Книга - The Library of Lost and Found

The Library of Lost and Found
Phaedra Patrick


A librarian’s discovery of a mysterious book sparks the journey of a lifetime in the delightful new novel from the bestselling author of The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper.Librarian Martha Storm has always found it easier to connect with books than people—though not for lack of trying. She keeps careful lists of how to help others in her superhero-themed notebook. And yet, sometimes it feels like she’s invisible.All of that changes when a book of fairy tales arrives on her doorstep. Inside, Martha finds a dedication written to her by her best friend—her grandmother Zelda—who died under mysterious circumstances years earlier. When Martha discovers a clue within the book that her grandmother may still be alive, she becomes determined to discover the truth. As she delves deeper into Zelda’s past, she unwittingly reveals a family secret that will change her life forever.Filled with Phaedra Patrick’s signature charm and vivid characters, The Library of Lost and Found is a heart-warming and poignant tale of one woman’s journey of self-discovery.







PHAEDRA PATRICK studied art and marketing and has worked as a stained-glass artist, film festival organiser and communications manager. She is a prizewinning short-story writer and her debut novel was translated into twenty languages. She lives in Saddleworth with her husband and son, where she writes full time.


Also by Phaedra Patrick (#ulink_ce70b835-2111-52bd-a59c-f471c730bb14)

The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper

Wishes Under the Willow Tree








Copyright (#ulink_8a0db384-5820-56ca-95c5-9d85497964fc)






An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Phaedra Patrick 2019

Phaedra Patrick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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, downloaded, 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 HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008237653


Praise for Phaedra Patrick (#ulink_094603fd-7e8f-597f-a21a-dd1686c59845)

‘A feel-good story with oodles of charm that had me rooting for Arthur all the way.’

The Daily Mail

‘Charming by name, charming by nature, this book is a balm for the soul and the heart.’

The Sun

‘A gorgeous journey told through charms.’

Heat

‘Eccentric, charming and wise, this will illuminate your heart.’

Nina George, author of The Little Paris Bookshop

‘A charming, unforgettable story.’

Harper’s Bazaar

‘With many poignant as well as laugh-out-loud moments, in the vein of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, this is a lovely feel-good read.’

Compass

‘As charming and witty as the title suggests.’

My Weekly

‘We love this sweet story about self-discovery.’

Take A Break


For Mum, Dad, Mark and Oliver


Contents

Cover (#ua105f0e4-de9b-51e5-ae80-fec33e935d29)

About the Author (#u5f1c47ed-4010-5a53-a2b0-9ef2179c69fd)

Also by Phaedra Patrick (#ulink_9ec9f88a-df32-5440-8307-648ce7a290b7)

Title Page (#u47d08c94-7707-5335-aefd-d60175f73b41)

Copyright (#ulink_452df611-66ce-5bc0-a392-f1bfe3fe99a4)

Praise (#ulink_fcde4f61-1a1f-50bc-aac4-022e8a0aaeb1)

Dedication (#u0c13e8d8-3f27-5ac7-a952-798ccac9a3ad)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_6b2596eb-9ed1-54b4-8a46-7713f41b04b8)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_e0d92440-c1e1-535f-9026-bceb3bcb7827)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_4db6bdd4-66d4-5279-8f85-41e92eb0b81f)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_fa6bbeb0-d843-593c-ba3d-289fb5590ec0)

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_88f4af19-f64b-5eec-abf8-6fd379ceb565)

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_e0e57ab9-fcc4-582c-854b-4f30484b9968)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_f4e9fca5-39ce-56ac-9019-62a0055bf05e)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_356100e7-4803-5650-b501-243469c21191)

CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_21ec3482-4fd8-5cee-8122-95bc72f5770e)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Reading group questions for THE LIBRARY OF LOST AND FOUND (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2abdd552-4d10-512e-895d-a69a27753cf9)

Valentine’s Day

As always, Martha Storm was primed for action. Chin jutted, teeth gritted and a firm grip on the handle of her trusty shopping trolley. Her shoulders burned as she struggled to push it up the steep slope towards the library. The cobblestones underfoot were slippery, coated by the sea mist that wafted into Sandshift each evening.

She was well prepared for the evening’s event. It was going to be perfect, even though she usually avoided Valentine’s Day. Wasn’t it a silly celebration? A gimmick, to persuade you to buy stuffed furry animals and chocolates at rip-off prices. Why, if someone ever sent her a card, she’d hand it back and explain to the giver that they’d been brainwashed. However, a job worth doing was worth doing well.

Bottles chinked in her trolley, a stuffed black bin bag rustled in the breeze and a book fell off a pile, its pages fluttering like a moth caught in a spider’s web.

She’d bought the supermarket’s finest rosé wine, flute glasses and napkins printed with tiny red roses. Her alarm clock had sounded at 5.30 that morning, to allow her time to bake heart-shaped cookies, including gluten-free ones for any book lovers who had a wheat allergy. She’d brought along extra copies of the novel for the author to sign.

One of the best feelings in the world came when she received a smile of appreciation, or a few grateful words. When someone said, ‘Great job, Martha,’ and she felt like she was basking in sunshine. She’d go to most lengths to achieve that praise.

If anyone asked about her job she had an explanation ready. ‘I’m a guardian of books,’ she said. ‘A volunteer at the library.’ She was an event organizer, tour guide, buyer, filer, job adviser, talking clock, housekeeper, walking encyclopedia, stationery provider, recommender of somewhere nice to eat lunch and a shoulder to cry on – all rolled into one.

And she loved each part, except for waking people up at closing time, and the strange things she found used as bookmarks (a nail file, a sexual health clinic appointment card and an old rasher of bacon).

As she rattled past a group of men, all wearing navy and yellow Sandshift United football scarves, Martha called out to them. ‘Don’t forget about the library event tonight.’ But they laughed among themselves and walked on.

As she eventually directed the trolley towards the small squat library building, Martha spied the bulky silhouette of a man huddled by the front door. ‘Hello there,’ she called out, twisting her wrist to glance at her watch. ‘You’re fifty-four minutes early.’

The dark shape turned its head and seemed to look at her, before hurrying away and disappearing around the corner.

Martha trundled along the path. A poster flapped on the door and author Lucinda Lovell beamed out from a heavily filtered photo. The word Cancelled was written across her face in thick black letters.

Martha’s eyes widened in disbelief. Her stomach lurched, as if someone had shoved her on an escalator. Using her hand as a visor she peered into the building.

All was still, all was dark. No one was inside.

With trembling fingers, she reached out to touch the word that ruined all her planning and organizing efforts of the last couple of weeks. Cancelled. The word that no one had bothered to tell her.

She swallowed hard and her organized brain ticked as she wondered who to call. The area library manager, Clive Folds, was taking his wife to the Lobster Pot bistro for a Valentine’s dinner. He was the one who’d set up Lucinda’s appearance, with her publisher. Pregnant library assistant, Suki McDonald, was cooking a cheese an onion pie for her boyfriend, Ben, to persuade him to give things another try between them.

Everything had been left for Martha to sort out.

Again.

‘You live on your own, so you have more time,’ Clive had told her, when he’d asked her to take charge of the event preparations. ‘You don’t have personal commitments.’

Martha’s chest tightened as she remembered his words, and she let her arms fall heavily to her sides. Turning back around, she took a deep breath and forced herself to straighten her back. Never mind, she thought. There must be a good reason for the cancellation, a serious illness, or perhaps a fatal road accident. Anyone who turned up would see the poster. ‘Better just set off home, and get on with my other stuff,’ she muttered.

Leaning over her trolley, Martha grabbed hold of its sides and heaved it around to face in the opposite direction. As she did, a clear plastic box slid out, crashing to the path. When she stooped to pick it up, the biscuits lay broken inside.

It was only then she noticed the brown paper parcel propped against the bottom of the door. It was rectangular and tied with a bow and a criss-cross of string, probably left there by the shadowy figure. Her name was scrawled on the front. She stooped down to pick it up, then pressed her fingers along its edges. It felt like a book.

Martha placed it next to the box of broken biscuits in her trolley. Really, she tutted, the things readers tried, to avoid paying their late return fees.

She wrenched back on the trolley as it threatened to pull her down the hill. The brown paper parcel juddered inside as she negotiated the cobbles. She passed sugared almond-hued houses and the air smelled of salt and seaweed. Laughter and the strum of a Spanish guitar sounded from the Lobster Pot and she paused for a moment. Martha had never eaten there before. It was the type of place frequented by couples.

Through the window, she glimpsed Clive and his wife with their foreheads almost touching across the table. Candles lit up their faces with a flickering glow. His mind was obviously not on the library.

If she’s not careful, Mrs Fold’s hair is going to catch fire, Martha thought, averting her eyes. I hope there are fire extinguishers in the dining area. She fumbled in her pocket for her Wonder Woman notepad and made a note to ask the bistro owner, Branda Taylor.

