‘He’s weird,’ said Catherine.
‘He looks familiar.’
‘Familiar?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How could he be familiar?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘He’s a tramp.’
‘Yeah, he probably is.’
‘He’s so creepy. God, I hope he stops looking over.’
‘He seems to have stopped.’
‘Good. He’d better not look again.’ There was a pause. ‘Can I read the rest of the pages?’ asked Catherine.
‘All of them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You want to?’ asked Edward.
‘Yeah. They’re interesting.’
‘You’ll barely be able to read some of it. Some of it’s a mess.’
‘That part I read wasn’t.’
‘Some if it’s coherent-from the early days. The rest’s indecipherable.’
‘I don’t mind. I’ll read what I can.’
‘Okay,’ said Edward. ‘It’s up to you.’
‘So the whole thing is about your mother?’ she asked quickly
‘Yeah, basically.’
‘Why?’ she asked, before immediately taking a sip of her drink.
‘I don’t know, it just turned out that way. I think I was probably writing about me to start with, and before I knew it, I was writing about her. Of course, it’s about me too. I mean, I’m in there.’
‘How do you feel now that it’s been written?’
‘Not like I thought I would. I thought by writing it I would purge myself of everything, but I just feel kind of normal now.’
‘Normal?’
‘Yeah, just good.’
‘Better than good?’ she said, touching his arm.
‘Of course.’
‘But how do you know all that stuff in the book if you never knew your mum?’
‘Well I knew her till I was six. She told me everything before she died.’
‘She died when you were six?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you mind me asking how?’
‘Oh, she drowned.’
‘Drowned?’
‘Yeah. I was young then anyway, but there are versions of the truth.’
‘What versions?’
‘Well the police said that it was an accident-not suicide, not murder or anything-but the facts have been obscured. It happened very late at night, at a lake close to where we were staying at the time. But the thing is she had no reason for being out there so late. She was paranoid about me and my safety and there’s no way she could have left me alone like she did.’
‘So what do you think happened?’
‘I can’t say for sure, but I’m sure there’s more to it than a simple accident. She didn’t like the water anyway, she couldn’t swim. She’d even take really shallow baths. There’s no way she would have dipped one toe into that lake let alone drown in it.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘And she was only wearing her night-dress at the time. The cold would have been enough to kill her. I mean, what she was doing out dressed like that?’
‘I can’t imagine that happening to me.’
‘Well, I barely understood what was happening at the time. I just couldn’t comprehend what I was being told. It took me a long time to understand what had happened. Ah, anyway, forget about it.’
‘But if she died when you were so young, how did you know so much about her? How did you remember so much about her, especially with no other relatives to tell you about her?’
‘Because my mother... she had this condition where she would just talk. Her brain wouldn’t filter what she was thinking and it would just come pouring out of her mouth. So if she saw something, like this cup here, she would say “Cup, cup, there’s a cup, a glass, a cup,” for instance. Or if she looked over there she’d say, “It’s dark, it’s dark there, more light needed, more light”.’
‘She did this all the time?’
‘No, it actually came in short bursts, but the thing is in between all this commentary of what she saw and what she thought, came lots of stories about her past, lots of information that had nothing to do with what was around her. And I would just sit and listen and I would notice stories weaving their way through this stream of words. And the stories would repeat themselves, so I’d get to know them really well. And I listened intently. I wanted to know.’
‘How did you know what she said was the truth?’
‘I didn’t. Some of it was true, some of it was fiction-I couldn’t separate one from the other. But she would tell me about where she came from, where I came from, what our house was like, what her childhood was like, everything.’
‘And she told you about that man?’
‘What man?’
‘From the pages I read, there was a man you said was following you.’
‘Yes, she told me about him. In fact, towards the end, she would only talk about him and I would lock myself away in the cupboard just to get away from it. I couldn’t bare to hear it anymore. I got sick of all these words, words, words. And then they came back and got me, the words, forced me to write them down. I think I know how she felt, like all these ideas and words were attacking her and she couldn’t do anything but get them out. It takes you over. Words are unreliable anyway. What difference does it make if my name is Edward Rose or Edward Glass? I’m still me no matter what I’m called. It doesn’t make any difference.’
‘Okay, fine, Mr Rose-it doesn’t make a difference. Let’s head off now.’
‘Yeah, okay, I just have to go to the toilet,’ Edward said, drinking up the last of his drink and squeezing out from behind the table. Catherine collected together her scarf and coat and waited for Edward. After a few moments, she was about to tie her scarf when she noticed someone standing at her table. Her eyes darted up: it was the tramp from the bar, the one who had been staring at her. Up close he was even more horrifying, the crevices of his skin and the textures of his clothes now in sharp focus. Up close, his scent was vile. Catherine was in shock, silenced by his presence.
‘I know your man,’ he said. When he spoke, Catherine could hear the alcohol in his voice: the lazy tongue, the deformed syllables.
