The Library of Lost and Found

by Phaedra Patrick

  “I know. Sorry.”

  “You don’t usually call at this time.”

  Martha swallowed as she glanced at the mysterious book. “Um, I know. I’m just hemming Will’s trousers, but something strange has happened.”

  Lilian gave a disinterested hmm. “Can you drop them off for me as soon as you’ve finished? They’re too short and he’s going to school looking like a pirate. And did you reserve that new Cecelia Ahern for me?”

  “Yes. I’ve put it to one side. About this strange thing—”

  “I could do with a nice read, you know? Something relaxing. The kids are really sulky at the moment. And Paul is, well...” She trailed her words away. “You’re lucky, not having anyone else to worry about.”

  “It might be nice to have someone,” Martha mused, as she surveyed her bags and boxes and the dragon’s head. “What were you going to say, about Paul?”

  “Oh. Nothing,” Lilian mumbled. “I thought you liked living on your own, that’s all.”

  Martha chewed the side of her thumbnail and didn’t reply.

  Lilian and Paul had been married for twenty years. In the same year they walked down the aisle, Martha moved back into the family home to help their parents out. Only intending it to be for a short while, they grew more and more reliant on her. She’d ended up caring for them for fifteen years, until they died.

  Sometimes, she still glimpsed her father in his armchair, his face set in a wax-like smile, as he requested his slippers, his supper, the TV channel switching over, his copy of The Times, a glass of milk (warm, not hot).

  Her mother liked to crochet small patches, which she made into scarves and bedspreads for a local residential home. Martha’s later memories of her were inherently linked to Battenberg-like pink-and-yellow woolly squares.

  Lilian helped out sporadically, when her other family commitments permitted, but her efforts amounted to bringing magazines, or reams of wool, around for Mum. She’d sit with Dad and read his beloved encyclopedias with him. She, Will and Rose might set up a family game of Monopoly, or watch Mastermind on TV.

  The day-to-day domestics, the help with hair washing, the administering of painkillers, trips to the doctors, outings for coffee mornings to the church, cooking and cleaning fell to Martha.

  “Now, why are you calling?” Lilian asked.

  Martha reached out for the book. It looked smaller now, less significant. “There was a parcel waiting for me at the library tonight. It was propped against the door.”

  “My Cecelia Ahern?”

  “No. It’s an old book, of fairy stories, I think.” Martha read the dedication again, her nerve endings buzzing. “Um, I think it belonged to Zelda.”

  “Zelda?”

  “Our grandmother.”

  “I know who she is.”

  An awkward silence fell between them, so thick Martha felt like she could touch it. Images dropped into her head of sitting at the garden edge with Zelda, their heels kicking against the cliff. “Don’t you ever wonder what happened to her?”

  “We know. She died over thirty years ago.”

  “I’ve always felt that Mum and Dad didn’t tell us the full story, about her death—”

  “Bloody hell, Martha.” Lilian’s voice grew sharp. “We were just kids. We didn’t need a coronary report. You’re far too old for fairy tales, anyway.”

  Martha’s shoulders twitched at her sister’s spiky reaction. You’re never too old for stories, she thought. “I’ll bring it to the library tomorrow,” she said, her voice growing smaller. “If you’re passing by, you can take a look. There’s a dedication inside, but there’s something odd about it.”

  Lilian didn’t say anything.

  Martha added, “It’s the date—”

  The phone receiver rattled. “I have to go now.”

  “But, the book—”

  “Look,” Lilian said, “just stick it on a shelf and forget about it. You’ve got loads of other stuff to do. I’ll see you soon, okay?” And she hung up.

  Martha stared at the phone receiver and listened to the hum of the dialing tone. Her sister sounded more stressed than ever and she hoped she wasn’t overdoing things. She made a mental note to finish Will’s trousers as soon as possible, to try to put a smile back on Lilian’s face.

