Chapter Eleven: Mac Govan-Crow
Tolkien and Barfield sat at the small table beside the window, relieved to have at last reached the Red Lion and un-shouldered their heavy packs. Lewis was at the bar, where he was talking to the barman as the latter poured beer from a jug into three pint mugs.
The room was busy and filled with smoke; in one corner two men in caps played at dominoes; in the other corner, far from the patch of sunlight in which Tolkien found himself sitting, sat a solitary figure, puffing on his pipe and eyeing Tolkien with dark heavy lidded eyes. Tolkien looked away hurriedly and smiled at Barfield.
‘Jack’s on top form.’ he said, on hearing the barman laugh at one of Lewis’s witticisms. Owen nodded, but his eyes suggested something different than the smile that briefly played over his lips.
‘I find Jack somewhat, I don’t know, flat of late.’ he said.
‘Flat?’
‘His arguments lack conviction. It’s as if some of that fire he once had has left him. I suppose it was the part of him that was searching… but now he has found God it’s as if the search is over and that hunger has somewhat abated. His opinions have become fixed.’
It was clear from his expression that Barfield had found this change in his friend painful. ‘I did so used to enjoy seeing him fired up.’ He smiled sadly and blinked a few times. ‘Did you see his face when he said about no longer being a poet? That’s all that used to drive him. He seems lost, for having become found.’
Tolkien looked away, unsure of how to respond to his friend’s observation, and found himself once more under the gaze of the swarthy man in the corner. Having had his gaze met Tolkien decided he could not be rude and look away for a second time and so he touched his cap in greeting. Slowly, the man in the corner responded, touching his cap with stubby, dirty fingers, his eyes remaining still fixed on the pair at the window, midst the blue cloud of pipe smoke.
Unnerved, Tolkien fidgeted in his waistcoat pocket for his own pipe, filled the bowl and then laid it on the table, then changed his mind and put it in his mouth unlit, then took it out to speak.
‘He seems little altered to me, Owen; but you have known him longer, I suppose. Perhaps what you’re observing is the mellowing of a man in his middle years, as we all are, no doubt?!’
Owen smiled. ‘Perhaps you are right, Ronald.’
‘Time ever marches on.’ Tolkien said, striking a match and lifting to his pipe. ‘Unlike us. I think it’s a good decision to stay here tonight,’ he said; they had reached this decision moments before. What had appeared during their planning a decent spot to pause had, in truth, appeared more attractive in the flesh, so to speak; Calne could wait.
Lewis returned to the table with the foaming mugs in his hands. He was frowning.
‘No room at the Inn, I am sorry to say – nor, it seems, at the other place across the road… all been booked up by that archaeologist Keiller, but all is not lost...’ He said enigmatically and he returned to the bar.
Tolkien sipped at the foam of the beer. ‘I do hope so. I don’t really fancy walking much further today. I thought the idea was to break us in slowly, not kill us off on day one.’ A fleeting smile played across his lips. ‘I dare say there should be room still at Calne if it should come to that...’
Just then the barman, with whom Lewis was talking, turned and raised his voice.
‘George?’
At this, the dark-complexioned man in the corner who had been watching Barfield and Tolkien, set down his drink and headed for the bar, where he was seen to engage Lewis in conversation. Tolkien eyed the pair, noting the man’s long-hair bound in a ponytail, like some tinker or gypsy, he thought. A moment later the two men were walking towards the table. Tolkien and Barfield stood to greet the stranger.
‘This is Mr Mac Govan-Crow,’ Lewis said, ‘and it seems he has a couple of rooms to rent in the village, which is excellent news.’
Mr Mac Govan-Crow once again touched his hand to his cap.
‘He has invited us to see the rooms, but I’ve assured him that I am sure they will be more than suitable; shall we bring our packs along after our lunch?’ he asked the newcomer.
Mr Mac Govan seemed to be eyeing the three gentlemen with veiled amusement, much to Tolkien’s discomfort. ‘’Tis no bother, sirs. I’ll take your luggage now; if you come after you’ve eaten I shall provide you with a key.’ His accent was pure West Country, even if his swarthy, aquiline looks with their black eyes like crescents over high cheekbones, were not. He effortlessly shouldered Lewis’s pack, despite his short stature, then picked up the other two in his hands and exited the pub.
‘Good god he must be as strong as an ox!’ exclaimed Tolkien. ‘Mac Govan-Crow, eh? If he’s a Celt then I’m a Zulu!’
‘Yes. I know. Listen to this. He's a full-blooded Red Indian by all accounts, so the barman told me! ‘Hawkeye, Last of the Mohicans’ the landlord called him.’ Lewis said.
