The Library of Lost and Found

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

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

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.