She paused on the pavement for a while, thinking of how Rita’s words had led her to the vicarage and to Zelda, and about the pristine version of Blue Skies and Stormy Seas. She had to go inside.
Pushing open the door, she saw a woman standing behind the counter, wearing a green-and-blue woolen shawl and a chunky gemstone necklace. Her skin was black and glowing, and her shiny, curly hair sprang down either side of her orange-framed glasses.
Martha instinctively knew this was Rita.
“Hello, my lovely,” the lady said as she patted a sleepy dachshund dog who lay in a basket on the counter. “Can I help you?”
Martha glanced around the gorgeous shop. There were tables with small blackboards on easels that announced Benton Bay Bestsellers and Seaside Stories. The children’s area had low plastic yellow chairs and beanbags. A man who wore a purple bobble hat and wellies stood reading books in the New Fiction section.
“Um, hello. I’m Martha Storm,” she said shakily as she approached the counter. “We spoke on the phone about my grandmother’s book and—”
Without warning, Rita launched forward, as if diving over the counter. She reached out her fleshy arms and her pat on Martha’s back was more like a thump. “How marvelous that you’re here. You should have told me you were coming.”
“I only decided this morning...”
“Fantastic, and Owen should be back any minute now.”
Martha swallowed hard. “Um, Owen?”
“Oh.” Rita pulled away, her hands still holding onto Martha’s shoulders. She cocked an eyebrow. “Haven’t you traveled here together?”
“No. I came alone.”
Rita peered over the top of her glasses. “Ah, well, it doesn’t matter how you got here, or who you came with. It’s wonderful you stopped by.” She grinned. “I expect you’ll want to take a peek at my copy of Blue Skies and Stormy Seas.”
Martha nodded.
“Follow me through to the back room, my lovely.”
Martha’s stomach flipped a little with guilt as she followed Rita behind the counter and through a beaded curtain. Perhaps she should have told Owen that she’d made contact with Rita, after everything he’d helped her out with.
I hope he doesn’t think I’m ungrateful.
The office in the back of the bookshop was neat and tidy. There was an old oak rolltop writing desk, and shelves full of books covering each wall. As she peered closer, Martha was pleased to note they were all in alphabetical order by the surname of the author, just as she was used to in the fiction section of the Sandshift library.
The books seemed to assure her that she’d done the right thing, searching for Zelda, and her shoulders relaxed a little.
“Take a seat,” Rita said and pulled on the back of an old wooden chair with six wheels and a cracked red leather seat.
Martha’s nerves were still on edge and static crackled through her skirt as she sat down. “It’s like Aladdin’s cave in here.”
“So it is.” Rita laughed. “I can’t imagine my life without books. I grew up with my three sisters and we always read together, under the covers and at the breakfast table. We had to share a bedroom, all four of us crammed in. Reading allowed us to escape, to imagine that our bunk beds were tree houses or flying carpets. Each Sunday, we read under the monkey puzzle tree in the park, and I named my shop after it. We loved books more than we loved boys. Which probably explains why I’m still single.” She laughed throatily and ran her fingers across one row of books and then the next one down. Peering at the titles, she slid a handsome burgundy-and-gold book off the shelf and presented it to Martha. “Here it is. Isn’t it a thing of beauty?”
Martha’s head felt floaty as she reached out to take it. The book looked regal in all its finery. She settled it on her lap, where it felt reassuringly heavy. She touched her nana’s name and read it out loud. “E. Y. Sanderson.”
“Your grammy?”
Martha nodded. “I traveled here to follow your lead, about the ladies who read aloud in the village square. The old woman you described, in the wheelchair, turned out to be my nana, Zelda.”
“Oh, how marvelous is that?” Rita clamped a hand to her chest. “You must be ecstatic, my lovely. And does she still have the most wonderfully clear reading voice?”
Martha wasn’t sure. Zelda had looked rather frail and tired in her chair. She couldn’t imagine her reading aloud to a crowd of people, but she nodded, anyway. She leafed through the book, her eyes falling once more on the illustration of the blackbird.
“You stay and look at it for as long as you like.” Rita nodded. “I’ll return to my shop in case I have any customers. And my Bertie is a little bit poorly today, poor old boy.”
Martha nodded. She touched the blackbird’s beak and wondered who drew him.
The more she looked at this intact version of the book, the more she remembered bowing her head down over her notepads as her characters came to life. She’d listened to the princesses, mermaids and birds in her head and wrote down their words.
But what she found most incredible was how Zelda had remembered these fairy tales, many of them Martha’s stories, and captured them within the yellowing pages of the small book.
Why are they here?
She also recalled how her stories used to flow so easily, until Zelda’s passing stopped them like a dam.
“I have so many things to ask her,” she said to the blackbird. “It’s hard to know where to start. It’s been so long.”
Martha felt warm and content in the back of the shop, surrounded by books, and time slipped away. She could hear Rita making enthusiastic phone calls in the shop and, through the beaded curtain, she saw her arms waving, just as she imagined they would do. Martha read Blue Skies and Stormy Seas, cover to cover, relishing holding and reading this proper, intact version.
