COLD AGAINST THE GLASS

By Jane O'Connell

Cold Against the Glass is contemporary Australian fiction set in Sydney and tells the story of Florence Lane, an artist and forager who discovers a collection of forgotten human specimens languishing in a city museum. In studying these curiosities, Florence unlocks the secrets they keep of dangerous industries and decadent lifestyles, of medicine gone wrong. But it's the specimen of an unidentified baby that captivates her and she becomes obsessed with tracking down the infant's parents. Who are they? Why did they donate their baby to science? Why have they never claimed her? This unexpected tale of love and loss explores the lives we treasure, the stories we choose to tell and the grief we carry in our hearts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Oct 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685835569

Book preview

PROLOGUE

2017

In a corner room on the ground floor of an old suburban hospital, time collapsed in the strangest of ways. Had he not been there to see it for himself, Tom knows he would not have believed it.

From his post at the door he watches Florence lift the baby from the harness and place her carefully in the woman’s arms. Swaddling the colour of flannel flowers shrouds the infant, an unusual shade chosen to suit whatever the gender.

Tom looks for a reaction as the woman adjusts to the unexpected weight, but her face shows no clues.

With some effort she lifts her hand to stroke her daughter’s cheek. She tucks the corner of the blanket under the baby’s chin. Deep in an alcove of her brain, a memory stirs.

‘Her grandmother—’ she tries to speak.

Florence sits next to her on the bed. ‘Her grandmother made this?’

The woman nods, lost in a different time where she is holding the blanket to her face, breathing in the smell of new wool.

Earlier in the day a thunderstorm rattled the windows but it’s calm now and shards of afternoon sun push through the clouds. Inside the room they wait, nobody dares disturb the moment.

She touches her baby’s lips, as if to shush her.

‘It’s okay little one,’ she whispers. ‘I’m here now.’

1.

Nine months earlier

It was a Monday morning like any other when Dani called out of the blue. Tom almost didn’t answer, he didn’t need the distraction. His phone vibrated and her name lit up the screen. For a few moments, he watched it flash.

‘Hey, Dani.’

‘Tom—’ She made a strange whimpering sound. ‘Jimmy’s dead.’

In that instant, Tom’s life shifted. One short sentence bookmarked the spot.

‘What? Where are you?’

‘At Mum’s.’

‘Where’s Jimmy?’

‘He’s here.’

It was bumper-to-bumper on Old South Head Road. Tom remembered scrabbling for his keys but had no recollection of getting in his car. He was sweating, his hands slippery on the wheel. When he got out, his linen shirt stuck to his back and sweat stained his underarms. A police car and a white van blocked the driveway but there was no sign of an ambulance. Jimmy was well and truly dead then.

Tom crossed the lawn to the front verandah. He hugged Dani and stepped back to look at her. Her cheeks were red and blotchy and she wiped a fresh set of tears from her eyes. He had no clue what to say.

‘They’re taking him for an autopsy,’ she said.

‘What happened?’

‘They’re not saying exactly.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In his old room. Oh, Tom, I had to identify him.’

He sat her down on the top step. ‘Are you okay here?’

‘I think so.’

Tom knew the house inside out. He knew which floorboards to avoid after years of creeping past Maureen’s room in the wee hours. Jimmy always said she’d be awake until all her chickens were home. Dani’s bedroom was now a guest room, and the dark dining nook that no-one ever used still looked desolate. Jimmy’s room was out the back of the house, a closed-in verandah known as the Orphanage. On weekends, the floor would be strewn with teenage bodies that hadn’t made it home. Their parents knew where they’d be. Tom stayed over so often Maureen shopped for him when she bought groceries. After his mother left it was more of a bedroom to him than his own.

Today though, it was a horror show. A zipped-up vinyl body bag sat like a giant slug on Jimmy’s favourite blue-and-green-striped rug – a bargain he’d picked up at the markets in Kerala and carted all over India, rolling it out in hostels and on airport floors.

The original lino floor was still dotted with copper-coloured burns from late-night cigarettes left smouldering to fall from the sill, forgotten in the hash haze and concentration of mastering a new chord progression. Through the glass louvres, levered horizontal for maximum airflow, Tom could see a pair of Jimmy’s board shorts flapping on the clothesline. It was a stinking-hot morning, the air heavy with humidity and a strange odour that smelt like the vegetation bin left in the summer sun.