  Snapping the battered book shut, she told herself that her sister was probably right. After all, she was the successful sibling, the one with the good job, luxury bungalow and two great kids. And Martha had pressing things to do, like feeding Horatio’s fish and watering his plants. The school might want the dragon’s head back soon.

  She reached out for her Wonder Woman notepad and opened it up, and red dots of lateness seemed to glare at her like devil’s eyes. She should select what to do next, complete the task and mark it off with a neat green tick. But her thoughts kept creeping back to the book. She couldn’t stop her brain ticking with curiosity and disbelief.

  Although her nana might have written the words and dated the dedication, there was something terribly wrong.

  Because Zelda died in February 1982.

  Three years before the message and date in the little book.

  3

  Beauty and the Beast

  Betty, 1974

  Betty had recently switched from buying best butter to margarine. She could feel the floorboards through the small hole in the sole of one of her beige court shoes, and her favorite navy polka-dot skirt was missing a button. She now snipped her own wavy bobbed hairstyle into shape.

  It made sense, to her, that she should look for a part-time job. But her husband, Thomas, was a traditional man. He believed that he should be the breadwinner and that Betty should look after their home and two daughters, Martha and Lilian. It meant that money was often in short supply in the Storm household.

  Thomas also preferred the girls to read educationally. He had recently acquired a set of twenty encyclopedias from a work colleague, and he liked the family to look through them together in the evening.

  So Betty didn’t tell him about the new book she’d bought. With its handsome forest-green cover and gold embossed lettering, she hadn’t been able to resist the copy of Beauty and the Beast. She had loved the story when her mother, Zelda, used to read it to her, and she was sure that Martha would love it, too. Sometimes, it really was easier to keep things to herself.

  Thomas had returned home early from work that afternoon and was taking a nap in his chair in the dining room. His copy of The Times was spread out on the lap of the black suit trousers he wore for his accountancy job, and which he also wore outside work. The room smelled of the freesias he bought for her each Friday.

  Betty studied his face to make sure he was definitely asleep. Straining to reach up on top of the kitchen cupboard, she slid the book from its hiding place and tucked the pink-and-white paper bag under her arm.

  She trod softly around her husband, and as her skirt brushed his fingers, he gave a loud snort. Betty froze on the spot, her body stiff. She deftly moved the book behind her back and held her breath, waiting.

  The cuckoo clock ticked and Thomas emitted a small snore. Betty held her pose a while longer before she crept out of the room and closed the kitchen door behind her.

  “Are you okay, Mum?” Martha raised her head. She lay on the rug on her stomach, scribbling down a story in her notepad.

  “Of course, darling,” Betty said, with a smile. “Just trying not to wake your dad.” She stood and gazed at her two daughters for a few moments. They made her heart swell, and she marveled at how different they looked from each other.

  Lilian was asleep, curled up on the chair. At four years old, she hadn’t yet outgrown her afternoon naps. Her fine blond hair shone like a halo in the afternoon sun and she had peach fuzz for skin.

  Martha was the opposite. Her unruly hair never shone or lay flat, and Betty braided it
into a fat plait to try to keep it under control. Four years older than Lilian, Martha loved to lose herself in reading and writing stories. Lilian was more pragmatic, like her father. She listened to fairy tales with a furrowed brow, announcing that Cinderella’s glass slippers would break if she danced in them and that mice could not turn into horses.

  Betty stooped down and ran her hand down Martha’s plait, giving the end a playful tug. She slid the book out of its bag and presented it on the flats of her hands.

  A smile spread across Martha’s face. “Is it for me?” she asked.

  Betty nodded once and pressed a finger to her mouth. “Shhh.” She pointed toward the door, then made a pillow with her hands. She moved a cushion on the sofa and settled down, then beckoned for her daughter to join her.

  Martha scrambled to her feet and nestled on the sofa, too. Betty took a few moments to relish the warmth of her hair, tucked under her chin. She ran her hand over the cover of the book and made a show of turning the front page. “Ready?” she asked and Martha nodded. The room fell still and Betty began to read.

