As she walked, delaying what she’d come here to do allowed her more time to mull things over. Her breath grew shallow as she considered possibilities and argued with them in her own head.
If my grandmother is here, what shall I say to her?
But, of course she won’t be here, she’s dead.
But that’s what your parents told you. The message in the book tells you otherwise...
You need to find out what happened.
The wind whistled through her skirt and her neck felt full of knots. Was she just being ridiculous? How could it possibly be true that Zelda was here, after being gone for more than thirty years? Her own gullibility made her want to gag.
She also pondered if her own father was capable of conjuring up such a lie, about Zelda being dead, and she recalled a happening from her past.
In her first year at secondary school, she had written a story in English class and her teacher, Mr. Brady, insisted she read it aloud.
Martha had slipped down in her chair with her arms folded tightly, squirming with both embarrassment and pride. She only just managed to squeeze out her words.
After the lesson, Mr. Brady said he was going to enter her story into an interschool competition. “Each school can make one entry and I’m going to submit yours. There’ll be a ceremony in Maltsborough for the nominees, and I think you have a good chance of winning a prize.”
Martha skipped home and told her parents. “Please, can we keep that evening free?” she begged.
Her mum immediately scooped Martha into her arms and congratulated her, but her dad pursed his lips. “How many entries will there be?” he asked.
Martha felt her excitement sliding. “They’re from schools all around the North of England. But Mr. Brady chose mine to represent our school.”
“That’s brilliant. Well done,” her mum said.
Her dad gave a tight smile. “The odds are against her,” he said to Betty. “And, it’s rewarding Martha for making up her stories. She’s stopped reading the encyclopedias.”
“We’ve had them for ages, Dad. I know everything in them,” Martha chimed in.
“Oh, really?” Thomas gave a short laugh. “Short stories aren’t very useful when you apply for a job as a secretary, or accountant, are they?”
“There are other jobs, too,” Betty interjected. “Creative ones...”
Thomas stared at her. “I’m not sure what you’d know about that.”
“Now, that’s not fair. I want to find work.”
“Can I go or not?” Martha pleaded, desperate to win the competition and prove her father wrong.
“No. We have other plans that evening,” he said.
Martha never found out what those plans were, if there were ever any at all. The prize ceremony came and went, and the Storm family remained at home. Martha won second prize and received her certificate in a plain brown envelope from Mr. Brady, after class, rather than on stage. When she showed it to her dad and asked again, why she couldn’t have collected it in person, he shook his head.
“You shouldn’t have questioned me,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t go ahead with my existing plans or take you to the ceremony. You ruined it for yourself. Plus, you didn’t even get first prize.”
For weeks, Martha cursed herself for not keeping her mouth shut. But as she grew older, she began to suspect there’d never been another event that night, and that her father had lied. And she found that he told more untruths, over the years, big and small.
So if there was even the remotest chance that Zelda was still alive, she had to find out.
Eventually, buoyed on by murmuring conversations with herself, Martha walked up to the garden gate. She tightened her fingers around the handle, pressed down and pushed it open.
Her surroundings seemed to fall eerily quiet, without birdsong or the rustling of wind in the trees. Her footsteps on the paving stones sounded extra loud as she headed towards the front door. Her heartbeat raced in her ears.
She raised her hand, rapped three times with the fox knocker, then waited. She readied herself with a friendly smile.
Seconds then minutes passed, and the door remained closed. No one came to answer it.
Gradually, her jaw ached from smiling.
She knew there was someone in there.
Martha tried again but there was no reply, so she did a small sidestep to glance through the front window. It allowed her to see right through to the back of the house, to the kitchen. She saw that the back door was open. A figure moved across it and Martha felt her neck muscles strain.
Perhaps they can’t hear me.
Or, perhaps they’re pretending not to hear me.
She swept her hand around under the ivy surrounding the door, looking for a doorbell, but couldn’t find one.
A fence ran along each side of the house, tall slats of wood painted pale green, and she pressed an eye against a button of daylight. She watched as a small black Scottie dog scampered across the back lawn. White sheets billowed on a washing line, alongside a turquoise duvet cover and a long skirt the same shade.
Zelda’s color.
Martha knocked on the door one last time with three loud raps, using her knuckles this time. When she drew them away, they were red and the skin had broken. She blew on them and waited.
This time she heard footsteps and a lock rattling.
Her stomach tightened.
The door opened and the woman who might be Zelda’s carer stood in front of her.
Her eyes were a startling sea-glass blue, contrasting with her white hair. Under her beige trouser suit, she wore a white top that could either be a blouse or a work shirt. Her coral-orange toenails peeped out from her khaki sandals and a watch hung upside down, pinned to her chest. “Yes?” she asked with the apprehension of someone who answered the door to too many cold callers.
For a moment Martha felt as if she didn’t inhabit her own body. Her feet were planted firmly on the ground but her head felt floaty, far away. She was aware that she might be staring. “Are you Gina?” she asked.
The woman’s forehead wrinkled. “Yes,” she said, her voice tinged with suspicion.
Any words Martha had lined up suddenly stuck in her throat. This was all so difficult to explain and she wasn’t sure where to start. She was here, probably chasing a ghost. The first word that came out of her mouth was her customary, “Sorry.”
The next thing she said sounded obtuse, even to her. So she couldn’t imagine how it might sound to this woman. “I’m looking for Ezmerelda. Zelda Sanderson.”
The woman clamped her teeth together so her cheeks twitched. “Who is asking?” She had a slight Nordic accent and pronounced each of her words clearly.
And with her throat terribly tight, and tears threatening to spring to her eyes, Martha uttered the words she’d never imagined she’d get to say again.
“I’m her granddaughter. I’m Martha Storm.”
12
Wheelchair
Gina stood motionless for a while. Her eyes narrowed as she studied Martha. “I think you may have the wrong address,” she said. She raised her hand and started to close the door.
But Martha heard a warble in her voice, a hint of a lie. After all the things she’d discovered to do with the little book, she couldn’t let this go. She quickly angled her head to the side, to peer through the diminishing gap. “I don’t think so. A book led me here. Blue Skies and Stormy Seas, by E. Y. Sanderson.”
Gina’s fingers tightened around the door and her knuckles whitened. She hesitated for a few moments before she pulled the door back open. Retracting her hand, she fingered the timepiece on her jacket.
Martha didn’t want any yearning to show in her face, to give away how important this was to her. She had to stop the questions of what had happened to Zelda, all those years ago, from rampaging in her head once and for all. She concentrated on keeping her face as expression-free as possible, though she was sure her eyes shone with hopefulness.