And he was right. Once inside, I forgot about everything else. The darkness of the room and the light falling on the pages illuminated them like gold leaf. It felt as though I were witnessing something important, something beyond the fingertips of my understanding yet resonating within my soul.
‘It was written in 800 AD by Columban monks on the island of Iona, Scotland.’
I simply gaped and followed the people in front of me, peering into the glass cases that held the manuscripts.
‘How did they survive all this time?’ I whispered.
A smile spread from his eyes to his lips.
‘You’re getting hooked now, aren’t you?’
I just rolled my eyes, but he wasn’t far wrong. Of course I’d seen reproductions from the Book of Kells in books and even on tea towels, but seeing it in real life like this, the intricate drawings and the handwritten text, it was hard not to get sucked into its story.
‘It was stolen once in 1007 from Kells by the Vikings. They stripped whatever gold they could from the cover and left what they believed was a worthless manuscript under a sod of turf.’
I couldn’t help wondering about the lives of the people who wrote the text, all in Latin. Still, there wasn’t much time to ponder as the crowds kept coming and it was time to move on to the Long Room Library.
I don’t know what I expected, but my skin flushed with goosebumps at the sight of it. It was like a cathedral of books; wooden galleries arched upwards from floor to ceiling, filled with leatherbound books. I’d never seen anything like it. As we walked along the central corridor, marble busts lined the way; philosophers whose names sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t have said what any of them were known for. Surrounded by all of this learning, it was hard not to feel like, no matter how much you studied, you would never have an inch of the knowledge contained in this room.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he said. I hadn’t been aware that he was watching for my reaction.
I turned to face him, ignoring the crowds pushing us ever forwards.
‘Why did you really bring me here?’
He took a moment, shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up to the highest mezzanines where conservators were working with gloved hands.
‘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.’