The Library of Lost and Found

by Phaedra Patrick

  “Marriage Certificate.”

  It belonged to her parents and, as Martha looked at it more closely, she thought of how they never mentioned their wedding. She could only recall them celebrating their anniversary once. They’d held a party in the dining room but she’d been too sick to attend. She’d stayed in bed, with her head under the covers and a bucket at the side of the bed. And the next day, her parents told her that Zelda had died.

  In the dining room, there was a wedding photograph of her dad in a black suit and her mum in a white shiny dress with a nipped-in waist, but Martha didn’t ever recall them reminiscing about their big day. She wasn’t even sure where they’d gone for their honeymoon. Where did you go in the UK, if you already lived at the seaside?

  After reading the certificate, she now knew they married in Sandshift church in February 1966.

  Glancing around, she tried to find somewhere safe to put it, so it didn’t get thrown away. However, her senses urged her to take another look.

  Betty was nineteen years old and Thomas was thirty-three when they married.

  February 1966 was only four months before Martha was born.

  So, Betty must have been pregnant when she walked down the aisle.

  Martha felt as if a small light flashed on in her head. Her parents had to get married for appearances’ sake.

  She’d always felt removed from Lilian but couldn’t fathom out why, other than they liked different things. It was a feeling, rather than definite knowledge. Now, though, she had found a reason.

  She was the daughter her parents didn’t plan for.

  They had planned for Lilian.

  Her father wouldn’t have liked an unborn child shaping his life.

  Martha placed the certificate on the windowsill and told herself to forget it, that it didn’t mean anything. She had to focus on clearing up.

  But all the same, she couldn’t stop her mind from flitting back, to the date printed on the certificate.

  23

  Midnight Mission

  Martha carried on with her clearing-out session into the evening, and over the next two days. Slowly, the house started to look more like a home, rather than a scrapyard. It would be impossible to sort out absolutely everything in such a short time, but the changes she and Leslie made were immense.

  The day before Zelda, Will and Rose descended, Martha washed four loads full of bed sheets and blankets. While the washing machine whirred, she introduced Leslie to the mountain of stuff in the shed. He cheerfully removed the old tools, piles of tiles, a rusty lawn mower and an old swivel chair, freeing the space up.

  At teatime, he packed up his white van for the final time. “All good, Mrs. Storm?” he asked before he left. “Do you feel better already? Most people feel a sense of relief when all their stuff has gone, but some get in a right old panic, kind of a what-have-I-done sensation, but that’s totally natural. It’s like a barn in there now, isn’t it? Nice and spacious, big enough to have a dance in, if you like that kind of thing. Well, maybe not ballroom dancing, but room for a bit of a shuffle.” He waited for her reply, with both of his thumbs stuck up. “Don’t worry about your stuff, either, about where it’s going. I give some of it away to low-income families who can’t afford much furniture. It helps them out. Then I’m happy and you’re happy knowing you’re doing some good. Most people like to know that.”

  Not quite sure if Leslie asked a question among all his words, Martha gave him a thumbs-up back. “Yes. All is good,” she said.

  Martha took a break for something to eat and she enjoyed beans on toast, sitting at her dining table. Horatio’s fish swam in their bowl, and she wondered if they enjoyed their new view without the skyscrapers of boxes and books around them. She certainly did.

  Her shoulders ached and her back was stiff, but she felt like a mountaineer on the verge of conquering Mount Everest, ready to stick a yellow flag on the summit.

  Before she returned to complete her tidying up, she unwrapped Harry’s generous slice of fruitcake. As she relished each mouthful, she pictured his twinkling eyes and mustache, and it made the cake taste even better than it did before. She wondered if her nana really did plan to do a Read and Run at the football ground. She hoped it was the wine talking, rather than Zelda.

  After clearing her pots away, Martha used her shopping trolley to transport the remains of the Berlin Wall of boxes out into the newly vacant shed. She moved with determination and with her teeth set, ignoring the burning sensation that fired across the back of her shoulders.

  The dragon’s head took up a new position in the corner of her sitting room, ready for the next stage of his restoration.

  This only left the tasks she’d taken on for others remaining. The items she’d marked with a pink star.

  She found herself wanting to hold on to the fancy dress clothes, just in case, but Branda’s chandeliers and garlands, Will’s trousers, Nora’s laundry, the rest of Horatio’s plants and lots of other things had to go.

  Martha batted her hands together and stuck them on her hips. A strong yearning to complete her mission before Zelda, Will and Rose arrived gave her a firm push onward.

  It was time to load up her trusty shopping trolley again.

  * * *

  At six minutes past 11:00 p.m., Martha left her home. The stuff inside her trolley was stacked as high as her chin and a trickle of perspiration wound its way down her back as she pushed it up the slope. She’d also packed a pad, pen and envelopes. She intended to write notes for people, to explain why their completed jobs had turned up, as if by magic, in their gardens, porches and sheds. She’d packed towels around Horatio’s fishbowl so it didn’t slide around.

