The Photograph Album

By David McGlone

If memories are films about ghosts, these pictures were the story of a haunted relationship.

There is a thin line between love and hate. For over twenty-one years, Maria and John had criss-crossed the boundary. Now, on the morning of their anniversary, they are selecting photographs from their time together. Silently evaluating their past while trying to decide if they have a future.

David McGlone's THE PHOTOGRAPH ALBUM takes each picture as a starting point for an evaluation of the day, the year and beyond. A tale of love, hate, trust, heartbreak and death, it is ultimately a story of redemption that elicits laughter as much as it does tears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890089861

Book preview

PROLOGUE

MARIA:

A photograph, a Polaroid (with all of the attendant suggestive connotations), a shameful Facebook parade reminding me of the history I’d forgotten with good reason; android snapshots recording everything from breakfast to a break-up, my life is there in pictures. Our life is there.

The idea to pull all of these disparate images into one place for our 21st-anniversary celebration was born of boredom, and yet the more I do, the more compelling it becomes. Comical haircuts and laughable fashion choices melt away, leaving poignant memories laid bare; dark, shadowy days exposed to the harsh light once more and opened up for examination. Sitting with my tablet, I start a slideshow and wonder what John will make of my collection when he finds it in his inbox. John, my partner of twenty years, my friend, my lover, and now the housemate I communicate with via email.

Familiarity breeds contempt, so they say, and I am so familiar with John. His walk, once a confident swagger, is now a lumbering plod with each heavy step announcing his unwelcome arrival. His long blonde hair is a distant memory, now replaced by a dark stubble tattooed on his scalp, and whatever physique there was is hidden within a permanent fat suit. The face I am more than familiar with, and yet I can’t actually remember what attracted me in the first place; instead, it is nothing more than a constant source of irritation. They say there is a thin line between love and hate, as though there are two distinct parts that make up the concept, the two sides to the coin argument, but I wish to disagree on this point. There is only one side, and love is merely the veneer; scratch beneath the surface, and hate is both visible and constant.

As he enters the room, I watch him stare and twist his mouth. I think it is a gesture of affection, a smile perhaps? Whatever it is, it angers me immediately, and I imagine my life without him, a life that matters, a future, and I want it so badly it hurts. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as his tone of voice informs me that he is attempting some weak humour, something which he will laugh at on behalf of us both. I don’t think he expects me to laugh, or even that he finds the remarks funny himself; it’s just a matter of breaking the tense silence. At times like this, I almost feel sorry for him, and that’s my problem. I’ll argue and shout about issues and irritations, and, while alcohol helps to fuel the fires, it’s not compulsory or needed. He’ll shout back until we forget what the argument was about and retreat to the far corners of our bed hugging the space, holding onto anything that is not the other person. I’ll do this, but I hate it. I hate the confrontation and the guilt when it is over; I hate the raw malice it brings, and I hate the pain it obviously causes. It’s why we are still together aboard this relationship that is so obviously holed below the waterline, watching together as the band plays on, ever more loudly and out of tune. I’m stewing in my loathing because I can’t stand the break-up scene, the embarrassing messiness of it all.

Delivering the fatal blow to this relationship is far too difficult to face, far too complicated, and that’s why, more than anything, I want to kill him. Beyond all the recriminations, the money talks, the bad sex, and the endless suspicions, I’m aware that the sword is much mightier, and sharper, than any pen or tongue. I want my life back, my bank account, my freedom; and I’m angry enough to take it back using whatever force is necessary. Just let’s not talk about it. I’d sadly rather kill than die of embarrassment.

I pick up my tablet again and scroll through some of the pictures, any pictures, anything to avoid that face for a moment. As pictures flash by unnoticed, I begin to dream of how it might be done, how possible the ways are, how quickly I can be rid of him. The ideas are not new, but the determination is; that this is day one and counting, this is for real because it has to be. What is the alternative? This until I’m old, or dead? That’s not an option; it’s a sentence, and I’m not guilty. Not really, not yet.

