The Library of Lost and Found(61)
Her shoulders ached and her back was stiff, but she felt like a mountaineer on the verge of conquering Mount Everest, ready to stick a yellow flag on the summit.
Before she returned to complete her tidying up, she unwrapped Harry’s generous slice of fruitcake. As she relished each mouthful, she pictured his twinkling eyes and mustache, and it made the cake taste even better than it did before. She wondered if her nana really did plan to do a Read and Run at the football ground. She hoped it was the wine talking, rather than Zelda.
After clearing her pots away, Martha used her shopping trolley to transport the remains of the Berlin Wall of boxes out into the newly vacant shed. She moved with determination and with her teeth set, ignoring the burning sensation that fired across the back of her shoulders.
The dragon’s head took up a new position in the corner of her sitting room, ready for the next stage of his restoration.
This only left the tasks she’d taken on for others remaining. The items she’d marked with a pink star.
She found herself wanting to hold on to the fancy dress clothes, just in case, but Branda’s chandeliers and garlands, Will’s trousers, Nora’s laundry, the rest of Horatio’s plants and lots of other things had to go.
Martha batted her hands together and stuck them on her hips. A strong yearning to complete her mission before Zelda, Will and Rose arrived gave her a firm push onward.
It was time to load up her trusty shopping trolley again.
* * *
At six minutes past 11:00 p.m., Martha left her home. The stuff inside her trolley was stacked as high as her chin and a trickle of perspiration wound its way down her back as she pushed it up the slope. She’d also packed a pad, pen and envelopes. She intended to write notes for people, to explain why their completed jobs had turned up, as if by magic, in their gardens, porches and sheds. She’d packed towels around Horatio’s fishbowl so it didn’t slide around.
She passed the pastel-colored terraced houses as she made her way to the Lobster Pot. In the front porch of the bistro, she stacked the boxes of chandeliers, one on top of the other, then placed the garlands on top. Inside, she could see Branda in silhouette standing on a chair and fastening a set of antlers to the wall. Martha decided not to disturb her and, under the orange glow of a streetlamp, she wrote her a note.
As she placed it under a pebble to weigh it down, doubt began to simmer inside her.
Will returning all these things take away my purpose?
If I’m not offering to help people out, what will I do instead?
Staring at the note, she considered whether to stuff it back into her pocket.
But then she gave her shoulders a shake. She now had an exciting story to share, about how a battered little book of fairy stories found its way to her, and the adventures it brought with it. If anyone found that less interesting than Martha offering to do their laundry, that was their problem.
Encouraging herself to press on, Martha left the boxes and note in place and pushed her trolley onward.
She visited Horatio’s aquarium next. The converted garage glowed a luminous green around the door, like a strange lab in a sci-fi movie. There was nowhere to leave his fish, so she held the bowl and knocked on the door. A few moments later, it slid up and over.
“Martha, ahoy,” Horatio said. “You’ve brought the girls for me.” He took the bowl from her and held it up, admiring his fish.
“I’ve had them for a while. You do want them back?”
“Yes. I wanted to spruce this place up first and get their new tank in place. That’s important, isn’t it? Home sweet home. And they look so well. Thanks for looking after them.” He set them down on the ground. “I don’t have anything to give you. This old place doesn’t make much, but thanks for making them happy.”
Martha carried on up the hill and past the library. In the dark, the building appeared as just a black block but it still radiated an aura of warmth for her. She pushed her trolley around its perimeter and smiled as she recalled Owen crouching by the front doors.
She also pictured holding her nana’s hand when, years ago, they both carried bags full of library books away, eager to read them together.
She tried to hold on to that feeling as she carried on her journey, heading towards Lilian’s house.
On the other side of the Sandshift football ground lay suburbs of sprawling bungalows. They had neatly manicured lawns and the air constantly hissed from the sprinkler systems.
On Lilian’s gateposts, stone Dobermans sat to attention. A tall wrought iron gate, decorated with gold roses and thorny stems, looked like it had been designed to make visitors feel unwelcome.
Lilian liked to share that the gardener who’d landscaped her garden once scored a silver-gilt at the Chelsea Flower Show. A statue of a Buddha sat cross-legged in the middle of her lawn with tiny holes in his head so water cascaded down his face into a small circular pond, full of ceramic water lilies. Minimal-tranquil-chic was how she described it.
All the lights in Lilian’s house were turned off and Martha’s nose twitched at the lingering smell of home-cooked cottage pie. She imagined her sister, Paul and the kids sitting around the table together. A family meal.
She gave a small sigh of regret, that it could have been her, living in a large suburban bungalow with her husband and children. However, there was no point dwelling on the past when she had a job to do.