When Martha arrived home to her old grey stone cottage, she parked the trolley up outside. She had found it there, abandoned, a couple of years ago, and she adopted it for her ongoing mission to be indispensable, a Number One neighbour.

Bundling her stuff out of the trolley and into the hallway, she stooped and arranged it in neat piles on the floor, then wound her way around the wine bottles. She found a small, free space on the edge of her overcrowded dining table for the brown paper parcel.

A fortnight ago, on a rare visit, her sister, Lilian, had stuck her hands on her hips as she surveyed the dining room. ‘You really need to do something about this place, Martha,’ she said, her eyes narrowing. ‘Getting to your kitchen is like an obstacle course. Mum and Dad wouldn’t recognize their own home.’

Her sister was right. Betty and Thomas Storm liked the house to be spic and span, with everything in its place. But they had both died five years ago, and Martha had remained in the property. She found it therapeutic, after their passing, to try to be useful and fill the house with stuff that needed doing.

The brown velour sofa, where the three of them had watched quiz shows, one after another, night after night, was now covered in piles of things. Thomas liked the colour-control on the TV turned up, so presenters’ and actors’ faces glowed orange. Now it was covered by a tapestry that Martha had offered to repair for the local church.

‘This is all essential work,’ she told Lilian, casting her hand through the air. She patiently explained that the shopping bags, plastic crates, mountains of stuff on the floor, stacked high on the table and against the wall, were jobs. ‘I’m helping people out. The boxes are full of Mum and Dad’s stuff—’

‘They look like the Berlin Wall.’

‘Let’s sort through them together. We can decide what to keep, and what to let go.’

Lilian ran her fingers through her expensively highlighted hair. ‘Honestly, I’m happy for you to do it, Martha. I’ve got two kids to sort out, and the builders are still working on the conservatory.’

Martha saw two deep creases between her sister’s eyebrows that appeared when she was stressed. Their shape reminded her of antelope horns. A mum brow, her sister called it.

Lilian looked at her watch and shook her head. ‘Look, sorry, but I have to dash. I’ll call you, okay?’

But the two sisters hadn’t chatted since.

Now, Martha wove her way around a crate full of crystal chandeliers she’d offered to clean for Branda, and the school trousers she’d promised to re-hem for her nephew, Will. The black bin bags were full of Nora’s laundry, because her washing machine had broken down. She stepped over a papier-mâché dragon’s head that needed a repair to his ear and cheek, after last year’s school Chinese New Year celebrations. Horatio Jones’s fish and potted plants had lived with her for two weeks, while he was on holiday.

Her oven door might sparkle and she could almost see her reflection in the bathroom sink, but most of her floor space was dedicated to these favours.

Laying everything out this way meant that Martha could survey, assess and select what to do next. She could mark the task status in her notepad with green ticks (completed), amber stars (in progress) and red dots (late). Busyness was next to cleanliness. Or was that godliness?

She also found that, increasingly, she couldn’t leave her tasks alone. Her limbs were always tense, poised for action, like an athlete waiting for the pop of a starting pistol. And if she didn’t do this stuff for others, what did she have in her life, otherwise?

Even though her arms and back ached from handling the trolley, she picked up a pair of Will’s trousers. With no space left on the sofa, she sat in a wooden chair by the window, overlooking the bay.

Outside, the sea twinkled black and silver, and the moon shone almost full. Lowering her head towards the fabric, Martha tried to make sure the stitches were neat and uniform, approximately three millimetres each, because she wanted them to be perfect for her sister.

Stretching out an arm, she reached for a pair of scissors. Her wrist nudged the brown paper parcel and it hung precariously over the edge of the dining table. When she pushed it back with one finger, she spotted a small ink stamp on the back.

Chamberlain’s Pre-Loved and Antiquarian Books, Maltsborough.

‘Hmm,’ she said aloud, not aware of this bookshop. And if the package contained a used book, why had it been left at the library?

Wondering what was inside, Martha set the parcel down on her lap. She untied the string bow and slowly peeled back the brown paper.

Inside, as expected, she found a book, but the cover and title page were both missing. Definitely not a library book, it reminded her of one of those hairless cats, recognizable but strange at the same time.

Its outer pages were battered and speckled, as if someone had flicked strong coffee at it. A torn page offered a glimpse of one underneath where black and white fish swam in swirls of sea. On top was a business card and a handwritten note.

Dear Ms Storm

Enclosed is a book that came into my possession recently. I cannot sell it due to its condition, but I thought it might be of interest to you, because of the message inside.

Best wishes

Owen Chamberlain

Proprietor

With anticipation making her fingertips tingle, Martha turned the first few pages of the book slowly, smoothing them down with the flat of her hand until she found the handwritten words, above an illustration of a mermaid.

June 1985

To my darling, Martha Storm

Be glorious, always.

Zelda

x

Martha heard a gasp and realized it had escaped from her own lips. ‘Zelda?’ she whispered aloud, then clamped a hand to her mouth.

She hadn’t spoken her nana’s name for many years. And, as she said it now, she nervously half-expected to see her father’s eyes grow steely at its mention.

Zelda had been endlessly fun, the one who made things bearable at home. She wore turquoise clothes and tortoiseshell cat’s eye-shaped glasses. She was the one who protected Martha against the tensions that whirled within the Storm family.

Martha read the words again and her throat grew tight.

They’re just not possible.

Feeling her fingers slacken, she could only watch as the book slipped out of her grip and fell to the floor with a thud, its yellowing pages splayed wide open.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f901124e-0e94-5aa4-bddf-34d842942e51)

The Little Book

As Martha picked the book up from the floor, she tried to focus, thinking if she’d seen it before. Zelda’s name and her message somersaulted in her head. However, her brain seemed to be functioning on low power, unable to make sense of this strange discovery. A shiver ran down her spine and she placed the battered book back down on the table.

Her shoulders jerked in surprise when the cuckoo popped out of the clock on the wall and sang nine times. Turning and heading for the back door, Martha was keen to take in some fresh air.

Outside, a sharp gust of wind whipped her hair and she rescued strands from her slightly too-wide mouth. Her thick walnut curls had greying streaks that gave her hair a zebra-like appearance, and her eyes were so dark you might assume they were brown, not seaweed green.

Her paisley skirt and her supermarket-bought embroidered T-shirt gave little protection against the chilly night. Fancy clothes weren’t much use when you lived on top of a windy cliff, and sensible shoes were a must. She was a big fan of a sparkly hair slide, though. A tiny bit of shininess nestled in her curls.

Walking to the end of the garden, Martha wrapped her arms across her chest. When she was younger, she used to sit on the cliff edge with her legs dangling, as the sea crashed and swirled below. She’d rest a writing pad on her knees and think of ways to describe the moon.

It looks like a bottle top, a platinum disc, a bullet hole in black velvet, a silver coin flipped into the sky…

She’d write a short story to share with Zelda.

‘Yes,’ her nana would proclaim with zeal. ‘Love it. Clever girl.’

But now, as Martha stared up at the sky, the moon was just the moon. The stars were only stars.

She’d lost the desire and ability to create stories, long ago, when Zelda died, taking Martha’s hopes and dreams with her.

Martha tried not to think about the message in the book, but it gnawed inside her.

It was too late to ring Chamberlain’s bookstore and she didn’t like to disturb Lilian during her favourite TV programme, Hot Houses. It was her sister’s guilty pleasure, the equivalent of an hour in a spa away from her kids, Will and Rose. But she was the only person Martha had to speak to.

She nodded to herself, headed back inside the house and picked up the receiver.

As the phone rang, Martha imagined her sister with her feet curled up on her aubergine velvet sofa. She worked from home as a buyer for an online fashion store and would be wearing her usual outfit of white stretch jeans, mohair sweater and bronze pumps. Her hair was always blow-dried into a shiny honey bob.

Her call was rewarded with a prolonged yawn. ‘It’s Friday evening, Martha.’ Lilian’s diamond rings chinked against the phone.

‘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 over 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 doctor, 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’s 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 coroner’s 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 dialling 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.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_da0fb148-fbf7-56c0-8c09-60956c4e1a67)

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 favourite 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 of 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 marvelled 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 blonde 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 towards 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 for ever to open.

Thomas was a big man, six feet two and heavyset, 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, then grinned and 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 favour, 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 favourite, 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 blonde 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 swung 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.

On the second night, the girl landed with such force that her knees buckled. But the blackbird stayed by her side until she could walk back to the house.

On the third night, the girl flew out over the garden gate, high into the sky, where she almost touched the stars. Then she landed at the edge of a beautiful lake.

Everything was quiet, still and beautiful, and the blackbird settled on her shoulder. But although she had flown, the girl felt sad. ‘I don’t know what to do, little bird,’ she said. ‘For a long time, I’ve felt like flying away, but now I’m not so sure. Do you think I should stay at home, even though I feel like I don’t belong there?’

