The Library of Lost and Found

by Phaedra Patrick

  They set off and drove up and along Maltsborough Road to the sound of AC/DC played on volume level two and a half.

  “I’m so intrigued to meet Zelda and chat about her book,” Owen said as they headed inland. “I have so many questions, about how Blue Skies and Stormy Seas came to be in print.”

  Martha wanted to find out the same thing, too. And this was good, she told herself, that his enthusiasm was firmly focused on her nana. Because, with her newly pinkened lips and appealing hair, the last thing she wanted was for him to think she’d invited him on some kind of date. “Getting answers from her is proving quite a challenge,” she warned.

  They stopped off to buy tiramisu from a delicatessen on the way, and a bottle of merlot. Martha peered down at the dessert as it rested on her lap, and it looked both assuredly fresh and authentically Italian. If she ate cake, then she was sure it would taste delicious.

  She was pleased to find that her and Owen’s conversation wasn’t stilted at all, as they resumed their discussion about books. This time they talked about ones from their childhoods. Martha chose Enid Blyton’s The Magic Faraway Tree because she loved the idea that creatures lived in a tree, in an everyday forest. Owen preferred Treasure Island. “It offers true escapism, buccaneers and buried gold,” he said. “What more could a boy want from a book?”

  * * *

  When they reached the old vicarage, Martha’s back felt a little damp with nerves, but she knocked firmly on the door. She remembered that her arrival hadn’t achieved much enthusiasm from Gina the last time she was here.

  However, Gina answered the door with a warm smile. She wore a blush-pink sweater and long cream skirt. Her long white hair was swept into a loose bun. She gave Martha a small kiss to her cheek.

  Martha returned it, unsure whether to go for a double one that seemed to pass as a standard greeting these days. She stuck with the one. “I’d like to introduce you to Owen Chamberlain, a bookseller,” she said. “He passed Blue Skies and Stormy Seas on to me. And this is Gina. She’s Zelda’s, um...” She didn’t complete her sentence, unsure how Gina preferred to be addressed.

  “Thank you for bringing the tiramisu,” Gina chipped in quickly. “This looks lovely, Martha.”

  The sound of wheels trundling on wooden floor sounded in the hallway and Zelda appeared at Gina’s side. She wore a turquoise paisley silk headscarf and a dress with a similar pattern. “Hello,” she said and offered Owen her hand. “I’m Ezmerelda Sanderson, Martha’s nana.”

  Owen shook it and smiled. “But surely you aren’t old enough.”

  “You smoothie.” Zelda batted her hand at him coyly. “Good choice of guest,” she whispered to Martha as the four of them moved towards the dining room together. Owen and Gina went first, and Zelda and Martha followed. “And you look beautiful tonight. Absolutely glorious.”

  Under her beachy-peachy powdered cheeks, Martha blushed.

  * * *

  Everyone took their seats around the table, a tight squeeze in the cozy room, and Gina poured out glasses of blush prosecco. There were ten people in total, eight women and two men. Martha and Zelda sat next to each other and Gina guided Owen to the opposite end of the table, positioning him next to a young woman who wore a white silk lily in her hair and vivid orange lipstick.

  At the other side of the room, Martha noticed a mantelpiece dotted with knickknacks, a white ceramic cat, swirly gold candlesticks and photos in an eclectic array of frames. From where she sat, she could see the shapes of people smiling in the photos, but couldn’t make out their faces. She wondered if Zelda had any of the Storm family on display.

  Martha waited until Gina filled her glass before she glanced briefly in Owen’s direction.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Zelda asked.

  Martha’s cheeks flooded with color and she quickly sipped her drink. “Don’t be silly. He’s just a friend.”

  “I’d snap him up.” Zelda nudged her arm. “He’s hot.”

  “Zelda,” Martha hissed, spluttering into her glass. The bubbles tickled her nose. She tried to focus her eyes anywhere other than on Owen. “I’m not a teenager.”

  “Tsk. When did you start calling me Zelda? I prefer Nana or Grandma.”