In the kitchen, Freda, the family’s housekeeper, sat at the bench with a glass of water untouched in front of her. Drops of condensation dribbled down the side. She took a tissue from the box and folded it neatly in half and half again and wiped the glass. She sniffed repeatedly.

‘Mrs Mendoza, we have all we need,’ said a police officer. He closed his notebook and nodded to his colleague.

Tom and Freda followed the men in white coveralls carrying Jimmy down the hall. At Maureen’s bedroom, Freda slipped away to stand at the front window. Dani was sitting where he’d left her. She stood up when she heard the door open.

‘Jimmy’s going?’

‘Yeah.’

They watched the body bag slide into the van. A man walking his dog stopped to gawk while the dog peed on a tree. He caught Tom’s eye and moved on.

‘How am I supposed to tell Mum?’

Tom glanced at Dani and before he had a chance to think he heard the words come out of his mouth.

‘I’ll do it.’

He knew it was up to him. A journalist was a disseminator of information, the bearer of bad news. Everyone would have a role to play and this was his. He couldn’t let Maureen read the headline somewhere. No way.

‘What time zone is she in?’

‘Singapore, I think,’ Dani said. She leaned forward and vomited into the garden.

---

One of the last times Tom saw Jimmy he’d had a frangipani tucked behind his ear. It had been late in the week, a Thursday or Friday, in the run up to Christmas. The night had been balmy and the beer garden had pulsed with warm bodies. Empty glasses had cluttered the long table. Tom had had thoughts of doing a runner but Jimmy was just ramping up; regaling the group with a story he’d filed that afternoon about a funeral procession, hearse included, waved in by police for a random breath test. A classic Jimmy yarn full of embellishments.

‘Almost as good as the hearse in the T3 transit lane on Spit Bridge,’ he continued, on a roll. ‘Pulled over for having only one passenger.’ He took a swig of beer, teasing out the punchline. ‘The driver argued he had two people in the front plus one in the back!’

‘Bullshit, Jimmy,’ someone said.

‘So, did they get booked?’ Tom asked, feeding his mate the line.

‘They did not, Tom, thanks for enquiring. There is, in fact, no rule to say passengers must have a pulse!’

A soggy coaster sailed along the table and landed in front of Jimmy. He grinned at the chorus of groans. It was a rare glimpse of the old larrikin they all loved.

A few weeks earlier he’d turned up at a reunion in a cloud of gloom. He could barely disguise his disinterest. It was his weekend with Audrey and she’d flitted around the yard offsetting her father’s heavy mood. Jimmy had mostly ignored the adults and spent the afternoon in the sandpit, building an elaborate overpass with wooden tracks and helping Audrey push a convoy of miniature cars over the bridge.

‘Nothing’s changed,’ he’d said to Tom at lunch the next day, ‘they’re all so fucking boring, too busy being important to have fun.’

‘Maybe we’re all just trying to juggle shit,’ Tom had replied.

The rooftop bar they’d been in overlooked Circular Quay and they’d watched a cruise ship bulging with passengers navigate into the berth. Beyond the ship’s plume of exhaust, the creamy peaks and curves of the Opera House’s sails had shimmered in the sunlight.

Jimmy had polished off three beers in the time it had taken Tom to finish his burger-with-the-works. On weekdays, when Audrey was at school and stayed with her mother, Jimmy floated like a lost soul, adrift without the direction and demands of parenting. His current manuscript had floundered somewhere around chapter eight and not even the risk of losing his contract could motivate him.

He’d emptied his pint and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. ‘One more, Tommy-boy?’

‘Sorry, mate, work beckons.’

‘Yeah … me too.’ Jimmy sighed. ‘Home to look at a blank screen.’

Not long after that lunch he developed a new habit, calling at all hours for a chat. After a few episodes Tom started switching off his phone when he went to bed, knowing Jimmy would leave a rambling message. He’d rung two nights before he died at the more reasonable hour of 10.42 pm but Tom hadn’t listened to the voicemail.

And he still couldn’t do it, not yet.

2.

