In the corner, only two tables from where Catherine had sat the last time she had visited, were Edward and Catherine. They were deep in conversation, sipping their wine and eating their food. They talked about many things, most of it inconsequential chit-chat: about the food they were eating, about the different kinds of food that they liked, about the best meal they’d ever had; that lead to the realisation that Edward had never eaten a chilli nor had ever really drunk wine-his palette had been deadened by a life of inexperience. Edward asked Catherine when had she moved in. Catherine explained that she had moved away from her parents, had headed for the city without much of a plan, and had found herself in the third-floor King’s Cross apartment. She had only moved in a week or so before she had found Edward, and so she had only been in London for two months so far. She told him that she didn’t even know she had a neighbour. It was only when she started to hear a television playing loudly, and when she had held her ear up to the wall, did she realise that the next-door apartment was occupied. She had waited patiently to hear the door open, the door shut, but it never happened. Just every night the television, well into the early hours, keeping her awake. Edward apologised. He wouldn’t even watch the television but would just leave it on loud, a way to block out extraneous sound.
Catherine told him about what she had been doing in London since she arrived. She had already made it to all the different sights, wandering about the city with a map out in front of her, searching crazily around for elusive road-signs, dodging crowds and attempting to keep warm. She had already been to the movies a few times, seen a couple of plays. She had eaten in different cheap restaurants, sat in gardens and parks, and walked along the Thames. She had been to Parliament, heard Big Ben strike twelve. She had walked through Leicester Square, past Piccadilly Circus, along Regent Street, down Oxford Street, turned right at Tottenham Court Road, had found herself in Soho, and appeared back in Leicester Square again.
'Everything,' she said, 'leads back in on itself. You will be walking, thinking you are somewhere completely new, until you turn a corner and notice something you’ve seen before: a shop, a building, a statue, and you’ll realise you were there only a moment ago. London is a maze, a labyrinth, a hall-of-mirrors. Being lost in London is a kind of illusion; you’re never far from somewhere you know. In one day I came across a statue of Charlie Chaplin, a Londoner, and walking wildly, I also came across Dickens’s house. Just walking around you will find blue plaques of different historical figures. I walked past the home of John Logie Baird and past the house of Rudyard Kipling. There are histories bricked over and histories built upon these grounds: London is a composite of histories upon histories. There is no pattern to the landscape, to the architecture. It has grown organically, hickledy-pickledy. Look up and you will see remnants of Victorian shops, names of old grocers, or long-shut pubs.'
Edward said that he had never really looked at it that way, always too busy looking at the ground, looking at his feet. He was surprised when she mentioned that she had been at the zoo. After that, they talked about animals: about monkeys, penguins and zebras; about Edward’s job at Paradise; about the strange books he had found there; and about Catherine’s piano-playing. It was only then, as the meal was coming to a close, that Catherine had built up enough courage to ask Edward what she really wanted to know, to shift aimless chit-chat to questions of importance, to place some meat on these conversational bones. She began, quite simply, with.
‘What happened to you?’
Edward didn’t really know what she meant. ‘When?’
‘When I found you lying on the floor of your apartment.’
‘Oh. . .’ Edward seemed a little hesitant.
‘You don’t have to tell me if you-‘
Edward interrupted her. ‘No, that’s okay. I’ll tell you.’ But Edward remained silent, words seemingly stuck on his tongue, that wouldn’t come out.
‘Were you ill? I mean, did you know you were ill?’
‘Well...’ said Edward, ‘I didn’t know I was ill, but I could feel it, you know? I’d get these terrible headaches...’ He held his hands up to his head, ‘Like they were penetrating my skull, working their way into my brain. It became unbearable. Of course, I should have known something was wrong then, once that started to happen, but I was too blind to notice. And it wasn’t just my head. It started in my head but then it became my whole body: my neck, my chest, my legs, everywhere.’
‘"Too blind to notice"? You would have to notice something like that.’
‘I know I should’ve, I know. But I was too caught up in my own world to notice anything, let alone what was happening to my body.’
‘What do you mean? What were you too caught up in?’
‘Well, I-’ Edward seemed to get stuck again, not knowing how to continue.
‘I just never heard you leave your apartment.’
‘I don’t think I did. I don’t know, but I don’t think I did.’
‘I never once heard your door open or close, I never once heard footsteps.’
‘I must have been stuck inside.’
‘Well how did you eat?’ Edward thought for a moment.
‘I suppose I didn’t.’
‘But how? Didn’t you notice what was happening to you? Didn’t you notice how hungry you must have been? What were you doing in there?’
‘I was writing something.’
‘Writing something? Like what, a book?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘What kind of book?’
‘I suppose you’d say it was fact.’
‘A history book?’
‘Yes, something like that.’
