The Library of Lost and Found
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‘Yes, that sounds like me.’
‘I called out to you, but you vanished.’
‘Really? I didn’t hear anything. I was on my way to the footie match with my son – he was waiting in the car. There was an author event on, or something, so I left the book by the door.’
‘The event was cancelled. It was written on the poster.’
‘Oh.’ Owen scratched his head. ‘I don’t think I was wearing my glasses.’
Martha noted that his sentences were as higgledy-piggledy as his bookshop. He started to speak then looked distracted, as if he had to physically search for his next words. ‘Where did your contact get the book from?’ she asked.
Owen scratched his head, leaving his hair stuck up on top. ‘I’d really have to ask him, or check my notes… I do write these things down… sometimes.’
Martha waited for him to look around but he didn’t do anything.
‘You look a little disappointed… or puzzled.’ he said.
She twisted her fingers around her wrist, wondering if she should tell him the reason for the book’s importance. ‘The dedication inside is from my grandmother, Zelda,’ she said. ‘But the date she’s written is three years after she died. The stories in the book are also… well, personal.’
Owen cocked his head to one side. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Um…’ Martha said, scolding herself for mentioning the last bit.
‘You can tell me anything.’ Owen held up three fingers of his right hand. ‘I’m a bookseller and we have a code of secrecy.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, no.’ He grinned. ‘I just wanted to assure you.’
Martha stared at him, wondering if he was a little crazy or not. But with what she had to say, he might think the same thing about her. After Lilian’s negative reaction to the book, she just wanted someone to listen to her and take this strange situation seriously.
‘I used to write stories, when I was younger,’ she admitted. ‘I only shared them with my family, Zelda mainly. And now I’ve found them here, printed in this book. They’re alongside other ones my nana and mum told me.’
Owen rocked back and forth on his heels for a while. He worked his mouth. ‘I’ve certainly not heard that one before.’
Martha wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or not. She wished that the ground would swallow her up, or that a bookshelf would fall over and squash her flat.
Owen picked up the book and leafed through it again. ‘Publishers sometimes print the title of the book on each page… but not in this case. It looks like the book might be self-published, so it will be more difficult to trace… not impossible, though.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ll get back in touch with Dexter, my contact. I’ll see if he remembers where it came from. He knows people.’
He sounds like the James Bond of the second-hand book world, connected to a secret underground network, Martha thought.
‘I’ll make a note of some of these story titles.’ Owen picked up a pen and took hold of a scrap of paper. ‘Or perhaps I can keep this… for a while?’
Martha clicked her tongue. She didn’t want to let the book out of her sight.
‘I’ll take good care of it.’
‘Hmm, well, okay then. But I’d like it back as soon as possible.’
‘I promise to call you on Monday.’
Martha took her purse from her bag. ‘How much do I owe you, for the book and your research?’
‘Now put that away, I don’t want any money.’ He raised a palm. ‘Just buy me a coffee sometime.’
Martha took out a ten-pound note and waved it. ‘Please take this remuneration.’
He shook his head. ‘Tell you what. I’m just about to close the shop, and there’s a nice café called Love, Peace and Coffee just around the corner. It’s perfect for sitting in the window, reading and eating cake. Why don’t we grab a table, and you can tell me more about these intriguing family stories of yours?’
Martha felt her cheeks reddening. She hadn’t been invited out for a coffee by anyone for a long time. Plus, something her father used to say, when she was younger, popped into her head. ‘Watch your cake portions, Martha. You’ll always be beautiful to me, but you’re the type to put on weight easily.’
She paused for what felt like an age, thinking of a reason to give Owen for not joining him. Eventually, she said, ‘Sorry, but I don’t eat cake.’
‘Oh.’ He squinted. ‘Perhaps just a coffee, then?’
Martha started to back up, across the shop towards the door. ‘Not today, thank you. If you find out anything about the book, do let me know.’ She fumbled behind her and opened the door. ‘I’d be most obliged.’
‘I’ll need your phone number.’ Owen reached out with one hand, as if trying to catch her coat. ‘Or I can call the library…’
Martha stood with one foot inside the shop and the other on the pavement outside. She imagined Clive’s smug face, if he took a personal call for her. He’d enjoy berating her.