‘Hawkeye?! People can be so uneducated!’ Tolkien scowled.
Lewis nodded.
‘Everyone knows that the last of the Mohicans was Uncas! Hawkeye was a white man!’ Tolkien explained.
Lewis suddenly laughed. ‘My dear Tollers! There was I agreeing over what I thought was your annoyance over a racial stereotype whereas your real annoyance was over the fact the barman didn’t know his Fennimore-Cooper well enough!’
Tolkien smiled. ‘Both rankle with me –ignorance is ignorance, I suppose. And if you’re stupid enough to cast about racist nicknames you’re also stupid enough not to know you’ve chosen a character of the wrong race to begin with! I was brought up reading the Leatherstocking tales; I used to fantasize about living in the forests, hunting with a bow…this is absolutely marvellous! I wonder if he speaks any Native languages…?’ Tolkien asked, his eyes lighting up. ‘How on earth did he end up in Wiltshire?!’ he continued. ‘What tribe is he?’
‘I don’t care, as long as he can cook a good English breakfast.’ Lewis quipped, and sipped his pint. But Tolkien wouldn’t let the subject drop.
Owen had spread his ordnance survey map out across the table – and the friends spent a few minutes looking closely at the finer details, while thirstily emptying their glasses.
‘So, the question is whether we take a walk back to Silbury now and climb it before dinner – or, seeing is we are now staying the night, we save that until tomorrow.’
Tolkien was looking at the map in silence.
‘Just look at the number of ancient features – dozens more burial mounds than I suspected; and look at that…’
‘What is it?’ asked Lewis.
‘That hill – Windmill hill on Stukeleys map – there’s some kind of square enclosure on top and here the hill is called Waden hill.’
‘Waden? And what do you deduce from that?’ Lewis asked, downing his pint.
‘And the spring…’ he continued, not pausing to answer Lewis’s question, ‘the Kennet spring, is here named Swallowhead! Swallow. Well I never! Suilo. It seems my vision of that lady floating in the waters of the Kennet was probably correct…if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with the book over the last few days I would’ve had time to do some research, I had no idea… the hill’s named after the spring…not vice verca…’
‘Explain!’ Lewis said, annoyed at his friend’s seemingly random muttering
‘Only if you get in another jug, this is going to be thirsty work!! We need the ale of inspiration!’
Tolkien and Barfield sat at the small table beside the window, relieved to have at last reached the Red Lion and un-shouldered their heavy packs. Lewis was at the bar, where he was talking to the barman as the latter poured beer from a jug into three pint mugs.
The room was busy and filled with smoke; in one corner two men in caps played at dominoes; in the other corner, far from the patch of sunlight in which Tolkien found himself sitting, sat a solitary figure, puffing on his pipe and eyeing Tolkien with dark heavy lidded eyes. Tolkien looked away hurriedly and smiled at Barfield.
‘Jack’s on top form.’ he said, on hearing the barman laugh at one of Lewis’s witticisms. Owen nodded, but his eyes suggested something different than the smile that briefly played over his lips.
‘I find Jack somewhat, I don’t know, flat of late.’ he said.
‘Flat?’
‘His arguments lack conviction. It’s as if some of that fire he once had has left him. I suppose it was the part of him that was searching… but now he has found God it’s as if the search is over and that hunger has somewhat abated. His opinions have become fixed.’
It was clear from his expression that Barfield had found this change in his friend painful. ‘I did so used to enjoy seeing him fired up.’ He smiled sadly and blinked a few times. ‘Did you see his face when he said about no longer being a poet? That’s all that used to drive him. He seems lost, for having become found.’
Tolkien looked away, unsure of how to respond to his friend’s observation, and found himself once more under the gaze of the swarthy man in the corner. Having had his gaze met Tolkien decided he could not be rude and look away for a second time and so he touched his cap in greeting. Slowly, the man in the corner responded, touching his cap with stubby, dirty fingers, his eyes remaining still fixed on the pair at the window, midst the blue cloud of pipe smoke.
Unnerved, Tolkien fidgeted in his waistcoat pocket for his own pipe, filled the bowl and then laid it on the table, then changed his mind and put it in his mouth unlit, then took it out to speak.
‘He seems little altered to me, Owen; but you have known him longer, I suppose. Perhaps what you’re observing is the mellowing of a man in his middle years, as we all are, no doubt?!’
Owen smiled. ‘Perhaps you are right, Ronald.’
‘Time ever marches on.’ Tolkien said, striking a match and lifting to his pipe. ‘Unlike us. I think it’s a good decision to stay here tonight,’ he said; they had reached this decision moments before. What had appeared during their planning a decent spot to pause had, in truth, appeared more attractive in the flesh, so to speak; Calne could wait.
