The Dictionary of Lost Words(10)

‘And who writes the books?’ I asked.

‘All sorts of people. Now stop asking questions and eat your breakfast; you’re going to be late for school.’



The bell rang for lunch, and I saw Lizzie in her usual place outside the school gates, looking awkward. I wanted to run to her, but I didn’t.

‘You mustn’t let them see you cry,’ she said as she took my hand.

‘I haven’t been crying.’

‘You have, and I know why. I saw them teasing you.’

I shrugged and felt more tears spring to my eyes. I looked down at my feet stepping one in front of the other.

‘What’s it about?’ she asked.

I held up my funny fingers. She grabbed them, kissed them and blew a raspberry in my palm. I couldn’t help laughing.

‘Half their fathers have funny fingers, you know.’

I looked up at her.

‘True. Them that work in the type foundry wear their burns like a badge telling the whole of Jericho their trade. Their littluns are scamps for teasing you.’

‘But I’m different.’

‘We’s all different,’ she said. But she didn’t understand.

‘I’m like the word alphabetary,’ I said.

‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s one of my birthday words, but Da says it’s obsolete. No use to anyone.’

Lizzie laughed. ‘Do you talk like that in class?’

I shrugged again.

‘They have different kinds of families, Essymay. They’s not used to talking about words and books and history the way you and your da do. Some people feel better about themselves if they can pull others down a bit. When you’re older things will change, I promise.’

We walked on in silence. The closer we got to the Scriptorium, the better I felt.

After eating sandwiches in the kitchen with Lizzie and Mrs Ballard, I crossed the garden to the Scriptorium. One by one, the assistants looked up from their lunch or their words to see who had come in. I went quietly and sat beside Da. He cleared some space, and I took an exercise book from my satchel to practise the longhand I’d been learning in school. When I was done, I slid off my chair and under the sorting table.

There were no slips, so I did a survey of the assistants’ shoes. Each pair suited its owner perfectly, and each had its habits. Mr Worrall’s were finely tanned and sat very still and pigeon-toed, while Mr Mitchell’s were the opposite: his shoes were comfortably worn with the toes turned out and heals bouncing up and down without pause. He had a different-coloured sock peeping out of each shoe. Mr Maling’s shoes were adventurous and never where I expected them to be, Mr Balk’s were pulled back under his chair, and Mr Sweatman’s were always tapping out a pattern that I imagined as a tune in his head. When I peeked from under the table, he was usually smiling. Da’s shoes were my favourite, and I always inspected them last. On this day, they rested one on the other, the soles of both exposed. I paused to touch the tiny hole that had just started to let in water. The shoe waved, as if to shoo a fly. I touched it again and it stopped, rigid. It was waiting. I wriggled my finger, just the tiniest bit. Then the shoe fell sideways, lifeless and suddenly old. The foot it had shod began stroking my arm. It was so clumsy that I had barely enough room in my cheeks to hold all the giggles that wanted to escape. I gave the big toe a squeeze and crawled to where there was just enough light to read by.

We were startled by three sharp raps on the Scriptorium door. Da’s foot found his shoe.

From under the table, I watched as Da opened the door to a small man with a large blond moustache and hardly any hair on his head. ‘Crane,’ I heard the man say as Da ushered him in. ‘I’m expected.’ His clothes were too big for him, and I wondered if he was hoping to grow into them. It was the new assistant.

Some assistants only came for a few months, but sometimes they stayed forever, like Mr Sweatman. He’d come the year before and, of all the men who sat around the sorting table, he was the only one without a beard. It meant I could see his smile, and he happened to smile a lot. When Da introduced Mr Crane to the men around the sorting table, Mr Crane didn’t smile once.

‘And this little scapegrace is Esme,’ said Da, helping me up.

I held out my hand, but Mr Crane didn’t take it.

‘What was she doing under there?’ he asked.

‘Whatever children do under tables, I suppose,’ said Mr Sweatman, and his smile met mine.

Da leaned towards me. ‘Let Dr Murray know that the new assistant has arrived, Esme.’

I ran across the garden to the kitchen, and Mrs Ballard walked with me to the dining room.

Dr Murray sat at one end of the large table, Mrs Murray at the other. There was room for all eleven of their children in between, but three had flown the coop, Lizzie said. The rest were spread along each side of the table, the biggest at Dr Murray’s end, the littlest in high chairs near their mother. I stood dumb as they finished saying grace, then Elsie and Rosfrith waved and I waved back, my message suddenly less important.

‘Our new assistant?’ Dr Murray said over his spectacles when he saw me lurking.

I nodded, and he rose. The rest of the Murrays began to eat.

In the Scriptorium, Da was explaining something to Mr Crane, who turned when he heard us come in.

‘Dr Murray, sir. An honour to join your team,’ he said, holding out his hand and bowing slightly.