So how has it come to this? How does the sum of twenty-one years add up to such rancour and misery? If I can avoid his attention for long enough, perhaps I can remember what brought me to this point; perhaps I can get back to the beginning? I return to the beginning of the slideshow and pay more attention.

JOHN:

I can taste the atmosphere before I get into the room and, as I feel the familiar sense of dread wash over me, I attempt to break the tension with a smile and a joke.

‘If that shower was any hotter, I’d be poached.’ I try to smile, but my face refuses, leaving me with a false rictus grin that bestows all the warmth of an undertaker. My joke is unrecognisable as humour even to me, but I force a laugh to help identify my intention; Maria looks up from her phone with a look that suggests that I may have metamorphosed into some mysterious alien, and an alien with BO to boot. I wipe the ridiculous expression from my face and go about the business of making coffee with the concentration of a bomb disposal expert; anything to avoid a conversation about last night.

Wine, women, and song? No. Wine, that woman, and a screaming match to both awaken and entertain our neighbours. The latest episode of our high-decibel soap opera or is it just a repeat? I’ve certainly been over those lines before, and Maria needed no prompts. We were both right, both wrong, and, since the argument ended in another galaxy from where it started, it’s pretty much irrelevant anyway.

‘Coffee?’ I ask with as much brightness as I can muster.

‘Why not?’ Maria replies with a tone that suggests I may as well have asked if it was alright to stick a hot needle in her eye. As I settle back into the task of diffusing the situation through the medium of hot beverages, my mind searches for something to say, something funny, something bland, nothing about last night. The problem with finding the right thing to say is that I don’t know what the wrong thing is; I don’t remember which galaxy we visited or what the language there was. I fall silent and tiptoe around this emotional time bomb hoping that gentle quiet will avoid detonation. Maria takes the cup without comment but her nose wrinkles to suggest the malodorous interloper is too close. ET phone home? I wish I could, but this is home.

Walking through to the living room, I turn my attention to the coffee, sipping when it’s obviously too hot. I think of how Maria used to wrinkle her nose when she had to think hard about something, how I called her the ‘Bad Bunny’ and how we laughed and kissed; now it means she can smell shit and that shit is me. I’d be lying if I said that I’ve never thought of walking, but where the hell would I go? Who’d have me? The door key still sits loose in my pocket, my key to her door, the entrance to a house where I am nothing more than a guest, an unwelcome guest.

I have a passion for music that has outlasted all others, it is the mistress that never leaves me and still seduces me daily regardless of any other influence in my life. There seems to be no feeling, no event, real or imagined, where there is no song to fit; I call it the soundtrack to my life and it plays always, each song holding a particle of the emotion at the time I heard it yet always with room for new memories. As I sit down and open up the screen of album covers, the gateway to my music collection, I start to think about which songs will fit which picture.

A fitting song for a reflection on 21 years is a challenge, even for my internal jukebox, yet it is one that is accepted and met with customary élan. Burn by Deep Purple from 1974. An angry, loud song, celebrating the virtuosity of a group of musicians at the peak of their abilities. Led by the guitar of Ritchie Blackmore, a dark, brooding, bastard (in some opinions) of a man; a brilliant player and showman, yet never satisfied with what he has and with a flair for destruction second to none. The lyrics are cryptic at best, possibly ridiculous, yet the power and the fury are all, the playing sublime - and at the centre of it all the screamed refrain of ‘BURN!’.

Sink or swim? Stick or twist? Why not just burn the whole thing and start again? The song fits my thoughts as I prepare to look at Maria’s selection, and in Mr Blackmore, I have a reflection of my personality, yet in place of brilliance, I have cynical eloquence and my darkness is less productive. I share a self-destructive gene, and we share a predilection for black clothes and a deep-seated suspicion of other people. The song catches a band high on confidence and yet so close to what will ultimately be a break-up. Is that what I’m channelling?

