The Library of Lost and Found

by Phaedra Patrick

  “I usually don’t—”

  “It’s a special cake,” Harry cut in from the other side of the table. “It’s made with love.”

  And Martha thought she saw the two men give each other a slight glare.

  * * *

  By the end of the evening, Martha was full of potatoes, fruitcake and too many glasses of wine. Her stomach pressed against the waistband of her pencil skirt and when she stood up, the room started to rotate. She tried to focus on the photographs on the mantelpiece and the bowls on the table, but she felt like she was on the fairground carousel again.

  “Whoops,” she said to herself, unable to remember when she had last drunk this much alcohol. Probably when Joe told her he was marrying someone else.

  She wasn’t sure if the hazy feeling was divine or too peculiar to enjoy. Moving away from her chair, she walked towards Owen. On the way, she glanced at a photograph on the wall of Zelda. She looked to be in her sixties and stood in front of a powder-blue clapboard house. Gina stood alongside her and she held up a basket of freshly cut flowers. They both looked happy and serene. Zelda didn’t wear the exasperated expression on her face that she wore around Thomas.

  She was happier away from us. Away from me, Martha thought.

  She felt her ankle buckle a little and Owen reached out and took hold of her elbow. His fingers felt strong and safe. “Careful.” He laughed.

  “I’m absolutely fine,” Martha said stiffly. She tore her eyes away from the photo. “These shoes are just causing a hindrance to my mobility.”

  “You can kick them off in the car. We should get going in a few minutes... I have an early meeting tomorrow.”

  “Spoilsport,” she said, then thought how it was a word she didn’t usually use.

  “Why don’t you go and freshen up, then we’ll head off.”

  Martha concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she searched for the bathroom. She opened a couple of doors, a storage cupboard and a small sitting room, before deciding that she really needed to sit down. Behind a third door, she found a small bedroom with a single bed. It was covered with a pretty patchwork quilt and the pillow looked fluffy and inviting. It reminded her of her childhood bedroom and suddenly she wanted to be young again, to shut herself away from the adult world. Surely Owen wouldn’t mind if she had a little rest.

  The mattress squeaked beneath her, and one of her shoes fell off as she curled up her legs. Slowly, she felt herself tipping over to the side until her cheek pressed against the cloud-like pillow. Closing her eyes, she smiled to herself and everything seemed to fade into the distance.

  Maybe she had time for just a small nap.

  * * *

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there when she saw silhouettes standing in the doorway. She heard whispering and could detect who the voices belonged to.

  Owen. “Maybe it’s better to leave her here tonight.”

  Gina. “You do not want her to be ill in your car.”

  Zelda. “Let her nap. We could drop her home tomorrow.”

  Harry. “Oh. Is she asleep? I have another slice of fruitcake waiting.”

  Martha decided to wave an arm, to show how absolutely fine she was. Her eyes followed her fingers as they swept through the air. She stopped to gaze at the full moon, which shone through the window. Blinking at its beauty, she thought that she’d like to wrap her arms around it and give it a hug. She tried to sit up, but her cheek felt like it was glued to the pillow.

  “Look at the moon, at how big it looks, everyone,” she said, thinking that her voice sounded a little slurred. It couldn’t be the wine because she’d only drunk three, um, four, perhaps five, glasses full. “It looks like a button that’s fallen off a giant’s waistcoat, or a white chocolate drop...”

  A shape moved across the room and she felt a hand slip into hers. “It’s a silver sequin on black velvet,” Zelda said. “It’s a round of Edam cheese, cut in half. If you look closely, you can see mice lining up to take a nibble.”

  Martha felt tears welling in her eyes and she wasn’t sure if they were happy, sad or wine-induced. “It’s a giant eye looking down on us, or the head of a flashlight,” she said. “It’s a silvery porthole in the sky...”

