The Library of Lost and Found(87)

Then she bit it away.

She wasn’t going to spend time thinking about her family. For the first time in her life, she was going to think about herself.

She washed her feet, and legs, and under her arms. When she slipped her head under the water, the hotness soothed her scalp. She couldn’t find any shampoo, so she used the bubble bath and her hair squeaked as she rinsed it through.

She lay there, her ears submerged, until the water cooled around her. Goose bumps formed on her legs and shoulders. And she listened to the strange clack, clack, clack from the room below.





35


Typewriter

Back in the bedroom, Martha wrapped her hair in a towel and got dressed in a purple cotton dress she remembered Suki wearing when she first started her job. It was a maternity one, a perfect roomy fit. She draped the white toweling dressing gown around her shoulders and made her way, barefoot, down to the kitchen.

Siegfried sat at his kitchen table. He wore glasses and his gray woolen hat was pulled down low over his eyebrows. His face was almost obscured by an old black typewriter. His fingers danced across the keys, which rose and fell with a clack. There was a pile of paper next to him, all typed up.

Martha watched, hypnotized, as the typewriter barrel traveled to the left, pinged, and then Siegfried swiped it back again.

“You’re a writer?” she asked.

He didn’t look up.

Martha glanced around the room. Books and photos in frames lined rows of shelves, constructed to fit into the circular space. There was a wine rack carved from driftwood, and a large ship in a bottle on a sideboard. She reached out and picked it up, examining the models of tiny sailors on board, and the white froth on the tips of the blue waves.

There was a photograph of Siegfried standing alongside author Lucinda Lovell. She smiled at the camera, while he stood stiffly by her side. The words Siegfried and Angela were written under it.

“Isn’t that Lucinda Lovell?” Martha asked.

“Hmm,” he grunted. “My sister.”

“Oh,” Martha frowned as she tried to work this out. “So, Angela is your sister but she uses the pen name Lucinda?”

Siegfried didn’t reply.

Martha set the ship in a bottle back on the sideboard. “What are you writing about?”

Siegfried reached out and straightened his pile of paper. He picked up a paperclip, stared at it and placed it down again. He tucked his chin into his chest and then raised his eyes at her for the briefest moment. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Me?” Martha’s voice wobbled.

“Yes.”

His small words of concern made her feel like she was melting. She would have liked to have heard them so many times, over the years. Just someone asking if she was okay.

She sat down heavily on the bottom stair, her bare toes pointing together. She thought of Siegfried’s strong arms hoisting her from the sea and decided that he deserved an explanation.

She told him about caring for her parents for years and what she’d given up to do that. She spoke of Blue Skies and Stormy Seas, reminding him that he’d admired the blackbird illustration. “The book led me to my nana, Zelda, after I thought she was dead. But I also learned that Thomas Storm wasn’t my real father, and my sister knew that. I just feel that everyone in my family lied to me…” Her body shrank as she talked.

Siegfried didn’t speak for a while. He stared at his typewriter and shrugged with one shoulder. “It doesn’t mean they didn’t love you.”

They were the most words she’d ever heard him say and, as she considered them, emotion rose in her chest. “I suppose not.”

He nodded once.

Martha rearranged her dressing gown. “I thought of the Pegasus, when I was in the sea. Thank you so much for saving me.”

Siegfried sat motionless, his face a blank. He cleared his throat before he stood up. Walking over to a bookshelf, he picked up a photograph and handed it to her.

Eight fishermen stood in a line in front of their boat, the Pegasus. The handwritten date on the bottom of the photo said 1964.

“The year before the accident,” Martha whispered. She peered more closely at the faces of the young men and her eyes alighted on one stood on the far right. He had a mop of dark hair and piercing eyes. His hat was pulled down too far onto his forehead. “You?” she asked.

Siegfried nodded. He took the photograph from her and pointed at the man standing next to him. “Daniel,” he said.

Martha blinked hard as she found herself looking at her father. He had unruly hair and a too-large smile. He was stocky and young. Far too young. A tear rolled down her cheek and she suddenly felt a pointless urge to make him proud.

When she looked at Siegfried, he flicked his eyes away. They were glassy, too. “You knew about him, didn’t you?” Martha said. “That he and my mum were together? Did you know about me, too?”

He nodded once. “I tried to save him…” He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I couldn’t.”

Martha tried to take in the magnitude of his words. She touched his arm gently. “The storm was so strong it swallowed a boat and its crew. You couldn’t have done anything. I know the power of the sea and you saved me from it,” she said.

She thought of how Siegfried followed her out of the library, after her outburst. She pictured the shopping trolley appearing outside her house with her hair slide inside it. The other touches of kindness that he’d shown her over the years were too small at the time for her to notice. They weren’t the big hits of gratitude and appreciation that she sought from others. They didn’t give her a warm glow.