It’s not my favourite era of the band, I fall into the classic MkII camp with Gillan & Glover, so again am I subconsciously linking my knowledge of two seemingly disparate factors to my own situation? Whatever. It fits, and it is my song for today, so far, and it’s playing through my earphones as I prepare to begin the process.

Sitting back on the settee, I stare down at my laptop, paying attention to the wallpaper behind the icons, a picture of Budapest at night. The bridge with a name I can never remember looks unforgettable lit up against the dark sky; I smile at a memory that is only happy. Maria took the photo, and I love it.

1995

New Year’s Eve 1994 in the Pigeons, Stratford. The picture was taken just into 1995. John and I, glassy-eyed and grinning, hug for (perhaps) the first time. On either side, Ma (Martha) and Kate squeeze into the frame, laughing like drains at some forgotten joke. Vibrant and colourful, the picture captures the pure joy of the moment.

It’s funny to see how long my hair is; I’d genuinely forgotten, and how small we all look against the vast size of the Pigeons; the pub, like the world, seemed bigger then.

MARIA:

I remember this picture so well. I remember the pub, the people, and, if I’m not mistaken, Love Cats by The Cure was playing loudly at the time. I’ve no idea who took the picture, or with what, for that matter; I scanned it a few years back, after finding it among some old cassettes and empty Rizla packets, but I’ve no idea who might have been carrying a camera around with them in those days before cameras on phones, before mobile phones at all. So, to that someone, whoever you are, it’s a good photo, and I thank you.

John is slim and smiling, a proper smile and not that idiotic display of teeth he’s developed, whilst I’m happy and sickeningly young. We are in the Pigeons Pub, a huge behemoth of a place that must have looked quite spectacular in its prime; then the sweeping stairs up to the ballroom would still have been in place, the light fittings bright and shining, the gold paint around the ceiling vibrant against the white walls. The ballroom upstairs was now a venue for DJs, live or gay nights that thrilled the drunken enthusiasts, while the vast bar below remained a haven for thirsty indies, goths, rockers, and other ne’er-do-wells. At its best, it was a reliable source of good music and good company.

I’m getting away with a surprisingly short black skirt and a low-cut white blouse combo that sets off the dark-eyed festive goth look with sexy intent. John carries off his t-shirt and jeans with a confident pose made easier when the said shirt isn’t fighting against his stomach. Kate and Ma are swathed in equally dark attire; the former in a stylish little black number, the latter in an angular mess of cloth tied at the waist with a thin belt that hung down to her fishnets and almost reached the inevitable Doc Martens. The picture exudes drunken bonhomie.

This was when New Year’s Eve was fun, not a forced race to Drunksville via Shots-on-Sea, but really good fun. Admittedly the destination was often the same. However, the journey seemed so much more scenic and memorable. At the time I was still able to welcome the New Year instead of bidding good riddance to the old, so 1994 was saluted with a cheery smile as I stepped forward confidently into 1995.

Ma and Kate were with me, Colin and Paul were physically with us as well but mentally the bar held their attention, as the countdown hit twelve and we hugged as the lifelong friends we would never be; I didn’t know that then, as we embraced each other with sincere affection, but how much could or would I have changed? John was standing across from me with Bob and Pete (how often will I be able to say the same thing over the years) in my eye line but unnoticed. That was until Ma pointed him out.

I should clear something up at the outset, Ma will always be Ma, both within and without of this story. Never Martha, or Mattie, or Molly, but especially never, ever Martha. To be named after Martha Reeves (of Martha and the Vandellas), a Motown legend, was considered cool by some but Ma thought it a dreadfully staid name, a name for older, much older folk.

‘I’m not one of the Little Women.’ she once said.

‘Neither is Martha,’ I replied.

‘But she could and should be. I’m Ma!’ She said defiantly.

‘Mattie?’ I asked mischievously.

‘I’m Ma!’

‘Ok, Ma it is.’ I laughed.

