The Dictionary of Lost Words(105)

There were only seven of us left. Dr Murray was assisted to a chair in front of one of the bookshelves, and Elsie and Rosfrith sat either side of him. Mr Maling, Mr Sweatman and Mr Yockney stood behind.

I looked through the lens and focused on Dr Murray. It was the same face that used to spy me beneath the sorting table and wink conspiratorially. The same face that looked grave when he read letters from the Press Delegates, or agitated when he read copy from one of the other editors. It was the face that used to delight in slipping into Scottish brogue when he spoke to Da, and that gave way to a restrained smile when Gareth delivered proofs. He sat in the middle of the frame, all the elements of the Dictionary around him: books and fascicles, pigeon-holes bursting with slips, his daughters and assistants. How could it ever be otherwise?

‘Something is missing,’ I said.

I went to the shelf behind Dr Murray’s high desk. There were eight volumes of words, with room for four or five more. In the empty space was the mortarboard Dr Murray used to wear when I was a child. I picked it up and beat the dust off it. I let the tassel slip slowly through my fingers and gave myself the briefest moment with memory. I’d worn it once, when it was just Da and me in the Scriptorium. He’d put it on my head and sat me on Dr Murray’s stool. With a serious face, he’d asked if I approved of the corrections he’d made to the word cat. ‘They are adequate,’ I’d said, and his face had broken into a grin.

‘I think you should wear this, Dr Murray.’

He thanked me, but I could barely hear it.

Rosfrith helped him position the mortarboard properly, and I took up the camera again.

‘Ready,’ I said.

They all looked towards me, their expressions serious. Until the end of time, I thought. I blinked back tears and took the photograph.



I dressed for the funeral while Gareth packed the last of his things into his kit bag. He took his greatcoat from the wardrobe, though the day was warm and winter could barely be imagined.

He came to me and kissed my forehead, brushed his thumbs beneath my eyes and kissed each salty lid. He took up one hand and then the other, buttoning the cuffs of my blouse.

I attached my hat, tucked my curls in tighter and stood in front of the mirror. Gareth passed behind me, out into the hall. When he came back, he had his brush and his comb. I watched his reflection place them in the bag, and I wondered if I could take them out without him seeing and put them back on the bathroom sink.

We were ready.

We stood at the foot of the bed we had shared for barely a month of nights. Our lips came together, and I remembered the first time – the taste of tea sweetened by sugar. This kiss had the taste of oceans. It was gentle and quiet and long. We each imbued it with what we needed it to be. The memory would have to sustain us.

I caught our reflection. We could have been any couple before the whistle blew to board the train. But I wouldn’t be going to the station. I couldn’t bear it.

Gareth would be leaving after the funeral. He tied up his bag and hoisted it onto his shoulder. I took my handbag and put in a clean handkerchief. I followed Gareth out of the room but turned at the last moment to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Rupert Brooke’s poems were still by the bed. I raced back and put them in my handbag, then hurried down the stairs.

At the funeral, I stood with Gareth at the back of the crowd of mourners – two hundred at least, despite the short notice. I wept more than decorum allowed: more than Mrs Murray; more than Elsie and Rosfrith and all the Murray children and grandchildren put together. When the last word was spoken and the family stepped forward, I turned to walk away.

Gareth’s hand found mine and I pleaded, as quietly as I could, for him to let me go.

‘Walk back with Lizzie when it’s all finished,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you at Sunnyside.’

As I came through the gates, there was a strange stillness. The house was nothing more than the stone that formed it, its pulse and breath all gathered in the churchyard. For the first time in my life, the Scriptorium struck me as an impermanent thing – an old iron shed not worthy of its purpose.

I opened the kitchen door. The smell of the morning’s bread had grown rich with the day’s heat. It tethered me back in place.

I took the stairs two at a time and pulled the trunk from under Lizzie’s bed. I felt the weight of it, and calculated the years. Gareth’s gift was loosely wrapped, a handful of new slips scattered on top of it; they are bumf, I thought, to anyone but me.

I pulled on the string and the paper fell away, as it had the first time. Women’s Words and Their Meanings. The same quick beat of a thrill. But there was a sediment of sorrow this time. And fear. I looked more closely at my gift, searched each page. I wanted to find something that would replace his comb, his greatcoat, his book of poems. It was unreasonable to expect there would be anything, and irrational to think it would make a difference. After the last words, there was nothing but blank end pages.

Then, on the inside back cover.

This Dictionary is printed in Baskerville typeface. Designed for books of consequence and intrinsic merit, it has been chosen for its clarity and beauty.

Gareth Owen

Typesetter, Printer, Binder

I raced down the stairs and out into the garden. The door opened, and the Scriptorium took me in. The words I needed were already printed, but I wanted to choose the meaning myself.

I searched the pigeon-holes, found one word and then the other. I took a clean slip and transcribed.