The blackbird flew away and reappeared with a broken piece of mirror which he held up. The girl looked at her reflection and saw that the feathers she applied each night had grown into her skin. While she was waiting for things to change at home, she had changed too. She had grown more determined and independent and, looking at the little blackbird, she made up her mind.

Even though she didn’t know if the world was ready for a bird-girl, she stood on her tiptoes and flapped her arms. Then she and the blackbird flew away, never to return.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_bd6f9b4a-2c67-57db-b6a7-cd587c355bca)

Library

Sandshift was once a thriving town, where the majority of folk relied on the fishing trade to make a living. But now it derived most of its revenue from day trippers who descended at the weekend, to look for fossils in the shale on the beach, or as a good spot for dog walking.

Before Martha headed to the library, she took her usual brisk twelve-minute walk down to the seafront. Her morning routine involved stretching her legs, getting some fresh air and contemplating all the things she wanted to accomplish that day. Then she could put a dash next to them in her notepad, her code for to be completed today.

Last night, after her call to Lilian, she was too tired to do any more sewing. She certainly didn’t have the time or energy to look through the mysterious book again or read any of its stories. Before going to bed, she placed it in her handbag, ready to show it to Suki at work.

As she walked along the beach, Martha felt like she was wading through treacle. Her steps were trudging and her body was squeezed of life. As she pressed her hands against her tightening chest, a ball of anger flared inside at her own silly fatigue.

You need to be more efficient, or else you’ll never get your jobs done.

She decided that working her arms like pistons would get her blood flowing. She pumped them as she marched across the sand and past a large cave with a dark teardrop-shaped opening. Pausing for a moment to admire the white lighthouse that stood like a lone birthday candle on the rocks jutting out to sea, she watched as an orange swimming-capped head bobbed in the gunmetal waves.

I hope that person has got a towel, she thought, looking around for it on the sand. I hope they know about the riptide in the bay.

A swift walk along the water’s edge, sea foam fizzing around her shoes, brought her to a bronze mermaid statue, the town’s main landmark.

The mermaid’s tail was a crescent moon curl and her long hair straggled over her shoulders. She sat on a rock looking out to sea, forever waiting for fishermen to return in their boat, the Pegasus. The engraving on her plaque said,

Dedicated to the Sandshift Seven, claimed by the sea in 1965.

A violent storm had sucked the Pegasus under. It created widows and orphans and it was as if a thick grey smog hung over the town ever since. There had only been one survivor that fateful night, a young man called Siegfried Frost, the eighth person on board the boat.

Even though the accident happened before she was born, the roots of Martha’s hair still stood to attention when she read the names of the seven crew members. She knew them by heart, but still looked at them each day.

Using a tissue, she plucked a piece of chewing gum off the mermaid’s tail, threw it in a bin and set off back up the hill, still punching her arms.






When Martha stepped inside the library, she closed her eyes and inhaled the earthy, almond scent of the books. If she could bottle the aroma, she’d wear it as a perfume, L’eau de la Bibliothèque.

She took the small battered book from her bag and gave that a sniff too. It smelled musty and sweet with a hint of something else that she couldn’t place, maybe amber or cinnamon.

The library was part-run by the community since the local council had made some drastic budget cuts. It was overseen by Clive Folds from his modern office in Maltsborough, where he was supposed to plan and ensure that two assistant librarians were always on duty. But since their colleague Judy went on long-term sick leave with a bad back, more responsibility had fallen on Suki’s and Martha’s shoulders.

Fortunately, Thomas and Betty had left Martha and Lilian a fair-sized chunk of money in their will. Martha had almost used up her amount and, more than anything, she wanted a permanent position at the library.

She’d helped out there for over four years, had a diploma in English literature, adored the books and wanted to help people. However, Clive had personally turned down three of her job applications. He displayed a penchant for younger, fresh-faced workers.

Martha now had a job application form in her desk drawer for her fourth attempt.

She had scanned through it many times already. With almost three weeks until the deadline, she hadn’t yet made a start on it. Each time she looked at the headings for qualifications, experience and previous employment, her heart stung from Clive’s rejections.

Working at the library made her feel more alive. She could picture crawling on all fours across the floor, with Zelda. They used to walk their fingers across the rainbow of book spines and stroke the covers. They whispered and shared stories.

When Zelda died, Martha found solace in the grey stone building with its flat roof and tall skinny windows that looked out over Sandshift Bay. She spent hours with her cheeks pressed to the cool glass, furiously wiping away her tears as she stared down at the golden curve of the beach.

She wedged herself in the corner of the fiction section, knees tucked up to her chin, reading books after school or at the weekend. And as the pages grew bumpy with her tears, they helped her to cope with her grief. She shuddered at James Herbert and Stephen King, read about misfit schoolgirls and ravenous rats, got lost in the lush worlds of Evelyn Waugh, and learned some of the mysteries of men from the steamier moments in Mills & Boon. The library had been her Narnia, and it still was.

Martha found Suki sitting behind the front desk with a pile of books stacked almost as high as her nose. She had worked here for less than five months, another of Clive’s young appointees.

Even though she wore floaty paisley dresses down to her ankles, beaded sandals and a nose ring that looked more suited to a California music festival, Martha thought that Suki was good at her job. She was practical and nothing fazed her. Were they friends? She didn’t know, unsure what you had to do to make that happen.

Now Suki peered out with red-rimmed eyes from under her blunt blonde fringe. The lilac dip-dyed ends of her hair were soggy with tears.

Instinctively, Martha flew into action mode, shoulders back, chin raised. She dug her hand into her pocket and pulled out a packet of tissues. Holding one out at arm’s length, she waited until it tugged like a fish pulling on a line. There was a loud nose blow from behind the book pile.

‘Is this about Ben, again?’ Martha asked gently. ‘Didn’t he like the the food you made for him?’

Suki’s nostrils flared and she fanned a hand in front of her face. ‘He collectioned his stuff from the spare room and didn’t even try my cheese and onion pie.’

Martha had grown used to Suki’s misuse and mispronunciation of her words and didn’t correct her this time. She glanced at her burgeoning belly. ‘I bet they were delicious. Let me get you a nice cup of tea and a biscuit. I’ve brought a cushion for your back, and an article on breastfeeding. How long is it now, until the baby arrives?’

‘Six weeks. Ben’s still hooking up with that girl he works with. He says he can’t make up his mind between us. I’ll have to give him a culmination.’

‘Do you mean an ultimatum?’

‘Yeah, one of those. Me and the bump might have to get by without him…’

‘Are you sure you can’t work things out?’ Martha opened a drawer and slid her hand around inside. ‘You could take a minibreak together. Or, I’m sure I saved a magazine piece on couples counselling.’

Suki wrung the tissue in her hands. ‘He just needs to make up his bloody mind. I still love him, though. You know what that’s like, yeah? Even you must have been in love, once.’

Martha retracted her hand. Her blood cooled at the words ‘even you’.

There had been someone who loved her, a long time ago, before she moved back into her family home to care for her parents.

She and Joe used to dance in the sea at dusk, whatever the weather. They sat on a blanket on the floor of the teardrop-shaped cave and read aloud from books together. He scratched their initials onto the cave wall, and she painted her toenails petal pink for him.

For five years he’d been part of her life, helping to fill the gap that Zelda left behind. Martha had imagined marriage, and their carpets scattered with brightly coloured picture books. But then she’d made a huge decision and her dreams had fallen apart.

These days, Martha knew she wouldn’t ever win a beauty contest, but when a reader sidled up to the desk, rubbed their chin and said, ‘I don’t know the title of the book, but the cover is red, and I think there’s a picture of a dog on the front,’ she had the answer.

‘We’re talking about you, not me,’ she said hurriedly. She made Suki a cup of tea and placed a heart-shaped biscuit on her saucer. She took a blue satin cushion from her shopping bag and plumped it up. Drawing Zelda’s book from her bag, she set it on the table.

‘Urgh. Is that one of ours?’ Suki dabbed her eyes. She positioned the cushion behind her back and bounced against it several times.

‘No. I saw someone lurking outside the library, last night. I think they left it for me.’

‘You came to work?’ Suki frowned. ‘For the author event?’

Martha nodded.

‘But Clive was supposed to tell everyone that Lucinda couldn’t make it. Her publisher called him.’

Martha quickly lowered her eyes. ‘He didn’t tell me.’

Suki’s face fell. ‘Oh God, sorry, Martha. I didn’t know. I was occupational with Ben and the baby.’

‘It’s fine,’ Martha said, even though it wasn’t. ‘It means that I found the book. It’s from someone called Owen Chamberlain.’

Suki sat more upright. ‘Oh, yeah. Chamberlain’s is the new bookshop behind Maltsborough lifeboat station. Well, it’s new but sells old books.’ She picked the book up and leafed through it. ‘These illustrations are gorgeous.’

‘There’s a message inside from my grandmother, Zelda. But she passed away three years before the date.’

Suki frowned. ‘That’s weird, like an Agatha Christie mystery or something.’

‘Or, perhaps a mistake. That’s the more obvious conclusion.’