‘My man?’ repeated Catherine, almost automatically. Catherine didn’t know if it was what she had said that triggered him, but his voice suddenly exploded into a fiery rage that filled the room.
‘I saved his life, you little bitch!’ Heads turned, conversations silenced. The barman came out from behind the bar. Just at that moment, Edward returned from the bathroom and saw the tramp standing right in front of Catherine, could see the whole pub turned towards their table. He had heard a yell from the staircase leading from the toilet, and only when he opened the door back into the pub did he know that he was involved. He hurried over to the table, unsure of what he was going to do when he got there. The tramp immediately noticed Edward, their eyes met: his wild eyes grew dark and he turned away, heading straight for the door. The tramp moved powerfully: his cane never touched the ground. When he came to the door, he slammed it hard and spilled violently out into the street. Edward followed, but when he reached the pavement, the tramp was already far off in the distance. Catherine soon emerged from the pub. Edward’s eyes did not shift from their gaze at the horizon.
‘I know that man,’ he said.
‘Who is he?’ asked Catherine, a clear tremble in her voice.
‘I met him in a park.’
‘What park? Who is he?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ve seen those eyes before.’ Edward’s eyes fell from the horizon: the city had swallowed the stranger.
Catherine read every word, sometimes reading late into the night. The earliest pages were easiest to read since Edward’s handwriting was easier to decipher. As the pages went on, Edward’s handwriting became more and more frantic, more and more incomprehensible. Catherine found herself suffocating amongst these words. As she walked through the streets, as she tried t
o get on with daily life, doing the shopping, doing the laundry, she would find herself walking into the thick of these words: they would precede her wherever she went. Every night when she sat up to read these words, she felt herself spiralling towards their conclusion, becoming locked in a whirlpool of stories and thoughts and memories, and instead of entering its maze and finding herself out on the other side, she found herself trapped at its centre with no way out. In her dreams, she would find herself spinning amongst these words, and every waking hour she would force herself on towards the end. And with every page she discovered more and more about Edward Glass; in the same way that she fell into these words, she also fell into Edward Glass.
The basement was steadily clearing. The shelves at the back of the room were now filling with books and around the room lay steady piles. In one corner, however, a mass of books still lay. Edward picked up a few and placed them on a pile. He took some more and made another pile. It was only on his return that he noticed a certain book amongst the mess. He reached his hand in and pulled it out: a hardback, its once extravagant cover now tattered and worn. On its front, a letter Z inside a letter O, and within these letters were two girls, one holding a staff, the other with a hen in her arms. Turning it over in his hands, he was struck by it: it was clearly an early copy, and perhaps once valuable copy, of L. Frank Baum’s Ozma of Oz. He opened it up and poured over the detailed illustrations that accompanied the text. He flipped through it, right to the end, where something caught his eye: some dark paper had been taped onto the inside back cover. He carefully pulled it off, finding it to be a small paper envelope. Inside was something solid. He shook the envelope into his hand and a small metal key fell out. He held it, stared at it: it was a miniature key, too small for a full-size door, perhaps more fitting for a doll’s house. He turned it over in his hands and imagined what it was used for, imagined where it came from. It was only when he picked up the book again that he noticed the initials printed on the inside front cover. Scratched deep into the surface with red ink, in what looked very much like a child’s handwriting, was two letters: M. R.
Part 3
9.
Time passed and Catherine Lucia was now Catherine Glass. Edward and Catherine married only a few weeks after moving in together. It was finalised as quickly as it was decided, being only a matter of signing the papers. They moved Catherine’s things into Edward’s apartment, his being fractionally larger, immediately cutting their living expenses in half. Edward gave the rooms a new coat of paint, and Catherine lovingly covered the walls with photographs that they had taken of each other, as well as one of Amigo the penguin. They threw out Edward’s sofa and replaced it with Catherine’s. They bought a brand new bed which sat handsomely in the bedroom, as well as a new wardrobe; the piano sat in the corner. They removed the curtains on all the windows and replaced them with blinds that they kept open, allowing the light into this once dark apartment. Around the room, however, boxes lay. All but one was Catherine’s, one being three feet by three feet.
One wall was bare; Edward would not allow Catherine to hang any pictures there. Eventually, the bits and pieces were delivered and Edward began construction on his new set of bookshelves. This took a few days as Edward poured over the unmarked illustrations, as he screwed and unscrewed, as he sweated and cursed. Then there was a day when the shelves were standing, with no sign of there ever having been a struggle. Edward began to unpack Catherine’s boxes of books. When Catherine returned from the shops, she found him on the sofa, engrossed in a small yellow paperback.
‘You finished, then?’ said Catherine as she put the bags down in the adjoining kitchen.
‘Yeah. Only took three days,’ said Edward. Catherine began to unpack. ‘You know someone’s written an address and phone number in your book.’ Catherine paused. She walked over to Edward and took the book off him. She looked at the old blue ink.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, having forgotten that Oliver’s number was in there. She handed it back and returned to the kitchen.
‘Who’s is it?’
