Drawing the Line (6 page)

The last person in the queue touched my arm. It was a girl with a jumper identical to mine. ‘Don’t take any notice of her. There’s a quite a decent guy on duty after lunch – you might try talking to him.’ She had a nice Bradford accent. Perhaps those buildings had misled me.

But a glance over my shoulder told me they hadn’t. Impervious to the anxious students, the librarian was peering at me, following my progress out of her domain.

‘I really feel I should apologise on behalf of the University,’ said another soft voice. This was male, and belonged to a man of about forty, wearing jeans, a Next sweatshirt and non-designer trainers. ‘There must be a way round your problem,’ he added, running his hand across an almost bald head, what was left of his
unattractively greasy hair curling over his collar. ‘Have you got time for a coffee? There’s quite a good place round the corner. Not too noisy.’

He didn’t look like a white slave trader and I needed a double espresso. I only hoped I wouldn’t slop any of the precious liquid, my hands were shaking so much.

He smiled reassuringly as he set the two cups down and sat opposite me. ‘Perhaps I’d better introduce myself,’ he said. ‘Dan Freeman. I teach… Er, at Keble.’

It seemed that Keble wasn’t a place but a college, and not just any college but one of those making up Oxford University. But Dan didn’t seem to think any the worse of me for not knowing.

‘The trouble is, if you’ve lived all your adult life in a place, you assume everyone knows it as well as you do. And that everyone knows the rules as well as you do. Though it must be said that some of them are pretty arcane. Er, that’s to say, weird,’ he added, in case I didn’t understand the word.

‘Such as?’ I prompted. I wouldn’t have known it if Griff hadn’t taken me in hand.

‘Well, take the Bodleian. Originally it was called Duke Humphrey’s Library, by the way, because it was he who was a major influence on it. Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, was the brother of Henry VI. The part he built is still there – it dates from 1426. But the whole thing became known as the Bodleian when it was refounded in 1602 by one Thomas Bodley, who was a very rare bird, a wealthy scholar.’

‘So what’s arcane about its rules?’

‘Two things, I suppose. One is that every single book published in the UK has to be deposited there.’

‘They must have lot of storage space,’ I said dryly. I wasn’t too sure about this potted guidebook history. Worse, I didn’t know why I wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was so pat; perhaps it was because I didn’t really like his voice, which, compared with Griff’s orotund delivery (yes, his words, not mine), was thin and papery.

Dan looked nonplussed, continuing, ‘The second
thing is that the guy in charge is forbidden to marry.’

I’m not sure what response he expected, but whatever it was, it wasn’t the one I gave, which was a snort of laughter. ‘From what you read in the papers, some dons here wouldn’t find that rule hard to observe!’

‘It depends what papers,’ he said coldly. ‘The gutter press has always had it in for Oxford.’

Before my eyes he was changing into a clone of the librarian, his skin drying into wrinkles, his greyish eyes hiding behind bifocals. It was if someone had rubbed him out, and forgotten to colour him in again.

Apologise or press on? In the best imitation I could manage of Griff’s superior tone, I said, ‘Foreign powers’ espionage networks have never found it hard to recruit gay dons from Oxbridge to spy for them.’

I loved his double take. While he was recovering, I asked, ‘So whereabouts is Keble? Have I passed it this morning? I came from the coach station,’ I added innocently. Well, the market was only what Iris called a good sneeze away.

‘No. It’s out by the Parks,’ he said, as if that was miles away. It wasn’t. Last time we’d been up, Griff and I had walked there to look at the Dodo in some
Victorian-built
museum with lovely cast iron pillars supporting the roof. Griff didn’t walk anywhere if it took longer than half an hour there and back, and since he wasn’t exactly a marathon runner that meant not far.

By now I was wondering what Dan’s game was. At first, I’d thought he really was embarrassed by the way the librarian had treated me. Now I wasn’t so sure. I’d sunk the coffee and would have died for some food, but I didn’t have enough cash on me to treat him and I
certainly didn’t want to ask him for anything else.

‘What was it you wanted to see in the library?’ he asked, and took a sip from what I was sure was an empty cup, as if he wanted the question to sound casual.

‘Just some old book I read about on the Internet,’ I said. Griff was always checking out dealers’ and other websites, so that sounded a reasonable explanation.

‘You seemed quite upset when she wouldn’t let you see it.’

‘I don’t like snobs,’ I said roundly. Funnily enough, it was the thought of Mrs Hatch that made me add, ‘Social or intellectual snobs.’ I felt her pat me firmly on the back. I might build an empire yet.

‘Will you make another attempt?’

