The Glass Book - A London Love Story

by Christian Hayes

  ‘Oh, he’s all right, just being lazy, that’s all. Wish he’d come out and help in the garden. So eager to work on the Smithson farm and never turns his hand in his own garden,’ said Mr Reilly as his gloved hand viciously strangled the weeds.

  ‘Well, he has been good helping the Smithsons out. Poor Jack couldn’t lift a finger after his accident.’ Mrs Reilly remained standing. ‘I wonder why he was so eager to work all of a sudden after we couldn’t get him to work for months?’ She turned to her husband. ‘Do you think he was saving up for something?’

  Mr Reilly looked up at her. ‘Get back to work!’

  ‘I wonder if Edward wants his tea. Edward! Edward!’ she called. At that very moment, Edward was stealthily making his way down the stairs, his jacket on, his bag firmly by his side. He heard Mrs Reilly’s call but quickly ignored it; he knew that the Reillys would be out in the garden for a while longer so could easily walk out the front door without any chance of being caught.

  He walked along the road as though it was any other day. As he passed the Smithson farm, Mrs Smithson was at the gate. ‘Hello, Edward!’ she called. ‘Going somewhere?’ she asked cheerfully.

  ‘No, no. Just going for a walk. Enjoying the sunshine,’ Edward said as he continued.

  ‘You’re going to be hot in that jacket.’

  ‘I’m trying to build up a sweat. How’s Mr Smithson?’

  ‘Getting better, bless him. I’ll see you on Monday then! Give my love to your parents.’

  ‘Will do! See you Monday!’ said Edward, brazenly lying in the heat of the day. He walked triumphantly, as if he had just pulled off the greatest coup of his short life. He did feel a little sorry for the Reillys as the road stretched out in front of him. They had been so kind to him for many years, had let him live in their warm house and fed him generously. But there was no use looking back, he said to himself. His mind had been made: he was heading for London.

  He did have a map, but it was not detailed: motorways were represented by thin blue lines, and only the major roads were named. It was certainly a long way to London, he soon discovered. He walked until darkness began to set in-being summer, that was late into the night. He had walked for five hours straight. That would become his daily goal: a five-hour walk every day-any more than that would be a bonus, any less, a disappointment. Already, his whole body ached; he knew he had to eat something soon. He came across a fast-food restaurant just as it was closing and ordered plenty to fill his stomach. He found a place to rest and eat, the edge of a secluded grassy field. As he gorged himself on the now cold, end-of-the-day hamburger and fries, he realised he wouldn’t be able to eat so plentifully all the time, that he’d have to watch how much he spent. This meal had already amounted to four pounds, and its artificiality and saccharine taste only served to lie heavy in his stomach, making him feel sick and lethargic. This lethargy clearly affected him when he woke the next morning. He had been lying on the grass, his bag as a pillow. His muscles ached, his throat was dry, and his stomach was already empty. He found it hard getting up, let alone walking on. The combination of the awkward meal and uncomfortable sleep resulted in only a two hour walk that day. He didn’t even know if he was heading in the right direction. He would stare at his map, but the roads would soon merge together and he would be lost. He entered a little village where he found a market-stall. There he bought twelve bananas for a pound and a stick of bread for sixty pence. That became his lunch and dinner that day.

  He eventually found himself walking along the side of motorways. Whenever his map failed him, the signs to London proved his saviour. At first he attempted walking along the hard shoulder but soon enough police cars were pulling up in front of him and asking him what the hell he was doing. He’d make up some story about getting lost, about how he was trying to get to. . . and at that point he’d look up at a road sign, and tell them the name of the town he was closest to. The first time they’d stopped him, he’d told them he’d been trying to get to the village that he’d just left, and so they sat him in the back of their police car and went out of their way to turn the car around and backtrack Edward on his journey. Usually the police would drop Edward off at the closest place for pedestrians, but the forth time they stopped him, they weren’t so helpful.

  ‘I’ve heard about you,’ said the policeman.

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes. We have security footage of you walking up and down motorways. You’ve already got a bit of a name..

  ‘I have?’ asked Edward.

