The Library of Lost and Found(27)

At the fair, Zelda had eaten a toffee apple and there was a crunching sound. When she pulled it away from her lips, a molar stuck out of the red shiny sugar, leaving in its place a bloody gap. Zelda plucked it out and held it up, and the three of them marveled at the size of its root.

Martha didn’t remember having a photograph taken, though. And she thought that her mother had been there, too.

She touched her nana’s cheek and then focused on the image of herself. An impromptu sob rose inside her, brought on by this younger portrait. She’d never thought of herself as being pretty before but, in this image, she most certainly was.

Her hair frizzed out of its plait. She was smiling and looked carefree.

Martha reached up and touched her existing dry curls.

As she closed the image, she wondered how the clipping came to be inserted into the little battered book.

Rubbing her chin, she was about to close Owen’s email when she spotted an addition to his message.

PS: I’ve also tracked down another copy of your book! Rita at Monkey Puzzle has a pristine version. I’ll see what she can tell us about it .

Martha swallowed. She spun to one side and then the other in the swivel chair. Another copy? She was sure there must only be one. This pristine version would have its cover and title page intact. She ran her hand across her neck, feeling an overwhelming urge to see and touch this other copy of the book.

She wondered how long Owen had gone out for, and when he’d next be in touch. Perhaps he’d contacted Rita already.

Standing up, Martha paced the library, up and around the few aisles. She pressed book spines back into neat lines and straightened any that had fallen over. She gathered her rating spreadsheets together and stared out of the window at the setting sun. It cast a lemony glow on the rippling waves.

“It’s my book and my stories,” she whispered to herself, her shoulders wriggling with frustration. She was having to rely on Owen taking things further, to find out more. But if Rita knew anything about Blue Skies and Stormy Seas, Martha wanted to hear it firsthand. She didn’t want to wait.

She turned and stared back at the computer.

Although she was grateful for Owen’s help, she wanted more control in this search for the truth. She walked over to the desk and sat down again.

Her computer session had expired, so she retyped her password and clicked on the internet logo. She typed “Monkey Puzzle Books” into Google and there was only one listing in the UK. She reached up and ran her finger over the digits of the phone number. “Hello, Rita,” she said aloud.

First, she fired off a quick email to Owen, to thank him for the image and info about the Scandinavian printer, and to pass on her gratitude to the mysterious Dexter.

Then, in the graying light, she picked up the phone. She had decided to make her own call.



* * *



As the dialing tone rang, she neatened up a pile of college class leaflets on the desk. The library doors rattled and Martha froze, almost dropping the receiver.

“Damn, it’s shut,” she heard a woman say.

Sliding her eyes, Martha waited for her to leave. There was muttering, another shake of the doors and then footsteps moving away.

Finally, from the other end of the phone, there was a crackle and a friendly voice. “Hay-lo. Monkey Puzzle Books. Rita speaking.”

Martha cleared her throat. She opened her mouth but no words came out.

Deep breaths, she thought to herself. Just say something. Anything.

Closing her eyes, she pictured the task written in her notepad with a giant green tick next to it. “My name is Martha Storm,” she said. “I’m calling about a book called Blue Skies and Stormy Seas. I believe that you own a copy.”

“Ah, Owen Chamberlain left me a message about that today. Don’t you just love that enchanting little book? When I think about it, I can almost feel the sea spray on my face and hear birds singing. It’s wonderful.” Rita spoke breathlessly. She sounded like she could find wonder in everything, even men digging a hole in the road or a letter landing on her doormat. Martha imagined her as bespectacled and big-boned. She probably waved her arms around a lot and wore chunky, bright jewelry.

“My grandmother wrote it, though my copy is falling apart. Owen said that yours is in good condition,” she said.

“It is, and you must be so proud of your grammy. You must come and see my copy sometime. I’m on the high street in Benton Bay. If you live near Owen, it’s around eighty miles from you. He’s a real sweetheart, isn’t he?” She gave a booming laugh.

“Um, yes, he is… I wondered where your copy came from?”

“Ha, it found me in a most unusual way,” Rita said.

The hairs on her Martha’s arms rose to attention. “It found you?”

“Ah, yes. Shall I tell you all about it? It’s most wonderful.” Rita didn’t wait for a reply before she shared her recount, telling it like a story.

“One day, a small crowd gathered in the village square, not far from my bookshop. I was out on my lunch break when I heard a woman’s voice. It was loud and clear above the chattering of the crowd. Wonderful. Street performers in the Bay are always worth a watch, so I squeezed my way to the front and I saw two women. One was in a wheelchair and she read aloud from a book. She had the most expressive voice and everyone around me listened in, captivated. I remember her story was one about a mermaid and a fisherman.”