‘Are you going ring him?’

Martha hesitated. Recalling Lilian’s disparaging words about the book made her palms itch. ‘My sister said to leave it alone.’

‘But the desiccation is to you, not her.’

‘It’s dedication,’ Martha corrected her. She stared at the phone on the desk, and thoughts of Zelda crawling on the library floor came back to her again. Even now, she still missed her.

‘I suppose I could call him,’ she said, finally. ‘To tie up loose ends with the situation.’

‘Definitely.’

Martha slid the handwritten note out of the book, to read the phone number, but as she did, the library doors opened. A breeze lifted the note from her fingers. It swept into the air and down onto the floor like a feather.

‘Yes.’ Lilian spoke loudly. ‘You do have to stay here…’

Will and Rose appeared round the corner first. They both wore jeans and baggy hooded tops, and their droopy mouths said they’d prefer to be somewhere else.

Thirteen-year-old Will’s spiky hair was platinum blond, a contrast to the black of his thick eyebrows. Rose was three years younger. Her hair was the colour of autumn leaves, a soft copper. It fell in spirals around her oval face.

Lilian nudged them forward and rubbed the corner of her eye. ‘Hey, how are you, Martha?’ she said. ‘I’ve stopped by for my Ahern.’

‘I’ve got it here. And I’ve brought the old book I told you about.’

Lilian raised her palm and briefly closed her eyes. ‘Okay, but I need to ask you for a favour. Do you mind looking after the kids? I’ve got an errand to run.’

Will rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, sure. You’re going to Chichetti’s in Maltsborough, Mum. Your friend invited you to lunch.’

Lilian fixed him with a stare and gave a stilted laugh. ‘Well, yes. Annie and I will eat, but we also have other things to do.’ She stepped closer to Martha and lowered her voice. ‘I want to talk to Annie about something. It’s important. The kids will be no trouble. They’ll just read books and things.’

Martha had received a telling-off from Clive when Will and Rose last hung out at the library. He accused her of mixing business and family life. ‘I’d love to help, but—’

‘Great,’ Lilian said, with a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks so much. I’ll be back by two. Or two thirty. Perhaps three… Now, I have to dash.’

‘But about the book—’ Martha picked it up and proffered it to her sister.

Lilian froze, then tentatively took hold of it. She briefly flicked through the pages and her lips pursed into a thin line when she reached Zelda’s message.

‘Have you noticed the date?’ Martha prompted.

Colour seemed to seep from Lilian’s cheeks. She cleared her throat. ‘Zelda probably wrote it down wrong, that’s all.’

‘That seems a strange thing to do.’

Lilian handed it back. She hitched her handbag up on her shoulder. ‘I don’t know why you’re getting obsessed with that crappy old thing, especially when you’re surrounded by so many lovely books. Just chuck it away. It’s probably full of germs.’

Martha heard the irritation in her sister’s voice and decided not to press things further. But although she smiled and said, ‘Well, okay then,’ she couldn’t help wondering why Lilian was so dismissive of the intriguing little book.






Will took off his boots and stretched his legs out, creating a hurdle to the history section. ‘Any chance of a brew?’ he asked Martha.

Rose sat cross-legged in front of the YA shelves. She stabbed at her phone screen with her index finger. ‘I’d love one, too. You make the best cups of tea.’ Her eyes shone as a neon-yellow trophy exploded.

‘Of course,’ Martha said. ‘Would you like a biscuit, too? Freshly baked.’

Will and Rose nodded in unison.

Branda was the next person who needed help, with her photocopying. Her real name was Brenda, but everyone switched the e to an a without her noticing because she only wore clothes she classed as a ‘dee-signer brand’. Three years ago, her husband left her for a family friend, so Branda hit him where it hurt – in his wallet. Today she wore a crisp white shirt with hand-painted eagles on the shoulders, and a black leather skirt with bright yellow stitching. Her bluey-black hair was coiffed into a small crispy beehive.

‘I’ll do it,’ Martha said, wrestling the paper out of her arms. ‘You have a nice sit-down. Do you have extinguishers in the Lobster Pot? Your candles could be quite a fire hazard.’

‘I only use the best beeswax, Martha,’ Branda said. ‘Extinguishers would spoil the restaurant aesthetic. I stow them away in the kitchen.’

After that, Martha showed a young man with multiple face piercings how to search for jobs online. She changed a plug on a computer that didn’t fit the socket properly, even though she should report electronic stuff to Clive. She issued a new library card and replaced two lost ones. A man from the garden centre asked where he could buy brown fur fabric, because the staff wanted to dress up as woodland creatures. He wanted to go as a ferret. Martha located a book in the sewing section on making costumes for children. ‘You can tape pieces of paper together and scale up the pattern in size,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’ll do it for you.’

‘You make everything so easy for people,’ Suki said, as the man walked away with the book and a six-feet tall piece of paper with a man-sized ferret outfit sketched on it.

‘Thank you.’

‘Too easy… Have you called Chamberlain’s yet?’

‘I’ve not had the chance.’

‘You’ve got time now. Think about yourself, for once.’

Martha felt a lump rise in her throat. It happened now and again, if anyone displayed unexpected thoughtfulness towards her. She tucked in her chin and swallowed the lump away, but she also felt a weird flutter in her stomach, as if she’d swallowed something that was still alive. A new bookshop and the opportunity to find out more about the old book were a real temptation. She wondered how Owen Chamberlain had traced her, and what he knew about the book and Zelda’s message. ‘Well, okay,’ she said.

She dialled the number for Chamberlain’s but didn’t get a reply, so she rang a further three times in a row. ‘I don’t know how Mr Chamberlain expects to make a living if he doesn’t pick up the phone,’ she said. ‘Did you know that eight out of ten businesses fail in their first year of trading?’

‘That’s a lot. Go over to Maltsborough to see him,’ Suki suggested. ‘I think the shop closes at one thirty today, and doesn’t open again until Wednesday. I’ve got things covered here.’

But Martha had duties to perform. The library didn’t close for another fifty-three minutes. She looked over at her niece and nephew, still studying their phones. ‘I can’t go. Someone might need me.’

As the morning ticked by, Martha carried over Skulduggery Pleasant, Divergent and Percy Jackson and placed the books on the table beside Will. He smiled but didn’t pick them up.

Martha found Little Women and Chocolat for her niece. Although Rose muttered, ‘Thanks,’ Martha could tell that the books would remain unread. She kept the two of them topped up with cups of tea.

She also tried to call Owen Chamberlain a further two times but the phone still rang out.

Siegfried Frost shuffled into the library and, as usual, didn’t say hello. The reclusive seventy-something always wore the same grey knitted hat, the same texture and colour as his wiry hair that sprang from under it. His beard obscured his lips so that, on the rare occasions he spoke, you couldn’t see them. His brown mac almost reached the ankles of his frayed, turned-up jeans. He’d moved into the old Sandshift lighthouse after the Pegasus accident.

His fingers crept towards the battered book and he picked it up.

Martha shot out her hand to stop him. ‘That’s not actually a library book.’

Above his grey whiskers, Siegfried’s eyes didn’t blink. He twisted his upper body, moving the book away from her. Flicking through it, he paused to peer at an illustration of a blackbird.

Upside down, Martha read the title of the story, ‘The Bird Girl’.

An image slipped into her head then vanished just as quickly, of her reading a story to her mum and nana. It was one she hadn’t thought of for a long time and her head felt a little floaty. She reached behind her for a chair, her hand hovering in the space above it.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghoul,’ Suki said.

Siegfried dropped the book back on the table and shuffled away.

Martha immediately picked it up again. The ground seemed wavy beneath her feet. ‘I think I know the story that Siegfried was looking at.’ She turned the pages and located it, her eyes scanning the words. She stared at its title. Gingerly, she lifted the book to her nose and inhaled, recognizing the smell as a hint of Youth Dew. ‘I have got to read this.’

‘Sure. I’ll make you a coffee.’

Martha sank into the chair and traced her finger down the words. She read the story twice, recognizing ‘The Bird Girl’ as one she made up many years ago.

She turned the pages and other words and titles began to leap out at her. Stories told by Zelda to Martha, created by Martha for Betty. Stories the three women had shared together.

What on earth are they doing here?

‘You look very pale.’ Suki returned and placed a steaming cup of coffee on the desk.

Martha nodded. She got to her feet and knocked her hip against the desktop. Coffee splashed onto the corner of Branda’s photocopying. She took a tissue and dabbed it, her fingers feeling strangely big and clumsy. ‘I know the library doesn’t close for twenty-three minutes, but I need to go,’ she said. She surveyed the room, making sure that everyone was able to cope without her.

‘You’re going home?’

‘No. To Chamberlain’s.’

‘Oh,’ Suki raised an eyebrow. ‘Good incision.’

‘It’s decision. And sorry, I won’t drink the coffee, though it does look very flavoursome. Apologies for the spillage.’ Martha reached down and picked up her bag. Her hands shook as she placed the book carefully inside it.

