Zelda nodded. She wiped her eyes, sniffed and stood a little taller. She touched the ends of Martha’s hair. “Time is so precious.”
Martha choked back a tear. She jutted out her chin. “Yes, it is. So let’s try and make it glorious.” She took a deep breath to compose herself and let it go again. “Now, we’re all going to have a family dinner together. We’re not going to discuss the past. There will be no secrets and no tension and we’re all going to have a good time.”
“But I—” Zelda started.
“No ifs and no buts.” Martha wrapped her arms around her and held her tight. She relished the warmth of her nana’s soft cheek against her own. “It’s Christmas, Nana. Everything is forgotten and forgiven on Christmas Day. Other things will wait. Now, let’s go and open the presents under the tree, before I serve dinner...”
Zelda sat in the wooden chair and Gina stood by her side. Will and Rose lay on their stomachs on the rug. Martha and Lilian sat on the leather sofa and Owen appointed himself the hander-outer of presents. He read each person’s name in turn and they opened their gift. Each one was a book.
Lilian and Martha had chosen them together, the day before, from Chamberlain’s, and Lilian wrapped them in silver paper with bows and tags.
Will said, “Cool. Thanks,” when he unwrapped The Maze Runner trilogy.
Rose stroked the cover of How to Train Your Dragon lovingly. “I’ve always wanted to read this,” she said.
Martha had bought Lilian The Little Dictionary of Fashion by Christian Dior (when she wasn’t looking) and, for Gina, a book on Scandinavian architecture.
Owen presented Martha with a limited-edition copy of Alice in Wonderland.
For Owen, Martha had asked Gina to call in and see Rita at Monkey Puzzle Books, to pick up a copy of The Little Paris Bookshop.
Zelda adored her copy of Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls.
They ate dinner together sitting around the dining table. As Martha passed the bowl of carrots to Lilian, an image popped into her head of the table piled high with books, and Horatio’s potted plants and fish. For the last five years, she had sat down alone to eat, but now she had her family, as well as Gina and Owen. She looked down at her plate and smiled at the sight of the delicious turkey, vegetables and gravy, rather than cheese on toast.
Owen touched her sleeve. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Martha glanced at her sister and nana talking to each other, at her gorgeous niece and nephew who were chatting about their books. She smiled at the white-haired lady who had supported Zelda for so many years, and finally back at Owen, the kind man who helped to kick-start her future by leaving a small book for her at the library.
“Things are good,” she said. “How can I thank you enough for all you’ve done?”
He broke into a smile. “You did most of it. And I’ve told you before. Coffee and cake are always welcome.”
Zelda made everyone laugh with her stories about life with Gina in North Carolina, and Lilian boasted about her designer garden. Owen recounted stories about the eclectic range of people who visited his bookstore, and Martha loved the buzz of the conversation around her. The air was full of fun and laughter, and she couldn’t feel anything sticky and invisible at all.
At the end of the meal they pulled Christmas crackers and wore paper crowns. They shared corny jokes before Will and Rose slipped away upstairs with their books.
“You always used to tell one of your stories at the end of our Christmas meal, Martha,” Zelda said as she finished eating her third mince pie. “Have you got one for us now?”
Martha shook her head. “I don’t have a new one, but I am going to start writing again. Words are beginning to come back to me.”
“I’ve done my last ever Read and Run,” Zelda said. “So I’ll let someone else tell a story today.”
Lilian cleared her throat. She glanced around the table. “Um, I have one to share,” she said.
Martha frowned at her. “You do?”
Her sister nodded. “I never believed in fairy stories, all that stuff about crystal carriages and handsome princes, but for some reason I kept this...” She picked up her bag from the floor and took out a piece of paper. She slowly unfolded it. “It’s one of Mum’s stories that I kept. It didn’t mean that much to me at the time. But now it does.”
She gave a small cough, then read it aloud.
The Nightingale and the Woodcutter
by Betty Storm
Once, a woodcutter lived in a small hut in the forest. He was a kind man who enjoyed his simple life. However, sometimes he found himself to be very lonely. Each day he would set off with his ax and chop wood. He sold some of the logs and kept others, to light his fire each night. He sat by the fireside and wished he had a companion.
One day, when he was in the forest, he spotted a nightingale in a tree. She had the most beautiful voice and it felt as if she was singing just for him, so he didn’t feel alone.
She was there the next day, and the next, and when he saw her his heart was filled with joy.
He started to bring her bits of bread, which she ate gratefully. She seemed to welcome his attention. Though when the woodcutter returned to his hut at night, the feelings of loneliness engulfed him again.
One day he held out a piece of bread for the nightingale and she swept down and hopped onto his finger. “I’ll take you back to my hut, little bird,” he said. “Then I can keep you, feed you and look after you forever. You can sing for me and neither of us will be lonely again.”
He made a cage out of twigs, placed her inside and fastened the door so she couldn’t fly away. He gave her seed, bread and water. He made up a fire to warm them both and smiled at his new friend.
At first the nightingale seemed happy, because she sang to him each morning and at night. Even though he missed her song during the day at work, the woodcutter knew she was at home waiting for him.
But with each day that passed, her song began to grow quieter. She stopped hopping around to greet him. He moved her cage to the window so she could see the forest, and he brought wild berries for her to eat. “Please sing for me, little bird,” he whispered through the cage. The nightingale cocked her head to one side and sang, but her voice was so small he could hardly hear it.
He tried taking her out of the cage and set her on the windowsill. She gave a small chirp, but her happy cheep was now a small croak.
The woodcutter was very sad. “I’m so sorry, little bird,” he said. “I didn’t mean you any harm. I was trying to look after you. I’ll take you back to your home in the forest.”
When they stood back among the trees, the nightingale had forgotten how to fly. She didn’t know how to find her own food any longer. She hopped around and was lost.
The woodcutter took her back to his hut, where they stayed together for the rest of their days. The little bird did her best to sing, to please him. She greeted him with a small song when he came home, but he could tell that her heart wasn’t in it. And the woodcutter was forever full of regret, because he had taken a beautiful thing and tried to turn it into something else.
38
Crocodile
Entering the library, the day after the Christmas dinner, Martha closed her eyes and breathed in the aroma of the books, the old radiators and the fraying carpets. She patted the yellowy-white computer and straightened a few books on the shelves. It felt like she was home.
She spotted a chocolate wrapper left on the science shelf and she threw it in the bin. The return shelves needed emptying and there was a Polaroid photo pinned to the noticeboard, of a man dressed as a large brown ferret. She heard movement in the kitchen and Suki wandered out.
“Martha.” She sped forward and flung out her arms. Her bump got in the way as she threw a hug. “You’re back where you belong.”