  ‘Yes, the Hitcher..

  ‘I’m not hitch-hiking, I promise..

  ‘I know you’re not. That would probably be safer than walking alongside all this traffic. Ever thought of what would happen if a car swerved onto the hard-shoulder?.

  ‘You’re right. I’m sorry, I won’t ever do this again,’ Edward said, lying.

  ‘You’d better not, otherwise I’d have to take you down to the station..

  He put Edward into his car and drove him to a service-station. This was the first time they had written a report. He asked him his name.

  ‘Edward,’ he said.

  ‘Edward what?.

  Edward hesitated. ‘Edward Glass,’ he replied.

  ‘Glass?’ repeated the officer. ‘That’s an unusual name. What is it, French?.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Edward.

  ‘Address?’ asked the officer. Edward was about to give him the Reillys’ address but knew that an address so far away would only arouse suspicion.

  ‘London,’ he said.

  ‘London?.

  ‘Yes..

  ‘Where in London?.

  ‘Well, I’m going to London. That’s where I’m going to live. That’s my future address..

  ‘Where will you be staying?.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll know when I get there.’ The officer eyed him.

  ‘You’re not running away, are you? Aren’t in trouble, are you?.

  ‘No, nothing like that. I just thought I’d go to London.’ It took him a while to convince him that he was over eighteen, which he wasn’t, but because he hadn’t any identification on him, it couldn’t be proven. In the end, he issued him with a formal warning about walking on motorways and set him free. He was almost certain that he would have to confess the Reilly's address, that he was going to be shipped back to the very beginning. But now that he had had a lucky escape, he knew that he couldn’t let it happen again. He took a break, ate a banana and devised a plan.

  He couldn’t fairly estimate how long it would take him to get to London. Two, three weeks, he guessed. The only real way to get there was by trailing the motorways, he decided. His run-in with the police had reduced the day’s walking time to only an hour and a half and he needed to quickly make up for it. Perhaps if he walked during the night he wouldn’t be caught. But, staring down at the motorway from a bridge, his eyes ran across the adjacent fields that rolled into the distance. He walked down towards the road and found a hole in a tall fence. There he made his way through, and with the sound of the motorway running in his head, he continued on. Of course, he did run into problems. He came across some fences too tall to climb, some surrounded with barbed wire. He even came across some vicious dogs, and in one case, a murderous farmer. He did a lot of running, but sometimes in the wrong direction. Sometimes the foliage became so thick that it was impossible to get through. He would either have to risk the hard-shoulder or take a detour through the maze of towns and villages that took him out of his way.

  Nights were hard. He tried to walk through some of them, but at around two or three, his body would start collapsing into a heavy sleep. Staying up all night would make the next day unproductive and he would walk only at a snail’s pace. He would surprise himself sometimes with how long he could walk, some days going on for up to ten hours. Places to sleep were hard to find. Fields were usually best, and the most comfortable, except for when he woke to find himself surrounded by a swarm of fierce insects, his body stinging. At
times like that he wished he had brought a tent with him, or at least a sleeping bag, something to protect him from the cruelties of nature. While many of the nights were relatively warm, some were bitterly cold; and of course, being England-and even though it was summer-he was plagued by rain. He would then wish for an umbrella. A bitterly cold, raining night would surely kill him, he thought, and one time he felt as though there was little chance he would wake up the next morning as he shivered violently, rain streaming down his face as he tried to sleep. If he was lucky he would find a bridge to sleep under when it rained. However, the rumble of heavy lorries over and under the bridge did little to help him sleep. He would sometimes resort to hitch-hiking, though was never sure about the safety of such a choice. On the whole, the drivers didn’t seem too bad. Many truck drivers weren’t too reluctant to give him a lift further up the road, but only a couple of times did he come across some who leered at him, who confessed their sordid fantasies through elaborate monologues. In those cases, he would quickly jump ship, more than content to continue his journey on foot.

