulted in two soaking wet people.
“Whatever are you smiling at, Martha?” Lilian carried a basket of flowers into the kitchen as Martha finished a late breakfast.
“Those are pretty.”
“True. But not an answer.”
“Sorry. I was just thinking about someone I met the other day. A new friend.” Martha took her plate to the sink and turned on the tap.
“For goodness sake, child, we have staff to do that.”
“And I have two perfectly useful hands.” She kept her tone pleasant although they’d had this discussion so often it was like playing a record.
Lilian wasn’t impressed. “Who is this new friend? You don’t seem to spend much time with Bess and Annette lately.”
“They are both travelling, Mother.” Martha carried two vases to the table and helped Lilian sort the flowers as she’d done since childhood. “Off to London. Then France. They intend to find husbands. Minor royalty, if you would believe them.”
“Better than the slim offerings here. Not one suitable match between Rivers End and Melbourne for young ladies of good upbringing.”
Thomas Blake was a suitable match with his keen intellect and kind eyes, sense of humour and movie star looks. And talent. Nothing as appealing as pure talent. Martha pushed the thought away.
“You do know we live in the 1960s, not 1860s. The days of marriages based on perceived equal status are long gone.” Martha breathed in the heady scent of a string of white jasmine. “I love these.”
“You, my daughter, love the common things.” If there was a slight smile on Lilian’s lips, it didn’t linger. “Jasmine is found everywhere around here. Same as the people. And stop deliberately misunderstanding me, Martha. The world requires all types from the lowliest workers to the royalty you mentioned. Everyone has their place.”
“You just think my friends belong in a different place to me.” Martha left the flowers to Lilian and washed her hands.
Lilian folded her arms. “You refuse to accept the generous offers from prestigious universities because you insist on a study break, but all you do is waste time with girls from the town or sit in your room.”
“In my room I write stories. And you’ve made it clear you won’t support my preference to pursue the arts. I’m still going to be a famous author, Mother.”
“With nothing to fall back on. Why not be a teacher? Or nurse? Or even go into business like your sister?”
“Oh, for goodness sake, even Dorothy doesn’t really want a business degree.”
“Rubbish. She’s a natural and loves learning.”
Loves not being here. Dorothy wanted to be an opera star.
Martha needed fresh air. “I might walk into town. Do you need anything?”
“I’d like to continue this discussion, young lady.”
“I’ll think about being a teacher, okay?” Martha snapped.
Anything to settle Mother down and get some space. After throwing on jeans and T-shirt and tying her hair into a ponytail, Martha stomped out via the front door. She had no destination in mind and let her feet be in charge until her temper cooled. The sky threatened rain, but she didn’t care.
Not wanting to run into anyone she knew—which meant almost every person in Rivers End—she skirted around the township along the road hugging the cliffs. Instead of turning to the beach at the river, she went the other way and crossed the bridge. This led to the main street out of town toward Melbourne.
Only how many hours away?
The city didn’t interest her. She’d spent her high school years at a boarding school there. Dorothy adored Melbourne and would never move back home, no matter how much Mother pressured her.
At the top of the hill, the last of the bad feelings drained away and Martha wandered into the tiny graveyard. For a while she visited the resting places of her ancestors, all the way back to Eoin Patrick Ryan, who’d died in 1893. He was the first Ryan to live in Palmerston House after winning it in a game of poker.
She stared over the town. A couple of streets of shops. Two or three blocks of homes in large gardens. With a population of less than four hundred, nobody built too close to anyone else. There was one school, catering for primary and high school students. How she’d wanted to stay there after primary school instead of leaving her friends behind. At least now she was back with them, particularly her closest friend, Frannie. One more thing to upset Lilian.
Rain began. It wouldn’t amount to much, but she’d rather stay dry until the squall passed. Stone steps led to the beach and she hurried down to the sand in an increasing shower. On one side of the steps, the smooth, sheer cliff rose to the graveyard. On the other and a little further along was a cave. Well, an alcove really, a natural indent large enough to wait in.
The entry was filled with an artist’s easel complete with canvas. And artist.
His To Tame
Should have known this would happen.
Rain and oils don’t go well. Before the first drop hit his arm he had to move from the perfect position against the cliff. He’d scoped this angle for days, picturing the finished canvas before doing as much as selecting a palette. Only two hours into painting, he’d glanced at the sky, aware of the shift in the atmosphere heralding a downpour.