Stepping into the history section, she spoke as loudly as her small voice allowed. ‘Will and Rose, put your shoes back on. We’re going over to Maltsborough.’


CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_b0b2db2e-ef09-5030-9895-4dd0797d3d37)

Bookshop

As they walked to the bus stop, Martha glanced over both shoulders to make sure that Clive wasn’t around to see her leaving work early. She asked Will and Rose if they’d prefer to go to the bookshop with her, or to meet their mother at the restaurant.

Will lowered his phone. ‘Chichetti’s does an amazing chocolate fudge cake. Can we go and get a slice?’

‘Mum sounded like she needed some time out,’ Rose said cautiously. ‘Like, without us.’

Will shrugged and returned to his game.

‘I’m sure your mum will be pleased to see us,’ Martha said, though she wasn’t convinced. ‘But I must get to that bookstore before it closes.’

‘What time’s that?’ Rose asked.

‘One thirty, I think.’

‘But it’s almost one o’clock now.’

When the bus rumbled up, five minutes later, they got on board. Will and Rose made their way to the back seat and positioned themselves as far away from each other as they could. Martha sat down between them. She touched the sparkly slide in her hair and held onto her bag.

Her upper body did a strange dance, as the bus turned and wound its way out of Sandshift and up onto Maltsborough Road. She raised her head to look down at the bay, where the sky was a shroud of mist hanging over the grey-blue sea. Siegfried’s lighthouse gleamed in the hazy February daylight, and Martha willed the bus to get a move on.






Maltsborough was Sandshift’s wealthier neighbour. It had a run of smart seafront bistros, a bank, a grand hotel with turrets, fish and chip shops galore, a museum and a state-of-the-art library that had a coffee shop, gift shop and large lights that looked like giant blue test tubes hanging from the ceiling. It attracted lots more funding than Sandshift and was where Clive sat in his office, hatching plans for budget cuts, synergy and synchronicity.

Chichetti’s was a new Italian restaurant on the high street with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the promenade. It was the kind of place where eating pasta and being seen were of equal importance to diners.

Martha, Will and Rose stood in a line, on the pavement outside, looking in.

Martha spotted her sister’s gold pumps near the window. She raised her hand to wave, but then paused with her hand mid-air. Lilian was leaned forward over the table with her face pointing down. Another woman, who Martha presumed must be Annie, had an arm wrapped around her shoulder.

Martha slowly lowered her hand but Will didn’t seem to notice there might be something going on. He rapped loudly on the window and gave a double thumbs-up to his mum.

Annie shook Lilian’s shoulder, and she sat up abruptly. She knocked her glass of white wine with her wrist and it wobbled. A passing waiter reached out and steadied it.

Lilian blinked hard at Martha, Will and Rose. She got up so quickly her stool rocked, and she sped towards the smoked-glass front door.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked breathlessly, as she stepped outside. Her eyes were pink and glistening above her puffy cheeks. ‘It’s only twenty past one.’

Martha swallowed. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine. Just a spot of, um, hay fever.’

‘I have a packet of tissues in my bag. They’re extra-soft and have aloe vera in them…’

‘I’m fine,’ Lilian said. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Sorry for bringing the kids early, but I want to get to that bookshop before it closes. Will and Rose don’t want to join me. I think they want food instead.’

‘I’m really hungry,’ Rose said.

‘Me too.’ Will nodded.

Lilian knitted her hand into her hair and didn’t speak for a while. She took a deep breath and held it in her chest. ‘I suppose that’s fine. We’re just about to order dessert.’ Then her eyes grew harder. ‘I hope this isn’t about that old book?’

Martha felt as if she was shrinking in size, like Alice in Wonderland after drinking from a potion bottle. ‘The shop doesn’t open again until Wednesday,’ she said meekly.

‘I told you to leave it alone.’

‘I just want to find out where it came from, that’s all.’

Lilian pressed her lips together. ‘It’s your choice,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t know why you’re so interested in that stupid old thing, anyway. You could join us for a lovely dessert instead.’

‘Oh yeah, go on, Auntie Martha.’ Rose said.

‘The chocolate fudge cake is really gooey.’ Will licked his lips.

Martha stared inside the restaurant, at a waiter who glided past carrying an enormous ice cream sundae. Her mouth began to water. ‘I, um…’

‘And I need to ask you for another favour,’ Lilian added.

‘Yes?’ Martha said. She fumbled in her bag for her notepad and pen and flipped to her current task list. ‘What is it?’

‘Will you look after the kids, the weekend after next? I need to, um, work away.’

‘I bet it’s at a posh spa,’ Will quipped.

Lilian fixed him with a brief stare, then found a smile for Martha. ‘I have a few things to sort out. Can we make it an overnighter?’

Martha wrote this down and thought about it. Now that they were getting older, Will and Rose hadn’t slept at the house for a couple of years. Her parents’ old bedroom was full of bags and boxes. ‘I’m happy to have them during the day, but there’s not enough space for them to—’

‘Great,’ Lilian interjected. ‘Thanks, Martha. Now, let’s grab that dessert.’

Martha’s mind ticked between her two options. She was here now, but Chamberlain’s closed in a few minutes. She placed her notepad in her handbag and fastened the zip. Lilian’s eyes still looked tense, but it could be because of the pollen. ‘The restaurant looks lovely, but perhaps some other time.’

A veil seemed to slip across Lilian’s features. She wrapped her arms around Will and Rose’s shoulders. ‘You seem to remember our grandmother as some kind of fairy godmother figure,’ she said sharply. ‘It really wasn’t the case.’

Martha’s mouth fell open a little. ‘Zelda was wonderful. She was bright and fun, and always—’

Lilian shook her head. ‘Sometimes, Martha,’ she said as she placed her hand against the restaurant door, ‘it’s easy to remember things differently to how they actually were.’

Martha could hear faint electronic tunes from the amusement arcades on the seafront, but the street where Chamberlain’s Pre-Loved and Antiquarian Books was located was quiet, except for two seagulls cawing and flapping over a dropped bag of chips.

Suki said the bookshop was new, but the shade of the duckegg blue paint coating the window frames and door, and the semicircle of silver lettering embossed on the large windowpane, made it look a couple of centuries old.

Flustered after her uncomfortable discussion with Lilian, Martha struggled to regulate her breathing. Her chest felt tight again and she gave it a rub. There was something about the flicker in her sister’s eyes that made her question her decision to come here.

Even though Lilian was the younger sister, she’d always taken the lead. When she first arrived home from the hospital as a plum-faced newborn, she had assumed control. She would sleep and eat when she wanted, and the rest of the family had to fit their lives around her.

Thomas loved his new daughter. He cooed at her and puffed out his chest when he pushed Lilian in the pram, showing her off to friends and neighbours. He didn’t allow any of the fun toys that Zelda bought inside her cot.

Martha could admit that, with her icy-blonde hair and blue eyes, her sister was a beautiful child. However, her father’s devoted attention to her made Martha feel like the ugly sister in comparison.

As she stood in front of the shop door, she lifted her chin. There were only a couple of minutes left until closing time and she had to follow her instincts. Twisting the brass knob, she opened the door.

A brass bell rang and she felt a little otherworldly as she inhaled the heady aroma of leather, cardboard and ink. Her eyes widened at the sight of the books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, some worn and some like new.

Her forehead crinkled a little with disapproval as she spotted a screwed-up tissue and a felt tip pen without its lid on the desk. There was a small heap of sweet wrappers, several key rings and a plastic pug dog with a nodding head. Her own house might be busy, but this shop looked disorganized, in need of a good system.

A long wooden ladder, leaning against a bookshelf, stretched from the floor and rose upwards as far as Martha could see. There was a pair of legs, with feet facing her, clad in monogrammed red slippers. The toes wriggled as if their owner was listening to music that nobody else could hear. The ladder rungs creaked and bowed as the legs climbed down.

The red slipper-wearer was tall with a circular face. His sandy hair was pushed back off his forehead and streaked white around the temples. A red silk scarf framed his open-necked black shirt and his grey suit fitted loosely over his large rounded chest. He wore four colourful pin badges. One featured an illustration of a book, and another said ‘Booksellers – great between the sheets’. Martha noticed that his hand was large enough to hold several books in its span and that he had a smear of ink on his cheek.

Martha tapped her own face. ‘You have a smudge.’

‘Oh.’ The man put down his books and lifted his scarf. He used it to rub his face. ‘I keep finding bruises in strange places… but it’s ink from the books and newspapers. There,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Is that better?’

Martha stared at his cheek, which was now denim blue. ‘You may need a mirror.’

‘I don’t think I have one.’

Taking the battered book from her bag, Martha searched for a spare space on the countertop. ‘I think you might have left this for me?’

‘Ah, you must be Martha.’ Owen smiled and held out his hand.

