The Glass Book - A London Love Story

by Christian Hayes

  ‘We do a few, yes.’

  ‘Well, what I want to know about is a red coat. For a woman.’

  ‘For a woman?’

  ‘Yes. It’s got kind of a high collar,’ said Edward, staring at the photograph, ‘and a kind of belt around the waist. It’s not a bright red. Like a dark red, a deep red.’

  ‘A blood red, you mean?’

  ‘I suppose you could say it was blood red, yes...’

  ‘No, we don’t have any of those in.’

  ‘Have you ever had any like those in?’

  ‘I don’t think we have, but we will be getting some new stock in next Monday, so I can check and call you back then.’

  ‘No, but I mean have you ever had a coat like this in?’

  ‘Well, this season it’s mainly less vibrant colours...’

  ‘I don’t mean this season, I mean in the past.’

  ‘The past?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I mean, like, around the late seventies? The mid-seventies maybe.’ There was a silence at the other end. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’

  ‘Well, can you help me at all?’

  ‘We don’t keep records of clothes that far back. I’ve only been working here a few months, so...’

  ‘But it says here you’ve been around since 1897. You must have lots of clothes lying around.’

  ‘No, we don’t. We don’t even keep last season’s clothes, let alone clothes from the seventies.’

  ‘Who could I go to to find out this information?’

  ‘I have no idea. Was it even bought from us?’

  ‘No, I don’t know where it’s from.’

  ‘Look at the label.’

  ‘No, I don’t have one, I’m looking for one.’

  ‘Then where did you get the description from?’

  ‘From a photograph.’

  ‘I see. Try Hatchler’s, they’ve been around for a long time.’ Edward detected his urgency to leave.

  ‘Hatchler’s, right... Thank you for you help.’

  ‘Bye,’ said the man, sharply, before ending the call. Edward sat in silence. He threw the photograph onto the desk but immediately picked it up again. He stared at it harder, but this time, staring at the woman made Edward feel sick. He was in no mood to continue looking at this relic. He dropped it and sat in silence, but even though his eyes were closed, all he could see was the woman with the cigarette.

  Catherine and Edward were watching their new colour television. Catherine didn’t like it since it gave them an excuse not to talk. Without it, all there was to do was talk, but once the arguments started, a television seemed to be the best solution. Now that they had one, Catherine would rather argue than sit in silence. She grabbed the remote and turned off the television.

  ‘I was watching that,’ said Edward.

  ‘I want you to tell me about work,’ said Catherine.

  ‘What about it? Turn the TV on!’

  ‘No. I want us to talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About work. It was your first day today and you’ve hardly told me a thing. I want to know all about it. Like, what do you even do there?’

  ‘I’ve told you all that already.’

  ‘You’ve hardly told me a thing.’

  ‘We just look at some photographs.’

  ‘And what else? You must be doing something else.’

  ‘We just look at the photographs and try to find out who the people are in them.’

  ‘What kind of photographs?’

  ‘I just said: photos of people!’

  ‘All of them are of people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who were you trying to identify today?’ Edward didn’t answer. He grabbed the remote. She grabbed his hand. ‘Don’t touch that!’ He let go.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m not in the mood!’

  ‘You’re never in the mood anymore. I just want to talk, Edward. I just want to have a conversation.’ Her voice was trembling a little.

  ‘Oh, don’t start crying now, I’m really not in the mood.’ This, of course, only served to make her cry. Edward now felt sick in his stomach, he could feel an argument coming on. But tonight was probably worse than an argument, for instead of the usual shouting, Catherine and Edward did not say another word to each other. Catherine went to bed early to try and drown her sadness in sleep, while Edward instead stayed up watching television.

  He had purposefully not told her about the woman in the photograph. In fact, he was scared to mention it. He did not want the secrets that he was forming to become at all concrete, he wanted to suppress them, to have everything stay just the way it was. He found himself wanting to say something to Catherine, to knock on the bedroom door and confess everything, but his throat tightened up and his body would not move. When Edward did go to bed, just after one o’ clock, Catherine’s back was turned to him, and whatever Edward did he could not get to sleep. The darkness was keeping him awake: out of the darkness came the woman with the cigarette: out of the walls, out of the ceiling, came this woman walking towards him, yet frozen in the same position, her quiet eyes peering at Edward, her dark brown hair shining in the light filtering through the autumn branches. Edward looked at the carpet, and all he saw were dead leaves. He looked at the ceiling, and all he saw were bare trees. He looked at Catherine, and all he saw was the woman in the photo, her naked back turned towards him. He placed a hand on her back, moved up close to her. The woman stirred, moaned. He pressed his face up against her, the woman turned, the woman in the photograph.

  ‘I’m sleeping!’ screamed Catherine, her eyes wild. Edward retreated, turned, buried his head in his pillow and shut his eyes. The woman returned to him, wrapped her arms around him, whispered in his ear: ‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ and lay close to him. When he awoke, Catherine was already out of bed.

  This woman followed him to work. The red coat in the distance, just around the last corner. Even down the old metal staircase and around the archive. When he sat down at his desk, she was there on the table, staring right up at him. He turned the photograph over, face-down on the desk. Mr Stilts, could tell something was not right with Edward.