  Yet she found herself doing so in a hushed, hurried fashion. After every few lines, she flicked her eyes towards the dining room door and cocked her head, listening out for movement in the kitchen. Thomas usually napped for at least ninety minutes, but she wanted to be sure. Even though she tried to enjoy the story, she stumbled over the words.

  Martha leaned her head against Betty’s shoulder. She reached out to touch the words and pictures.

  Betty had just uttered, “...and they all lived happily ever after,” when the door handle creaked slowly down. Nimbly, she slipped the book under a cushion behind her and sat up to attention. The door seemed to take forever to open.

  Thomas was a big man, six-feet-two and heavy-set, with black slicked-back hair that shone like tar. Fourteen years older than Betty, and just four years younger than Zelda, he had the old-fashioned look of a fifties matinee movie idol. “Now, what are my girls up to?” he asked as he entered the room. “Anything good?”

  Betty felt her cheeks flush as she thought about the book. She felt a little guilty now for buying it and hiding it from him. “We’ve been doing a bit of reading, haven’t we, Martha?”

  Martha nodded.

  “Fantastic,” Thomas said. Raising an eyebrow, he shifted his eyes across the room before they settled on the bookcase under the window. All twenty encyclopedias sat in a line, with no gaps. He stared at them for a while before he stepped forward and circled an arm around Betty’s waist. He enveloped her into a hug, grinned and then flipped her backwards, as if they were doing a tango. Holding his face close to hers, he planted a kiss on her lips. “Have I told you how lovely you look today?”

  Betty laughed, her heart fluttering at his gesture.

  He pulled her upright and they smiled at each other for a moment. Then a slight frown fell upon his brow. He looked over her shoulder, reached down and took hold of the cushion on the sofa. “Oh, what’s this then?” he asked, his voice full of surprise as he moved it to one side. “Is it a new book?”

  As he picked it up and studied the cover, Betty swallowed. He must have had eagle eyes to spot it there. Now she had to explain herself and her mouth grew dry. “Yes,” she said lightly. “I was going to tell you about it. It was on special offer in the bookstore, and the girls haven’t had a new storybook for a long time. It’s so beautiful and I...”

  Thomas nodded. Still holding the book, he reached up and stroked her cheek. “That’s so thoughtful of you, but they only got the encyclopedias recently. They’re much better for them than this kind of nonsense. And we don’t want to spoil them, do we? Money is tight, too.” He lowered his voice. “Hmm, perhaps I could do you a favor, and take this back to the shop.”

  Betty felt she couldn’t argue with his logic. When he explained things to her, about their finances, about why he didn’t want her mother to buy silly toys for the girls, he always made sense. If she ever tried to put her own point forward about anything, he listened, but ultimately, he was older and knew what was best.

  With a mixture of sadness, guilt and gratitude, she handed him the pink-and-white-striped bag with the receipt inside. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “Anything to help,” he said with a peck to her cheek. He slipped the book into the bag and tucked it under his arm. “Now I’ll let you get on with your reading. I think Martha might like the section on flowers in the encyclopedias.”

  “She’s read it a few times already,” Betty said quietly.

  “Her favorite, obviously.”

  As Thomas moved away, back towards the door to the dining room, the doorbell rang.

  Betty knew he didn’t like her to open the front door to strangers, so she walked over to the window. Hitching the curtain to one side, she saw her mother’s blond curls wrapped up in a silk scarf. Her long turquoise dress flapped in the breeze, and Betty could already smell her perfume, Estée Lauder’s Youth Dew. “It’s Mum,” she said over her shoulder.

  Thomas’s spine stiffened. “What does she want?” he asked with a sniff.

  Martha jumped up. “Nana.” She rushed past him into the hallway and yanked open the front door.

  Zelda entered the living room with her granddaughter’s arms wrapped around her waist and with her cheek pressed firm to her bosom.