‘You were writing a history book and that’s why you forgot to eat? I don’t believe you.’
‘I know it sounds strange.’
‘It sounds bizarre.’
‘Well it wasn’t a history book, exactly. It was a more personal book than that.’
‘More personal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Personal how? About yourself? A history book about yourself?’
‘Kind of. It’s hard to explain.’
‘Well, explain!’ Catherine was getting angry at him. His story seemed so far-fetched that he may well have been lying to her. ‘What I want to know is how you could let yourself waste away like that? That’s such a stupid thing to do. So irresponsible. We live in the world, you know. We have to all work together, live like people.’
‘I know... I know.’ Edward had not been spoken to like that for a long time. He never thought that the way he had lived, alone, could ever affect anyone other than himself, and yet Catherine was getting angry at him. It did seem to puncture a hole in him large enough for the words to come out. ‘The book wasn’t about myself. It was about a woman.’
‘A woman? A girl, you mean. A girlfriend?’ Catherine snapped.
‘No, not a girlfriend.’
‘Then who?’
‘Her name was Mia Rose.’
‘Mia Rose?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is she a real person or did you make her up?’
‘She’s a real person who really lived.’
‘So she’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ She was now proceeding with caution. ‘And what did you write about her?’
‘Just about her, about her life.’
‘Was she famous? An actress or something.’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘She’s not famous? Then why were you writing about her?’
‘Because I knew her.’
‘Oh, you knew her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, who was she then?’ Catherine was now more intrigued than anything else.
‘She was my mother,’ said Edward. He took the last sip of his wine. Catherine didn’t reply. She could barely make eye-contact with him. A moment passed.
‘Look, I’m sorry to ask so many questions. I just-‘
‘No, it’s good.
It’s good to ask. I feel good talking to you about it. I’ve never said anything to anyone about it. That’s probably why I was getting all those headaches. But now I’ve said something about it, it doesn’t feel so bad. You can ask me more if you like.’ Catherine carefully selected a question.
‘Where’s the book now?’
‘In a box in my room.’
‘Are you going to get it published?’
‘No, it’s not really for reading. I’ve sealed the box. Not even I’m going to read it again.’
‘How come?’
‘Because it’s in the past. I have no interest in it anymore.’
‘Oh.’ She took her final sip of wine as she planned another question: ‘But how did you end up on the floor of the apartment? Was it just because you were starved?’
Edward glanced down at his cheap watch, inadvertently ignoring her question. ‘What time’s the movie?’ he asked.
‘Nine.’
‘We’d better get going.’ Catherine’s question had been cut short and as a result she felt a little diminished but this feeling vanished when, walking through the icy evening to the cinema, Edward took her hand.
7.
Dorothy opened the door of her wooden house and allowed the magnificent colour of Oz to engulf her. Her dress turned from grey to blue-her cheeks became rosy, and even though Catherine and Edward were enchanted by the film playing on-screen, their thoughts were firmly with each other. Edward would peek at her silhouette in the darkness. Catherine, on the other hand, was transfixed by the conversation they had had earlier; she was formulating more questions and playing out conversations between her and Edward in her mind.
The night was chilly: they drifted through it and Catherine put her arm through Edward’s in an attempt to keep warm. It was so cold they could barely speak, their lips and noses becoming ice sculptures. They did not notice how empty the streets were, the purple of the night sky, nor the sound of their footsteps. They were too focused on each other.
Edward Glass was sitting in Catherine’s apartment. She had made tea and they were now on the sofa. A silence had fallen. Catherine was running through questions in her head, searching for questions that needed answering. All that she came out with was: ‘Do you want to listen to some music?’
‘Yeah, that would be good,’ said Edward.
Catherine began to search frantically amongst her unpacked boxes. ‘I’m sure its here somewhere,’ she said. Edward got up.
‘Do you want me to have a look?’ He leaned over the boxes and they surveyed the possibilities, flipping up flaps on this box and that. Through their contents, Edward managed to catch little glimpses of Catherine’s life: he saw candlesticks and hangers and clothes and paperbacks, everyday items that anyone would be expected to have. Edward was taking in as much information as he could, attempting to piece together Catherine through the objects she owned.
‘Ah, I’ve found it,’ Catherine said as she dug deep inside a box. ‘It’s in here.’ Catherine looked to be struggling as she attempted to lift it out.
‘Do you want a hand?’ asked Edward, taking over. He dug deep into the box and pulled out the big, heavy object that was inside. As it emerged into the light he saw that it was a record player. ‘Shall I plug it in?’ he asked, a little out of breath.
‘Yeah, just over there,’ Catherine said, pointing to a plug socket. ‘I have some speakers somewhere.’ And as Edward was plugging in the record player, Catherine produced some small speakers from one of the boxes. She crouched down next to Edward and fixed both wires into the back of the machine. ‘That should do it,’ she said. They both stood up and looked down at their accomplishment. There was a silence.