  Edward was surprised at the number of car accidents he saw during his time beside the motorways. He witnessed half a dozen or so accidents, most of them mild: the brief screeching of tyres, the crunch of tail-lights, the weary drive onto the hard-shoulder and the fiery exchange of words. Two, however, were major accidents: the extended screeching of tyres, the swerving into other lanes-in one, a car flew into the opposite lanes, straight into incoming traffic. It had swerved, hit the barrier and propelled itself upwards. The cars piled up quickly, smashing and crunching, and screaming. In the other, a lorry overturned, tearing through the front of a small car travelling beside it; oncoming traffic hit its brakes: cars swerved, collided, crashed, screeched to a halt. In both: bodies out on the road; bodies flying through the air. Luckily, in both cases, Edward was up on higher ground, walking with miles of the motorway clear in sight. Even the milder crashes would make Edward feel a little sick. One of the major accidents, with the concoction of broken glass and bloody faces, almost made him throw up. He was quick to help: hurrying to call an ambulance, scrambling down onto the road, running from vehicle to vehicle, helping those victims out of their cars who weren’t caught in the grip of twisted bonnets and dashboards. When the police arrived, they were far too busy to notice that Edward was back stalking the motorways. And when Edward had done all he could, amidst the haze of confusion, Edward was able to walk off unnoticed, to make his way through the flesh and metal, back onto his journey.

  One time Edward gave in. He could see the sky darkening, the clouds twisting into a foreboding, angry grey, and he couldn’t bear the thought of spending another night tight in the fist of a storm. It had already begun to rain by the time he had found a service-station, but he was pleased to have found anywhere at all-he was about to drop dead with exhaustion. He checked in without even knowing if he had enough money to pay and before he knew it, he was lost deep in the world of duvets, sheets and pillows. He didn’t even notice himself fall asleep: just time lost, and eyes opened, and brightness. He felt rested, but nevertheless greedy for more time in the grip of comfort, of doing nothing, of staying still. The price of the room drained his pockets of most of the money he had. He just about afforded to buy a couple of bananas for breakfast. But money troubles soon left his mind when, only shortly after leaving the road-side hotel, he saw a spread of grey buildings stretching out in front of him in the far distance. Surely, he had made it, he thought to himself. He ran the rest of the way.

  He found himself lost in the suburbs. He had imagined his first view of London to be that of glass skyscrapers and expensive cars, but he was lost in a world of cracked pavements and cramped houses. It took him a while of wandering around aimlessly, first through industrial estates, then through the suburbs, then through high streets, until he came across a tube station. It hadn’t been his plan to take the underground, but looking at the map, at the concise, multicoloured vision of London, Edward thought it best to buy a ticket. Any station was as good a destination as any other, but Edward decided to head straight for London’s centre, and at the very centre of the map, around which the rest of the map pivoted, was Tottenham Court Road. Edward’s eyes scanned each poster as he descended the vertiginous escalator, clocking advertisements for summer sales, history museums, and West End shows. Edward panicked a little in the underground maze of tunnels, but with enough checking and re-checking of signs and notices, he found the correct platform. And after the wind had risen and shot through the tunnel, blowing old newspapers and chocolate wrappers onto the tracks, he found himself heading straight for the centre of London.

  He was a little disappointed at what he was seeing, however. The train carriage was grimy, sweaty and overcrowded. The tube looked like a relic of an unglamorous age, a once-dazzling machine that was now out of date. He was sure all this would change the moment he emerged from the claustrophobic intricacies of the underground and into the light of day. But what he was presented with when he scaled the steps of the station were big, heavy roads: a junction, grimy, plagued by ugly traffic: the big red buses of his imagination soon became heaving, lumbering monoliths with little of the grace he had imagined them to have; the black cabs were more angular than he had expected and he was a little disappointed to find out that many of these cabs weren’t black at all but maroon, or brown, or plastered with hideous advertisements.