Martha hesitated. Although she liked to help library-goers, physical contact was something she tried to forgo. Helping her parents out of their chairs was as close as she’d got to others for a long time. She reached out and lightly shook his hand, then quickly let it go. ‘May I ask where the book came from, and how you found me?’

Owen picked it up, handling it as if it was an injured baby bird. ‘A fellow bookseller sent it to me, for repair. But it’s in such a bad state and would be too expensive to reconstruct. When I told him the price, he said not to bother. I paid him a tenner for it because I could sell some of the illustrations. But then I got The Guilt.’

‘Guilt?’

‘I can’t bring myself to disassemble books… even if they’re beyond rescue. I always end up keeping them. But then I can’t sell them, either.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Though, over the years I bet my wives would have liked me to.’

Martha blinked, wondering just how many times he’d been married. He did have an air of Henry VIII about him.

‘When I flicked through this one,’ Owen continued, ‘I spotted your name in the dedication and knew it from leaflets about the library. There aren’t any other Martha Storms in the telephone directory… so it had to be you.’

‘Were you huddled by the library door, yesterday evening?’ Martha asked with a frown.

‘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 (#ulink_1f527a39-9777-5e44-808e-d05347154b2e)

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 (#ulink_0f25c304-9a5b-5f74-b2c4-c781504b16a5)

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.

Towards the end of his life, her dad had shrunk in size but was still almost six feet tall. It took all her strength to help him upstairs to bed. She’d formed a hard shell to deal with the monotony of making breakfast, watching the morning news on TV, listening to the same radio shows each day, making coffee and fresh biscuits. She, her mum and dad, all watched the lunchtime news together, accompanied by ham sandwiches (made by her, of course). A few quiz shows followed, before Thomas and Betty took a long nap while Martha dusted and tidied round. Then she cooked dinner, usually something traditional like beef and potatoes, or a steak and kidney pie. This was followed by a spot of encyclopedia reading, and more news and quiz shows. She ran them a bath, helping them both into the water, one after the other, before assisting them to clean their teeth and get into bed. When she turned off the lights, there wasn’t much point doing anything for herself, so she retired for the night at the same time.

She hadn’t actually noticed when her parents’ needs surpassed her own, like Japanese knotweed overtaking a garden. She just focused on being helpful, a dutiful daughter.

It was clear to her now, though, that she’d given up her own chance of happiness to facilitate theirs.

She took her notepad out of her pocket and stared at the green ticks, amber stars and red dots. They were a constant reminder that her only worth was in helping others.

The bus came to a halt in Maltsborough and everyone but Martha got off. She stayed on board and waited, wanting to get even further away from Sandshift. The driver poked his head out and called down the aisle. ‘This is the last stop, darlin’. Hop off.’

Reluctantly, she stepped off and found herself on the promenade.

Even though Maltsborough was shutting down for the day, it hummed with noise and activity. Some shop owners were already locking their doors and pulling down metal shutters over the windows. A line of traffic curved along the high street, car lights illuminating the rain that fired down. In an hour’s time, all that would be open in the town were the bars and restaurants, and the amusement arcades.

Rain bounced off the pavements and made people yelp, jump and run with their coats held over their heads.

Martha stooped over. Moving quickly along the seafront, she passed a group of teenagers who were bunched together, spearing chips with plastic forks.

The rain grew heavier, slinking its way down the back of her neck and soaking through the toes of her shoes. Unsure of where to go, she ducked under a shiny yellow canopy and found herself standing inside an arcade.

As children, she and Lilian weren’t allowed to play on the amusements. Thomas said it was gambling, and that, ‘No one benefits except for the arcade owners.’ Martha used to gaze longingly at the bright flashing lights and plastic horses jerking along their racetrack, as he tugged her past them. Sometimes Zelda gave her and Lilian a sneaky penny or two to spend, but it was under strict instructions that they didn’t tell their father.

Martha could usually tell when Zelda had defied Thomas, because there’d be a sticky silence around the table at teatime. Every scrape of cutlery, each bite of food would be amplified. Betty tried to overcompensate for Zelda’s misdemeanours by fussing around Thomas.

Martha and Lilian had learned to be on their best behaviour when this happened. They tried to be nice and good for their father, until his stormy mood blew over.

Now, Martha stood and watched the rain pounding down, and she edged further inside the arcade. She found herself standing next to an electronic game machine where large plastic crustaceans crept out from under jagged red rocks. They chanted, ‘We are the bad crabs.’ For fifty pence, you could take up a big mallet and bash them.

‘We are the bad crabs,’ the voice repeated and Martha’s fingers twitched. There was an unusual stirring inside her stomach, of wanting to do something for herself for once. A touch of rebellion. She had already made a fool of herself in front of people she knew.

Does it really matter if I do it again, in front of ones I don’t know?

Tensing her jaw, she delved into her pocket for a fifty-pence piece and held it over the slot. A high-pitched electronic voice said, ‘We’re ready to begin!’ and Martha defiantly pushed her coin in.

Taking hold of the mallet, attached to a chain, she stood poised, ready. Even though she still felt exhausted, she found the energy to swipe the mallet through the air. Missing the first crab, her shoulder jolted as it connected with the plastic rocks. But then she thought about the members of the reading group and managed to bring it crashing down on the head of the second crab and then the third. She hit the fourth and the fifth and kept on hammering as the crabs said, ‘Ouch,’ and ‘Yow.’

Adrenaline coursed through her veins and, with each bash, an urge to laugh rose inside her. She was so focused on the bright plastic and flashing lights that her shame and embarrassment at running away from the library evaporated.

When the game ended, she frantically felt in her pocket for more coins, eager to feel the rush of whatever-it-was again. It had been a long time since she felt so invigorated. She fed more money into the machine, then swiped and bashed until her right shoulder felt like it was on fire.

Her eyes glinted as red numbers rolled, reaching the high score then shooting fifty points above it. This was glorious. A strange sensation enveloped her body but she couldn’t pin down what it was.

She stared down at the last fifty-pence piece in her hand. One last go. As she pushed in her coin, across the room she saw a man holding onto the hand of a toddler. The girl clung on to a soft Minion toy and her eyes were wide open. The man pointed in Martha’s direction and she saw he was talking to a police officer. The officer started to walk and there was no doubt he was headed in her direction.

‘Madam,’ he said when he reached her. He had hairy hands like a werewolf and his eyebrows almost met in the middle. He had the weary stoop of someone who’d been dealing with minor seaside offences all day. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises. A father has complained that you’re scaring his little girl.’

With her cheeks afire, Martha traipsed away from the arcade. She examined the timetable on the bus stop and there was a forty-seven-minute wait until the next one. She also remembered that the ticket she’d bought was a single, and she’d just used up all her cash. She was stuck in Maltsborough, unsure how she was going to get home.

The rain had subsided a little and was now more of a sprinkle, so she decided to go for a walk, to stretch her legs and allow her adrenaline to subside. The bright lights of the bars on the promenade shone in her eyes, so she stepped inland, behind the lifeboat station.

The street was in shadow, with the lights in the upstairs windows above the shops giving the pavement a golden glow. It was easy to imagine this part of town in the earlier days, with smugglers creeping along the skinny ginnels between the houses, to cart their bounty to awaiting boats.

She weaved her way around puddles, until she found herself outside Chamberlain’s. The door wore a Closed sign and, inside, the shop was pitch dark.

She peered in through the window at the display, at a vintage edition of The Hobbit, old train magazines and a full series of Famous Fives piled haphazardly. The sight of Anne and Timmy on the covers made her heart flip. They were her favourite characters, though Zelda said they were too middle class and that she preferred the tomboy, George.

The corner of the window featured an eclectic array of leaflets – a one-eyed black cat found near the sports centre, a fairground in Benton Bay and an advert for Monkey Puzzle Books. She reached out and touched its logo, a tree with books as its leaves.

Moving towards the doorway, Martha mused whether Owen lived above the shop, or if he had a house elsewhere. Her fingers curled in her pocket as she fought the urge to knock on the door. The sign confirmed that the shop didn’t open again until Wednesday. But Owen had said that he’d call her. At home, the red light might be flashing on her answering machine.

After the disastrous reading group session and being asked to leave the arcade, Martha wondered if she had anything to lose. In fact, the thought of doing something out of character again gave her a small buzz. And she wanted Zelda’s book back.

She knocked on the glass, not giving herself the chance to talk herself out of it. Her pulse raced as she waited for a response.

A few moments later a light went on in the back room. A large dark shape moved through the doorway and towards the door. A face appeared at the glass and Martha raised her hand in a short wave.

‘Martha.’ She heard her name, muffled, from inside the shop. The door rattled and opened. Owen stood with bare feet. His suit was crumpled and he munched on a slice of toast. ‘You’re soaked through.’

She nodded meekly, noticing that the sleeves of her coat shone wet in the dark.

‘When I left you the message, I didn’t expect you to come over,’ he said. ‘Come inside.’

Martha heard her shoes squelch as she stepped into the shop. So, he had rung her. Wondering if he’d found anything made the skin on her forearms tingle.