‘Have you got any records?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Catherine, looking around. She had almost forgotten she needed them. She searched around in another box and produced half a dozen records. ‘What would you like to listen to?’
‘What do you have?’ asked Edward as Catherine began to flick through them. They were all in tattered cases, looking as though they had been played over and over. Edward selected Blue Valentine because he liked the title and the photo on its sleeve. Catherine put it on the turntable and placed the needle down upon it. As the first few bars played out, the atmosphere of the room shifted. Catherine and Edward returned to the sofa.
After a brief silence: ‘I came to visit you, you know,’ said Catherine, ‘in hospital.’
‘I know.’
‘You know?’
‘Yes. I remember you.’
‘I didn’t think you knew I was there.’
‘I could hear you. I even saw you once. I just kept falling in and out of sleep, wanting to say something to you. I could tell you were right there next to me.’
‘Wow. I really thought you had no idea. I mean, I turned up most days for a month-’
‘For a month?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s a lot of time to spend on a stranger.’
‘Well, I was the one who found you. You were my responsibility.’
‘Didn’t you find it a little tedious? I mean, I was never awake.’
‘I kind of had a feeling you were. At first, I had no idea, but then your eyes opened. It was a sign at least. Even with your eyes open, though, you didn’t really respond.’
‘I wanted to. I wanted to scream. And I remember someone kept calling my name, over and over.’
‘You heard that?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. I heard it all over the place. I had no idea what it was. I barely knew what Edward meant.’
‘That was me: I’d read a story about a mother who had sat by her son and repeated his name. Eight months later, he awoke.’
‘What did you do at the hospital if I was asleep all the time?’
‘I read to you, brought you fruit-of course, you were never awake to eat it.’
‘What did you read to me?’
‘The paper. Books. Whatever I could. I kind of felt I had to. I mean, I had found you. But then, when I got my job, I couldn’t come every day anymore, and then I’d miss the visitation hours. I was so excited when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs and going into your apartment, because I knew you were better again. I knew you were back.’ Edward was a little stunned by all this. ‘I even settled your rent with the landlady, told her how sick you were. She said she promised to keep it for you at a discount.’
‘At a discount?’
‘Yeah. I paid the difference.’
‘You paid for my rent?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t she tell you?’
‘No, she didn’t tell me anything.’
‘Well, it was kind of a discreet deal. She didn’t want any of the other tenants knowing about it. She knew how sick you were.’
‘Well, please tell me what I owe you and I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.’
‘It wasn’t that much.’
‘Just tell me how much it was and I’ll get it back to you.’
‘We’ll deal with it another time. It’s not important.’ All Edward could say was.
‘I can’t believe-’ before the sentence got stuck in his mouth.
They hadn’t even noticed that they were sitting so close that their bodies touched. In the silence they could hear each other’s breathing, amplified by the silencing of the record between tracks. Their cheeks touched, faces reddened with pleasure. Catherine closed her eyes. Edward could almost feel her cheek against his lips, the edge of his lips brushing against her skin. Catherine turned to face him and their lips touched. It was a small kiss, soft and light. That was until they fell into each other, their bodies overlapping, sinking into the deep red of the sofa. They gave themselves up to each other: entwining tongues, body against body, the disappearance of the room around them. When it all came to an end, they were left exhausted, their limbs entwined as though they were shipwrecked on the shore of a desert island.
Time passed, and they briefly fell asleep. When they both surfaced, Catherine was the fir
st to break the silence.
‘Tell me the story of Edward Glass,’ she said.
‘Of Edward Glass?’
‘Yeah. I want to know about him.’
‘What would you like to know?’
‘I want to know how you ended up on the floor of your apartment. How does that tale start?’
‘It starts quite a while ago.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Okay,’ said Edward. The story began slowly, Edward divulging only the most basic of information. But as the tale progressed, Edward began to elaborate, describing intricate details. Word followed word followed word, until there was nothing that could be done about the outpouring of the adventures of Edward Glass.
Four years earlier. The peak of the summer. Edward was only seventeen. Looking out of the attic window of the cottage, he could see Mr and Mrs Reilly working out in the garden. He had written them a letter but, unable to get the words right, had torn it up. No letter was better, he thought. A clean exit, a silent escape. He packed his bag with as many clothes as he could carry, stuffed a book and map down the side pocket and slipped what money he had made on the neighbour’s farm into his jacket. Looking out of the window again to check for a clear coast, he had to quickly duck from view as Mrs Reilly looked up from her garden hoe.
‘Do you think Edward’s alright?’ she asked her husband, still staring up at the attic window. ‘He hasn’t left his room all morning.’
The Glass Book - A London Love Story Page 7