  ‘Anything wrong, Glass?’

  ‘Ah, just work. Can’t stop thinking about these bloody photographs,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it gets like that. Like they’re coming alive, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Edward, surprised by his insight.

  ‘It happens, it happens. Dead have a real power over us. Most of us don’t even know it.’ This conversation fell short and stopped right there; the next few hours continued in silence. Edward’s mind, however, was anything but quiet. This woman had dug her claws deep into his skin and was not letting go. The process was already underway. The more Edward spent time investigating the photograph, the more Edward became transfixed by her face. By the end of the day, after calling various clothes companies, various information bureaus and talking to Mr Stilts, Edward was no closer to identifying who this woman was. The same occurred on the next day, and in fact, for a few days to come Edward had no leads, no evidence, barely any clues. He carried the photograph around with him everywhere he went, taking it out only when no one was around. But as this process was underway, she was also emerging from the back of Edward’s memory. As he searched every directory, as he called any number he could find, as he scrutinised every inch of the photograph, he found something in her face that was very familiar. Whenever this notion came into his head, he shook it off and continued to work. But soon it began to affect his life outside of the office.

  Sitting at the dinner table, he was utterly distracted.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Catherine, very worried about how distant Edward had become.

  ‘Nothing, Catherine, nothing.’ He continued to eat. Their conversation fell silent.

  Edward lay in bed, w
ide awake. He turned to check that Catherine was asleep before creeping out of bed. He searched around in his jacket pocket and removed the photograph just as he heard a voice.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Catherine, sitting up.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Edward, hiding the photograph behind his back.

  ‘What have you got there?’ He dropped the photograph and held his hands out.

  ‘Nothing, see.’

  ‘You dropped it. Bring it over here.’ Edward was sick of arguments and so did what she asked. He handed her the photograph. ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s a photo, from work.’

  ‘What are you doing with it now?’

  ‘I just wanted to have a look at it.’

  ‘In the middle of the night?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’ve been acting really weirdly lately, Edward. What are you doing with this?’

  ‘You want to know?’

  ‘Yes! I want to know.’

  ‘I’ve found out who this woman is.’ He was almost sure of what he was about to conclude, but he held it in his head, in his throat, until he could not keep it to himself any longer. And when the words came out, he was sure that what he had said was the truth: that this woman had come out of the past to find him. Mia Rose had come back from the dead.

  Edward hurried into work. When he entered the office, he didn’t bother sitting down.

  ‘I know who this is,’ he said, taking out the photograph from his pocket. Stilts stood up immediately.

  ‘You do?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘Yes, this is Mia Rose.’

  ‘Who is Mia Rose?’

  ‘She’s my mother.’ Stilts’s face dropped, but Edward didn’t notice. ‘I know it’s her. I remember her exactly like this, even this place, this forest, I used to play there. I know I did. This barn, that’s where I once hid when I’d been bad and didn’t want to be told off. I remember. I remember it all.’ Stilts was silent. Then.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Edward did so.

  ‘I’m afraid to say, Edward, but that is not your mother.’

  ‘But it is! How do you know? I should know what my mother looks like!’

  ‘And what proof do you have?’

  ‘I don’t need proof-I know!’

  ‘But I need proof. How are you going to write a report if you don’t have any evidence?’

  ‘I’m her son. That’s evidence enough.’

  ‘Listen, Edward. I’ve worked here many years. When I started, the photos began to obsess me. First I couldn’t stop thinking about them, and then they started to plug holes in my memory. The faces that I would see every day at work began to substitute those that I had lost or forgotten long ago, especially-’

  ‘But I haven’t forgotten. I remember.’

  ‘-especially those that we want back again.’ Edward looked back at the photo. ‘I think you should take a break from all these photographs.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Take the rest of the week off, clear your head.’

  ‘I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘I know you are.’ He held out his hand for the photograph, but Edward didn’t move. ‘I’m going to need the photo back.’

  ‘You can’t have it. This is Mia Rose. That means this photo belongs to me!’ said Edward, angrily.

  ‘Okay,’ said Mr Stilts. ‘Hang onto it, just don’t keep looking at it.’ Mr Stilts remained standing until Edward took the initiative to leave. They didn’t say another word to each other.

  Catherine was horrified when Edward told her the news. She sat at the dining table, pinching her forehead. ‘After all we talked about last night, you go and tell him exactly what I told you not to say-because I knew this would happen!’ Edward was barely listening, sitting firmly on the sofa. He knew everything that Catherine was going to say to him and did not want to hear it again. ‘What did you think he was going to say when you told him you thought it was your mother?’

  ‘He sympathised with me!’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘He said he understood.’

  ‘He may have understood, but doesn’t mean he believes you. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t think you’re crazy! He sent you home, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I know he sent me home! I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you’re here. And while you’re here, who’s being paid for doing your job?’

  ‘I don’t see you working.’

  ‘I... You know it’s my day off!’

  ‘At least I’m at work!’

  ‘Not anymore! Now I’m just... fed up. I’m fed up with you.’