  Words danced in her head, appearing as if from nowhere, and they were nothing to do with her tasks. They were all to do with what she saw and felt. And she liked it. In fact, she liked it a lot. Squeezing Zelda’s hand, she asked woozily, “Does anyone have a pen? I’d like to write some of this down.”

  22

  Marriage Certificate

  Martha’s head pounded. She felt like she’d been in a jet plane looping the loop, rather than a journey back to Sandshift in Gina’s old Volvo. Every bump in the road, each corner on the way, made her stomach roll. If she looked in a mirror, she was sure her face would be peppermint green.

  She stood on the pavement outside her cottage, her ankles wobbly in Betty’s shoes. The color of her sweater was too bright in the daylight and she hated knowing that she’d slept in it. Clasping a hand to her mouth, she waited to see if she was going to be sick.

  How on earth can people do this for fun?

  “You certainly hammered the wine last night,” Zelda said with laughter in her voice. She and Gina stood either side of her. “Are you okay?”

  “Uh-huh,” Martha said, unsure.

  “Make sure you drink plenty of water.” Gina placed a hand on her arm. “Take some paracetamol.”

  Martha gave a watery smile, heartened by Gina’s unexpected concern. She steadied herself by leaning against her shopping trolley. Her hand shook as she attempted to slide her key into the lock.

  When she saw her red key fob it reminded her of a toy in the library. It was also red and shaped like a TV. You turned white knobs that made gray pencil-like lines appear on the screen, to create a picture. An Etch A Sketch. Kids spent hours twiddling and designing houses, animals and people. When you wanted to draw something new, you shook the screen and the image dissolved, sometimes leaving a few traces of lines behind. That’s what Martha felt like now. Last night she’d had the beginnings of a picture, of what might have happened to Zelda all those years ago, but now she’d shaken and part wiped it out with her wine consumption.

  She opened her front door. Her eyes were sticky and her mouth dry. She longed to peel off the tight skirt, yank off her shoes and crawl into bed. But Gina and Zelda had driven a fair way to escort her home. She felt she had no other choice but to invite them inside. To be a good host. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she croaked. “Would you like a coffee?”

  Zelda leaned on Gina and looked up at the house. Her eyes swept over the windows, at the chunky gray stone and the curtains that probably hadn’t been replaced since she last visited. “It looks smaller than I remember,” she said. “Like a goblin’s house.”

  Gina wrapped her hand around her back, to support her. “We will come in for coffee some other time, Martha. You look like you need rest. I will use your bathroom, then we will set off home. We can stop off for a drink on the way back.”

  Martha nodded gratefully. She directed Gina up the stairs and stayed with Zelda outside. Her grandmother was quiet, contemplative, as she peered up and down the street.

  “It doesn’t look like anything has changed around here,” Zelda said. “Yet everything has. I can still see you running around outside with no shoes on, the soles of your feet black with dirt. We sat on this doorstep and read books together. I can picture the sun shining in your hair.”

  Martha felt her chin quiver. She wished the two of them were together back then, instead of now. “Come inside,” she said.

  Zelda shook her head. “I’m not ready for that yet.” She stared into the distance, to where the street connected with the slope down to the beach. “There are a lot of memories in that house...”

  “A lot of them are h
appy ones.”

  “Yes, I know that.” Zelda flickered a small smile. “But some aren’t.”

  Martha didn’t want to allow any of those ones to flood into her head. It already ached enough. “Let’s only think about the good times,” she said quickly.

  “Agreed. Let’s create nice new ones.”

  Suddenly, Martha didn’t want Zelda to go. She wanted to wrap her arms around her shoulders and nestle her head into the nape of her neck, like she did as a child. She wanted to smell only Youth Dew. “Will you visit me another time?” she asked. “You could stay over, if you wanted to...”

  As Zelda opened her mouth to answer, Gina stepped outside. She wore a bemused expression. “You have a lot of intriguing things in your house, Martha. It is a most interesting way to live.”

  Martha glanced through the open door, at the bags and boxes in her dining room. They were stacked neatly, though the pathway she’d created to the kitchen didn’t look quite as encouraging as it did before.

