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.
4
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 gray 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 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 gray 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 blond 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 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 cush
ion 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 couple counseling.”
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 colored picture books. But then she’d made a huge decision and it made her dreams fall 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. Taking 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 around 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 color 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 favor. 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.
Color 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 center 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 dialed 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.”
The Library of Lost and Found Page 3