  The spread of food on the table looked delicious, baby new potatoes in minted butter, steaming carrots and green beans, a juicy nut roast and slices of beef. There was a huge bowl full of various breads, freshly made and served with salt and peppercorn butter.

  As she sat stiffly in her chair, Martha found it difficult to relax in this strange setting. She looked around the room and everyone seemed to be chatting away, comfortable with each other. They were poised and knew how to act, and she didn’t. She felt like she was on show, an oddity. Zelda’s long-lost granddaughter who’d been allowed out of her overstuffed house.

  She also knew that no one else was making her feel this way. She was doing it to herself. Her nana had just introduced her as “Martha. A book lover, like us.”

  “We like to eat Southern style,” Zelda interrupted Martha’s wandering thoughts as she handed her a bowl of coleslaw.

  “Southern?” Martha thought of the UK. London and Brighton, perhaps even Kent.

  “Gina and I lived in North Carolina for nearly thirty years, in a cute little town near Raleigh. We only moved back here, after my tumor op, for healthcare reasons. Sharing food was a huge thing out there, with friends and family. Can you hear my American twang?”

  Martha nodded, having spotted that her nana’s accent was no longer purely from Yorkshire.

  She also noticed how Zelda said “thirty years” as if it was a blink of an eye, the turn of a page. But it hadn’t been for Martha. It had been a long slog. There had been some rewards, knowing that her parents were comfortable and able to stay in their own home, but that couldn’t compensate for the isolation and loneliness she’d endured. The nagging knowledge that she was missing out on life.

  And all that time, Zelda had been cooking and feeding other people too much slaw. Shouldn’t she have been in Sandshift, helping to look after Betty? Her own daughter?

  Martha’s throat tightened at her own selfishness. She didn’t know why Zelda had gone, or how Lilian knew she hadn’t died. She darted her eyes away from her nana.

  “It gets a bit boring on my own, so I invite people over,” Zelda said. “Pass me the wine and I’ll pour you another one.”

  “I’ve got plenty left, thank you.” Martha placed her hand on top of her glass, but Zelda tapped it away. She tipped the bottle until the fizzy pink liquid was just a millimeter or two from the rim. Martha had to sip it straight away so it didn’t spill over. After her jumble of thoughts, she was glad of the warm rush it gave her.

  Zelda turned her head and took up a conversation with a man to her left. He wore a tweed jacket and had wiry brown-blond hair and a slim mustache that moved as he talked. She introduced him, briefly, to Martha as “Harry, from the next village.”

  In turn, Martha found herself talking about her library work, to a lady who had a cut-glass accent and a distracting mole under her eye. Martha felt oddly proud when the lady laughed out loud at her story about the ferret-costumed man.

  Eventually, when Harry excused himself from the table, Martha chatted with Zelda again. Her grandmother’s cheeks were rosier now, her eyes a little pink.

  “I think Harry likes you,” Zelda confided, too loudly.

  “Me?” Martha tried not to glance at the jolly fellow when he returned to his seat.

  “I’ve told him you’ve got your eye on someone else. But Harry doesn’t mind a bit of competition.”

  “Ha.” Martha laughed nervously. Knowing it was pointless to scold her grandmother, she reached out for her glass and drained all her wine. The warm feeling it gave her helped her to feel less paranoid.

  “Harry works at Sandshift football ground, arranging events and entertainment.
He may come in handy for our plan of action.”

  Martha didn’t know which word worried her most. “Plan” or “action.” “What exactly is that?”

  Zelda stared at her, as if she should know. “You witnessed my Read and Run?”

  “Gina explained what it was.”

  “Well, I want my next one to be for as many people as possible. And I want you to join me.”

  “Thanks. I’m happy to come along and watch.”

  “Oh no.” Zelda shook her head resolutely. “I want it to be a team effort. Me and you.”

  “You want to read a story from Blue Skies and Stormy Seas? At the football ground?”

  “Yes. The crowd will love it.”

  Martha didn’t have any experience of football matches but she very much doubted it. She ran a finger cautiously around the top of her glass. “With me?”