‘Oh, no one’s.’
‘But you wrote it?’
‘No, it was there when I bought it,’ lied Catherine.
‘Oh. It’s quite a good book.’
‘Yeah, it is. Short, too.’
‘I think I’m going to arrange the books by author. Or do you think I should do them in order of size? That may look better.’
‘Whatever you think’s best.’
‘We should really get some more books. Maybe tomorrow I’ll go buy some. Are there any you want?’
‘I don’t think we should buy books just for the sake of it. Only buy them if you’re going to read them.’
‘I used to have loads of books; couldn’t stop buying them. Every day I’d get a few more. Second-hand bookshops are filled with the cheapest of books. Had to sell them all though.’
They sat down for a lunch of sandwiches and crisps.
‘We should really get a dining table you know,’ said Catherine. ‘This sofa’s not the best place to eat.’
‘I know.’
‘Just a small one. We have enough space.’
‘Oh, the archive called-they want me to go in for an interview.’
‘Oh, that’s great! Why didn’t you tell me?’ said Catherine, as she hugged him with the arm not holding the sandwich. ‘When do they want you to go in?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, at nine.’
‘Nine? Is your suit ready? And your shoes-you have to polish them. You have to look presentable.’
‘I will look presentable!’
‘Just make sure your shoes are shining. People always look at a man’s shoes.’
‘No one ever notices!’
‘Yes they do. Shoes can help you get the job. You will polish them, won’t you?’
‘Yeah, okay.’
‘Promise?’
‘Yes!’ snapped Edward.
‘I’m just trying to help. We don’t want you failing another interview.’
‘I’m not going to fail. Those other guys were much more experienced than me, much better qualified. I can do this job, no problem.’
‘I just-you have to get this, we need the money. You know my job can’t support us both.’
‘I know! I know, you keep telling me.’
‘I keep telling you because it’s important. You know I don’t even think we need that phone.’
‘What?’
‘It’s so expensive and we never use it.’
‘How would they have told me I’d got the interview if I didn’t have the phone?’
‘Once! That was once. When you have the job you won’t need it anymore.’
‘Don’t be silly. We need a bloody phone in our house. What if we needed an ambulance?’
‘Why would we need an ambulance?’
‘I needed an ambulance, remember?’
‘Yes, but that’s not going to happen again. We’re going to live like normal people.’
‘What does that even mean? You always want to be so normal. Being like other people isn’t as great as you think, you know.’
‘But we never do anything. Normal people do things!’
‘Oh, like what? What would you like to do?’
‘Go out!’
‘We can’t afford to go out.’
‘Normal people go out. And normal husbands don’t give their wives such a hard time when they’re only trying to help!’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Normal people have friends!’
‘Why don’t you go get some friends then?’
‘Because you don’t like meeting people!’
‘I don’t want friends. You’re the one who wants friends.’
‘But I want us to have friends, to have friends together.’
‘No, because I’m bored by people.’
‘What, and sitting around our tiny apartment isn’t boring?’
‘No, I like
it. I like it here. If it’s too small for you, why don’t you go out and get one of those mansions with a, a west wing and an east wing-you can have an entire wing to yourself, and you can have as many friends as you like to visit you all the time and bring you presents, expensive presents and expensive clothes.’
‘I don’t want expensive clothes! I just want to have a life!’
‘Fine, then go get one! What do you need me for?’
Catherine threw down her sandwich, stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door. After a moment’s silence, Edward could hear the sound of crying. He’d lost his appetite. He proceeded to fill the shelves with the rest of the books, one of which was a tattered old Ozma of Oz.
The building was a dark, looming structure, out of place on the street where it stood, the same street where Edward stood with his freshly polished shoes. Its brickwork had been stained by the drifting smoke of the nearby factories, its façade now a steely grey. It rose much higher than the nondescript office buildings that surrounded it, its vast walls peppered with crevices and indentations where invisible men sat at masked windows and looked out over the city. Walking up the large stone steps to the giant front doors, there were no signs or notices anywhere to be seen-nor were there any people around-just a blank, decaying building. There was no doorbell, nor any knocker. He attempted to knock on the door with his knuckles, but it was as hard as stone and hurt his fist. After no reply, he forced the door open, having to push it with his shoulder to make it move. When there was enough space, he peered around the door. Inside: a dimly lit foyer. He stepped inside. There was no one around, just empty seats and bare walls. He looked at his watch: ten past nine. If anything, he was late. As he walked further in, his footsteps echoed against the walls. Looking around, he saw that there were a number of corridors that surrounded the foyer, leading off in various directions. Not knowing where to go nor what to do, he said, ‘Hello’ out into the room. It echoed. He said, louder, ‘Excuse me?’ Only after a heavy silence did he hear footsteps. He span around. The footsteps became louder and louder, and out of one of the many corridors came a woman. She was not very tall, but on her feet she wore heels that hit the stone floor like gunshots.
The Glass Book - A London Love Story Page 14
