“I never said such a thing.” Jack laughed into these words and banged his hand upon the table. “Don’t let him think I said such daft nonsense.”
“No, then,” I said, “I say your work is brilliant. When Jack tells me of your conversations, I’m envious. There was a time when I believed that religion was not something nice people talked about in public. What a relief to be able to discuss and debate and it not be an argument. Do you believe that I used to think that people who believed in God were mundane and ignorant? And now I can’t get my fill of the bottomless discussions. Isn’t that a thing?” I was talking too fast; I could feel the words bubbling up in nervousness.
“What do you find the most fascinating about what I believe, Mrs. Gresham?” Tolkien asked, his hands wrapped around his nearly empty mug of beer.
“Your views about fairy stories,” I said.
“And how do you know my views on fairy stories?”
“I was fortunate to befriend Michal Williams in London. She’s been a bright light in that city that seemed enchanting until I found Oxford, which is a million times more so. But anyway, she loaned me the volume of essays that should have been presented to her husband. It was a lecture you gave—”
“I know what it was,” Tolkien said.
“How you began your essay ‘On Fairy-Stories,’” I said, “about the perilous land and stars uncounted and how a fairy cannot be caught in a net of words.”
“Well, well,” he said. “You must have the most photographic memory.”
“I confess I do,” I said. “It’s helped me through the worst of schooldays. But with your essay, I didn’t just memorize. I digested it. And it seems your views have rubbed off on Jack here.” My hand lifted without thought, and I touched Jack’s shirt sleeve in what must have seemed a gesture of ownership. I withdrew my hand quickly.
Tolkien sipped the last of his beer and pushed back on his chair. I could see he was ready to leave, and the fear that I’d sent him away made me try one more time.
“What is it about fairy tales that we all love so much?” I asked.
“You’ve said you read my opinion.”
“It is the consolation we want,” I said. “When you wrote of the sudden joyous turn of events, the grace, the happy ending. I think we love our fairies and their stories and their lands because through all the hardship, there is the consolation of a happy ending.”
Tolkien slipped his coat on and settled his tweed hat onto his head before looking at me. “There you have it.” He nodded at Jack and at Warnie. “I’m late for supper at home. See you chaps tomorrow.”
The pork pie, usually comforting, tasted like cardboard in my mouth. Had I offended Jack’s best friend? Warnie excused himself to greet a friend across the room and left Jack and me alone with the fire burning bright behind us.
Jack watched Tollers until the pub door closed and he was gone. Then he leaned back to light a cigarette and smile at me. “He can be a bit gruff, I fear.”
I nodded, but directed my attention to Warnie, who stumbled and grasped on to the back of a chair, laughed it off, and strolled to the bar. “Is he all right?”
“I think so, yes. But if he’s not, this won’t be the first time I’ve had to pour him into a taxi. I’m sorry you must witness it.”
I held up my hand to stay his words. “Jack, I’ve lived through this. Not with someone nearly as wonderful as your brother, but still the same. If you should ever want to talk more about it, I hope you know that you can.”
Jack nodded, and a sadness he usually kept cloaked beneath his smile overshadowed his face for a moment. Then, just as quickly, he turned his attention back to me. “Did you enjoy Tollers?”
“I can’t yet tell,” I said. “I do want your friends to like me.”
“Ah, but Mrs. Williams likes you bloody well—blinding, I think she said.”
“We’ve gotten on quite well and laughed so much, which is important, don’t you think?”
“To get on well or to laugh?” That twinkle in his eye, and it was a twinkle.
“Isn’t it the same?” I asked.
“Yes, it is.” He leaned forward. “What draws people together is when they see the same truth. As we do.”
“But your Tollers does not approve of me. He set his eye on me as if I were here to steal you into the night and never let you return. He bristled.”
Jack laughed with that merry bellow. “I don’t think Tollers is quite worried about me running off. But he is married with children and maybe doesn’t understand the friendship that can grow between a man and a woman.” He stared off for a moment. “Tollers separates family life, academic life, and pub life each into its own sequestered box. And what matters of it anyway? I don’t bristle.”