1. Valentine’s Day
As always, Martha Storm was primed for action. Chin jutted, teeth
gritted, and a firm grip on the handle of her trusty shopping trolley. Her shoulders burned as she struggled to push it up
the steep slope towards the library. The cobblestones underfoot were slippery,
coated by the sea mist that wafted into Sandshift each evening.
She was well prepared for the evening’s event.
It was going to perfect, even though she usually avoided Valentine’s Day. Wasn’t
it a silly celebration? A gimmick, to persuade you to buy stuffed furry animals
and chocolates at rip-off prices. Why, if someone ever sent her a card, she’d
hand it back and explain to the giver they’d been brainwashed. However, a job
worth doing was worth doing well.
Bottles chinked in her trolley, a
stuffed black bin bag rustled in the breeze and a book fell off a pile, its
pages fluttering like a moth caught in a spider’s web.
She’d bought the supermarket’s finest
rosé wine, flute glasses, and napkins printed with tiny red roses. Her alarm
clock sounded at 5.30 that morning, to allow her time to bake heart-shaped
cookies, including gluten-free ones for any book lovers who had a wheat
allergy. She’d brought along extra copies of the novel for the author to sign.
One of the best feelings in the world came
when she received a smile of appreciation, or a few grateful words. When
someone said, ‘Great job, Martha,’ and she felt like she was basking in
sunshine. She’d go to most lengths to achieve that praise.
If anyone asked about her job. she had an
explanation ready. ‘I’m a guardian of books,’ she said. ‘A volunteer at the
library.’ She was an event organizer, tour guide, buyer, filer, job adviser,
talking clock, housekeeper, walking encyclopedia, stationery provider,
recommender of somewhere nice to eat lunch, and a shoulder to cry on—all rolled into one.
And she loved
each part, except for waking people up at closing time, and the strange things
she found used as bookmarks (a nail file, a sexual health clinic appointment
card and an old rasher of bacon).
As she rattled past a group of men, all
wearing navy and yellow Sandshift United football scarves, Martha called out to
them. ‘Don’t forget about the library event tonight.’ But they laughed among
themselves and walked on.
As she eventually directed the trolley towards the small squat
library building, Martha spied the bulky silhouette of a man huddled by the
front door. ‘Hello there,’ she called
out, twisting her wrist to glance at her watch. ‘You’re fifty-four minutes
early.’
The dark shape turned its head and seemed
to look at her, before hurrying away and disappearing around the corner.
Martha trundled along the path. A poster
flapped on the door and author Lucinda Lovell beamed out from a heavily filtered
photo. The word Cancelled was written across her face in thick black
letters.
Martha’s eyes widened in disbelief. Her
stomach lurched, as if someone had shoved her on an escalator. Using her hand
as a visor she peered into the building.
All was still, all was dark. No one was
inside.
With trembling fingers, she reached out
to touch the word that ruined all her planning and organizing efforts of the
last couple of weeks. Cancelled. The
word that no one had bothered to tell her.
She swallowed hard and her organized
brain ticked as she wondered who to call. The area library manager, Clive
Folds, was taking his wife to the Lobster Pot bistro for a Valentine’s dinner.
He was the one who’d set up Lucinda’s appearance, with her publisher. Pregnant library
assistant, Suki McDonald, was cooking something Japanese for her boyfriend,
Ben, to persuade him to give things another try between them.
Everything had been left for Martha to
sort out.
Again.
‘You live on your own, so you have more
time,’ Clive had told her, when he’d asked her to take charge of the event
preparations. ‘You don’t have personal commitments.’
Martha’s chest tightened as she
remembered his words, and she let her arms fall heavy to her sides. Turning
back around, she took a deep breath and forced herself to straighten her back. Never mind, she thought. There must be a
good reason for the cancellation, a serious illness, or perhaps a fatal road
accident. Anyone who turned up would see the poster. ‘Better just set off home,
and get on with my other stuff,’ she muttered.
Leaning over her trolley, Martha grabbed
hold of its sides and heaved it around to face in the opposite direction. As
she did, a clear plastic box slid out, crashing to the path. When she stooped
to pick it up, the biscuits lay broken inside.
It was only then she noticed the brown
paper parcel propped against the bottom of the door. It was rectangular and
tied with a bow and a criss-cross of string, probably left there by the shadowy
figure. Her name was scrawled on the front. She stooped down to pick it up, then
pressed her fingers along its edges. It felt like a book.
Martha placed it next to the box of
broken biscuits in her trolley. Really,
she tutted, the things readers tried, to avoid paying their late return fees.
She wrenched back on the trolley as it
threatened to pull her down the hill. The brown paper parcel juddered inside as
she negotiated the cobbles. She passed sugared almond-hued houses and the air
smelled of salt and seaweed. Laughter and the strum of a Spanish guitar sounded
from the Lobster Pot and she paused for a moment. Martha had never eaten there
before. It was the type of place frequented by couples.
Through the window, she glimpsed Clive
and his wife with their foreheads almost touching across the table. Candles lit
up their faces with a flickering glow. His mind was obviously not on the
library.
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