‘Madam,’ he said when he reached her. He had hairy hands like a werewolf and his eyebrows almost met in the middle. He had the weary stoop of someone who’d been dealing with minor seaside offences all day. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises. A father has complained that you’re scaring his little girl.’
With her cheeks afire, Martha traipsed away from the arcade. She examined the timetable on the bus stop and there was a forty-seven-minute wait until the next one. She also remembered that the ticket she’d bought was a single, and she’d just used up all her cash. She was stuck in Maltsborough, unsure how she was going to get home.
The rain had subsided a little and was now more of a sprinkle, so she decided to go for a walk, to stretch her legs and allow her adrenaline to subside. The bright lights of the bars on the promenade shone in her eyes, so she stepped inland, behind the lifeboat station.
The street was in shadow, with the lights in the upstairs windows above the shops giving the pavement a golden glow. It was easy to imagine this part of town in the earlier days, with smugglers creeping along the skinny ginnels between the houses, to cart their bounty to awaiting boats.
She weaved her way around puddles, until she found herself outside Chamberlain’s. The door wore a Closed sign and, inside, the shop was pitch dark.
She peered in through the window at the display, at a vintage edition of The Hobbit, old train magazines and a full series of Famous Fives piled haphazardly. The sight of Anne and Timmy on the covers made her heart flip. They were her favourite characters, though Zelda said they were too middle class and that she preferred the tomboy, George.
The corner of the window featured an eclectic array of leaflets – a one-eyed black cat found near the sports centre, a fairground in Benton Bay and an advert for Monkey Puzzle Books. She reached out and touched its logo, a tree with books as its leaves.
Moving towards the doorway, Martha mused whether Owen lived above the shop, or if he had a house elsewhere. Her fingers curled in her pocket as she fought the urge to knock on the door. The sign confirmed that the shop didn’t open again until Wednesday. But Owen had said that he’d call her. At home, the red light might be flashing on her answering machine.
After the disastrous reading group session and being asked to leave the arcade, Martha wondered if she had anything to lose. In fact, the thought of doing something out of character again gave her a small buzz. And she wanted Zelda’s book back.
She knocked on the glass, not giving herself the chance to talk herself out of it. Her pulse raced as she waited for a response.
A few moments later a light went on in the back room. A large dark shape moved through the doorway and towards the door. A face appeared at the glass and Martha raised her hand in a short wave.
‘Martha.’ She heard her name, muffled, from inside the shop. The door rattled and opened. Owen stood with bare feet. His suit was crumpled and he munched on a slice of toast. ‘You’re soaked through.’
She nodded meekly, noticing that the sleeves of her coat shone wet in the dark.
‘When I left you the message, I didn’t expect you to come over,’ he said. ‘Come inside.’
Martha heard her shoes squelch as she stepped into the shop. So, he had rung her. Wondering if he’d found anything made the skin on her forearms tingle.
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ He glanced at the small puddles on his floor. ‘And my slippers, too.’ He closed the door behind her and locked it.
She followed him around the counter and into a storeroom. It was full of boxes, but not positioned neatly, as in her dining room. These ones were all different sizes, stored at angles. Some were ripped with books poking out and some were still taped up.
‘Sit down.’ Owen gestured to a high wooden stool and she hitched herself up onto it. He tapped the switch on the side of a kettle and an orange light glowed. ‘I thought you might be interested in my message…’
Martha wasn’t sure how to tell him that she didn’t know what his message was. But then he might think her showing up on his doorstep at night was very strange. So instead she said, ‘Yes. Very much.’
Owen peered into a cup then shook in instant coffee from a jar. He poured in hot water, then added a glug of milk and a spoonful of sugar, without asking how she took it. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘This should warm you up.’
Martha wrapped her hands around the cup and waited for it to cool down. Owen leaned casually against a stack of boxes that was taller than him. ‘Better?’ he asked. ‘Do you want a slice of toast?’
She shook her head and a raindrop trickled down her forehead. ‘No, thank you. About your message…’ she hinted.
‘It’s a gorgeous title, isn’t it?’ Owen said.
‘Yes, it’s lovely.’
‘Very evocative.’
‘Yes. Um, what was it again?’
Owen shrugged. ‘Blue Skies and Stormy Seas. Dexter had to do a fair bit of searching around to find it. He left me a message this afternoon and I called you straight away.’
‘I was hosting a reading group, at the library.’
‘And you got my message and came over,’ he said with a smile.
‘Something like that.’
‘Dexter thinks the book was definitely self-published. He’s going to see if he can find where it was printed and the date.’
‘And did he find out the author’s name?’ Martha asked casually, as she blew into her coffee.
‘It’s by E. Y. Sanderson,’ Owen said. ‘Dexter doesn’t think he’s written anything else.’
Martha’s fingers twitched. Her cup shook and coffee ran, hot, over the back of her hand. It dribbled along her wrist and down her sleeve.
‘Whoops.’ Owen ripped off a piece of kitchen towel and handed it to her. ‘Are you okay?’
She nodded.
‘You kind of threw coffee… at yourself.’
Martha dabbed at her wrist. ‘I think the author is a she,’ she said quietly.
Instinctively, she knew deep inside that there could only be one possibility for the book’s authorship.
‘Excuse me?’
‘E. Y. Sanderson is a lady,’ she told him. ‘Ezmerelda Yvette Sanderson. It’s my nana’s full name.’
Owen insisted on driving Martha back home. She sat in his car stiffly, aware that her wet coat would dampen the seat. The footwell of his old Ford Focus was full of stuff – screwed-up carrier bags, paper bags and car park receipts. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said, as he batted an empty sandwich packet off the dashboard.
Still
