The Library of Lost and Found

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

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.’