When she next looked at her watch, she saw that almost an hour and a half had passed by. The bell above the shop door rang and when Martha heard Owen’s voice, she sat up straighter in the chair. It was warm and rich and made her toes twitch in an interesting way. She found that the glow she usually only experienced from people’s gratitude began to trickle over her body. For a few moments she closed her eyes, savoring the sensation.
With some reluctance, she put the book down and stood up. Pushing her way through the beaded curtain, she reentered the shop.
“Martha, I didn’t know you were here.” Owen’s wide smile slipped into a small frown. “Did you tell me you were coming and I forgot?”
Rita finished her phone call and placed the receiver down. “I thought the two of you had traveled here together,” she said. “But Martha said she came alone.”
Owen looked from Rita to Martha. “I could have driven you here.”
The tips of Martha’s ears felt a bit hot, another strange feeling that she attributed to shame, for not telling Owen that she was coming here. “It wasn’t a planned journey, more of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
Owen cocked his head on one side. “You got my email, then? I said that I’d contact Rita.”
“I couldn’t wait.” She glanced away. “I booked a taxi. Sorry, I should have told you.”
“But a taxi must have cost you a fortune...how are you getting home?”
Rita laughed at him. Her orange glasses slipped down her nose. “She’s only just arrived. Give the lady some time.”
Owen fiddled with the badges on his lapel. “Um, sorry.”
“It’s okay. I came here to try and find Zelda. It turns out that she’s alive and lives close by.”
“Really?” Owen pressed his hand to his chin. “That’s absolutely incredible. I was going to offer to take Rita out this afternoon for a slice of cake and a coffee. Your news definitely calls for a celebration—we must all go together.”
“Oh.” Rita’s smile faded. “I’m so sorry, Owen, but I
can’t make it, my lovely. I’m taking Bertie to the vet and want to get the old boy looked at, as soon as possible. I’m afraid it will just be the two of you.”
* * *
Owen walked with Martha to a café called the Potted Shrimp, though it served coffee and cake rather than seafood. Orange nets on the walls bulged with plastic crabs and the menus were shaped like seashells. The plastic covers on the tables were printed with waves and fish.
Martha shifted in her seat, not entirely comfortable about being here with him. If she ever went to cafés, it had been to take her parents out for a bowl of soup, to escape the monotony at home. As she perused the menu, she wasn’t sure how an Americano differed to a macchiato. When the waitress sidled over, she said, “Just a normal coffee for me, please.”
Owen clicked his tongue as he tried to decide. He unfastened a button on his jacket and swept his hand through his hair, making a small tuft on top. “I’ll have the same, and a slice of date and walnut cake,” he said. “Hmm, but then there’s the sticky toffee pudding, and the carrot cake sounds good, too.”
Martha preferred it when people knew their own minds, weighed things up and made decisions. It was something she’d had to do for her parents. It was something she did when she had to break things off with Joe.
She peered at Owen over her menu, silently urging him to choose quickly. “Sometimes there’s no right decision. Just the one you make at the time,” she said.
“No, it’s okay.” Owen grinned at the waitress. “I’ll stick with my first choice, date and walnut. The cake is famous here. You should try it, Martha.”
As she placed a hand on her stomach, Martha smiled politely. Feeling its fleshiness, she remembered her father’s words about getting chubby. It was funny how she could still hear him in her head, even now. “Not for me, thanks.”
When their coffees arrived, Owen stirred his and leaned forward in his chair. “It is so amazing that you’ve managed to trace Zelda.”
Martha slowly angled her body away from him, as tactfully as she could, to create more space between them. “I know, though I don’t think her carer, Gina, is too enamored about it. And I’ve had to take a day away from my other jobs to travel here.”
“I thought you worked at the library—do you have another job, too?”
“Not really. I help people out with their things.”
“That’s kind of you. I suppose if it’s Gina’s job to look after your gran, she might feel protective over her.”
Martha sipped her coffee. “That would be understandable but she seems rather overzealous. And everything feels very strange, too. Zelda and I are different people to who we were, all those years ago. I was only fifteen when she died. Or, um, didn’t die.”
“You’re still the same people, underneath,” Owen offered.
Although he was trying to be kind, his statement rather oversimplified things, Martha thought.
She had once been a shiny-eyed teenager, and Zelda a vivacious blonde. Now they were both mature women who hadn’t seen each other for more than three decades. She had no idea if they were still the same people, or not.
“Rita’s personal copy of Blue Skies and Stormy Seas is wonderful,” she said. “I need to find out how Zelda came to publish the fairy stories.”
“You’ll be able to ask her, face-to-face.” Owen tore open three sugar sachets and tipped them into his coffee, one after the other. “It’s a shame we have to grow up, isn’t it? When you’re a kid, you never question if a man can really turn into a frog, or if a girl can be the size of a thimble.”
“I think my sister, Lilian, always did,” Martha said with a tight smile. “I used to love writing stories, when I was younger...” She trailed off her words, not sure that she wanted to share more information than this with him.