  “Well, I don’t want to do it on my own.”

  “Can’t Gina help you?”

  As Zelda glanced over at her carer, her eyes grew dimmer. “Gina’s a good woman, but she wants me to put my feet up. She doesn’t understand I want to spend time living it up, not sitting it out,” Zelda said. “Plus, we won’t charge a fee.”

  Martha pursed her lips. “I don’t think I can do it. The stories in the book bring back a lot of memories. They’re not all pleasant...”

  “That’s a good reason to do it.”

  Martha wondered if she was missing something. “I don’t really see how.”

  Zelda squeezed her hand. “We can create new memories, together. You can write new stories.”

  This was all too much for Martha to take in. She had come here hoping to solve a myriad of family mysteries, about why Zelda vanished, what Lilian knew, and about how and why the book came to be in existence. But now, her nana was trying to sign her up as entertainment for a local football match. “I can’t write any longer,” she protested. “Those stories were stupid, old-fashioned ones I made up when I was a child.”

  “Excuse me.” Zelda removed her hand and folded her arms. “Those stories are ah-mazing.”

  “Well.” Martha bristled. “I can’t tell them any longer. They vanished from my head when you disappeared from my life.”

  “But I’m back now. Can’t you just pick up where you left off?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  The two women stared at each other and then looked in opposite directions.

  “Well,” Zelda said with a sniff. She rooted around up her sleeve for a tissue and patted it against her eyes. She flicked her head and her voice shook. “That’s a real shame.”

  “I’ll come with you, to the football ground. I just don’t want to—”

  Zelda cleared her throat. “It’s one of my dying wishes,” she said. “For us to do it together.”

  Martha’s mouth dropped open. She took hold of Zelda’s elbow. “Please don’t say that.”

  “Well, it is.” Zelda’s voice wobbled. “That and being able to celebrate one last Christmas. Is it really too much to ask?”

  Martha felt her chest ache with guilt. “No. It isn’t too much,” she muttered.

  “Thank you,” Zelda said with a tremble of her lip. “You’re a good girl, Martha Storm.”

  * * *

  When Martha felt a hand on her shoulder, she turned to find Owen smiling down at her. He placed a further glass of wine next to her plate. “This is a very nice chardonnay. Drink as much as you like. I’m sticking to the orange juice tonight for our drive home.” He moved his head a few inches back and frown lines appeared across his forehead. “Have you cut your hair? It looks very stylish. The green sweater suits you, too.”

  Martha felt a giggle rise from deep inside her chest. It felt too girlish, not her. “Thank you,” she said. A small hiccup escaped from her lips and then another. She placed a hand to her mouth to stop them and, as her shoulders twitched, she spotted Harry firing a grin in her direction.

  The food was delicious, so different from the usual things Martha popped into the microwave or spooned onto toast. The wine loosened her words and made her feel less overawed at being surrounded by people.

  When she eventually got to talk to Zelda again, she couldn’t leave things alone. “Did you ever think of us?” she waved her glass around a little. “While you were in America?”

  Zelda cocked her head to one side. “Of course I did. I might have been far away, but I thought about you. And Betty, too...”

  “And Lilian?”

  “Yes.”

  Martha rubbed her chin. “I spoke to my sister earlier. She said she knew you didn’t die in 1982. She told me to be careful.”

  Zelda’s expression didn’t alter. Her face was still. “Well, I don’t know why.”

  “I hoped you could tell me.”

  Zelda gave an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders. “Not really,” she said. She helped herself to more wine.

  A piece of potato seemed to swell in Martha’s mouth. She chewed and swallowed it. “You’ve not told me yet why you left. Where did you go to?”

  Zelda gave a small laugh but it sounded forced. “I didn’t have much choice. It was probably for the best.”

  “I don’t understand,” Martha persevered. “How could you not have a choice about leaving? And why would Mum tell me that you died?” She noticed that Zelda spoke to her, at times, like she was still thirteen years old.

  Zelda toyed with a green bean on her plate with her fork. She scratched under her headscarf with a crooked finger. “I didn’t know that Betty was going to tell you that. It wasn’t part of the plan...”