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ He glanced at the small puddles on his floor. ‘And my slippers, too.’ He closed the door behind her and locked it.

She followed him around the counter and into a storeroom. It was full of boxes, but not positioned neatly, as in her dining room. These ones were all different sizes, stored at angles. Some were ripped with books poking out and some were still taped up.

‘Sit down.’ Owen gestured to a high wooden stool and she hitched herself up onto it. He tapped the switch on the side of a kettle and an orange light glowed. ‘I thought you might be interested in my message…’

Martha wasn’t sure how to tell him that she didn’t know what his message was. But then he might think her showing up on his doorstep at night was very strange. So instead she said, ‘Yes. Very much.’

Owen peered into a cup then shook in instant coffee from a jar. He poured in hot water, then added a glug of milk and a spoonful of sugar, without asking how she took it. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘This should warm you up.’

Martha wrapped her hands around the cup and waited for it to cool down. Owen leaned casually against a stack of boxes that was taller than him. ‘Better?’ he asked. ‘Do you want a slice of toast?’

She shook her head and a raindrop trickled down her forehead. ‘No, thank you. About your message…’ she hinted.

‘It’s a gorgeous title, isn’t it?’ Owen said.

‘Yes, it’s lovely.’

‘Very evocative.’

‘Yes. Um, what was it again?’

Owen shrugged. ‘Blue Skies and Stormy Seas. Dexter had to do a fair bit of searching around to find it. He left me a message this afternoon and I called you straight away.’

‘I was hosting a reading group, at the library.’

‘And you got my message and came over,’ he said with a smile.

‘Something like that.’

‘Dexter thinks the book was definitely self-published. He’s going to see if he can find where it was printed and the date.’

‘And did he find out the author’s name?’ Martha asked casually, as she blew into her coffee.

‘It’s by E. Y. Sanderson,’ Owen said. ‘Dexter doesn’t think he’s written anything else.’

Martha’s fingers twitched. Her cup shook and coffee ran, hot, over the back of her hand. It dribbled along her wrist and down her sleeve.

‘Whoops.’ Owen ripped off a piece of kitchen towel and handed it to her. ‘Are you okay?’

She nodded.

‘You kind of threw coffee… at yourself.’

Martha dabbed at her wrist. ‘I think the author is a she,’ she said quietly.

Instinctively, she knew deep inside that there could only be one possibility for the book’s authorship.

‘Excuse me?’

‘E. Y. Sanderson is a lady,’ she told him. ‘Ezmerelda Yvette Sanderson. It’s my nana’s full name.’






Owen insisted on driving Martha back home. She sat in his car stiffly, aware that her wet coat would dampen the seat. The footwell of his old Ford Focus was full of stuff – screwed-up carrier bags, paper bags and car park receipts. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said, as he batted an empty sandwich packet off the dashboard.

Still feeling dizzy from the revelation that Zelda had written the book, Martha sank down in her seat.

‘It’s so cool that your grandmother was the author,’ Owen said, as they turned the corner onto the coastal road back to Sandshift. ‘But didn’t you say they were your stories?’

Martha nodded. It was too confusing to think about this now. She wondered why she’d never seen a copy of the book before, if Zelda had written it. With too many questions swirling around in her head, she just wanted to get home. She managed to answer Owen’s comments and questions with a range of hmms and nods, until they neared the library.

Martha pulled up the collar of her coat, in an attempt to go incognito in case anyone was around. ‘Please drop me here,’ she said, when they reached the end of her road.

‘Are you sure this is close enough… to where you live?’

‘Yes,’ Martha said, momentarily distracted by the sight of her shopping trolley parked back outside the house. She wondered if Siegfried had returned it. ‘It’s a narrow road to get the car down. I’ll walk from here.’

‘I’ll call you about the book, as soon as Dexter gets back in touch.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you…’

Owen shrugged. ‘Coffee and cake is always good.’

Martha got out of the car and gave him a small wave. As she took her keys out of her pocket, she caught sight of something small and glinting in the trolley. She picked out her hair slide and held it between her thumb and forefinger for a moment. It shone under a street lamp and she fastened it back into her hair.

When she opened her front door, the dragon’s head gave her a stiff smile, and she gave it one in return.

The cuckoo clock ticked and Martha stood in the middle of the room. It was past nine o’clock, her father’s supper time, and it still felt strange that he was no longer here. There was no smell of burnt toast, the way he liked it.

Martha patted the dragon on its head and swung an invisible mallet through the air. She tossed her notepad onto the dining table, too tired to take a look at which tasks she’d failed to accomplish.

As she slumped in the wooden chair and looked out the window at the glistening sea, she leaned over and pressed the button on the answering machine. Then she closed her eyes and let the sound of Owen’s warm tones wash over her. She liked the way he said Blue Skies and Stormy Seas, like he was reading a bedtime story.

She thought about the strange sensation that had engulfed her in the arcade, as she bashed the crabs. She’d been unable to identify it before, but now she could.

Freedom. She imagined it might be what freedom felt like.


CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_2521268a-70b7-5599-8b67-f4c349ab6672)

Chinese Dragon

‘Martha. Martha.’

A voice shouted from outside and the doorbell rang, but Martha wasn’t sure if the sounds were in her dream or not.

She’d slept fitfully through the night, dreaming of the Sandshift sea and its inky waves. A fishing boat rocked, in trouble, and she stood rooted to a spot on the sands. She frantically waved her arms, but there was no one around to see or hear her. As she waded into the water, it sloshed around her ankles, then her knees and thighs. The boat bobbed and vanished. Martha tried to shout, but the water lapped at her chest and then her chin. She felt the seabed beneath her toes and then it was gone. Twisting in the water, she was far from shore. The waves chilled her bones and pulled her under. No one could save her. She thrashed until she gave up and let herself sink slowly down.

It was a recurring dream that she’d had since she was a child. Sometimes it might be months until it invaded her sleep, and she thought it might have gone, but then she’d close her eyes and find herself battling the ferocity of the waves again.

‘Martha.’

The call of her name brought her back to the safety of her own room. She opened one eye and then the other. Relief washed over her when she realized she was in her bed.

With a shiver and her nightie clinging to her chest from sweat, she noticed she’d kicked all the covers off the bed. She scooped them up and gathered them around her. Her arms were sore and stiff from handling the hammer, and she groaned as she pulled on her dressing gown. As her actions of the previous day began to speckle back into her memory, she didn’t want to see or speak to anyone.

The doorbell rang again and she slid wearily off the mattress. She pushed her feet into her slippers and trod downstairs. Grudgingly opening the front door, she blinked against the daylight.

‘Congrats, you did it!’ Suki thrust a small bunch of freesias at her chest. She wore a long purple tie-dyed dress and glittery sandals more suited to the Mediterranean. The backs of her hands were henna-painted with intricate flowers.

Martha took hold of the freesias and stared at them, remembering how a vaseful always sat on the dining room table. As soon as her dad died, she bought roses instead. ‘I did what, exactly?’ she asked.

‘You said no. It’s a spectacular phenomenon-on, or whatever the word is.’

‘Thank you, but not really.’ Martha fiddled with her dressing gown belt as she recalled her behaviour. ‘I need to apologize to everyone. I overreacted and need to explain that…’

However, Suki crossed her legs and bounced up and down. She pushed Martha’s handbag into her arms. ‘You left this behind at the library, yesterday. Sorry, but I need the loo,’ she winced. ‘The baby is kicking my bladder.’

Martha glanced behind her at her job-laden floor. Nora’s bin bags looked like giant boulders and the Chinese dragon’s head grinned at her with its wonky white teeth. She didn’t want Suki to see all her stuff. ‘Um, I—’

But she had already pushed past and vanished up the stairs.

Martha set the freesias in some water. She moved a few of Horatio’s potted plants off the dining table and set the vase down. Staring around the room, she wondered what she could do to quickly tidy up the place, but she’d need a small bulldozer to make any impression in the next few minutes.

‘I’m not sure why making an idiot of myself is cause for celebration,’ she said, when Suki returned. ‘I’m sorry for…’

But Suki stood with her mouth hanging open. She didn’t look around at the boxes and bags. Instead she focused on one thing. ‘Is that a Chinese dragon?’ she asked.

Martha gave a small shrug, remembering Lilian’s disbelieving stare when she first encountered the colourful beast. ‘It’s only the head, and it’s child-sized. I said I’d fix his ear and cheek for the school…’ She trailed her words away, her offer suddenly sounding ridiculous. As she surveyed her other tasks, she couldn’t even recall volunteering to do some of them, though her notepad would tell her otherwise.

‘It’s awesome.’ Suki dropped awkwardly to her knees while holding her bump. Placing her hand in the dragon’s mouth, she tested the sharpness of its teeth with her fingers and ran her palm over its shiny red tongue. ‘Why do you need to say sorry to people?’

‘For whatever you heard. For being rude.’

