The Library of Lost and Found. Phaedra Patrick

she said as she placed her hand against the restaurant door, ‘it’s easy to remember things differently to how they actually were.’

      Martha could hear faint electronic tunes from the amusement arcades on the seafront, but the street where Chamberlain’s Pre-Loved and Antiquarian Books was located was quiet, except for two seagulls cawing and flapping over a dropped bag of chips.

      Suki said the bookshop was new, but the shade of the duckegg blue paint coating the window frames and door, and the semicircle of silver lettering embossed on the large windowpane, made it look a couple of centuries old.

      Flustered after her uncomfortable discussion with Lilian, Martha struggled to regulate her breathing. Her chest felt tight again and she gave it a rub. There was something about the flicker in her sister’s eyes that made her question her decision to come here.

      Even though Lilian was the younger sister, she’d always taken the lead. When she first arrived home from the hospital as a plum-faced newborn, she had assumed control. She would sleep and eat when she wanted, and the rest of the family had to fit their lives around her.

      Thomas loved his new daughter. He cooed at her and puffed out his chest when he pushed Lilian in the pram, showing her off to friends and neighbours. He didn’t allow any of the fun toys that Zelda bought inside her cot.

      Martha could admit that, with her icy-blonde hair and blue eyes, her sister was a beautiful child. However, her father’s devoted attention to her made Martha feel like the ugly sister in comparison.

      As she stood in front of the shop door, she lifted her chin. There were only a couple of minutes left until closing time and she had to follow her instincts. Twisting the brass knob, she opened the door.

      A brass bell rang and she felt a little otherworldly as she inhaled the heady aroma of leather, cardboard and ink. Her eyes widened at the sight of the books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, some worn and some like new.

      Her forehead crinkled a little with disapproval as she spotted a screwed-up tissue and a felt tip pen without its lid on the desk. There was a small heap of sweet wrappers, several key rings and a plastic pug dog with a nodding head. Her own house might be busy, but this shop looked disorganized, in need of a good system.

      A long wooden ladder, leaning against a bookshelf, stretched from the floor and rose upwards as far as Martha could see. There was a pair of legs, with feet facing her, clad in monogrammed red slippers. The toes wriggled as if their owner was listening to music that nobody else could hear. The ladder rungs creaked and bowed as the legs climbed down.

      The red slipper-wearer was tall with a circular face. His sandy hair was pushed back off his forehead and streaked white around the temples. A red silk scarf framed his open-necked black shirt and his grey suit fitted loosely over his large rounded chest. He wore four colourful pin badges. One featured an illustration of a book, and another said ‘Booksellers – great between the sheets’. Martha noticed that his hand was large enough to hold several books in its span and that he had a smear of ink on his cheek.

      Martha tapped her own face. ‘You have a smudge.’

      ‘Oh.’ The man put down his books and lifted his scarf. He used it to rub his face. ‘I keep finding bruises in strange places… but it’s ink from the books and newspapers. There,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Is that better?’

      Martha stared at his cheek, which was now denim blue. ‘You may need a mirror.’

      ‘I don’t think I have one.’

      Taking the battered book from her bag, Martha searched for a spare space on the countertop. ‘I think you might have left this for me?’

      ‘Ah, you must be Martha.’ Owen smiled and held out his hand.

      Martha hesitated. Although she liked to help library-goers, physical contact was something she tried to forgo. Helping her parents out of their chairs was as close as she’d got to others for a long time. She reached out and lightly shook his hand, then quickly let it go. ‘May I ask where the book came from, and how you found me?’

      Owen picked it up, handling it as if it was an injured baby bird. ‘A fellow bookseller sent it to me, for repair. But it’s in such a bad state and would be too expensive to reconstruct. When I told him the price, he said not to bother. I paid him a tenner for it because I could sell some of the illustrations. But then I got The Guilt.’

      ‘Guilt?’

      ‘I can’t bring myself to disassemble books… even if they’re beyond rescue. I always end up keeping them. But then I can’t sell them, either.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Though, over the years I bet my wives would have liked me to.’

      Martha blinked, wondering just how many times he’d been married. He did have an air of Henry VIII about him.

      ‘When I flicked through this one,’ Owen continued, ‘I spotted your name in the dedication and knew it from leaflets about the library. There aren’t any other Martha Storms in the telephone directory… so it had to be you.’

      ‘Were you huddled by the library door, yesterday evening?’ Martha asked with a frown.

      ‘Yes, that sounds like me.’

      ‘I called out to you, but you vanished.’

      ‘Really? I didn’t hear anything. I was on my way to the footie match with my son – he was waiting in the car. There was an author event on, or something, so I left the book by the door.’

      ‘The event was cancelled. It was written on the poster.’

      ‘Oh.’ Owen scratched his head. ‘I don’t think I was wearing my glasses.’

      Martha noted that his sentences were as higgledy-piggledy as his bookshop. He started to speak then looked distracted, as if he had to physically search for his next words. ‘Where did your contact get the book from?’ she asked.

      Owen scratched his head, leaving his hair stuck up on top. ‘I’d really have to ask him, or check my notes… I do write these things down… sometimes.’

      Martha waited for him to look around but he didn’t do anything.

      ‘You look a little disappointed… or puzzled.’ he said.

      She twisted her fingers around her wrist, wondering if she should tell him the reason for the book’s importance. ‘The dedication inside is from my grandmother, Zelda,’ she said. ‘But the date she’s written is three years after she died. The stories in the book are also… well, personal.’

      Owen cocked his head to one side. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

      ‘Um…’ Martha said, scolding herself for mentioning the last bit.

      ‘You can tell me anything.’ Owen held up three fingers of his right hand. ‘I’m a bookseller and we have a code of secrecy.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Well, no.’ He grinned. ‘I just wanted to assure you.’

      Martha stared at him, wondering if he was a little crazy or not. But with what she had to say, he might think the same thing about her. After Lilian’s negative reaction to the book, she just wanted someone to listen to her and take this strange situation seriously.

      ‘I used to write stories, when I was younger,’ she admitted. ‘I only shared them with my family, Zelda mainly. And now I’ve found them here, printed in this book. They’re alongside other ones my nana and mum told me.’

      Owen rocked back and forth on his heels for a while. He worked his mouth. ‘I’ve certainly not heard that one before.’

      Martha wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or not. She wished that the ground would swallow her up, or that a bookshelf would fall over and squash her flat.

      Owen picked up the book and leafed through it again. ‘Publishers sometimes