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 told me 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 canceled. 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 she and my mum told me.”
Owen rocked back and fro 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 usually print the title of the book on each page, but it’s missing here. It looks like the book might be self-published, so it will be more difficult to trace...not impossible, though.” He tapped the side of his nose. “I’ll get back in touch with Dexter, my contact. I’ll see if he remembers where it came from. He knows people.”
He sounds like the James Bond of the secondhand book world, connected to a secret underground network, Martha thought.
“I’ll make a note of some of these story titles.” Owen picked up a pen and took hold of a scrap of paper. “Or perhaps I can keep this for a while?”
Martha clicked her tongue. She didn’t want to let the book out of her sight.
“I’ll take good care of it.”
“Hmm, well, okay then. But I’d like it back as soon as possible.”
“I promise to call you on Monday.”
Martha took her purse from her bag. “How much do I owe you, for the book, and your research?”
“Now put that away, I don’t want any money.” He raised a palm. “Just buy me a coffee sometime.”
Martha took out a ten-pound note and waved it. “Please take this remuneration.”
He shook his head. “Tell you what. I’m just about to close the shop, and there’s a nice café called Love, Peace and Coffee just around the corner. It’s perfect for sitting in the window, reading and eating cake. Why don’t we grab a table and you can tell me more about these intriguing family stories of yours?”
Martha felt her cheeks reddening. She hadn’t been invited out for a coffee by anyone for a long time. Plus, something her father used to say, when she was younger, popped into her head. “Watch your cake portions, Martha. You’ll always be beautiful to me, but you’re the type to put on weight easily.”
She paused for what felt like an age, thinking of a reason to give Owen for not joining him. Eventually, she said, “Sorry, but I don’t eat cake.”
“Oh.” He squinted. “Perhaps just a coffee, then?”
Martha started to back up, across the shop towards the door. “Not today, thank you. If you find out anything about the book, do let me know.” She fumbled behind her and opened the door. “I’d be most obliged.’”
“I’ll need your phone number.” Owen reached out with one hand, as if trying to catch her coat. “Or I can call the library...”
Martha stood with one foot inside the shop and the other on the pavement outside. She imagined Clive’s smug face if he took a personal call for her. He’d enjoy berating her.
She stepped back inside the shop, took a piece of paper from her notepad and quickly wrote down her home number.
Owen made a great show of folding it neatly and placing it in his jacket pocket. “Fantastic,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
6
The Reading Group
On Monday afternoon, when Martha pushed her trolley towards the library, it felt like it contained bricks rather than bottles of cordial, biscuits, Horatio’s fish food, some of his potted plants and copies of her new book-rating spreadsheet. She wanted to turn it back around, to wheel it home, but she’d offered to host the fortnightly reading group session. Suki was attending a maternity appointment.
Martha had spent the previous day filled with worry and regret, that she’d left the book with Owen to research. Her eyes kept searching out her phone, to see if he might have found something earlier than expected and left her a message. However, no one called.