‘You stood up for yourself. I feel quite proud of you.’

Martha wondered how anyone could feel this way about her. She pulled out her wooden chair and sat down with a thump. ‘How do you even know all this?’

‘Horatio told me. He said he liked your traumatic reading.’

Martha hoped she meant dramatic reading. She held her head in her hands and couldn’t think what to say. Everything seemed to be failing. Her quest to be reliable and indispensable was falling apart. ‘I made such an idiot of myself in front of Clive, and I really want the job at the library. Sorry.’

‘You shouldn’t keep saying that. You don’t owe anything to anyone. Don’t come back to the library until you’re ready. Clive can help out for once.’ Suki gave an impromptu guffaw of laughter. ‘It’s so like you, to tackle a dragon’s head.’

Martha opened her mouth to protest, then realized she couldn’t do. Suki was right.

She surveyed the dragon’s head and the absurdity of having this monstrous beast in her dining room made a small nervous laugh rise. ‘I don’t know anything about papier-mâché.’

Suki heaved herself upright. ‘Well, I do. I love crafty stuff. I’ve always wanted to try papier-mâché but didn’t have a project. I’ll help you, if you like. It will keep my mind off Ben.’

Martha stared at her. She was the one who helped people out. Suki was the first person for a long time to offer her any assistance.

She had an overwhelming feeling of wanting to throw a hug but wasn’t sure if it would be welcome, or if she even remembered how to do it correctly. She tensed her arms to stop herself. ‘I’d really appreciate that,’ she said.

‘Now, what did Owen Chamberlain say about your book?’

Pleased by her interest, Martha explained how she had visited the shop, and that Owen had received the book to repair from one of his contacts.

‘I called there again last night, after the reading group session,’ she said. ‘He found out the book title is Blue Skies and Stormy Seas, and that it was written by E. Y. Sanderson. That’s my nana’s full name. What’s really strange is that the stories are ones she told me when I was a child, and ones I made up to share with her. She must have written them down and printed them in the book.’ She shook her head, thinking how unlikely this sounded.

She waited for Suki to tell her she was being ridiculous, as Lilian might, but instead the young library assistant folded her arms. ‘Well, it sounds like you’re determined to find out more,’ she said.

Martha considered this for a moment. She thought about how Lilian always told her what to do, and how she obeyed without question. Just as she always did what her father wanted. Doing things for others no longer gave her the rush of satisfaction she looked for.

Instead she found herself wanting to explore the unusual feeling of freedom that she’d experienced in the arcade. She couldn’t remember the last time her nerves had jingled with anticipation, and she decided that she quite liked it. ‘Owen is going to try and find out the name of the printer and date of the book, to see if it ties in with the date of Zelda’s dedication. Of course, that’s highly unlikely—’

‘But what if it does?’

Martha flicked her hair. ‘It won’t do. I mean, it’s not possible. Zelda died three years before that date, so it can’t be right. Owen’s info will just clarify that.’

‘And then what, Miss Marple?’

‘I prefer Lisbeth Salander.’ Martha shifted in her chair. ‘I suppose everything will go back to normal.’ Images flashed in her head of saying ‘no’ to the reading group, and the orange plastic crabs, and Owen and his red monogrammed slippers, and she wasn’t sure what normal was any longer.

‘And what if you find out otherwise?’

Martha shrugged.

‘Well, what would Lisbeth do?’

Martha mused upon this. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo wouldn’t sit on her backside and do nothing. She wouldn’t let Lilian dictate what she did. She wouldn’t offer to wash chandeliers or water potted plants. ‘She’d take matters into her own hands,’ she said. ‘She’d move things along.’

‘Sounds like a good idea.’

Martha nodded. She considered her next move. Although it was Tuesday and she knew Chamberlain’s wasn’t open, a call to say thank you for the ride home wasn’t unreasonable. And she could ask if there had been any advancement in Dexter’s research.

‘I’ll get dressed and have something to eat,’ she said. ‘Then I’ll make my move.’






Martha took a long hot bath, then made beans on toast and coffee. She moved a couple of boxes from her dining room floor and placed them against her wall.

She was pleased that she’d answered the door to Suki. It had been good to have another person in the house, other than Lilian.

After the cuckoo sang three times in the afternoon, she positioned herself in the wooden chair, straightened her skirt and picked up the phone.

When Owen didn’t pick up and she heard his answerphone message, she felt a plunge of disappointment; however, she didn’t hang up. She inhaled, closed her eyes and then spoke. ‘Hello, Mr Chamberlain. I wanted to thank you for your kindness last night, for driving me home. And I also wanted to…’

As she thought of what to say next, someone answered. ‘Hello,’ a voice said. ‘Who is this?’

Martha frowned, sure she’d dialled the number correctly. ‘It’s Martha Storm, from the library.’

‘Oh, sorry. I couldn’t get to the phone in time. Dad’s out. This is Greg.’

‘Greg?’

‘Owen’s son.’

Now he said this, it made sense to Martha. He spoke in a similar way to Owen, searching around for his words. His voice was a little deeper and slower.

‘Well, I’m sorry for disturbing you,’ she said, surprised at how disappointed she felt not reaching Owen. ‘Please tell your father I rang, and—’

‘Dad told me about you,’ Greg chipped in. ‘I’ve not seen him so animated for a long time. You’re phoning about the date and photo, right?’

Martha’s right eyebrow twitched upwards. ‘Um, I don’t know anything about those.’

‘Oh, right. Didn’t you get Dad’s email?’

‘I’m not in work today to access a computer.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘What’s the photo of?’

‘I’m not sure. It’s part of a newspaper clipping, I think. Dexter emailed Dad and he forwarded it on to you.’

Martha bit her lip, wondering how she could get to see it. The library closed on Tuesdays and she didn’t want to wait until the next day. Perhaps she could let herself into the building, without bumping into anyone who’d witnessed her embarrassing outburst.

‘Um, is that okay?’ Greg asked.

‘Yes. It’s fine,’ Martha said, her eyes flicking towards her pantry, where she kept a set of emergency keys. ‘I’m sure I can figure something out.’


CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_6c2f6a80-d758-5c6a-9fb0-ca122c9781ea)

Sandcastles

Betty, 1976

Betty smoothed down her new orange silk dress and admired her matching pumps. The dress was a little too tight, and the cut wasn’t one she’d have chosen for herself. The shoes were also slightly wide for her feet. But how wonderful it was for Thomas to treat her, for her thirtieth birthday.

The new hairbrush and hand cream that Martha and Lilian bought her lay on the bedcover, and the girls were now downstairs preparing her breakfast.

Thomas stood on the other side of the bed, waiting for Betty’s reaction. ‘They do fit, don’t they?’ he asked.

Betty didn’t answer at first. She didn’t want to admit she needed a larger size dress, as that might spoil his efforts. If she lost a little weight, it would fit perfectly. If she concentrated when she was walking, the shoes wouldn’t slip off. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said with a smile. ‘They’re so lovely. Thank you.’

‘Fantastic,’ Thomas said. ‘You look beautiful.’

As she reached down to pick up the ripped wrapping paper, Betty couldn’t help wondering how much the dress and shoes cost. Whenever she wanted to meet a friend for coffee, or buy a new jar of face cream, she had to ask Thomas for money. Most of the time he gave it to her freely, but sometimes he questioned her, reminding her that it didn’t grow on trees.

She crumpled the paper into a ball and held it. The one thing she wanted above anything else was the one thing she didn’t have. A job. Then she could earn money and buy things, for her and the girls. She’d be free of the embarrassment of asking Thomas for it.

When she gave a little sigh, he detected it. ‘Is there anything wrong?’

‘No. I was just thinking that I’d like to contribute, financially, to the household. The dress and shoes are so lovely, but I need some practical clothes to wear, too. The girls are growing out of their things.’ She sought out her husband’s eyes. ‘I’m thinking of looking for work.’

Thomas nodded, an understanding smile on his face. ‘You know, that’s one of the things I love about you, Betty. You’re always so considerate, thinking of others. But you do such a great job at home. You should enjoy your time with the girls, while they’re young. Let me take care of all the boring adult stuff. I loved that my mum stayed at home. She didn’t work and the whole family really benefited from it. Besides…’ He hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘Well…’ His pause went on for too long. ‘You’re not getting any younger, and you don’t really have any experience.’

Betty could admit this was true. She was only nineteen, fresh out of secretarial college, when Martha appeared. She suspected the skills she’d learned there would be out of date in today’s workplace. She hadn’t had a chance to put any of them into practice. ‘I could learn on the job,’ she said. ‘And it would be nice to meet new people and have a few adult conversations during the day.’

Thomas gave a roar of laughter. ‘Yes, you can’t really call conversations with your mother adult, can you? All I’m saying is, there’s no rush. Lilian is only six. Why not wait until she starts secondary school?’

Betty gave a wry smile as she fingered the ball of wrapping paper. As usual, he made sense. ‘It was just a thought.’





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