“And do you still write?”
“I grew out of it,” she said quickly.
“Maybe it will come back to you one day. I bet you like to read, though?”
“Anything and everything, if I get time.”
If I don’t feel guilty not doing other things, she thought.
Her heart still pulsated at cheesy vampire romances and teen dystopian adventures. She was partial to a good biography, particularly by ageing but still glamorous film stars, though never ones by reality TV stars or footballers. Her back chilled when she turned the pages of thrillers with spiky orange capital letters and she brushed away tears after reading misery memoirs. She couldn’t understand library-goers who turned their noses up at commercial books, announcing that they only enjoyed literary reads. To her, authors should write what they wanted and readers had their pick of thousands of books to enjoy.
She thought about the stack of unread books piled high on her dining table that she’d neglected, to focus on her jobs for other people instead. Whenever she lifted one to read, a voice in her head (her own) told her to put it back.
“You’ve got other things to do, Martha.”
“You should always make time for books,” Owen said. “Do you have a favorite?”
Martha knew her answer straight away. “It’s got to be Alice in Wonderland. I like Alice’s practicality and how she takes everything in her stride. She meets these odd creatures in magical situations and it never fazes her.”
“So, you’re a bit like Alice, then?” Owen dug a fork into his cake.
Martha gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “What, sensible and orderly?”
“I mean that you’re inventive and curious, and make sense of strange things...”
Martha dipped her head, surprised he had seen her in this way. She supposed it was a compliment of sorts, and it made her feel a little shinier. “Thank you,” she muttered and fiddled with her hair slide. “And what book do you like best?”
Owen thought for a while as he finished his cake. “That’s like choosing a favorite child or pet. But I do enjoy a good Jack Reacher. It’s because he’s the opposite to me. He’s tough and I’m not—I bet he’s got rock-hard abs.” He pointed at his stomach with both forefingers. “But my belly can double as a book rest.”
“I bet he can’t repair books the way you can.”
“That’s true.” Owen laughed. “I don’t think he owns monogrammed slippers.”
“I’ve only read a couple of the books. Does Reacher have many wives, too?” Martha asked, then wished she hadn’t.
Owen gave her a bemused smile. “I don’t have any wives at the moment... I have a few of the books, though. I can lend you one.”
Martha gave a small laugh. “I work in a library.”
“Aha. So you do.”
They finished their drinks and Owen insisted on paying, even though Martha shot out her hand and tried to grab the bill. “I really should pay for the coffees, to thank you for your help,” she said.
But Owen had already taken ten pounds from his wallet. “You can pay the next time,” he said. “When you’ve finished your coffee, I’ll drive you home.”
As she took the last sip of her drink, Martha didn’t argue with him. She rather liked his words, the next time.
If she dwelled on them too much, she’d manage to persuade herself they were terrifying. So instead she focused on seeing them for exactly what they were, friendly and something she should welcome.
14
Postcard
Over the next couple of days that followed, nothing could spoil Martha’s mood. Since she’d reconnected with Zelda, she felt lighter, reenergized, her fatigue lifted. When she headed down to Sandshift Bay for her morning circular walk, she no longer punched her arms to motivate herself. Her limbs moved fluidly, without effort.
When she read the names on the mermaid statue, they still tugged at her heart but she found a positive in that Siegfried had survived. As she looked across at the lighthouse, she wondered how he coped with losing his fellow crew members from the Pegasus
. She knew from experience how events from your past could shape your future.
Martha also started to work her way through her tasks with renewed interest and vigor. She squirted washing-up liquid into a bath full of warm water and dipped Branda’s chandeliers into it. She lightly worked on each individual crystal with an old toothbrush. They now sparkled and looked like new. Will’s trousers were hemmed, pressed and bagged. She planned to start working her way through the Berlin Wall of boxes. If Lilian didn’t have time to help her, then Martha would do it, anyway. It would keep her busy while she waited for Gina or Zelda to get in touch.
Each time Martha completed a task, she moved its plastic box or bag to the side of the dining room. When she gave the job a big green tick in her notepad, her cheeks shone with pride.
There was now a definite path from her front door to her kitchen, rather than a maze. She could walk through the house without feeling like she was a horse competing in the Grand National.
She tried not to think about the date in the book, or what happened in the Storm family to make her nana disappear, because she was sure she’d find everything out, the next time she saw Zelda.
Owen’s advice also rang in her head. He had put into words what she already knew—that she should make more time to read. So she made sure she stopped working on her tasks at 7:00 p.m. sharp. She made a cup of tea and curled up in the wooden chair by the window overlooking the bay. She wrapped a blanket around her legs and read a Jack Reacher. And although she enjoyed his ruggedness, toughness and solution for every problem, she decided that she actually preferred a kinder, gentler sort of hero.
* * *
When Martha returned to work at the library, her stomach jumped with nerves as she opened the doors. She had already conjured up a picture of Branda, Nora and Horatio gossiping about her. She imagined Clive’s face would be smug and knowing. Her legs shook as she walked up to the desk.
The Library of Lost and Found Page 11