  She passed the pastel-colored terraced houses as she made her way to the Lobster Pot. In the front porch of the bistro, she stacked the boxes of chandeliers, one on top of the other, then placed the garlands on top. Inside, she could see Branda in silhouette standing on a chair and fastening a set of antlers to the wall. Martha decided not to disturb her and, under the orange glow of a streetlamp, she wrote her a note.

  As she placed it under a pebble to weigh it down, doubt began to simmer inside her.

  Will returning all these things take away my purpose?

  If I’m not offering to help people out, what will I do instead?

  Staring at the note, she considered whether to stuff it back into her pocket.

  But then she gave her shoulders a shake. She now had an exciting story to share, about how a battered little book of fairy stories found its way to her, and the adventures it brought with it. If anyone found that less interesting than Martha offering to do their laundry, that was their problem.

  Encouraging herself to press on, Martha left the boxes and note in place and pushed her trolley onward.

  She visited Horatio’s aquarium next. The converted garage glowed a luminous green around the door, like a strange lab in a sci-fi movie. There was nowhere to leave his fish, so she held the bowl and knocked on the door. A few moments later, it slid up and over.

  “Martha, ahoy,” Horatio said. “You’ve brought the girls for me.” He took the bowl from her and held it up, admiring his fish.

  “I’ve had them for a while. You do want them back?”

  “Yes. I wanted to spruce this place up first and get their new tank in place. That’s important, isn’t it? Home sweet home. And they look so well. Thanks for looking after them.” He set them down on the ground. “I don’t have anything to give you. This old place doesn’t make much, but thanks for making them happy.”

  Martha carried on up the hill and past the library. In the dark, the building appeared as just a black block but it still radiated an aura of warmth for her. She pushed her trolley around its perimeter and smiled as she recalled Owen crouching by the front doors.

  She also pictured holding her nana’s hand when, years ago, they both carried
bags full of library books away, eager to read them together.

  She tried to hold on to that feeling as she carried on her journey, heading towards Lilian’s house.

  On the other side of the Sandshift football ground lay suburbs of sprawling bungalows. They had neatly manicured lawns and the air constantly hissed from the sprinkler systems.

  On Lilian’s gateposts, stone Dobermans sat to attention. A tall wrought iron gate, decorated with gold roses and thorny stems, looked like it had been designed to make visitors feel unwelcome.

  Lilian liked to share that the gardener who’d landscaped her garden once scored a silver-gilt at the Chelsea Flower Show. A statue of a Buddha sat cross-legged in the middle of her lawn with tiny holes in his head so water cascaded down his face into a small circular pond, full of ceramic water lilies. Minimal-tranquil-chic was how she described it.

  All the lights in Lilian’s house were turned off and Martha’s nose twitched at the lingering smell of home-cooked cottage pie. She imagined her sister, Paul and the kids sitting around the table together. A family meal.

  She gave a small sigh of regret, that it could have been her, living in a large suburban bungalow with her husband and children. However, there was no point dwelling on the past when she had a job to do.

  She steered her trolley towards a privet bush and pushed it into the greenery to stop it from rolling away. After lifting out the bags containing Will’s trousers, she opened the gate.

  Martha padded along the gravel path as quietly as she could and headed around to the back of the bungalow. Lilian used her wood store as a locker and instructed anyone delivering goods to place the items inside it, so she didn’t have to speak to them.

  Martha folded over the top of the two shopping bags, so woodlice couldn’t invade the trousers. An owl hooted as she placed them neatly on the top of the logs. She took out her pad, to leave a note for her sister.

  She had just pressed her pen against the paper, when yellow light flooded the back garden. Blinking against it, she saw a figure looming up to the glass in the back door. Martha froze, wondering if it was Paul. As keys jangled in the lock, she gritted her teeth.

  “Martha, is that you?” Lilian stepped out of her conservatory door and into the garden. She was barefoot and curled her toes up, away from the chill of the concrete paving flags. A dark dressing gown swamped her petite frame and she clamped her hand to her neck. Her usually mirror-shiny hair was mussy. “I thought you were a bloody burglar or something.”

  “You startled me, too. I’ve brought Will’s trousers for you.”

  Lilian looked at her watch. “But it’s midnight.”

  “That’s why I didn’t knock. Um, I’ve been having a clear out, to make room for Will and Rose staying over...”

  “That’s a big job.”

  “It’s been going well.” Even though her sister’s shoulders were hunched and her eyes weary, Martha wanted to tell her about Zelda, too. “Do you mind if I introduce them to Nana?”

  “I hope you’re not telling me that she’s going to be there?”

  “I kind of invited her to stay at the same time.”

  The two sisters stared at each other.

  Martha opened her mouth to speak but Lilian raised a hand to cut her off. She paused, then cast her eyes down. Slowly, her face fell. Letting out a sob, it rang around the garden.

  “Oh no. What’s wrong? Is this about Zelda?” Martha stepped forward. “Do you want a tissue? They have aloe vera in them, and—”

  “No.” Lilian wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She stood for a few moments, her toes still curled upward. “Please, will you come inside with me?”

  Martha gazed over at her trolley, hidden in the bush. She still had lots of deliveries to make, but for the first time ever, her sister seemed to need her. “Of course,” she said, her fingers flexing for her notepad.