She stepped back inside the shop, took a piece of paper from her notepad and quickly wrote down her home number.
Owen made a great show of folding it neatly and placing it in his jacket pocket. ‘Fantastic,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
CHAPTER SIX
The Reading Group
On Monday afternoon, when Martha pushed her trolley towards the library, it felt like it contained bricks rather than bottles of cordial, biscuits, Horatio’s fish food, some of his potted plants and copies of her new book-rating spreadsheet. She wanted to turn it back around, to wheel it home, but she’d offered to host the fortnightly reading group session. Suki was attending a maternity appointment.
Martha had spent the previous day filled with worry and regret that she’d left the book with Owen to research. Her eyes kept seeking out her phone, to see if he might have found something earlier than expected and left her a message. However, no one called.
The illustrations and stories in her head were like a film that wouldn’t stop. It was as if the book held a hypnotic power over her. Memories were beginning to trickle back, of her stories and the atmosphere in the Storm household that influenced her to write them.
Trying to sleep last night had been hopeless. She tossed and turned and, when she was awake, her concentration flitted away from the tasks she’d assigned herself for the day. Will’s trousers remained unfinished and she’d tripped over a box of Branda’s chandeliers. The Chinese dragon’s eyes seemed to follow her around the room.
She usually hoped that all the reading group members would turn up, but today she wished that no one would. Feeling frazzled, she just wanted to go home and wait for Owen’s call.
Branda was already waiting outside the library. She waved a violet-taloned hand. ‘Enchanté. What book are we reviewing today?’
Martha stifled a sigh. The group were supposed to have read Lucinda Lovell’s latest, in preparation for the Valentine’s Day event that didn’t happen. ‘Distant Desire,’ she said, as she unlocked the door. She pushed her trolley into the corridor and walked with Branda into the main room.
‘Oh. I didn’t read it. Not noir enough for my liking,’ Branda said.
Covering a yawn with her hand, Martha took her Wonder Woman notepad from her pocket. She examined the green ticks and amber stars, but her weary eyes made them look fuzzy. Not able to concentrate properly, she put her pad away and began to rearrange chairs around the table. She took out copies of her new spreadsheet, ready to hand out to the group.
Branda smoothed down her orange skirt, with a graffiti design on the front, and didn’t help. ‘We should read a thriller next,’ she said. ‘A dark Scandi one.’
When a dragging noise sounded from the hallway, Martha paused in mid-spreadsheet distribution. Nora entered, pulling two overstuffed black bin bags.
She had been single for a few years, since her husband died in a car accident, and was now on the lookout for Husband Number Two. Even though she was almost as wide as she was tall, and dressed in jewel-coloured velour tracksuits, Nora wasn’t short of male attention on the numerous dating sites she’d started to frequent. However, she expected her suitors to look like the bare-chested men on the covers of the racy novels she devoured, so was always disappointed when she met them in person.
‘I honestly do not know where all the washing machine engineers have vanished to,’ she huffed, as she deposited her bags in the middle of the floor. ‘Can I leave these with you, Martha love? Just another bit of washing and ironing, to add to the stuff you’re doing for me.’
Martha had already laundered numerous loads for Nora and received little thanks in return. She pressed the tip of her tongue against the back of her teeth, trying to form the word no. But she couldn’t let it out of her mouth. Like a smoker trying to quit who finds their fingers reaching for a cigarette, she found a weary smile. ‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Cheers, my dear.’
Horatio was next to arrive. He wore his captain’s hat and a navy suit with gold buttons. He ran a small aquarium from his garage, charging £2 for adults and £1 for children to enter the gloomy space during the summer season. His wife often accused him of loving his fish more than her, and he was slow to deny it. Setting his hat down on the table, he ran a finger over his white brush of a moustache. ‘Did you bring my fish food back for me?’
Martha nodded and handed over two shopping bags. ‘And some of your potted plants, too. Don’t forget that you still need to collect your fish.’
‘That’s grand.’ Horatio reached into his pocket, took out a two-pound coin and pressed it into her palm. He curled her hand around it and patted. ‘Treat yourself to something nice.’
