Thought you might enjoy these excerpts from my third novel, which I’m bringing out on March 25.
Four of my characters visit J.R.R. Tolkien at his home. These are the two opening scenes.
London
June 20, 1971
Uncle Riis is driving Bronwyn, Yale, and me through the quiet, respectable, and attractive Oxford suburb of Headington.
During the years he was an economic journalist and analyst covering Europe (from the 1930s to the 1950s), among the people Riis befriended was an Oxford University professor named J.R.R. Tolkien. We knew he’d meet with Tolkien this trip. He waited till we were in London to spring on us his big surprise: Tolkien had invited him to bring the three of us along.
“So what’s he like, Grandpa?” Yale asks.
“Well,” Riis answers, “no car, no television. I watched him mend broken furniture with his hands. He loves to cultivate his garden, especially the roses. He likes to lunch at a nice restaurant, walk over to a bookshop or the library, amble out in the country, and picnic. He bicycles to Mass, loves communion, goes willingly to confession. He plays the card game Patience late into the night.”
“What a phenomenon!” Yale exclaims. “Tens of millions of people have read his Lord of the Rings!”
“Sales aren’t that high, are they?” I ask.
“People hand it to their friends,” Yale explains. “They want everyone to read it. Could be one hundred million.”
“I can see why,” says Riis.
“There’s nothing slick or shoddy about it,” says Yale. “It’s got what matters: adventure, heroism, beauty, joy, the goodness in our souls.”
“How is he with people?” Bronwyn asks.
“Loves children, devotes himself to their well-being. Dotes on all his grandkids. Indulges them. Enjoys amusing them and making up stories for them.”
“And with the rest of us folks?” Bronwyn asks.
“He’s shy and private and solitary but congenial and friendly. Enjoys good company.”
“How ‘bout with his fans?” Yale asks.
“Well, he spends a lot of time answering letters. They’ll write and ask him if they can name a pet after one of the characters in his books. Still, he never appreciates a fan calling him up on his telephone. And he wearies of the photographs people send him of themselves dressed up as characters from his books.”
Riis pulls the car up in front of an old but pleasant white house that looks more like a church rectory. We walk up and ring the bell. Moments later we are face-to-face with the man who peopled the legendary world of Middle-earth.
He looks like a middle-class Englishman. He’s sensibly dressed in a tweed jacket, a nondescript tie, flannel trousers, and solid brown shoes. His clothes are pressed but still a bit rumpled. He is of light build and less-than-average height, with a long, angular face. There is, however, one thing about this 79-year-old man that is quite remarkable: his keen and twinkling eyes.
Tolkien nods and smiles as he offers his neat, wrinkled hand to each of us in turn and grasps our hand firmly. “It was kind of you to write to me again, Riis. How delightful to get your charming and encouraging letter. I was very pleased to hear from you.”
He guides us through a small, tidy entrance hall and out behind his house to a small garden with a hawthorn tree. He points at his high back wall. “This was a section of Oxford’s medieval wall. And on the other side is New College.”
He leads us back into his house. As we walk in, I look up and see hanging over the door a horn for gunpowder, seemingly from the 19th Century.
He welcomes us into his “office” – a converted garage – but apologizes for receiving us here, saying it’s not very comfortable. There are four lawn chairs set out for us, and with his inviting wave we take our seats. He sits in a wheel-back chair.
The room smells of books and tobacco smoke and dust. It’s a bit drab, shabby, banal. It’s filled with files. The bookshelves are crammed with dictionaries and works about language – especially Old and Middle English and Old Norse. On the floor is a faded, battered, buff-colored leather trunk, full of letters. On the desk are ink-bottles, nibs, pen-holders, and two typewriters. There is a filled-in crossword puzzle from a recent newspaper, with little drawings Tolkien doodled on the page.
I look over at the window ledge. Two papers are tacked on it. One is a list of his engagements, in his bold handwriting. The other is a map of Middle-earth, with two routes – Bilbo’s quest and Frodo’s quest.
Was Tolkien's wife still alive at this point in his life? Tolkien had a very lonesome last few years without her.