Behind the heavy timber doors the nightclub was poorly lit and smelt like an all-hours venue. Years of smoke lingering in the tired upholstery defied the sweet stench of commercial-grade fabric freshener.

Florence hated being out this late, she could barely keep her eyes open. She shivered under a cold stream of fan-forced air and looked around the bar. A familiar ache of disappointment rose from her gut.

Sebastian had disappeared through the red drapes soon after they’d arrived and still hadn’t returned. She slipped her arms through the sleeves of his jacket and pushed away her drink. Five more minutes, she thought.

Without warning the house lights blazed on and the music stopped. The sea of drinkers parted for two sniffer dogs who led their handlers through the crowd, poking their noses into bags and nuzzling the occasional crutch.

Florence’s pulse quickened. Seb had fired up a huge joint on the drive over. The windows had been open just a slit in the rain and their flat mate had thrown him a steely gaze as she’d waved away the cloud of smoke. She’d asked him to put it out so he’d taken a lung-filling drag then flicked the glowing head from the end of the joint out the window. Florence remembered he’d stashed what was left in his pocket and right now she wasn’t game to check what else was in there. She glanced at her phone, furious she’d fallen for his charm, again. Where the fuck was he? She’d never be in a dump like this if it wasn’t for Sebastian.

The police moved through the crowd and a cute labrador sat down at her feet. She was asked to empty her pockets. By the time the cops had confiscated the half-smoked joint and a few hydroponic heads wrapped in foil – and given her a stern warning – she was on her own. Sebastian was nowhere to be seen. She sent him a text, switched off her phone and went straight to her brother’s place.

By the following weekend, everything Florence owned was crammed into the spare room at Zach’s penthouse apartment. She surveyed her belongings with a looming sense of inadequacy. Two bags of clothes, a paint-stained trestle table, a futon, and her vintage baker’s rack salvaged from the patisserie in Crown Street when it closed down. Four boxes of books and a large packing carton stuffed with linen and kitchen basics rounded out the entire contents of her life. Not much to show for almost a decade of independence.

The Lane siblings might have come from different planets. Zach was calm and organised, a well-put-together marketing exec with no money worries. His style was neat and classic while Florence’s aesthetic leaned more towards dishevelled. She was forever rifling through her pile of clothes looking for the least crushed item. The cash from her last commission had evaporated and other than the few hundred dollars a week she made selling prints online, there was little financial hope on the horizon. Their one common trait was a disastrous taste in men. Zach had been single for more than a year and Florence decided she was destined to be a wallflower.

‘Look at us, Zach, the lonely Lanes – dance cards empty.’

‘Saturday night free!’ he replied.

---

A briny sea breeze drifted through the window of the studio distracting Florence from the complex sequence. Her tightly wound quadriceps protested.

‘One last vinyasa, release your legs if you need to …’

Florence desperately needed to but she held on for pride. Perspiration dripped from her face.

‘Aaaand relax. As you exhale, whoosh, let go of something that’s not meant for you.’

She sighed at the indignity of it all. From the back of the studio she heard a muffled sob. She opened an eye to stickybeak, but all the faces were planted in their mats. Mahalia, the tanned and tattooed instructor, appeared unfazed by the anonymous outburst.

‘Inhale deep into your diaphragm and draw in new adventures aligned to your unique magic.’

At the end of class, Florence rolled up her mat and waited to refill her water bottle. Her eyes scanned the corkboard over the sink, marvelling at the life-changing therapies on offer. A pink notecard pinned to the top corner caught her eye.

SELF-CONTAINED STUDIO

REASONABLE RENT

SUIT ARTIST

CALL ELEANOR FOR DETAILS

The note was handwritten with an ink sketch of a flannel flower in the bottom corner. Florence knew a sign when she saw one. She immediately dialled the number, standing at the sink at the yoga studio. When Eleanor eventually picked up, she explained she had a room available on the ground floor of her building.

‘It’s clean and secure but nothing flash, you’re welcome to take a look this afternoon.’

Florence said she’d be right over.

---

Stables Lane wasn’t signposted and the enclave of narrow alleyways a short walk from Oxford Street looked more commercial than residential. Florence circled the block before deciding, as it was the only entrance that wasn’t a roller door, she was probably in the right place. She rang the bell and looked around while she waited.