  “This Saturday?” Zelda nodded. “I can visit and stay with you, then. That’s okay, isn’t it, Gina?”

  Gina raised an eyebrow. “There is not much space. I am not sure we will fit in.”

  Zelda frowned. “I meant that I’d come and stay.”

  “Oh. I thought that...” Gina’s shoulders twitched and she lowered her eyes. “Well, I suppose I could bring you.”

  “That’s sorted, then,” Zelda said. She didn’t seem to notice that Gina’s face had fallen. She turned towards the car, opened the door and climbed in. “I’ll see you on Saturday, Martha.”

  “Yes,” Martha said, wondering how she could possibly create room in the house by then. “I work at the library in the morning, so make it after 1:30 p.m.”

  Gina managed a half smile and got into the car, too. She turned on the engine and wound the window down. “I forgot to give you this.” She posted a square, silver-foiled parcel through the gap. “Harry sent you some more cake. He said something about a football match. Do you know what he means, Ezmerelda?”

  “No.” Zelda wore a straight face. “I know nothing about that.”

  Martha waved them off and closed the door. She placed the cake on her kitchen worktop and traipsed up the stairs.

  There wasn’t anywhere for Zelda to sleep. And Will and Rose were supposed to be stopping over, too.

  Martha felt much too ill to solve this problem now.

  As if you don’t have enough to do, she scolded herself.

  When her head stopped throbbing, when she’d slept and taken some pills, when she was wearing her own clothes again, and when she had wiped away the mascara that was probably halfway down her cheeks, then she would try to ready herself for action again.

  As she opened her bathroom cabinet and took out a box of paracetamols, Martha caught sight of the back of her hand. She wondered why the words Full Moon and Giant’s Waistcoat Button were scrawled across it, in her own handwriting.

  * * *

  After a few hours of sleep, Martha still wasn’t quite in fully functioning mode, but at least her head had stopped clanging. She no longer felt sick and she forced herself to make a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. Feeling semirevived after eating, she made her way back upstairs, where she stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed the master bedroom.

  Martha slept in the smaller of the two bedrooms, the one she and Lilian used to share. Their parents used the one at the back of the house. It was double the size and overlooked the bay. It still contained their bed, which was like an island in a sea of Martha’s favors.

  There was a worn Victorian chaise longue that she’d offered to reupholster for a neighbor. It hadn’t gone well, the teal velvet puckering and studs protruding. While she had been working on it, the neighbor bought a new one instead.

  There was a mass of red velvet curtains that she’d shortened for Vivian Slater (now deceased) and a bag stuffed full of Hawaiian garlands that she’d offered to store for Branda’s annual Hawaiian evening at the Lobster Pot.

  She’d bought a few boxes full of fancy dress clothes from a flea market, sure they’d come in handy for plays at the local school. When she told the headmistress, she had patted Martha on the back of the hand and said, “That’s a great idea, but we don’t have a lot of storage space here. Perhaps you can keep hold of them for us...” That was three years ago.

  Bin bags and other boxes lined the floor in here, too, all neatly labeled. All contained her parents’ things, or stuff that didn’t have a home, or jobs she’d taken on and hadn’t given back.

  Feeling daunted by the size of the task facing her, Martha wrapped her arms across her chest. She wondered if Gina had glanced inside the room when she used the bathroom. Her cheeks flushed as she imagined what her nana’s carer might describe her as. A hoarder? A bit strange? Can’t let go of the past?

  Could any of those be true?

  Martha wondered how she could have let things get so bad. The house was a mess and it had to change.

  She had to change.

  As she tried to swallow away a chunk of paracetamol that had lodged itself in her throat, she realized she had less than three days to sort things out.

  Before Zelda, Will and Rose came to stay.

  * * *

  Thank goodness for Betty’s enormous collection of local business cards. Martha found one for a Man with a Van, Leslie Ross. He claimed to move anything and everything quickly. Without any work on for the rest of that week, Leslie offered to be with her within an hour.