Martha unfurled her fingers. It had cost her several times that amount for the extra fish food she’d bought, but it seemed churlish to mention it. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
Siegfried entered the room and sat down. He took off his grey hat and held it on his lap with both hands. He didn’t say hello to anyone, but muttered something about Clive being late and to start without him.
Martha waited for the group to settle down, take off their coats, shuffle in their chairs and take things from their pockets and bags. Clearing her throat, she picked up Lucinda’s book. ‘Let’s make a start,’ she said, trying to inject brightness into her voice to mask her exhaustion. The quicker she could get the session going, the sooner she could get home to check for messages on her answer machine. ‘We’ve all been reading Distant Desire, so who wants to kick-start our conversation? You’ll find new sheets in front of you, to help organize your thoughts.’
Branda unzipped her handbag and took out a pair of oversized round sunglasses. She set them on top of her bluey-black hair. ‘I hoped to see Lucinda at the event. She’s awfully filtered in her photo and I wanted a closer look, you know… to see if she’s had anything done to her face.’
‘Oh yes.’ Nora circled a finger around her own forehead and mimed an injection. ‘It was a shame she had to cancel.’
‘I’ve been reading a book about a prison officer,’ Horatio said. ‘Very insightful. One of the inmates was a murderer but cared for a goldfish in the prison.’
Martha was surprised to find that her usual patience was evading her. The group members often got sidetracked with their conversations and she could handle it, but today it needled her. ‘That’s lovely about the fish,’ she said, shortly. ‘Now, let’s get back to Distant Desire. I have some discussion questions.’
Horatio, Branda and Nora didn’t look remotely interested. Siegfried played with a piece of loose wool on his hat and Martha felt her neck flushing from frustration. ‘Or, perhaps you’d like to read a passage from the book, Branda?’
Branda used her hand as a shield and whispered into Nora’s ear. Nora gasped in reply.
Martha stared at the two women and wondered if she had actually turned invisible. If she pulled a silly face, or did a waltz, would anyone even notice?
She stood for a few moments and looked down at Distant Desire, but instead she pictured Zelda’s book and the blackbird illustration. She shook her head and the image vanished. The sound of Branda and Nora talking persisted as a loud buzz. ‘Siegfried,’ she tried. ‘Perhaps you’d like to read for us?’
Siegfried’s eyes shifted to the right, as if checking that the front doors were still open.
Horatio held up his palms. ‘I didn’t read the book,’ he said. ‘Too busy cleaning out the aquarium.’
Martha felt her temples begin to throb. She wrapped her fingers tightly around Lucinda’s book. When anyone in the group wanted her to do things, she did them. It would be nice if they returned her favours, occasionally.
She didn’t want to read aloud, not having done it since Will and Rose were small. Being a focus of any attention made her cheeks go blotchy. ‘Anyone?’ she asked again, to blank faces.
Trying to fight off feelings of resentment, she opened the book. She ran her finger down the page but her eyes were sore and wouldn’t focus properly. She hastily selected a paragraph, any passage, to win back their attention, and began to read. ‘She reared up in front of him,’ she started.
Nora and Branda stopped talking.
Martha took a breath. At last, this seemed to be working. Everyone was looking at her. ‘She reared up in front of him. Her breath was heavy, like a cheetah who’d run across a semi-arid desert. She was tall, and her red silk dress clung to her body emphasizing the swell of her… um…’
Her eyes widened as she read the next words to herself, and then out loud. She didn’t recall them being this passionate. ‘Of her, um, large, heaving… Apologies, that part doesn’t seem very, um, suitable. ’ She coughed and tried to find another section to read instead.
Branda tittered. Nora followed suit with hiccuping giggles. Siegfried flicked his eyes towards the sci-fi shelves and Horatio grinned. ‘Carry on,’ he said.
Martha’s cheeks began to burn. If she touched them with a wet finger they might hiss. A pain travelled up her windpipe and stuck in her throat like a swallowed sweet. Stop it, she wanted to say. Stop laughing at me.
