The Glass Book - A London Love Story

by Christian Hayes

  it cries it wails it does not like the cold I tell henry that goodfornothing I tell him to work harder bring home the bacon but he whimpers only bringing home a few pennies what he does out there I will never know no work he tells me too many people but no jobs he waits in line he wanders from place to place but he is not the manforthejob not the man for any job can not take care of marriedsinglemother the walls are shifting closer everyday tales of houses crumbling tumbling intothesea the earth moving closer but that is not why I will run away it is not a race with the earth it is to get away from him from this place from everythingIhaveeverknown to give edward morethantheearth I take him from here he can learnandeatandlive I will find a richman who will have so much money I wontknowwhattodowith all I need is a bag edwards things edward himself is allIneed a long walk under cover of night edward sleep soundly for no one will hear a thing tomorrow night tonight tiptoeing away under the lighthouse moon across the forest through the grass on to a train will takeusawa.

  I tell him of a monster chasing him a monsterofaman and he believes me it is easy to scare him to talk of monsters with sharp teeth evileyes and he believes the shadows on the wall are the strangersofthenight the man we left behind the man who will no doubt follow will no doubt find us oneofthesedays weak with ambition weak with desire to followmewhereeverigo like he used to like the clinging whining tears of a pathetic little man I only used to get away only binded to to get away now I get away again back and forth away and away again bouncing from place to place edward grows clings to me because heismine sees me only looks up with knowledge knows me because he has seen inside me he is my insides outside

  I teach him what I can they say I must takehimtoschool but I do not want him out of my sight with all the strangers I talk to him tell him things he is learning the language very fast with all the words I tell him he understands I know he does even if he does not say so and I tell him to talk properly to pronounce every syllable but when hes quiet it makes me angry because he is not learning I cannot help speaking anymore the words fall out of my control words that were not there and words that are now there dripping from my lips I want to be quiet to stop the spinningofthesestories of the truth and the lies I do not know where the fiction stops and the fact begins I am sure he is chasing us now if I did not believe it before I believe it now I see his hands of shadow crawling up the wall cry with edward in fear hide when I hear footsteps

  we will be safe here inthishouse me and Edward in the middleofnowhere the long roads the fields that stretch a lot like the boxofahouse but warmer solid brickhouse the garden swing and the lake behind the trees the lake edward dips his toe in floats his toys upon his paperboats sometimes I think he is tryingtoescape but I know he is not I know heismine I will not show him the letters the howdidhefindus correspondences with our middleofnowhere address here of all places the elaborate wordings and the pathetic cries anyday now I am certain he knows our address anyday now I am certain he will come knocking on the door a letter falls through the letterbox a meeting he wants but I refuse to let him see edward a call tothehouse how did he get this number I tell him to go away he says he is coming he screams and shouts unlike before when he would plead instead I donotlikeit he is coming tonight behind the trees middleofthenight at the edge of the lake I cannotswim the edge of the lake is edging towards me the man whose shadow runs around my neck the man who sends me towards the water’s edge is coming tonight

  At this point the handwriting changed suddenly. It was no longer a manic scribble. In its place came a more legible, studied style.

  Months have passed since I met Mia Rose for the last time, found her waiting for me at the lake. There was no struggle, no lash of violence, no harsh words. No words at all in fact. By the time I got there she was already floating out across the lake, her nightdress spread out in the water, as you probably know by now. There was nothing I could do for her; she was too far gone. Inside the house, Edward slept. He did not see me as I crept around the room. I found the letters I had sent Mia. Along with those letters I found this book. I will burn this book before I leave tonight. With Mia gone, the lying awake at night has become the deepest of sleeps. The strange thing is, all I dream of now is Edward.

  When he had finished reading Edward lay on the bed where he dreamt his last dream. He dreamt that he found a small wooden house and on opening the door he found it was much bigger inside than it was outside, a furnished room complete with a writing desk, stove, chest of drawers and a handsomely made bed. He dreamt that he stayed there for many years, taking strolls along the cliff by day and by evening filling the empty books he found with his memories. At night he would sleep soundly in bed. But as time passed he found himself becoming restless and in the pages he would write about someone he could no longer remember clearly, a face that he could not longer make out. So many years had passed that he was now far too old to remember the past, too old to realise that the shadows that plagued him no longer belonged to Mia Rose but to Catherine.

  As Edward slept the bare room crumbled from around him. The weight that Edward Glass had brought to the ugly little house was too much for the earth to bare. Edward did not realise he was falling and woke only long enough to see Catherine’s face, to understand that he wanted to return to her. But it was too late: the little wooden house was already tumbling into the sea.

  Part 4

  15.

  The unsigned postcard was waiting for Catherine on the carpet when she returned home. She made herself a cup of tea and stared at the card with its cityscape of London and its untidy words: I will be back end of the week. Wait for me. She stared at it until she could stare no more. By the time her tea had turned cold she was staring at the door. When Edward did not return, she took a long bath and thought of Edward. After drying herself she put on her pyjamas and got into bed. It was late. When Edward did not return she slept and dreamt of him. When she awoke the bed was still empty. That day she collected together the pages Edward had strewn, the pages she had slept upon, and sealed them firmly inside the cardboard box. When she was done, she waited. She sat and she waited.

  The next day she tidied the rest of the apartment, but by the time she had finished Edward had still not returned. She did not leave the apartment in fear of missing him. She played the piano, allowing the music to run down through the building. By the time the weekend arrived Catherine was busy making Edward food for when he returned. She poured over cookery books, struggling with recipes and ingredients, and by the time the evening came, she had prepared an elaborate roast dinner of lamb, potatoes, vegetables and gravy. She lit candles on the table and played the piano in anticipation of Edward’s arrival. By midnight, the food was cold. She did not eat any. She blew out the candles and preserved the food in the fridge. The following night she lit the candles again. She played the piano. At midnight she scraped the food from the plates into the bin. The next day she made him another meal, chicken and rice. She did not eat a mouthful. Instead, she watched the candle wax drip onto the tablecloth and at midnight she cried and threw the food away. The next day she made sausages and mash. Again she cried and again she got rid of the food without eating any herself. Night after night she repeated the process, making new meals only for them to be unmade. She would stare at the door. Soon she stopped playing the piano. Soon she stopped lighting the candles. Soon the food became simpler and simpler: from an omelette to beans on toast to cheese sandwiches, until she wasn’t making any food at all. She stared at the door as though it would fill her stomach. Dust began to settle over surfaces and crying gave her something to do.

  Weeks passed, but one day she did not cry. She stared at the door with tears in her eyes that did not fall. But one day, no tears welled in her eyes and one day she did not stare at the door. One day she did not leave her room and one day she thought it best to lock herself in and one day she did not get up and one day she thought it best to write and one day she opened a green notebook and one day after day after day she spilled Edward Glass out over every p
age, word after word after word

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  © Christian Hayes 2007, this Kindle edition © Christian Hayes 2011.

  Table of Contents

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Contact Christian Hayes