‘My motto’s always been,
Nil illegitimi carborundum
,’ I said, blithely quoting one of Griff’s mates, a man who made Julian Clary look shy and retiring.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down
was his rough translation of what Griff assured me was even rougher Latin.

Dan’s eyebrows flew upwards.

‘But I clearly need some form of ID,’ I added, getting back to the matter in hand.

‘Maybe I could help there,’ he said.

Why should he offer? When gift-horses turned up as easily as this, I wanted to have a good peer round their mouths. On the other hand, what did I have to lose? ‘How?’

‘I could write a letter of support on College headed notepaper, telling them you were a scholar from – say – America researching –’

I shook my head. ‘Not America. There are copies of – the book I want to see in libraries over there. And I’m
not too hot at the accent. Australia?’

‘Why not? Any particular university?’ There was an edge to his voice I couldn’t place.

I produced the innocent beam I use on punters who are dithering between two items. ‘You choose. Preferably an obscure one.’

‘I don’t know any,’ he bleated.

‘Internet,’ I said crisply. ‘I bet they’re all listed there. With course details.’ But why did he want to help me if he was going to baulk at the first difficulty? I had to sit on my hands to stop scratching my head. He didn’t give the impression he wanted to get off with me, and if he suddenly tried, I’d deal with him like I’d dealt with propositions from no-hopers in bus-shelters or sleazy bastards like Ralph Harper.

What if that meant I didn’t get to see my book?

He flicked a glance at his watch, the sort of black plastic affair usually worn by spotty, skateboarding youths. ‘Why don’t I go and invent a CV for you and meet you here – say, three-ish? If we leave it that late that old trout will be off duty and her replacement is certainly more approachable.’

Since the girl who’d been nice to me had said the same, I nodded happily. ‘But I’m putting you to a lot of trouble. Why don’t I just come along with you? There’s no need for you to make a double journey.’

‘Another arcane rule – no women in our rooms,’ he said.

Which struck me as odd, all the things I’d heard about student life considered. However, if I’d never even heard of his college, I could scarcely argue. Not if I wanted his magic Open Sesame letter.

‘So we’re meeting up after lunch,’ I told Griff, passing him a sandwich.

‘This sounds like love at first sight. Though that’s more commonly supposed to be mutual.’

I shook my head emphatically. I wasn’t exactly head over heels with the gorgeous Marcus, and this guy wasn’t in the same league. Not even in the same game.

‘Why’s he being so chivalrous?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes.

‘I’ve been wondering about that myself. Yes, I even asked him point-blank.’

Griff nodded his approval.

‘When I pressed him he said it was because he liked bugging the system. He’d been in the Socialist Workers when he was young and still hated authority even though he was authority himself, now.’

Griff weighed the idea. ‘Not entirely implausible. And you’ve got your mobile phone in case he misbehaves. But you’re not happy, are you, dear heart?’

‘Not a hundred per cent,’ I admitted. ‘But there’s no way I can see
Natura Rerum
without special pleading, and his is as special as I’m likely to get. Come on, Griff: remember what Iris always says?
Faint heart –
’

‘–
Never fucked a pig
,’ he concluded, his mouth turning down in strong disapproval. Swearing was like drinking, in Griff’s book – something best left to adults and till after the sun had sunk beyond the yardarm. ‘But you have to look convincing too – more like a
Clerke at Oxenford
, if I remember my Chaucer right.’

I gaped. ‘You don’t mean I have to wear a gown!’

‘I think they only wear them on special occasions or
for lectures. And if you’re claiming to come from the Antipodes, then you’re scarcely likely to have tucked one into your backpack. No, I meant things like a file and writing implements – though I’m sure these will be taken from you if you penetrate the
sancta sanctorum
. Oh, the most sacred place of all – where they keep rare books!’ he explained pettishly. ‘The magnifying glass presents no problems, at least.’ He produced the one we always keep handy. ‘And although I could be accused of over-egging the pudding, a pair of spectacles.’

‘Dan’ll know I wasn’t wearing specs this morning.’

‘Well, tell him your contact lenses started to hurt – or even that you didn’t want anyone to recognise you after this morning’s debacle. The truth’s often useful. Now, before you bleat you can’t afford glasses, look what I came upon this morning, in the midst of what I can only refer to as debris.’ He dug in his jacket pocket and came out with a spectacle case. ‘Nothing special, I know, but I got it for peanuts.’

It was a slender case, black-japanned papier-mache and mother of pearl. I crowed, ‘We can sell that for thirty pounds at least! It’s just right for that woman from Birmingham – I don’t think she’s got that particular design’

‘In that case you’ll be able to mark it up a little more. Say thirty-seven. But look inside!’