The library doors opened and she was glad of the interruption, until she saw Clive strolling inside. He folded his arms and leaned casually with one shoulder against a wall. He wore a brown baggy suit that was too big for him, and his lemonyellow shirt puckered across his chest. He had a surprisingly small head for his body, and orange freckles pocked his bald head so it resembled a quail’s egg. Watching intently, he smiled at the group. ‘It looks like we’re all having fun.’ He smirked. ‘Are you okay, Martha? Your face is rather colourful.’
She looked away from him. ‘Yes, of course.’
The laughter in the room bounced around in her head. She quickly reached out for a biscuit and took a bite. She munched and the crumbs swelled in her mouth. The more she tried to swallow, the more she struggled. She glanced around for a glass of water but she’d forgotten to set them out.
The other group members looked at her as she gasped for air. ‘You should have a drink,’ Branda said, without moving.
Siegfried stood up.
Martha raised her hand, telling him she was okay. She speed-walked into the small, dark kitchen. Spinning on the tap, she filled a glass with water and gulped it down. With her head hanging over the sink, she pinched the top of her nose and took deep breaths. The chattering and laughter in the library carried on as she stood alone.
After a few moments, she sensed that someone else had joined her and she turned to see Clive. He loomed in the doorway, standing there like her father used to do, making his presence felt. ‘Do you need anything?’ he asked silkily.
‘No, thank you. I’m fine now.’ Martha cleared her throat.
‘Good. I wanted to speak to you alone, anyway,’ he said.
‘Is it about Lucinda?’
Clive scratched his neck. ‘No. What about her?’
‘I didn’t know she’d cancelled. I brought a trolley full of things. I spent a lot of time—’
‘Of course, you knew,’ he snapped. ‘I told everyone.’
Martha shrank like a salted slug. ‘Not me.’
‘You probably forgot or didn’t pick up my message.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Anyway, I heard that you requested an application form, for the full-time position.’
‘Um, yes.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Clive said. He folded his arms. ‘I’ve had a lot of interest in the role. Several young people with good experience, in fact.’
Martha felt her insides sliding. ‘That must be very encouraging for you.’
‘Yes. I just didn’t want you to be, um… disappointed.’
Martha thought of the application form in her desk drawer. She hadn’t even completed one word and Clive was already priming her for rejection. She opened her mouth to tell him how much she wanted the job, what she could bring to it and how she was probably just as qualified as anyone else, but his lips were set in a fine line.
As he obstructed her way out of the kitchen, Martha had a flash of memory. Her father embraced her mother, tipped her back and kissed her, then held up a book. Martha and her mother had read it together, but she never saw it again after that day. Beauty and the Beast.
She hadn’t thought of it for a long time and, for some reason, the memory unnerved her. The picture stuck there, like it had been pasted in her brain.
Glancing around, the kitchen walls seemed to contract, closing in on her. Her head began to feel light and she took a tentative step forward, indicating that she wanted to leave. ‘Sorry, I need to…’
But Clive remained there, solid and imposing. Although he was just a man, he seemed like a brick wall.
Martha bent her head, and her heart pounded. She desperately wanted to get out of this confined space. Screwing her eyes shut, she stepped forward. The door was out of reach, behind Clive’s back, but she headed for it anyway. She felt her arm brush against the sleeve of his jacket and heard his feet move to one side.
When she finally lifted her head, she was back in the main room of the library. After the gloominess of the kitchen, she raised a hand against the glare of the fluorescent lights.
‘Will you read another passage from the book for us?’ Horatio winked at her.
‘Can I get the washing back from you tomorrow, Martha love?’ Nora asked.
‘Apply for the job, if you think you have a chance,’ Clive said, behind her.
Martha looked back and saw his freckled scalp and blubbery lips, shining under the ceiling light. She turned and focused on Horatio’s gold buttons, lipstick on Branda’s front tooth and Nora’s silver fillings as she laughed.
‘Do you have any gluten-free biscuits?’ Branda asked.
‘It will be good practice for you,’ Clive said.
‘Can you be a love and drop the laundry off for me?’ Nora said. ‘My back is playing up.’
‘No,’ Martha said very quietly. Partly to the group, and partly to the image of her father in her head, as he held out his hand for Beauty and the Beast. She clenched her fists but the chattering and laughter droned on.
