‘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.
‘I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news, but university life tends to involve books.’ His smile faltered when he saw my face. I was never one for crying, certainly not in public places, but my eyes were stinging with hurt and I fought to keep the tears in by squeezing my brows together.
‘God, I’m sorry, Martha, that was unforgivably stupid of me.’
I felt hot and stuffy in the snug and when I turned around I saw the pub had filled up with people. Now it had become noisy and unwelcoming. I had to get out of there.
‘What time is it? I have to go.’
I grabbed my things and he shot up beside me.
‘I’ll walk you home. If you’d like.’
I shrugged. What difference did it make?
As we stepped on to the street, the fresh air made me feel as though I’d drunk double what I had. Instead of the warm, fuzzy glow of earlier, now I felt nauseous and irritable. It was dark and people were heading home from work, so the street was at a standstill, full of traffic and the honking horns of impatient drivers.
‘Here,’ Henry said, taking my hand and leading me down a quieter side street. The touch of his warm skin had a powerful effect. I felt a sense of safety that I didn’t think possible again. I probably should have let go, once we had got around the corner, but I didn’t want to. Neither, it seemed, did he.
‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Martha.’ He spoke so softly it almost broke my heart.
I had assumed, when we first met, that he had the perfect life. But after he told me about his father, well. Eventually, I made a decision, took a deep breath and told him what I’d never told anyone.
‘My feelings? Don’t worry about it. There are worse ways to hurt a person, I know that now. I’ve had two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, bruised kidneys and I’ve lost four teeth.’
Henry looked horrified. I could tell that, despite what he had lived through with his father, there hadn’t been violence. If you haven’t experienced it, it’s easy to fool yourself into believing that it could never happen. That was how people could look through you, how you became invisible. Because your story didn’t exist. ‘But they’re the physical wounds. They heal over time. Imperfectly, maybe, but they heal. It’s the constant fear he’s left me with. That’s the wound that won’t heal. I’m not just afraid of him, I’m afraid of life.’
‘How—’ he began, then stopped.
We found ourselves outside a small church and he gestured to the bench just inside the gate. I smiled. It was the right place for a confession. I may not have committed the sin, but I carried the guilt nonetheless. How had I let this happen to me?
‘The thing is, you don’t really recognise what’s happening at the start and by the time you do, it’s too late to do anything about it. You think it’s a one-time thing. He’s so sorry about it, feels terrible. But then it happens again. Next thing you know, it’s all you know.’
‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ he said.
I realised he was still holding my hand. Or I was still holding his. I could still read him well enough and I knew he would keep my story safe.