The Photograph Album

Book summary

In 'The Photograph Album,' Maria and John's complex relationship unfolds through a selection of pictures that serve as windows into their shared history. David McGlone skillfully navigates the thin line between love and hate, inviting readers to silently reflect on their past while contemplating a future together on their anniversary. This poignant tale delves into themes of love, trust, heartbreak, and redemption, evoking both laughter and tears as it captures the essence of a hauntingly beautiful connection.

Excerpt from The Photograph Album

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 world failed to open up and swallow me as we shared a silence that physically hurt. John smiled without making eye contact and then shrugged as his friends stepped back into a cloud of muffled laughter. I mirrored his shrug and sipped at my half-spilled drink before speaking.

‘Sorry about that. She’s a lovely woman trapped inside the body of a twelve-year-old girl. Hard to believe she’s a teacher.’

‘It’s okay; I’m glad you came over,’ John said in a mellow calm voice that came as a surprise.

‘I was dragged across actually, but now I’m here it’s okay,’ I laughed.

‘I saw you looking over,’ John now caught my eyes as he smiled.

‘Well, you were staring,’ I corrected.

‘Really? Staring? I thought I was…’ John’s explanation was already wrong, so I put him right.

‘You were definitely staring. Any more and I could have filed for a restraining order.’

‘I didn’t mean to…’ Again, I had to intervene.

‘It’s alright; I’m only joking, but you were staring,’ I laughed and saw him relax a little; this was going pretty well.

‘So, what do you do?’ he asked.

‘Okay, we’re onto jobs already, are we? I’m a civil servant if it matters,’ I said somewhat over-aggressively.

“It’s not that it matters; I was just curious. I’m a civil servant too, local government, so I don’t tend to judge other people’s career paths.” He laughed nervously but brightened as I joined in.

I’ve always been quite defensive about my choice of work or, to be more accurate, the line of work I ended up in. Having completed my degree in English, I stepped out of the exit doors of QMC with a bounce in my step that lasted until I’d almost reached the tube station; then it hit me, what do I do now? It was the big question that I’d been ignoring for quite a while, partly because I had no answer and partly because it scared me to death.

I considered studying for a Masters, but my heart wasn’t in it, and it was an obvious delaying tactic with the same question lying in wait at the end. I’d yet to find a job advertisement asking for a working knowledge of the life and times of Jane Austen or the symbolic importance of flowers in DH Lawrence, so increasing my expertise in these areas would not widen my opportunities in any case. I could have maybe tried harder to find a job where my talents were utilised better, or at all, but there was a pressing need for another substance: money.

I remember thinking it was a case of ‘just for now’ as I searched the job ads, a quick fix of money while I considered the long-term plan and a good filler for my CV. So it was that I took my Trollope, Shakespeare, and Dickens to the Department for the Environment where I had no need to look for symbolism amongst the invoices I was processing or the letters I drafted to angry members of the public; at least the grammar was good.