The Dictionary of Lost Words(103)

‘Did you?’

‘Funny. No, I just hate knitting and knitting hates me. I’ve made five pairs now and they seem to be getting worse. But I need to do something or I begin to fret about Gareth being sent abroad,’ I said. ‘How I wish I could fall into bed exhausted each night and sleep without a single thought.’

‘That’s not a wish you want to come true, Essymay. Have you thought any more about volunteering?’

‘Yes, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit among the wounded. When I imagine it, they all have Gareth’s face.’

‘They always need women to roll bandages and such,’ Lizzie said. ‘And I’ve heard the men like to chat when the company has a pretty face. If you keep your ears open, you might pick up a word or two.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.



‘Have you been talking to Lizzie?’ I asked Gareth.

He had the afternoon off from Cowley, and we were eating sandwiches by Walton Bridge. He avoided my question.

‘Sam’s from the Press,’ he said. ‘But he’s from up north originally. He could use a visitor.’

‘Does he have no friends from the Press?’

‘He has me, but I barely even have time to visit you. And the others … well, they’re still in France.’

Still in France, I thought. Alive or dead?

‘He remembers you,’ continued Gareth. ‘Says I’m a lucky man. I said I’d ask.’



The Radcliffe Infirmary had changed very little since Da was there, except that the wards were filled with young men instead of old. They were enlisted men. Some had all their limbs and all their humour; some were missing both. Those who were able smiled and teased as I walked by. None of them had Gareth’s face. I was relieved, and ashamed I’d stayed away.

A nurse pointed to Sam’s bed at the far end of the ward. As I walked towards it, I scanned the charts of twenty-five young men. Their names and ranks were written large and clear, their injuries obscured by medical terms and crisp white sheets. It was one ward in one hospital. There were now ten in Oxfordshire.

Sam was sitting up, eating his dinner. He looked familiar, but only in the way of someone I might have passed a few times in the street. I introduced myself, and he beamed up at me. His right leg was elevated under the covers.

‘Foot’s gone,’ he said, with no more emotion than if he was telling me the time. ‘Ain’t nothing compared to what I seen.’

Neither of us wanted to talk about what he’d seen. Without a pause he began talking about the Press and asking after anyone we might know in common. I’d paid very little attention to all the apron-clad lads trundling between paper store, printing room, bindery and dispatch, and I couldn’t say who remained and who had gone. ‘I could tell you who’s gone,’ he said, with the same dispassionate tone he’d used to inform me about his foot. Then he told me the name and role of each boy he knew had died. It was monotonous in its detail, and he barely took a breath. But he needed to recall them, and as he did I imagined the paths they’d once traversed over a single day as threads stitching the different parts of the Press together. How could it function without them?

‘That’s all of them,’ he said, as if the inventory had been of stores or equipment, and not of men. He looked at me then and grinned. ‘Gareth, I mean Lieutenant Owen, says you like to collect words.’ He registered the surprise on my face. ‘I reckon I might have one that the Dictionary don’t know.’

I took out a slip and a pencil.

‘Bumf, ’ said Sam.

‘Can you put it in a sentence?’ I asked.

Someone chimed in from across the ward: ‘You do know what a sentence is, don’t you, Tinka?’

‘Why do they call you Tinka?’

‘Shot himself in the foot tinkerin’ with his rifle,’ said the man in the bed next to Sam’s. ‘Some do it on purpose.’

Sam made no response, but turned and said quietly to me, ‘Hand me them leaflets; I need some bumf for the latrine.’

It took me a while to realise he was providing the sentence I’d asked for. I wrote it on the slip and added his name. ‘Why bumf ? Where does it come from?’ I asked.

‘I probably shouldn’t say, Mrs Owen.’

‘Call me Esme. And don’t be afraid of offending me, Sam. I know more crass words than you could imagine.’

He smiled and said, ‘Bum fodder. There’s plenty of it comes from headquarters. Not worth reading but worth its weight in gold when you got the runs. Sorry, missus.’

‘I got a word, miss,’ another man shouted.

‘And me.’

‘If you want something crass,’ said a man missing an arm, ‘come sit by my bed for a while.’ With the only hand left to him, he patted the edge of his bed, then puckered his thin lips into a kiss.

Sister Morley, who was in charge of the ward, strode over to me. The banter stopped.

‘Could I have a word please, Mrs Owen.’

‘She’s got plenty, sister,’ said my one-armed suitor. ‘Just check her pockets.’

I rested my hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Can I visit tomorrow?’

‘I’d like that, missus.’

‘It’s Esme, remember?’