  ‘Fine. That’s fine. I’m fed up with you too.’

  Catherine couldn’t say anything but, ‘Fine!’ as well. Catherine turned away, her face to the window. She heard the sound of paper sliding out of a pocket. When she turned back she saw Edward looking at the photograph again. She leapt out of her seat. ‘Give me that!’ she yelled, wrestling with Edward.

  ‘No! Why?’ shouted Edward, holding it as far away from Catherine as he could.

  ‘I don’t want you looking at it anymore. You’re obsessed with it!’

  ‘It’s my photo-I can do what I like with it!’

  ‘You cannot do what you like with it!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I say so! I’ll give you a picture of me to be obsessed with!’ Catherine gave up fighting for it and let herself fall into the seat next to Edward on the sofa. There was a silence as both of them ignored the other. Only after she had organised her thoughts did she speak. ‘Look, I know Mia Rose is important to you, but you just can’t let it take you over like this. You’ve got to be able to just live your life now, and one photograph isn’t going to help fix everything.’ She chose her words carefully. ‘And you know, the odds are that the woman in the photograph cannot be Mia Rose.’ Edward seemed to turn away slightly, or at least his eyes shifted away from Catherine.

  ‘Just let me believe it’s her. Please.’ Catherine put her arm around him and they sat together for a while. ‘You can have it,’ Edward said, holding out the photo. Catherine took it and held it, looking at it herself.

  ‘I’ll put it somewhere safe,’ she said. She got up and put it in between two books on the bookshelf.

  ‘I think I’m going to go for a walk.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Catherine, hopefully.

  ‘No, I’d rather just...’ his words trailed off.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll be waiting for you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Edward put on his coat and left. Catherine sat at the kitchen table before getting up to look out of the window as Edward walked down the street and out of sight.

  Edward circled around the block. If Catherine had kept watching, she would have seen Edward again and again, walking rings around where he lived. When he tired of this, he chose a street to head off in, and journeyed away. He looked up at the sky, at the buildings, at the other people on the street. When he tired of that street, he took a turn and wandered down another. This took him down a variation of quiet side streets and busy main roads. His body soon began to tire of walking. It wanted to rest. When he found a bench on a main road, he took the opportunity to sit down for a while. He closed his eyes and felt himself fall asleep. When he opened them again, the sky was somewhat darker. He looked up: clouds were forming.

  Across the street was a man. He was sitting propped up by a wall. When Edward looked closer, he saw in fact that the man was slouching, that the man’s eyes were closed. An even closer look saw that he was wearing tattered clothes and sporting a thick beard and greasy hair. The man did not have a paper cup or a hat or a sign out in front of him, so he wasn’t begging. As Edward watched him, he noticed that he did not move. He watched him for minutes on end but still, he did not move. Edward became more and more worried, and more and more convinced, that what he was looking at was not a man but a corpse. A dea
d man on a main road oblivious to the fact. Cars passed, people walked by, but they did not even flinch. Edward began to feel sick in his stomach. He was forced to stand up, to make his way across the road, to approach the body. And as he did so, as his vision of the man came more clearly into focus, he saw that the man looked familiar, that he recognised the cane and the suit and the sole coming away from his shoe. He kneeled down, and when the man’s lids slowly opened, he recognised those dark eyes; they were now considerably darker. Edward did not think that the man had seen him, even though his eyes were now open. But he had. There was no doubt that he had. He said: ‘Edward’.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  The man’s voice was quiet, escaping from where it was stuck in his throat. ‘I saved your life.’ And in that moment, even before the words had come out of his mouth, everything fell into place. Not only had he met this man before on a bench in a park many months ago, but he was also the one who had confronted Catherine in the pub. But he should have known, he should have seen it coming-for he had always been expecting this day-the day when he would have to repay the debt of goodwill cast upon him by his mysterious benefactor. This was the day, for that man and this shadow on the pavement were one and the same: Frederick Wolf.

  10.

  Frederick Wolf was falling apart: his face had deep lines etched into its skin, his cheeks sunken; his bloodshot eyes seemed to be sinking into the uneven terrain of his face; his body ached, no longer functioning how it used to; his joints seized up: a burden to walk. Even as he moved the spoon from the bowl to his mouth, the repeated mechanism of his arm became rusty. These staccato motions resulted in their being less and less soup in the spoon every time he lifted it to his lips; eventually it contained no soup at all. It was the years of his descent that led to the deterioration of Henry Rose, from the healthy and fortunate man he had once been, to the nameless soul he found sitting at the table of Edward Rose.

  He had never imagined he would be so close, that he would be sitting at the centre of Edward Rose’s world. He remembers Edward the baby, a figure so far removed from anything that existed today. When he next saw him, wandering the streets of London, Edward had become a man. It had taken him a long time to identify him as the right Edward, as the man who had once been that baby. Watching him sleeping on the street, following him during his walks through the city, Henry Rose could do nothing but help him. He devised an elaborate plan: he would lift Edward Rose back onto his feet, give him food, shelter, and enough money to keep his head above water. To approach Edward, however, Henry Rose would have to change his identity; he would have to become someone else entirely.