The Library of Lost and Found

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

The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper

Wishes Under the Willow Tree

Copyright

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

‘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

About the Author

Also by Phaedra Patrick

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Acknowledgements

Reading group questions for THE LIBRARY OF LOST AND FOUND

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

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

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.’