  “It’s Paul,” Lilian said between sniffs as they sat in the almost-completed conservatory with the lights turned off. The air smelled of fresh paint and Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir candles. “I think he’s about to start an affair...”

  “Oh.” Martha leaned forward and the cream leather sofa squeaked. “No. That can’t be right.”

  “He’s working with a new girl, Annabel. She has huge boobs. Her eyebrows are like slugs, but Paul’s smitten. He keeps talking about her. He says he doesn’t fancy her, but I found emails between the two of them. They were flirting, and he’s working away tonight. I don’t know if he’s with her, or not.”

  “But he loves you.”

  “I thought so, too.” Lilian sighed. “He said that I’m cold towards him.”

  “But you’re so perfect together,” Martha said. “Like Romeo and Juliet, or Heathcliff and Cathy.”

  “Didn’t their stories end in tragedy?”

  “Hmm.” Martha nodded meekly.

  “Will and Rose are asleep,” Lilian added. “They’re excited about staying over at your place. They don’t know there’s anything wrong.”

  “You’ve got to talk to him. You’re beautiful and he can’t possible prefer someone with slug eyebrows.”

  Lilian gave a short laugh. “Thanks, Martha. I’ll do my best. I’ve invited Paul to the hotel with me, when I work away.”

  “Do Will and Rose know that?”

  “No. We’ve never been away without them. I think they might guess something wasn’t right.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  A car drove past, briefly illuminating their faces.

  “So, you had dinner with Zelda?” Lilian toyed with the belt on her dressing gown. She turned her face so Martha couldn’t see her features, in the darkness. “What happened?”

  “I drank too much. I fell asleep after the dinner.”

  “I meant, with our grandma?”

  “I think I know what you mean,” Martha admitted. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said. That she didn’t die in 1982, and you knew that.”

  Lilian didn’t speak for a while. “I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “But you did. What happened?”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Nothing.” Martha gave an exasperated sigh. “Why do I feel that everyone knows something that I don’t? Zelda had a brain tumor, and her health isn’t good. She’s an old lady and doesn’t have much time left.” She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “Don’t you want to see her, Lilian? Perhaps she’ll talk if you’re there, too.”

  Lilian shifted in her chair. “About what?”

  “About what went on in our family. Mum and Dad told us that she’d died, but she didn’t. And you know something about that...”

  “It was just something that Mum said, years ago. That’s all. I didn’t think too much about it at the time. Until you told me that Nana was still alive.”

  Martha thought how her sister’s words sounded vague. She had sounded so certain the other day. “You told me to be careful...” she prompted.

  Lilian leaned her head back and looked up at her large wooden ceiling fan. “You’re digging up the past, Martha, when it’s probably best to let it remain buried. I know you and Nana were close, but things must have happened in our family that we don’t know about.”

  “I spent every day with Mum and Dad for years,” Martha said. “How could I not know things? They told us a huge lie. Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Lilian shook her head. “But they did, and there must be a reason for it. Don’t you remember how Nana and Dad didn’t get on? She constantly wound him up.”

  “They weren’t best friends, but they didn’t hate each other,” Martha started. Or had she forgotten things? Was she too busy writing her stories, trying to interpret the atmosphere in the Storm household, without actually seeing what was going on? “If you know something, Lilian, please tell me.”


  Lilian remained with her face in the shadows. “I don’t know a thing about it,” she said. “But I do know that I don’t want our nana spending any time with Will and Rose.”

  24

  Invitation

  Betty, 1982

  Asking people over for tea was something that didn’t happen often in the Storm household. Thomas constantly made it clear that Zelda wasn’t welcome in the house, and Betty’s friends had dwindled so she didn’t go out as much. Thomas didn’t socialize, preferring to spend time at home. So Betty was surprised to find that he’d invited his parents around for tea, without asking her first.

  Eleanor and Dylan Storm lived in a posh penthouse apartment in Cornwall, with a sea view. They sent Martha and Lilian checks for their birthdays and Christmas, and caught the train once a year for the long journey up to Sandshift for one of Dylan’s golf tournaments.

  Thomas, Betty and the girls usually met them in their hotel restaurant for a stilted Sunday lunch, where Eleanor would order a glass of champagne and barely touch her salmon. She wore small round felt hats pinned to the side of her head, and matching tweed jacket-and-skirt sets. Thomas insisted that Betty, Martha and Lilian wear their best clothes when they went along.

  Whenever Thomas talked about his mother, he made her sound perfect. She was a brilliant, loving woman who made the best cakes ever. She was a great seamstress and always kept a beautiful home. Betty noticed that Eleanor let her husband enter the room before her and agreed with everything he said, smiling beatifically at his comments.

  To her, she was a reminder of how Thomas wanted her to be.

  * * *

  The day before Betty and Thomas’s wedding, Eleanor took Betty to one side for a chat. “You’re getting married so terribly quickly, I feel I hardly know you.” Her eyes flitted, examining her from head to toe. “I want the best for my son and I want your assurance you only have his best interests at heart.”