I flipped the end. What would add even more to a devoted collector was that the original specs were still there. It always gave me a funny feeling, sad that someone had died and that even their most intimate possessions had been sold, and yet pleased to be handling something that connected me closely to them. Griff,
who needed reading glasses himself, often found he could wear pairs a hundred, even two hundred years old. I’d never managed to myself, because, though I say it as shouldn’t, as Iris would say, my sight’s perfect. All the same, I couldn’t resist doing what I always did – I tried them on. And could see, if in a rather foggy way. If I perched them on the end of my nose, as Griff always did with his reading glasses, so he could look over them, there wasn’t a problem anyway.

‘Excellent,’ I confirmed. ‘What do I look like?’

‘A bit like a female Harry Potter. You really will have to get that mop of yours trimmed, dear heart. Preferably by someone other than that village damsel who seems to regard a pudding basin as an adjunct to coiffeur. Next time you make a big sale –’

‘I shall pay back every penny you lent me. OK? And then I’ll think about my hair.’

‘So long as you can still see under the fringe well enough to know whether it’s night or day – not to mention to do your restoration work. At least we should be hearing from my WSPU contact soon. It’s name-
your-price
time – lovely!’ He rubbed his paws in glee. ‘And then I think a celebratory visit to an expert cutter is called for. A trendy chain in Maidstone or Ashford, perhaps – unless you want to go wild and pay Tenterden prices?’

In your dreams, Griff. But he had Aidan, his special friend, over there, and I always tried to find some excuse to leave them alone a few hours. We’d see. Meanwhile, he was right, of course – the fringe was a nuisance when I was doing close work. I’d toyed with the idea of simply taking the scissors to it myself, but that would have
upset him even more.

I was half expecting Dan Freeman not to be there when I presented myself outside the Bodleian at three. But he was already waiting, pacing as anxiously as if he were expecting his best girl. As I lurked, once more wondering about his motives, he even checked that horrible watch a couple of times in two minutes. When I sauntered up, I’m surprised his sigh of relief didn’t blow the place down. Don’t tell me he really had fallen for me. No. I’d been too inconsistent for anyone to relate to: if I’d been even thinking about chatting up someone like me, I’d have backed away sharply.

His smile nearly split his face. Why didn’t he treat himself to some nice manly moisturiser? It wasn’t as though it wasn’t advertised almost as widely as women’s. And if he was a teacher, surely he could afford it. Unless he spent all his money on books.

Books!

At this point an alarm bell went off in my head. I switched it off. For a start, I hadn’t told him what book I wanted to see. Secondly, even if he knew and even if he managed to wangle a look too, he still wouldn’t have a clue why I wanted to see it. I’d better make sure it stayed that way. Or had I? I was so desperate I wasn’t making sense of anything. But I’d better have some reason to offer if – more likely when – he got round to asking me again.

He passed me an envelope – used. Instead of simply crossing through the address, he’d torn off an address label. So while I couldn’t confirm who he was, it looked as if he wasn’t a specially trusting guy either. The envelope contained the new Evelina Townend. Although I
was British born, with nine GCSEs and four A Levels (at this point I had to hold my mouth to stop laughing aloud), I’d taken a gap year in Australia, where I’d decided to remain to take a degree in English at the University of – wait for it! – Wollongong. Well, that sounded Australian enough to me. I was now a post-graduate student of bibliography, with a special interest in late sixteenth-century non-textual embellishment. Was I, indeed? Dan’s letter heading said so – he’d invented a Wollongong one rather than using Keble’s. The reception staff seemed to think both the letter and my CV were OK, so after a series of questions that almost included my shoe size and my blood group I was shown to a small waiting area. But Dan wasn’t. It seemed even a university lecturer needed more than a passing interest to have a gawp at such rare tomes. At last I was ushered into a dimly lit room and provided with a pair of cotton gloves. The leather binding rang no bells, as the librarian, also gloved, opened the book, supporting the front cover on a block. But then she opened it to the frontispiece. That rang a whole peal of bells in all sorts of complicated changes. Oh, yes. That was my frontispiece. I bent to smell it.

Suddenly I was standing in a patch of sunlight. It was warm, warm enough to feel in a room that was otherwise chilly. There was a small fire. The grate it hid in was very large, whitish-grey marble, with a set of firedogs that screamed for some polish. There was a big desk, covered with papers and newspapers and dirty plates. On all the chairs – and there were a lot of them – was more rubbish. I scanned it now. Gardening gloves. More newspapers. Piles of old orange and white and green and white
Penguins. Bottles. Where were the people in all this? I could hear but not see them. They were having a row, no doubt about that. I was supposed to be looking at the big book, to keep my mind off them.