  Martha warned him to watch out, because the street was narrow. “Look out for the house with the shopping trolley parked outside,” she said.

  After dressing in her usual clothes, she took a further, preventive, paracetamol, and drank four glasses of water. She pulled on her yellow rubber gloves and, with her chest out and chin jutted, she launched into Operation Clear Out.

  With a handful of fluorescent yellow cardboard stars (also from Betty’s collection), she stuck one to everything she wanted to keep. Anything that had to go got a green star. Pink stars were reserved for the items that she wanted to return to their rightful owner.

  If there was anything that Martha didn’t need, no longer wanted or didn’t remember, she tugged it out of the master bedroom and onto the landing. Finding no point in battling to carry items downstairs, she gave the smaller ones a firm shove off the top stair. She grinned as she watched them tumble, slide and crash to the bottom.

  A small broken chest of drawers sledged down, and she threw a painting of a bowl of fruit like a Frisbee. She pretended to be a footballer as she gave a small plastic box full of Betty’s old crochet patterns a firm kick. Then she trod downstairs and took great delight in slapping the pile with a bunch of green stars.

  Leslie turned up and nodded all the time Martha explained what she wanted to achieve. He was a wiry man with rusty hair and he wore oversized navy dungarees. His movements were small and fidgety, like a bird on the lookout for bread crumbs. He didn’t remove his white earphones as he talked.

  “So, Mrs. Storm,” he repeated after her, his words as twitchy as his actions, “anything with a green star is going—the yellow-and pink-starred stuff is staying? I like to ask because some people tell me to move stuff and then they want it back, and sometimes I’ve finished my job and then people decide there’s other stuff they want moving. Right?” He readjusted his left earplug.

  “Yes.” Martha nodded, in case he couldn’t hear her.

  “Good. Got it.” He jerked his thumb at the pile at the bottom of the stairs. “You been having a good old clear out? A spring clean some people call it, even if it’s not technically spring. Well, I’m not exactly sure if February is classed as spring or winter, it’s one of those in-between months, isn’t it? Some people might say it’s one, and others, the other.”

  She nodded again.

  “Good. Peo
ple in this country just buy loads of stuff, don’t we? You go on holiday and you only take a few things with you in your suitcase, and it does you just fine for a week or more. All good, you don’t need anything else, don’t even miss it. Then, when you get home, you buy clothes, you buy furniture, you buy ornaments, you buy food, you buy paintings, you buy this and you buy that, and you end up with a house full of stuff. Is that what happened to you?”

  “Something like that.” Martha smiled wryly.

  “You can live without it all, Mrs. Storm. Most people can,” Leslie said. “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  Leslie set to work immediately, moving the stuff from the bottom of the stairs into his van, to dispose of. He worked methodically, totally focused on the job.

  The chaise longue proved tricky to get through the bedroom door and, even though Martha didn’t really want to keep it, she agreed to let it remain in the room. It didn’t look too bad after she’d vacuumed away the dust and covered her untidy reupholstering with a blanket off her own bed.

  Under a pile of her dad’s black suits, she discovered an old radio. After plugging it in, she fiddled with the knobs and found a station that played rock music. She turned the volume up from two and a half to five (not loud enough to give her another headache) and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening blitzing her parents’ old bedroom.

  As she carried on with her mission, she imagined that she might feel sad, nostalgic or melancholic, but instead she found herself singing. With each item that Leslie removed, Martha’s shoulders felt lighter, as if she was casting off the person she didn’t want to be any longer.

  * * *

  She decided to reposition the chaise longue under the window, to allow more space to walk around the bed. Its wheels squeaked as she tugged it. She moved the bed by a few inches, too, and spotted a white envelope on the floor, in the space it had vacated. About to toss it onto her rubbish pile, she opened it first. There was a piece of paper inside and she read the words printed across the top.