  Martha frowned at her. “A plan?” She let her knife fall to her plate with a clatter. “What do you mean?” She examined Zelda’s face, but her nana averted her eyes.

  “I, um...”

  A clinking noise broke through their conversation. Gina drummed her fingernails against a wineglass. The ringing sound made everyone around the table stop talking.

  “Just a few words, as we share our delicious food together,” Gina said. “Whether Ezmerelda and I have known you for a short while, or for a long time, it is a real pleasure that you could join us tonight. We truly value your glorious support and friendship.”

  A round of applause and glass chinking went on around the table, followed by the lily-haired girl giving a small yelp.

  “Now, eat what you want, drink what you can, and enjoy the moment.” Gina raised her glass and everyone followed suit.

  Martha lifted and gulped her own wine, managing to drink half a glassful at once. She waited for everyone to start eating again before she turned back to Zelda. “What plan?” she repeated.

  But Zelda gave her head a shake. She held a finger to her lips. “Not now, Martha. You heard what Gina said. Enjoy the moment.”

  * * *

  When the tiramisu and other desserts were passed around, Martha shook her head politely. She fended them all off with, “Not for me,” and “I’ve eaten far too much already,” and “Yes, it does look delicious, but so many calories!”

  She smiled and watched as everyone else plunged their spoons and forks into cream, sponge and cheesecake. She drank another glass of wine. It made her armpits feel hot and she plucked at the long sleeves of her sweater.

  Sensing movement in the chair beside her, she turned to find that Harry had taken the place of the lady with the mole.

  “I notice that ye haven’t had any cake and thought ye’d like a slice of my fruit loaf,” he said in a soft Scottish accent. “I soak the fruit in whisky, and only use the best ingredients. It’s a recipe that’s been handed down over generations in my family. Can I tempt ye with a slice?”

  His eyes were a soft gray color, and his moving mustache was mesmeric. To refuse him would be like kicking a puppy, but Martha couldn’t eat any of his cake. Her father’s words would make it stick in her
throat.

  “It’s lighter than yer usual fruitcake,” Harry continued, eyeing it with pride. “But it has all the taste. Would ye like to give it a try?”

  Martha liked how he didn’t cut into it and force a slice onto her plate. He waited while she considered his offer. About to refuse, she caught a whiff of its aroma, rich and with a warm, spicy smell. Her mouth started to water and she could almost taste it on the tip of her tongue.

  “You’re getting a little chubby,” her dad said in her head.

  “Oh, shut up,” she mumbled to him. “Leave me alone.”

  Harry’s mustache dropped a little. “Sorry?”

  “Oh.” She blushed. “I wasn’t talking to you. Just someone, um, never mind...”

  Perhaps a small bite would be good, to sweeten her mouth after the meal, and to help soak up the wine. She closed her eyes and thought of the sweetness of the funfair candy floss on her tongue, before she threw it away. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, imagining the sugary fibers dissolving.

  Giving the smallest nod of her head, she wasn’t sure if she was agreeing to a slice or not.

  Harry beamed as he took up a knife and delicately cut a piece. He slipped it onto her plate. “I hope ye enjoy it. Ye can tell me later. And you and Zelda let me know about the football ground when ye’re ready. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Martha waited until Harry moved on to serving the next person before she picked up her cake fork. She dug it in, slicing off the smallest corner. Before her dad could speak again, she stabbed it and raised it to her lips. She pressed the cake against them for a moment, inhaling the aroma of juicy cherries and sultanas. After popping it into her mouth, she closed her eyes and chewed.

  Her dad’s voice tried to come through, but it sounded quieter, just a murmur.

  So she took another forkful, then another. And with each chew his words vanished.

  When she looked down at the few remaining crumbs on her plate, it was such strange sight that she laughed. Catching Owen’s eye, he glanced across at her plate and his eyes appeared a little hurt. He stood up and made his way back over to her. “You told me that you don’t eat cake,” he said. “That’s right, isn’t it?”