The Library of Lost and Found(17)

“I think the Scandinavians write better thrillers,” Branda said. “Don’t you agree?”

The noise in the room seemed to escalate, reaching a crescendo in Martha’s head. She raised her hands, holding them flat against her ears, yet she couldn’t block out the racket that hissed and hurt her brain.

And the next thing she heard took her completely by surprise. It overwhelmed and startled her.

It was Martha’s own voice, very loud and very clear.

“No,” she said. “No. No. NO.”





7


Crabs

The minutes following Martha’s outburst whizzed past in a haze. The members of the reading group stared at her, but she couldn’t absorb their expressions. The word no ricocheted in her head.

She whispered a quick, “Sorry,” and tugged her coat from the back of a chair. She stuffed her notepad into its pocket.

As she moved quickly, her knee cracked as she stumbled over one of Nora’s bags of laundry. Wobbling for a moment, she managed not to fall, and she padded her hands against the walls of the corridor to make her way to the front doors. After forcing them open, she surged outside, blinking against the brightness of the daylight.

Martha stood for a moment, shielding her eyes and not knowing what to do, or where to go. The cool February breeze kissed her fiery cheeks. She clumsily pulled on her coat, pushing an arm down a sleeve with such force that the lining ripped.

“Martha.” A man’s voice growled from behind her.

Startled, she turned to see Siegfried, hunched in his long coat. When he reached out, his fingers skimmed against her wrist. Martha inched away.

He took a small step towards her and her own shuffles graduated to small steps backwards, then became bigger strides. All she could picture were laughing faces, mocking her.

She moved with pace, a small jog, along the street and past the cemetery. She’d left her handbag behind and felt her sparkly hair slide slip out. She saw it fall, then shine on the pavement before she moved on.

Her head reverberated and she couldn’t think about anything clearly. As she crossed the road, a lorry sounded its horn. Everything around her sounded louder, the wheels on a bus roared on the tarmac, and she winced when a seagull cawed overhead. A car was suddenly upon her, the driver flashing his lights and shaking his fist as she leaped out of the way.

Silly, silly woman, she scolded herself. What on earth will people think of you?

I’ve left Nora’s washing behind. How will I get it clean now?

Clive Folds will never give me a job.

I’ve not explained how to use the book-rating spreadsheet.

Shame prevented her from returning. She thrust her head down and speed-walked on, her shoulders feeling too light without her bag.

Fine drops of rain prickled her face before they turned to fat drops and she swiped them away with her fingers. A bus pulled up alongside her and the driver opened the doors. Martha hesitated, not knowing where it was heading. She pushed her hand into her pocket and felt loose change.

“Are you gettin’ on board or not, darlin’?” the driver called out to her.

Martha stood motionless as people moved towards her on the pavement. A woman wearing a see-through plastic mac chased after her King Charles spaniel, and kids laughed and shoved each other as they made their way home from school. She wondered if Will and Rose were among them and, not wanting them to see her like this, she darted on board.

“Where to, darlin’?” the driver asked.

“Maltsborough, please.”

“Single ticket?”

“Um, yes.”

The doors shushed shut and the bus set off.

Hanging her head, she made her way to the back and slumped down onto the seat she’d shared with Will and Rose the previous day. The windows were steamed up and someone had drawn a heart with their finger in the condensation.

A hot tear trickled down her cheek and she brushed it away, angry at her own behavior. Resilience was something she’d perfected over the years, as she catered to her parents’ needs.

Towards the end of his life, her dad had shrunk in size but was still almost six feet tall. It took all her strength to help him upstairs to bed. She’d formed a hard shell to deal with the monotony of making breakfast, watching the morning news on TV, listening to the same radio shows each day, making coffee and fresh biscuits. She, her mum and dad all watched the lunchtime news together, accompanied by ham sandwiches (made by her, of course). A few quiz shows followed before Thomas and Betty took a long nap while Martha dusted and tidied around. Then she cooked dinner, usually something traditional like beef and potatoes, or a steak-and-kidney pie. This was followed by a spot of encyclopedia reading, and more news and quiz shows. She ran them a bath, helping them both into the water, one after the other, before assisting them to clean their teeth and get into bed. When she turned off the lights, there wasn’t much point doing anything for herself, so she retired for the night at the same time.

She hadn’t actually noticed when her parents’ needs surpassed her own, like Japanese knotweed overtaking a garden. She just focused on being helpful, a dutiful daughter.

It was clear to her now, though, that she’d given up her own chance of happiness to facilitate theirs.

She took her notepad out of her pocket and stared at the green ticks, amber stars and red dots. They were a constant reminder that her only worth was in helping others.