‘There’s not long until the deadline,’ Clive said.
‘The lid is missing off this fish food. Come and take a look,’ Horatio grumbled.
‘We should read a Scandi thriller next, Martha.’ Branda tapped her nails on the table. ‘Much more exciting than this one.’
‘I usually use fabric softener,’ Nora mused. ‘Can you be a love and pop some in your machine? My towels were a bit scratchy.’
Martha felt a rumbling, volcano-like, deep within her. A pain stabbed her chest and she pressed her hands against it, pushing it away. Something very strange was happening to her body and she couldn’t control it. Fear flickered in her eyes as she wondered what it was.
‘I always wash at forty degrees,’ Nora said. ‘I suspect you set your machine at thirty, Martha love.’
‘I think the Scandinavians write better thrillers,’ Branda said. ‘Don’t you agree?’
The noise in the room seemed to escalate, reaching a crescendo in Martha’s head. She raised her hands, holding them flat against her ears, yet she couldn’t block out the racket that hissed and hurt her brain.
And the next thing she heard took her completely by surprise. It overwhelmed and startled her.
It was Martha’s own voice, very loud and very clear.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No. No. NO.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Crabs
The minutes following Martha’s outburst whizzed past in a haze. The members of the reading group stared at her, but she couldn’t absorb their expressions. The word ‘no’ ricocheted in her head.
She whispered a quick ‘Sorry,’ and tugged her coat from the back of a chair. She stuffed her notepad into its pocket.
As she moved quickly, her knee cracked as she stumbled over one of Nora’s bags of laundry. Wobbling for a moment, she managed not to fall and she padded her hands against the walls of the corridor to make her way to the front doors. After forcing them open, she surged outside, blinking against the brightness of the daylight.
Martha stood for a moment, shielding her eyes and not knowing what to do or where to go. The cool February breeze kissed her fiery cheeks. She clumsily pulled on her coat, pushing an arm down a sleeve with such force that the lining ripped.
‘Martha.’ A man’s voice growled from behind her.
Startled, she turned to see Siegfried, hunched in his long coat. When he reached out, his fingers skimmed against her wrist. Martha inched away.
He took a small step towards her and her own shuffles graduated to small steps backwards, then became bigger strides. All she could picture were laughing faces, mocking her.
She moved with pace, a small jog, along the street and past the cemetery. She’d left her handbag behind and felt her sparkly hair slide slip out. She saw it fall, then shine on the pavement before she moved on.
Her head reverberated and she couldn’t think about anything clearly. As she crossed the road, a lorry sounded its horn. Everything around her sounded louder, the wheels on a bus roared on the tarmac, and she winced when a seagull cawed overhead. A car was suddenly upon her, the driver flashing his lights and shaking his fist as she leaped out of the way.
Silly, silly woman, she scolded herself. What on earth will people think of you?
I’ve left Nora’s washing behind. How will I get it clean now?
Clive Folds will never give me a job.
I’ve not explained how to use the book-rating spreadsheet.
Shame prevented her from returning. She thrust her head down and speed-walked on, her shoulders feeling too light without her bag.
Fine drops of rain prickled her face before they turned to fat drops and she swiped them away with her fingers. A bus pulled up alongside her and the driver opened the doors. Martha hesitated, not knowing where it was heading. She pushed her hand into her pocket and felt loose change.
‘Are you gettin’ on board or not, darlin’?’ the driver called out to her.
Martha stood motionless as people moved towards her on the pavement. A woman wearing a see-through plastic mac chased after her King Charles spaniel, and kids laughed and shoved each other as they made their way home from school. She wondered if Will and Rose were among them and, not wanting them to see her like this, she darted on board.
‘Where to, darlin’?’ the driver asked.
‘Maltsborough, please.’
‘Single ticket?’
‘Um, yes.’
The doors shushed shut and the bus set off.
Hanging her head, she made her way to the back and slumped down onto the seat she’d shared with Will and Rose the previous day. The windows were steamed up and someone had drawn a heart with their finger in the condensation.
A hot tear trickled down her cheek and she brushed it away, angry at her own behaviour. Resilience was something she’d perfected over the years, as she catered to her parents’ needs.