The Library of Lost and Found. Phaedra Patrick

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      ‘I know who she is.’

      An awkward silence fell between them, so thick Martha felt like she could touch it. Images dropped into her head of sitting at the garden’s edge with Zelda, their heels kicking against the cliff. ‘Don’t you ever wonder what happened to her?’

      ‘We know. She died over thirty years ago.’

      ‘I’ve always felt that Mum and Dad didn’t tell us the full story, about her death—’

      ‘Bloody hell, Martha.’ Lilian’s voice grew sharp. ‘We were just kids. We didn’t need a coroner’s report. You’re far too old for fairy tales, anyway.’

      Martha’s shoulders twitched at her sister’s spiky reaction. You’re never too old for stories, she thought. ‘I’ll bring it to the library tomorrow,’ she said, her voice growing smaller. ‘If you’re passing by, you can take a look. There’s a dedication inside, but there’s something odd about it.’

      Lilian didn’t say anything.

      Martha added, ‘It’s the date—’

      The phone receiver rattled. ‘I have to go now.’

      ‘But, the book—’

      ‘Look,’ Lilian said, ‘just stick it on a shelf and forget about it. You’ve got loads of other stuff to do. I’ll see you soon, okay?’ And she hung up.

      Martha stared at the phone receiver and listened to the hum of the dialling tone. Her sister sounded more stressed than ever and she hoped she wasn’t overdoing things. She made a mental note to finish Will’s trousers as soon as possible, to try to put a smile back on Lilian’s face.

      Snapping the battered book shut, she told herself that her sister was probably right. After all, she was the successful sibling, the one with the good job, luxury bungalow and two great kids. And Martha had pressing things to do, like feeding Horatio’s fish and watering his plants. The school might want the dragon’s head back soon.

      She reached out for her Wonder Woman notepad and opened it up, and red dots of lateness seemed to glare at her like devil’s eyes. She should select what to do next, complete the task and mark it off with a neat green tick. But her thoughts kept creeping back to the book. She couldn’t stop her brain ticking with curiosity and disbelief.

      Although her nana might have written the words and dated the dedication, there was something terribly wrong.

      Because Zelda died in February 1982.

      Three years before the message and date in the little book.

CHAPTER THREE

       Beauty and the Beast

       Betty, 1974

      Betty had recently switched from buying best butter to margarine. She could feel the floorboards through the small hole in the sole of one of her beige court shoes, and her favourite navy polka dot skirt was missing a button. She now snipped her own wavy bobbed hairstyle into shape.

      It made sense, to her, that she should look for a part-time job. But her husband, Thomas, was a traditional man. He believed that he should be the breadwinner and that Betty should look after their home and two daughters, Martha and Lilian. It meant that money was often in short supply in the Storm household.

      Thomas also preferred the girls to read educationally. He had recently acquired a set of twenty encyclopedias from a work colleague, and he liked the family to look through them together in the evening.

      So, Betty didn’t tell him about the new book she’d bought. With its handsome forest-green cover and gold embossed lettering, she hadn’t been able to resist the copy of Beauty and the Beast. She had loved the story when her mother, Zelda, used to read it to her, and she was sure that Martha would love it too. Sometimes, it really was easier to keep things to herself.

      Thomas had returned home early from work that afternoon and was taking a nap in his chair in the dining room. His copy of The Times was spread out on the lap of the black suit trousers he wore for his accountancy job, and which he also wore outside of work. The room smelled of the freesias he bought for her each Friday.

      Betty studied his face to make sure he was definitely asleep. Straining to reach up on top of the kitchen cupboard, she slid the book from its hiding place and tucked the pink-and-white paper bag under her arm.

      She trod softly around her husband, and as her skirt brushed his fingers, he gave a loud snort. Betty froze on the spot, her body stiff. She deftly moved the book behind her back and held her breath, waiting.

      The cuckoo clock ticked and Thomas emitted a small snore. Betty held her pose a while longer before she crept out of the room and closed the kitchen door behind her.

      ‘Are you okay, Mum?’ Martha raised her head. She lay on the rug on her stomach, scribbling down a story in her notepad.

      ‘Of course, darling,’ Betty said, with a smile. ‘Just trying not to wake your dad.’ She stood and gazed at her two daughters for a few moments. They made her heart swell, and she marvelled at how different they looked from each other.

      Lilian was asleep, curled up on the chair. At four years old, she hadn’t yet outgrown her afternoon naps. Her fine blonde hair shone like a halo in the afternoon sun and she had peach fuzz for skin.

      Martha was the opposite. Her unruly hair never shone or lay flat, and Betty braided it into a fat plait to try to keep it under control. Four years older than Lilian, Martha loved to lose herself in reading and writing stories. Lilian was more pragmatic, like her father. She listened to fairy tales with a furrowed brow, announcing that Cinderella’s glass slippers would break if she danced in them and that mice could not turn into horses.

      Betty stooped down and ran her hand down Martha’s plait, giving the end a playful tug. She slid the book out of its bag and presented it on the flats of her hands.

      A smile spread across Martha’s face. ‘Is it for me?’ she asked.

      Betty nodded once and pressed a finger to her mouth. ‘Shhh.’ She pointed towards the door, then made a pillow with her hands. She moved a cushion on the sofa and settled down, then beckoned for her daughter to join her.

      Martha scrambled to her feet and nestled on the sofa too. Betty took a few moments to relish the warmth of her hair, tucked under her chin. She ran her hand over the cover of the book and made a show of turning the front page. ‘Ready?’ she asked and Martha nodded. The room fell still and Betty began to read.

      Yet, she found herself doing so in a hushed, hurried fashion. After every few lines, she flicked her eyes towards the dining room door and cocked her head, listening out for movement in the kitchen. Thomas usually napped for at least ninety minutes, but she wanted to be sure. Even though she tried to enjoy the story, she stumbled over the words.

      Martha leaned her head against Betty’s shoulder. She reached out to touch the words and pictures.

      Betty had just uttered, ‘…and they all lived happily ever after’, when the door handle creaked slowly down. Nimbly, she СКАЧАТЬ