10
Photograph
Martha picked up the key from the hook in her pantry and stared at it. It had hung there for two years, unused, on a piece of tatty pink ribbon. Clive had asked her to look after it in case the burglar alarm sounded out of hours at the library.
“Everyone else has a family,” Clive had said, with a condescending smile. “If you get a call in the middle of the night, it doesn’t matter as much, does it?”
Martha slipped the key into her coat pocket. She flipped on her hood and left the house.
She’d missed out on her walk down to the mermaid statue that morning, and she didn’t go there now.
Horatio was sweeping out his aquarium, and she saw Branda struggling to open the door to the Lobster Pot, because her arms were laden with designer label shopping bags. Martha thrust her head down, pretending not to see them, and carried on.
Her limbs weren’t stiff when she walked, and she didn’t need to pump her arms. She walked swiftly and with purpose, directly to the library.
She glanced around furtively before she opened the doors and then locked them behind her. Leaving the light turned off, she made her way into the main room.
The building was deliciously quiet and the books stood in lines like silent soldiers. The daylight outside was dimming, so the room was in semidarkness. Long shadows cut across the carpet and walls and Martha trod quietly across the carpet. Her book-rating spreadsheets still lay on the table, along with two copies of Distant Desire.
Usually, Martha would tidy things up, but today she sat down at the desk and switched on the library computer. It was an old thing, constructed from white plastic that had turned a creamy yellow over the years. It clunked and whirred, as if there was a small man sitting inside it firing up cogs and flicking switches. Finally, the library logo appeared and she typed in her password.
There were a few emails from Clive and she ignored those. She only had eyes for the one from Owen. She paused, her fingers hovering over the keys, before she clicked on it.
Hi Martha
Dexter called this morning. He found that your book was published in 1985, so the dedication to you looks like its dated correctly. We also managed to trace the company who printed it, to Scandinavia!
Dexter said there was an old newspaper clipping in the book. He gave it to his wife because she likes vintage stuff. I asked him to copy it and I’ve attached it here, so you can see if it means anything to you.
See you soon for coffee?
Owen
Martha scratched her head. Scandinavia? How could her stories have reached all that way? And if her nana had written the message in 1985, then it meant her parents had lied about her death. She circled a hand over her stomach, rubbing away a feeling of unease.
Clicking on the attachment in the email, she watched as the screen spooled before the image opened. It was on its side, so she turned her head to the left to see it properly. It was grainy, a small article about a funfair, and Martha immediately recognized the three people in its accompanying photo.
She and Lilian sat on a wall, either side of Zelda. Behind them, Martha could make out a sign for the Hall of Mirrors. Her nana grinned and there was a black spot under her top lip. Martha moved her face closer to the screen, wondering what it was. As she stared at it, a memory emerged and developed in her mind.
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?”