  And looking up, the buildings loomed down over him, closed in on him, constrained his head, his body. And what he was presented with were garish façades of high-street shops, grossly over-sized, groaning under the strain of the crowds that flooded in and out. And the people that populated this crowd, there was something strange about them: Edward was shocked to be presented with people of so many different colours and sizes, and as he looked in amongst the crowd, no two people were alike; and the cacophony of language that chewed the air: the bizarre words and strange accents that mingled with a sickly, distorted English. And the assorted shapes of people: the skinny and the fat, the ugly and the wretched, the fresh and the filthy; the flesh on show: the breasts and the stomachs, the tattooed and the pierced, the aged and the youthful. And all this amongst the clamour of drills, of engines, of the jagged, coughing machinations of this swarming city’s daily life. The world was on view to see.

  And looking up, it towered above him: a skyscraper like he had imagined. Except that a closer look revealed it was not as tall as he had hoped, and instead of pristine glass reflecting London back at him, it was made of old grey stone. It was an ugly building, stained by the exhaust fumes of years gone by; indeed, it must have been built during an unadventurous era when aesthetics eluded its architects. And there at its top, in large colourless letters drilled onto its brow, was written: Centre Point. To Edward’s dismay, his suspicions were confirmed: this filthy junction and monstrous tower constituted the very centre of the city he had been drawn to. At that moment, the whole ugly, churning city pivoted around Edward Glass. But the crowds did not allow him to stand there for long; he was forced sideways, carried on a powerful current of arms and legs. And only as he began to move through the city did he notice the air that passed his face, that entered his mouth and nose. The nauseating chemical pungency of city air: the metallic flavour of petroleum that rose from the grumbling traffic combined with odorous fumes that seeped from every surface, inherent in every wall, every pavement, every railing; even the trees were affected. Walking into a park, the grass gave off an unnatural aroma and the trees groaned in the breeze. Edward had to hold his breath as he walked; he could not understand how the swirling crowds around him did not seem to notice it, how they weren’t gagging and spitting for fresh air. They must have been used to it by now: years of infection, of inhalation, had finally numbed their senses.

  Weeks went by. On the morning of his eighteenth birthday, Edward awoke and cringed at the taste in his mouth. Rising to his feet, his spine ached, and sharp pains shot through his sides. He coughed, ran his hand
over his face, through his hair, and walked away from the doorway, not noticing that other bodies had joined him there during the night. From there, he began his daily routine. He walked to the Thames from where he could check the time of the clock on the opposite bank. That morning, he had awoken early: it was just turning six. The streets were still empty. Edward could walk freely without the leering stares of passers-by. From there he walked over Waterloo Bridge where he stared at the water for a little while, the water that flowed, oblivious to the city around it. He walked along the Strand to Trafalgar Square, empty except for pigeons. He passed through it, the stubborn birds failing to get out of his way. He sat on the steps of the Gallery and looked over the square. He looked up at the very top of the Column where Nelson himself stood and for a moment imagined what it would be like to be up there, right above the city. Looking down, he felt ill at the deathly fall beneath him. Apart from this brief distraction, his only thoughts were on food. He had not eaten for days and now the knot in his stomach was tearing a hole inside of him. He rummaged inside his bag and removed a paperback book.

  He had been reading it ever since he had left for London, all along the motorway, in every doorway and side-street of the city. It came to just over a thousand pages of minute, densely-printed text. He turned to the front cover and read its title: The Cityscape Chronicles. In it, its protagonist, Heronymous Glass, finds himself lost in a city. It does not specify which city he is in, and indeed Heronymous himself is unsure. He is a businessman who had travelled far from his home town. He was sure he had a meeting to attend or a product to sell, but he can no longer remember. Perhaps the briefcase he carries with him would give him a clue, but he no longer remembers the combination to the lock. He wears a blue suit and a red tie, now crumpled. He is in his forties, but whenever he sees his face in the passing reflection of a shop window, he cannot help but feel he is ageing, that his face is creased more than when he arrived. He cannot remember when he arrived. He is trying to escape the city, walking and walking, but as the novel progresses, the buildings begin to shift. Streets begin to fold back on themselves and buildings rise up from where there was once a telephone box or a lamp-post. He soon realises that the city is turning into a maze. A labyrinth, in fact, a place where he is forever left to wander. The book began with the sentence (a sentence Edward read many weeks ago): One day there wasn’t a man, and one day there was.