‘I wanted to show you that anything is possible.’ He stepped out of the way of a group of American students, noisily making their way past. Then he stepped back a little closer to me, so I could feel his breath. ‘After that day in the library, I could see you wanted to belong. And I just wanted to show you that you do.’
I stopped hearing the people around us, barely even noticed them filing past. No one had ever seen me the way he just had. And even if they did, they certainly didn’t do anything to try and help me. I was lost for words and my throat felt thick with a sadness I’d never allowed myself to feel. He ran his hand through his hair, which unfailingly fell into his eyes when he bent his head, as he was doing now.
‘Do you want to grab a pint somewhere?’
I just nodded and smiled as he stood back and cleared a path for me to walk ahead.
He’d found a pub on a small side street that looked as though it hadn’t changed its decor in a hundred years. All dark wood with layer upon layer of varnish, smoothed down over the years, and little snugs lit by low-hanging glass pendants. It was quiet enough, just a couple of regulars at the bar, and so we sat in a snug that even had a little door, if you wanted complete privacy. We left it open and ordered two pints of Guinness and two shepherd’s pies. A light rain began to fall outside and as the drops hit the windowpane and passers-by took out their umbrellas, I felt a warmth inside that I hadn’t felt for a long time. Once our food arrived, we each took a mouthful and both groaned in satisfaction at how good it tasted. I was beginning to feel more comfortable around him, even if sometimes my breath still caught when he looked into my eyes.
‘So what got you into all of this anyway?’ I asked, eager to know more about him.
He took a large gulp of his pint, as though buying time.
‘When I was a kid, my dad used to take me to car boot sales. Massive things, out in some old field in the middle of nowhere. Looking back, he’d probably had me foisted upon him for the day and it was that or the pub. We used to park up with everyone else and spend the day looking at what was usually other people’s old tat. He’d call it a treasure hunt, trying to get me excited about it. And it was true, sometimes you would find something pretty special. He liked all the old war memorabilia – medals and that sort of thing – but I still stuck to my books.’
He picked up his fork and carried on eating his pie, but I could tell that something was troubling him. I don’t know how I’d missed it before – I was probably so dazzled by his seemingly perfect life. Something had happened with his father. They hadn’t spoken in years. I didn’t want to push, and sometimes found that if you gave people enough space, they would say the words that haunted them from within.
‘He must be very proud of you now, an expert scholar.’
He gave me a look that I hadn’t seen in his eyes up to then. It was a look of hurt and anger. He took another long gulp of his pint, holding it there until he’d finished it and caught the waiter’s attention for another round.
I didn’t say another word and focused entirely on finishing my meal. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and when I came back, the atmosphere had changed. I could tell he was sorry for the mood that had gripped him and I just wanted to touch his hand and say it was okay. I knew. People you loved could hurt you and there was nothing you could do about it.
‘When I was fifteen, I picked up an old copy of Lord of the Rings in a second-hand bookshop. By then I was already a bit of a dealer.’
I snorted. In my experience, a fifteen-year-old dealer meant something else entirely. I nodded for him to continue and began on my second pint. I hadn’t watched the films but had heard that they were based on a series of books.
‘I learned the value of the rarer editions and what collectors were willing to pay for them. It was a handy source of pocket money and an easy way to earn it. I’d scour the markets and charity shops for books they didn’t know the true value of, then sell them on to the more upmarket antique sellers. I needed the extra cash by then. My father’s drinking had grown worse and things weren’t great at home.’
His eyes flitted across the room, but I could sense he wanted to get this out.
‘Anyway, when I got it home, I had a proper look at it and tucked into the flap of the jacket, I found a letter.’
I leaned forward, drawn into his world of literary treasure hunts.
‘The date was 1967, the address was Oxford and the name signed at the bottom was J.R.R. Tolkien.’
‘Wow.’
‘Indeed. Wow. It was a handwritten note addressed to a little girl who must have sent him a fan letter. I couldn’t believe what I was holding in my hands and back then, I had no idea how to authenticate it. So I asked my father if he knew anyone and that was the last I ever saw of it.’
‘What happened?’
‘He sold it for five hundred pounds.’
‘Well, that’s not bad, is it?’
‘It was worth ten times that. Not just that, it was the prestige of finding it, bringing something lost back to the world. He took that away from me and drank the proceeds.’ He blinked quickly, then shifted in his seat.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m giving you the abbreviated version. My father’s alcoholism is like a footnote to every chapter of my life. Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be free of it.’
This time I did reach out my hand and placed it softly over his. He gave me a tight smile, then once again signalled for another round. I lost track of the time as we sat there across the table from each other. He was letting me into his world and it felt good to be out of my own for a while. He spoke about the paper he was writing on lost manuscripts.
‘Reading the book, that’s only the beginning – I want to know everything about it. What I want to know is who wrote the book, when and where and how and why. Who printed it, what it cost, how it survived, where it’s been since, when it was sold, why and by whom, how it got here … there’s no limit to what I want to know about a book.’
I could tell he was getting a bit tipsy now; his words were crashing together in a haphazard way. I was getting very tipsy myself. I’d forgotten all about Madame Bowden.
‘That’s the allure of books – it’s not just the story between the covers, but the story of where they came from, who owned them. A book is so much more than a delivery vehicle for its contents,’ he continued, hands gesticulating wildly. He only stopped talking when he realised I was laughing.
‘What? I’m rabbiting on, aren’t I?’
‘No, it’s just, I’ve never heard anyone so hyped up about … anything! But it makes sense now, why you’re here.’ I broke off, realising that something was niggling me. ‘But what about the story? Don’t you care what the book is about?’
‘Of course, but when you’re a collector, the books themselves become artefacts. Most collectors don’t even read them.’
‘Well, that doesn’t seem right.’
‘Says the person who doesn’t read books.’
‘That’s different!’ I snapped. He failed to read the change in my mood and kept playfully prodding.