Finding Camlann by Sean Pidgeon Page A

him think of it. Caradoc Bowen’s poetry book suddenly seems of far more than academic interest. It might have something to tell her about Hugh’s intense relationship with Bowen, a part of his life she has never quite been able to come to terms with. Perhaps there is a clue to be found in this poem that so inspired Bowen and lodged so indelibly in Hugh’s memory of that time, something that might help her to understand. For now, all thoughts of lexicography are forgotten.
    The librarian on duty at the main reference desk is one of the old hands, long accustomed to such unusual enquiries. ‘That’s a tricky one,’ he says, running an earnest hand across his balding scalp. ‘We could give you special access to the entire collection, if you think that might help. But if I were you, I’d try to speak to the boss—this sounds like Dr. Rackham’s sort of thing.’
    Julia walks along the corridor to a heavy panelled door bearing the words Bodley’s Librarian embossed in gold. She knocks firmly, is invited to come in by an authoritative female voice. The door opens to a spacious interior flooded with light from a pair of tall windows that look out on a startlingly green vista of the Fellows’ Garden of Exeter College. The walls are lined with fine antiquarian maps and prints. In the centre of the room, seated at a massive desk of apparently medieval construction, is the venerable Dr. Margaret Rackham. She has thick grey hair and piercing blue eyes that make her seem, at first glance, to be somewhere in her sixties; but this initial impression is belied by an extraordinary network of deep wrinkles around the eyes and across the cheeks, evidence of a long life spent in contemplation of the written word.
    ‘It’s Julia, isn’t it, from the OED?’ she says. Despite her decidedly aristocratic accent, any lingering sense of imperiousness vanishes instantly. ‘You came to me once before, to ask if you could have a look at Junius 11, the Cædmon manuscript.’
    ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m surprised you remembered.’
    ‘Such is the librarian’s curse. I remember a great many things, sometimes rather more than I would like. What may I do for you, my dear?’
    As Julia relates her story of Bowen’s poetry book, she judges from the growing expression of curiosity on the librarian’s face that she has come to the right place. ‘There was a time when I saw a good deal of Caradoc Bowen,’ Margaret Rackham says. ‘I was a junior postgraduate when he first became a Fellow of Jesus College, and it must be said that there was something both attractive and mysterious about him in those days. He was by far the cleverest person I had ever met, and a naturally gifted poet, too, being closely related on his mother’s side to the Powys family of literary fame. But he was also in some ways a strange and difficult man. I’m afraid I have rarely spoken to him in recent years.’
    To Julia, Margaret Rackham’s words seem imbued with a faint wistful sense of lost opportunity. She finds herself transported to another era, imagining a striking young Caradoc Bowen, the brilliant new Oxford don, and the youthful Margaret, sharp as a knife and beautiful too, admiring him from afar. ‘Did you know him very well?’ she says, then regrets her careless question.
    The librarian fixes her with a cool gaze. ‘Before I answer that, I should like to know why you are so interested in this book of his.’
    Julia feels entirely unready to con201ready tfess her vague presentiments and intuitions to such an august authority. ‘My main interest is in Welsh loan-words that found their way into Old English,’ she says. ‘I’m looking for new materials that might help me with my research.’
    ‘Which makes it seem rather a large effort to hunt down such an obscure manuscript, unless you already have an idea of what you hope to find?’
    Something in Margaret Rackham’s candid expression seems to invite the sharing of confidences, but Julia is