They all went to bed amused and at ease with one another, except for Brian, whose plans for the weekend now needed revision. Today was the first of September; their flight home was three days hence, on Labour Day; school began for his brothers on Tuesday; their money was dangerously low after a three-week tour of the British Isles using their student BritRail passes and this was their last free stop before their return, yet they could not afford another day’s food and accommodation. This was 1973, and he had no credit card or access to funds in a British bank. Worse, they would see and hear nothing of value here about Tolkien, so why stay? Perhaps they should leave the next day, spend the night in discomfort on a train to Edinburgh, see the city briefly and cheaply, and return the same way to Heathrow. He decided to speak privately to Dr. Perry in the morning.
As it was a Sunday, no-one rose early. It was his host who approached Brian on the landing.
“Good morning, Brian. Boys awake yet? I thought not. I have some news for you. Come into this spare room. Everyone but us is still asleep.” It was another book-lined study of some sort, but much untidier. He seemed agitated. “I have it on good authority, believe me, that Professor Tolkien has just died.” An involuntary gasp of horror from Brian. “I knew you’d be shocked. He is to be buried tomorrow in Wolvercote Cemetery. His death was expected; he was ill, as you know. I am sorry to have to tell you this. It is never be easy to hear bad news.” The silence that followed was deafening. Despite himself, Brian felt tears threatening to well out of his eyes. To his surprise, Perry suddenly embraced him. “We lost our son Ambrose on this very day ten years ago. He was about your age…” There were tears in his eyes, too. “We never told Cicely. She never knew we had an adopted son, and I don’t want her to know, so I rely upon your discretion to keep it secret. Can you do so? I think I can trust you. Ambrose is also buried in Wolvercote.”
“Of course, sir. I will keep it to myself… for ever,” Brian whispered.
When the others awoke an hour later, they joined the early risers for an impromptu breakfast in the kitchen, full of cheerful sunlight, the door and windows wide open, birdsong from the garden filling the room. Dr. Perry had an announcement. “I have asked Brian to stay with us for one more night, and I am happy to say he and his brothers have accepted, so, lads, eat up, and come and help me feed the chickens!”
And so we did, and all our problems that day were then behind us, thought Brian, as he paused, forty years later, with his hand on the tombstone of Professor Tolkien and his wife in Wolvercote Cemetery. They were buried together under the inscription BEREN, the name of a mortal man in Tolkien’s fiction next to the author’s name, and LUTHIEN, the name of Beren’s immortal elven love next to the name of Edith, Tolkien’s wife’s name. He had been unable to find the grave of Ambrose, or that of his adoptive parents. Their house on the hill and its trees was also now long gone, replaced by a row of identical small homes lacking both driveways and garages. Brian patted the tombstone gently. “I have kept the faith, John,” he said, and walked slowly back to their rented car, his wife waiting patiently at the wheel.