Ma came into my life during my time at Queen Mary’s College in the late eighties, a Mancunian ball of energy with an opinion on anything and everything yet desperately private when it came to herself. She introduced herself to me at a fresher’s ball (a ball sounds grand yet it was little more than a Jack Daniels promotion paired with enough cheap lager to drown a small country) by explaining at length her utter contempt for Fields of the Nephilim (Moonchild was playing at the time), as ‘plastic, flour-covered, goth wannabees.’

We shared a love of ‘real’ goth and dark eyes, bonded over Sisters of Mercy, and enjoyed the ‘Satanist hooker’ look that was as likely to shock as allure. We had a ‘you and me against the world’ attitude that served us well through college and beyond, despite the fact that I softened my approach and dress much more than Ma ever did. We were undoubtedly close confidantes about love, life, and the pursuit of happiness yet there were areas of Ma’s life that were never shared or offered for discussion. To this day I know little or nothing about her family or her life in Manchester. Ma had a habit of making the past unimportant, a trait I know nothing about.

Over the years, I saw Ma with men; she liked the lean, unwashed bass player with skinny legs look or the occasional washed-out ‘heroin chic’ bleached blondes, and I saw her with women; she sought out ultra-feminine pretty girls, especially those who were shocked by her raw anger and attitude. I saw the meetings, the discreet exits to find somewhere quieter, the occasional break-ups, and the exchange of more than a few choice words, yet her relationships were off-limits as far as opinions went, and they were very much played out behind closed doors.

I don’t think Ma ever shared her thoughts on a partner or lover, male or female, be they good or bad. She was effusive when talking about my boyfriends, whether asked or not, but she never asked what I thought of her choices or discussed how she felt. I know she liked sex, but that was an opinion she could, and would, share with you at any time or place, especially if tequila was involved. However, her thoughts were not specific in nature and never invited further discussion.

Kate was also a product of the QMC networking model that seemed to require at least a working knowledge of goth music (Kate wisely hid her secret liking for the Nephilim) and a defiant cynicism of everything else. She was never as close to Ma as I was, but, though they treated each other with cautious suspicion, they were fiercely defensive of one another should someone else be critical.

Kate was, and is, an elegant dresser with a cut-glass accent that gives no hint of her Surrey upbringing or subsequent years in London. She attended a fee-paying school that equipped her well for passing exams but, most importantly, furnished her with an almost unbreakable self-confidence. This led to her unfortunate tendency to speak well before her brain was engaged and to be somewhat dismissive of alternative opinions. I’m still not sure if Kate is the stupidest bright person I know or the brightest stupid person; in the end, it’s irrelevant as she is as loyal and kind a friend as I could ask for.

A teacher now, and a very good one by all accounts, Kate has continued to live her life in a dizzy whirl of naivety and pragmatism; still driven to impress ‘mummy and daddy’ to a ludicrous degree, she nevertheless has a heart of gold and a shining light that encompasses her personality.

Ma saw John as someone with potential, not for her ‘For God’s sake, no!’, but perfectly possible for me. Shy enough to be cute without being wet, a pretty boy without being effeminate, he was my type I suppose, and it helped no end that he liked me. I wasn’t setting my sights low; it’s just that I like people to like me, all people, but in the realms of romance, it doesn’t half take the hard work out of things. The noble pursuit of love can be a thrilling chase, but it takes so much time and effort. Better to know where you stand early on and then, maybe, keep him guessing a bit. Just for sport, you understand, just for the devilment.

Kate, as usual, was not quite on the same page, and barely the same planet due to the copious amount of white wine she had downed, as she pieced together the situation.

‘Who?! Oh him!’ she exclaimed as she pointed with subtlety to match her volume. ‘He’s nice.’ She laughed and winked exaggeratedly at me before taking a step towards John and his friends. ‘She likes you!’

‘Thanks, Kate,’ I said with the weariness of someone who’s been through this with Kate just too often. The heavy sarcasm was well delivered, or so I thought, the tone clear.

‘It’s okay, Maria,’ Kate said as she grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the embarrassed mess that was John. ‘Go on, talk to him.’ The