A heavy steel security door suggested the area was not quite as gentrified as residents would like to think and she made a mental note to check the route from the main road after dark. She’d learned that tip after once renting an old beach shack accessed by a bush track. The welcome isolation by day turned out to be terrifying at night.

After a few minutes she stepped back to look for signs of life on the higher floors, then rang the bell again. Nothing. She pulled out her phone and pressed redial.

‘Yes?’

‘Eleanor, it’s Florence, we spoke earlier. I’m here, in the lane.’

‘Alright, give me a few minutes, the elevator is as slow as me.’

Eleanor looked nothing like her shaky telephone voice suggested. Her skin glowed and her eyes were clear and bright. Her grey hair was teased and pinned up in a beehive, giving her an extra couple of inches in height, but even so, Florence, who was only five foot five and a half, could see the top of her head and the pencil she’d poked into her bouffant. Her loose linen pant suit was belted like a karate gi and a pair of clear-framed reading glasses dangled from her neck, tethered by a black cord.

‘You must be Florence.’

‘I am – nice to meet you,’ Florence said and stuck out her hand, but Eleanor had already turned around.

‘Follow me,’ she instructed.

The door opened onto a long corridor lit by industrial pendants. Polished concrete floors gave off a utilitarian vibe and the starkness reminded Florence of the newspaper building in Holt Street where her grandfather had worked. Eleanor’s earlier description was accurate – it certainly wasn’t flash. At the end of the hallway a lift waited with its doors open, but Eleanor stopped at a blue door halfway along.

‘This is the room,’ she said.

Eleanor fiddled with the lock for so long Florence was tempted to take the key and have a go herself. It eventually surrendered when the landlady put her knee into the edge and gave it a shove.

Florence stepped inside and felt her pulse quicken. There was no way she could afford this, maybe she’d misread the note – did it even mention the rent? She wondered how many more disappointments she could handle.

‘Kitchen against the back wall, bathroom behind that,’ Eleanor said.

The room was about half the length of a tennis court with a high ceiling and exposed steel beams. A wall of industrial windows with meshed glass captured buckets of daylight. The kitchen, if you could call it that, was a long narrow bench with an upright oven and a giant ceramic sink. That was it.

Florence poked her head through the bathroom door to discover a mid-century marvel in black and pastel pink. The narrow casement window high on the wall behind the toilet exposed a neat strip of blue sky, a colour palette tailor-made for David Hockney.

‘Old but clean,’ Eleanor said. ‘It’s been used as an office and a studio.’

‘Has anyone ever lived here?’ Florence asked.

‘Yes, me – many years ago.’

---

Eleanor had called back the next day and invited her for tea and, Florence imagined, some type of interview to decide if she was the right tenant. Florence searched for clues in the note she’d ripped from the noticeboard after yoga. She didn’t have much to go on other than, ‘reasonable rent’ and ‘suit artist’. She ticked the artist box, and the room would certainly suit her, but what was meant by reasonable? Reasonable for an artist or reasonable for Darlinghurst? The disparity between the two was potentially huge. Now that she’d seen the apartment she desperately wanted it, but would Eleanor want her?

The security grille on Stables Lane was unlocked so Florence pushed open the door just as it was abruptly pulled from the other side. Sebastian appeared. He took a step back and laughed.

‘Hey, Flo, what brings you here?’

‘A place to rent, funnily enough. And you?’

‘Same. Sadly, though, I’ve been rejected.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m not the type of artist she’s looking for.’

‘Got any tips?’

‘Not really. She’s an odd bird.’ He cleared his throat and inspected something on his shoe. ‘Sorry about the other week.’

‘Forget it, Seb.’

After an awkward silence, she moved past him. It wasn’t the time or place to talk about their relationship. It was clear to Florence they didn’t have a future together but he was a tough habit to break.

‘I’d better get going, I don’t want to be late.’ She closed the door behind her and realised she was shaking. She inhaled deeply and exhaled with a dramatic whoosh. That should do it.

Eleanor had been right, the elevator was painfully slow. Steel ropes creaked through an ancient pulley on the rise to Eleanor’s top-floor apartment.

The doors opened onto a glass lobby that might have