I had no idea why he wanted to take me to a shop filled with pens I couldn’t afford. And what exactly was a propelling pencil? There was a sign outside the shop saying they stocked them, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask in case I ended up looking like a complete idiot. I remember somebody once saying it’s better to keep your mouth shut and look stupid, rather than open it and remove all doubt. Well, something like that anyway. Henry, on the other hand, had no such worries.
‘Ah, the old parliament buildings,’ he said, pointing to a large cream- coloured building that looked as though it had just landed there from ancient Rome. ‘Wonderful architecture, the Palladian style, I believe.’
He just said stuff like that, off the top of his head, as if it were perfectly normal. He wasn’t even from here and he knew more about it than I did. I stuck to my rule of nodding in agreement, whilst having no idea what he was talking about.
‘Where are we going, exactly? I have to be back to—’ I was about to say, to make her ladyship’s dinner, but I couldn’t bear how ordinary and mundane it sounded compared to him. ‘—to work on my application for university.’
‘Fantastic! Then we’re going to exactly the right place.’
It was nice to have the distraction. My back was still stinging from the new tattoo I’d had done the day before, adding the lines to the previous ones. It felt good while I was getting it done, as though giving the words permanence was a kind of release, but it hurt like hell afterwards.
We crossed the road, walked through some gates and then in through a giant arched wooden door that had a smaller door within. It suddenly occurred to me that he was taking me to Trinity and I reared like a frightened horse.
‘I can’t go in here!’ ‘Whyever not?’
‘Because … I don’t know, don’t you have to be registered or something?’
He looked at me like I was some kind of simpleton.
‘Gosh, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. What if we get caught by the police?’
‘I’ve never been here before,’ I said, bumping into other people as I turned in circles to take it all in. The cobblestones, worn smooth over the centuries, were like the set of some historical movie.
‘Really? I’d just assumed. This is where I’ve spent most of my time since I got here – beats sitting in the bed and breakfast.’
Imagine, just wandering in here cos you’re bored. He inhabited a completely different world to me, that was for sure. Just knowing that he belonged, without question. I tried to ignore the jealousy that made my stomach tighten.
‘Down there is the Glucksman Library, the centre for cartographic materials. I’ve been trying to find a map with the bookshop marked on it, but no luck so far.’
‘There’s a centre for cartographic materials?’ My mind was blown. All of this existed and I knew nothing about it. ‘It’s like that movie … Narnia!’
‘You mean the C.S. Lewis books.’
I’d done it – I’d confirmed out loud that I was an idiot.
‘Exactly, that’s what I meant. It’s just like that.’ There was even a lamppost.
‘I suppose it is in a way. It has over half a million maps and atlases down there – a little labyrinth with underground guardians of overhead maps, keeping track of things in case we get lost. Still couldn’t find my bookshop though.’
‘Your bookshop?’ I arched my eyebrow.
‘Yes, well, we’re not looking for maps today, we’re going in here.’ He pointed to a sign saying ‘Book of Kells’. There was a line of people in front of us, mostly tourists coming to see a very old, very famous book. My skin began to bristle – the only thing more intimidating to me than books was really, really old books. Who knew what kind of knowledge they held, the power they could wield? It didn’t make any sense. But with Henry, I felt like a tiny doorway had opened up inside of me and I found myself thinking, Maybe it wouldn’t do any harm to look?
‘I know what you’re thinking, who cares about the New Testament, am I right?’
No, he was not right and that’s not what I was thinking. My thoughts had flitted back to my first date with Shane (not that this was a date today, obviously). We had gone to the cinema to watch a film about a racing car driver, then went home with a bottle of wine and had sex in his single bed.
‘I’m not very religious,’ I said. ‘Just wait, you’ll see.’
He was so excited about going to see some old pages of a manuscript, written by monks hundreds of years ago. I didn’t understand it but I kind of liked it. I kind of liked him. But I knew his heart was elsewhere and this was clearly a fun little detour for him, exploring these literary delights before heading back to his real life. It felt bittersweet standing by his side
and the feeling almost knocked me over – that sense of glimpsing a life that could have been.
 |
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.’
‘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.
‘It started during my first year at the technical college. I’d decided to do an admin course and got myself a room in a house, renting with two other girls. I would stay up in Galway for the week, then come home at the weekends. I was still living with my parents then, but mostly I stayed with Shane in his flat. Looking back, I think he was kind of an escape from the atmosphere at home. It was fine when we were in school together. I mean, he was a bit jealous at times, but nothing that made me think he might be any different to any of the other lads.’
The hardest thing about telling my story were the flashbacks – one minute I was here, in Dublin, and then, bam!, I’d be back there, cowering on the floor, trying to protect myself. Had it actually happened, or was it some awful nightmare that I’d imagined? No one could have lived through that kind of abuse, could they? I thought of the day my two girlfriends came home to find me hiding in the wardrobe in my room. I remembered getting out and putting my hands in the pockets of my jeans, so they couldn’t see them shaking. I tried to pass it off as a joke, as though I were planning to surprise Shane. I was so embarrassed – I would have said anything to make it look like something other than what it obviously was. He had come up to Galway for the night and I couldn’t wait to show him around. But he was moody the entire time, making fun of my friends and acting jealous of every guy in my class. How did they know my name? Was I flirting with them? By the end of the night, he was roaring drunk and calling me a slut. He shouted at me on the street the whole way home from the pub and by the time we got to my door, he had worked himself up into a fury. I shouted back that he had no right to speak to me that way. Next I heard a crack. He had smacked me, open-handed, right across the face. I was too stunned to
speak. He took the keys from me and opened the door. I’ll never forget what he said as he walked past me.
‘That’ll teach you to answer back.’
I walked in behind him, stunned into silence. I didn’t want to wake the girls. I lay on the bed beside him and didn’t even change out of my clothes. He fell to snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow. After a while I got up and didn’t know where to go. I was terrified. So I hid in the wardrobe until I heard him leave the next morning. That year, which should have been about my first year at college, became all about Shane and his jealousy. My flatmates knew what was going on. They saw the bruises, even under the layers of makeup. The worst part was, right before the exams, they convinced me to break up with him. And I did. For two whole months, I was free of him. But his father died and I felt so sorry for him. He swore to me that he had changed and was ashamed of what he had done. He said he wasn’t himself at the time and I believed him because it was true; he wasn’t being himself. That wasn’t the person I fell in love with. And so we both believed the story that he had somehow been possessed by a mad fit of jealousy and of course it wouldn’t happen again. I failed my exams in the summer and that was the last time I ever went back to Galway. I could see the look in the girls’ eyes when I told them I’d got back with him. I think they felt betrayed and confused. How, after getting away from a man who hit me, could I go back? I couldn’t bear their judgement. Because they were right, after all, weren’t they? His promises meant nothing and I was a bigger fool for believing him.
I was so lost in my memories, I almost forgot where I was or what we
were doing. I looked up at him and saw a look of empathy in his eyes. Not sympathy, thank God. I couldn’t bear that.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this.’
‘It’s okay,’ he said, about to embrace me but then stopping short. ‘Um, do you want a hug?’
I nodded. A lot. Yes, I did want a hug. I never asked anyone for anything, but to have what I needed offered to me like that was a blessed relief.
