Dodgson. He taught mathematics right here at Christ Church. He passed on just about the time C. S. Lewis was born.”
“What about Tolkien?” I asked. “Didn’t he live here in Oxford too?”
“That he did. He was a professor at Exeter.”
“Was he really?” Now Kellie was leaning forward. “When my youngest son was growing up, he was crazy about Tolkien’s books. He didn’t like to read until I bought him a copy of
The Hobbit
. After that, he read like crazy. Is it possible to see where Tolkien lived or taught? I’d love to take some pictures.”
“We have a few hours of daylight left. I could take you on that unofficial tour I mentioned, if you like.”
Kellie looked at me with a chin-dip nod. I was glad to see her popping back. She was a quicker pouter than I.
“What is the cost of the tour?” I asked.
“We can work out a suitable arrangement.”
“We need an estimate,” Kellie said.
“That depends. Will you be wanting to see the Kilns as well?”
Neither of us was sure what he was asking.
“I can see by my question that you’re not professional pilgrims of all the Lewis sites. If you were, you would be asking for the Kilns, which is the home where Jack and his brother, Warnie, lived. To make it worth your time, I would advise a stop by the Holy Trinity Church and the churchyard in Headington where the two of them are buried.”
“Okay,” I said. “How much will you charge us for all that?”
“I would say right around fifty pounds.”
Neither of us had the exchange rate figured out, so in a way it didn’t matter what he said. We wouldn’t know what the equivalent was in dollars unless we had a calculator handy.
“Let’s do it,” I said to Kellie. “Why not? When are we going to be here again?”
“You’re right.” To the cab driver she said, “We’ll take the tour.”
The driver put on his blinker and gazed at us in his rearview mirror. “All right then. Tell me this: are you like the couple I hada week ago from California who saw a film and thought they were experts on Jack?”
“Who is Jack?” Kellie asked, more to me than to our driver.
He gave a low whistle. “There’s my answer right there. We’ll take it back to the top for the two of you.”
Switching into a tour guide–sounding voice, our driver said, “Clive Staples Lewis went by the name Jack with his friends because he liked the name, clean and simple. He married an American by the name of Joy Davidman when he was fifty-eight years old. She already had two sons. Jack and his brother, Warnie, adopted the boys after Joy died of cancer. I can take you by the hospital if you like. Or I can even take you to the crematorium where Joy was—”
“No,” Kellie and I said in unison.
“Just the Eagle and Child Pub, where you said he met with Tolkien, his house, and the church,” Kellie said.
“Got it. The Bird and Babe and perhaps the Kilns.”
“I thought you said it was the Eagle and Child?” Kellie asked.
“The Bird and Babe is what those of us who have a familiarity with the Eagle and Child call it. Do you see? Makes sense, doesn’t it? Right. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. You wanted to see Tolkien’s home as well.”
“Yes.” Kellie seemed to warm up to the plan and leaned back in the comfortable, wide seat. She pulled her camera out of her bag, and I did the same, ready to take aim and shoot from the vehicle on our Oxford literary safari.
First stop was at the front of the unassuming, whitewashed pub. Our driver snapped a picture of us standing under the round, hanging blue sign that said “The Eagle and Child.” The pub sign had the image of an eagle flying in stork fashion, toting a redheaded child wrapped up in a delivery sling and suspended from the eagle’s claw.
“Have a look inside at the Rabbit Room. It’s in the back to the left. You can’t miss it.”
An afternoon gathering of customers was tucked in the corners of the compact pub. Our driver was right about it not being