  “I’ve written a new story, Nana,” Martha said.

  “Fabulous. I can’t wait to hear it.” Zelda gently peeled Martha away and looked around. “Well, hello, Thomas,” she said, as if noticing him for the first time. “That bag you’re holding is pretty. Are you embracing your feminine side?”

  Thomas flashed a stiff smile. “Nice to see you, Zelda. This is just something I’m returning to the shop for Betty.”

  “That’s so very thoughtful of you.”

  Betty wondered if anyone else could detect the disdain in Zelda’s and Thomas’s voices when they spoke to each other. Thomas’s tone grew a little higher and quicker, and Zelda’s was more nasal with a hint of a sneer. There was always tension between the two of them, but she did her best to ignore it.

  Her mother had told her many times that Thomas was too stiff and set in his ways. Whereas Thomas thought Zelda was too flighty and didn’t take things seriously enough.

  “It’s a copy of Beauty and the Beast,” Martha said. “We got to read it before Dad takes it back. You’d have loved it.”

  “I’m sure I would have done,” Zelda said. She glared in Thomas’s direction. “Luckily, I’ve brought something else for you, my glorious girl.” She reached into her large turquoise handbag and pulled out a flamingo-pink plastic mirror the size of a dinner plate. It had white plastic daisies around its frame.

  Martha gasped. “It’s beautiful. Thanks, Nana,” she said as she took hold of it. “‘Mirror, mirror on the wall...’”

  “‘Who’s the fairest of them all?’” Zelda said. “You and Lilian are. You can use this to see how pretty you both are.”

  Betty watched as Thomas’s eyes narrowed with disapproval.

  “That’s very kind of you, Zelda,” he said. “But the children have got far too many things already. You should save your money for a rainy day.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Zelda shrugged. She knelt down on the floor. “Now, don’t let me delay you, Thomas. No need to stay around on my behalf.”

  Thomas ran his tongue over his top teeth. He stared at Betty, trying to catch her eye, but she pretended not to notice and glanced away. Eventually he said, “I’ll see you later,” and closed the door behind him.

  Zelda gave a pronounced sigh, exaggerating her relief that he’d gone. “Now, I want to hear this new story of yours, Martha. Will you tell it to me?”

  Betty watched through the window as Thomas walked down the path and opened the gate.

  Martha dropped down cross-legged to the floor. Her plait swun
g as she picked up her notepad and found the right page. She cleared her throat and began to read aloud...

  The Bird Girl

  Once upon a time there was a girl who lived with her mother, father and sister. Although they should be a happy family, the girl often felt sad but didn’t know why. She sensed something strange in the air but didn’t know what it was.

  Each night, when she went to bed, the girl dreamed that she was a bird. She would fly high into the sky, where being clever and perfect all the time didn’t matter.

  One night, after a family tea where tension seemed to dance, unspoken, around the table again, the girl sat in her room, wringing her hands. She was fed up and she decided to try to glue feathers to her arms and legs, so she really could be like a bird. After taking a long time to carry out her task, she opened her bedroom window. But the ground looked too far down and she was afraid to jump.

  In the morning, she peeled off the feathers and this made her skin red and sore. To explain it, she told her parents that she’d got sunburned while playing outside. But they were too busy looking after her little sister to be interested.

  On the next night, the girl took the feathers and did the same thing. But, again, she couldn’t bring herself to leap out of the window.

  And the pattern continued, night after night.

  The girl would spend time with her family. She’d feel something wasn’t right and then she’d apply her feathers.

  One evening, as the girl clenched her fists, unable to bring herself to jump again, a blackbird stood on the window ledge. He tapped his yellow beak against the window, inviting the girl to open it.

  The girl did so and crawled out to join him. The blackbird cocked his head and waited beside her for a long time, until she finally found the courage to step off.

  On this first night, the girl tumbled to the ground and into a bush, where the branches and twigs scratched her face. The blackbird flew down and watched as she climbed out.