Lewis returned to the table with the foaming mugs in his hands. He was frowning.
‘No room at the Inn, I am sorry to say – nor, it seems, at the other place across the road… all been booked up by that archaeologist Keiller, but all is not lost...’ He said enigmatically and he returned to the bar.
Tolkien sipped at the foam of the beer. ‘I do hope so. I don’t really fancy walking much further today. I thought the idea was to break us in slowly, not kill us off on day one.’ A fleeting smile played across his lips. ‘I dare say there should be room still at Calne if it should come to that...’
Just then the barman, with whom Lewis was talking, turned and raised his voice.
‘George?’
At this, the dark-complexioned man in the corner who had been watching Barfield and Tolkien, set down his drink and headed for the bar, where he was seen to engage Lewis in conversation. Tolkien eyed the pair, noting the man’s long-hair bound in a ponytail, like some tinker or gypsy, he thought. A moment later the two men were walking towards the table. Tolkien and Barfield stood to greet the stranger.
‘This is Mr Mac Govan-Crow,’ Lewis said, ‘and it seems he has a couple of rooms to rent in the village, which is excellent news.’
Mr Mac Govan-Crow once again touched his hand to his cap.
‘He has invited us to see the rooms, but I’ve assured him that I am sure they will be more than suitable; shall we bring our packs along after our lunch?’ he asked the newcomer.
Mr Mac Govan seemed to be eyeing the three gentlemen with veiled amusement, much to Tolkien’s discomfort. ‘’Tis no bother, sirs. I’ll take your luggage now; if you come after you’ve eaten I shall provide you with a key.’ His accent was pure West Country, even if his swarthy, aquiline looks with their black eyes like crescents over high cheekbones, were not. He effortlessly shouldered Lewis’s pack, despite his short stature, then picked up the other two in his hands and exited the pub.
‘Good god he must be as strong as an ox!’ exclaimed Tolkien. ‘Mac Govan-Crow, eh? If he’s a Celt then I’m a Zulu!’
‘Yes. I know. Listen to this. He's a full-blooded Red Indian by all accounts, so the barman told me! ‘Hawkeye, Last of the Mohicans’ the landlord called him.’ Lewis said.
‘Hawkeye?! People can be so uneducated!’ Tolkien scowled.
Lewis nodded.
‘Everyone knows that the last of the Mohicans was Uncas! Hawkeye was a white man!’ Tolkien explained.
Lewis suddenly laughed. ‘My dear Tollers! There was I agreeing over what I thought was your annoyance over a racial stereotype whereas your real annoyance was over the fact the barman didn’t know his Fennimore-Cooper well enough!’
Tolkien smiled. ‘Both rankle with me –ignorance is ignorance, I suppose. And if you’re stupid enough to cast about racist nicknames you’re also stupid enough not to know you’ve chosen a character of the wrong race to begin with! I was brought up reading the Leatherstocking tales; I used to fantasize about living in the forests, hunting with a bow…this is absolutely marvellous! I wonder if he speaks any Native languages…?’ Tolkien asked, his eyes lighting up. ‘How on earth did he end up in Wiltshire?!’ he continued. ‘What tribe is he?’
‘I don’t care, as long as he can cook a good English breakfast.’ Lewis quipped, and sipped his pint. But Tolkien wouldn’t let the subject drop.
Owen had spread his ordnance survey map out across the table – and the friends spent a few minutes looking closely at the finer details, while thirstily emptying their glasses.
‘So, the question is whether we take a walk back to Silbury now and climb it before dinner – or, seeing is we are now staying the night, we save that until tomorrow.’
Tolkien was looking at the map in silence.
‘Just look at the number of ancient features – dozens more burial mounds than I suspected; and look at that…’
‘What is it?’ asked Lewis.
‘That hill – Windmill hill on Stukeleys map – there’s some kind of square enclosure on top and here the hill is called Waden hill.’
‘Waden? And what do you deduce from that?’ Lewis asked, downing his pint.
‘And the spring…’ he continued, not pausing to answer Lewis’s question, ‘the Kennet spring, is here named Swallowhead! Swallow. Well I never! Suilo. It seems my vision of that lady floating in the waters of the Kennet was probably correct…if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with the book over the last few days I would’ve had time to do some research, I had no idea… the hill’s named after the spring…not vice verca…’
‘Explain!’ Lewis said, annoyed at his friend’s seemingly random muttering
‘Only if you get in another jug, this is going to be thirsty work!! We need the ale of inspiration!’