Читать книгу The Library of Lost and Found - Phaedra Patrick - Страница 10

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.’

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.