The Dictionary of Lost Words(108)

‘Who from? The King?’ She smiled and made herself comfortable at the table, ready to hear it.

‘It does sound a bit like a holiday, doesn’t it?’ I said, when I’d read it through.

‘It does. And he’s made an interesting friend, by the sound.’

‘Yes. Mr Invincible. Which reminds me.’ I took the slip from the envelope and read what Gareth had written on it.

‘Isn’t it a wonderful word?’ I said. ‘I’ve decided to use it as often as I can.’

‘You’ll have more cause than me.’

More letters arrived, one every few days, and August passed into September. There was little sign that work had slowed since Dr Murray died, and as no one packed a box or cleared a shelf I thought, maybe, the Scriptorium would stay as it was. When Mr Sweatman (‘Fred’ never came easily) started to give me words to research, I felt some equilibrium return to my days. I resumed my errands to the Old Ashmolean and to the Press. Mr Hart was indeed in a depressed mood, but contrary to Gareth’s hope, I was unable to bring him any cheer.

Every weekday at five o’clock, I went straight from the Scriptorium to the Radcliffe Infirmary. On Saturdays I was there most of the afternoon. There was almost always a boy from the Press in one of the beds. If they’d just come in, the sisters would make sure I was told and the boy would become part of my rounds, but most were not short of visitors. The Radcliffe was a stone’s throw from the Press, and the women of Jericho had claimed it. The wards were full of mothers and sisters and sweethearts fussing over wounded strangers in the way they would fuss over their own, if they could. When a local boy came in they’d swarm around, trading biscuits and toffee for scraps of news that might convince them their own boys were still alive.

I’d always have my evening meal with Bertie.

‘He still doesn’t comprehend anything,’ Sister Morley said. ‘But he seems to eat more when you’re beside him.’

The Radcliffe provided my dinner on the same tray as Bertie’s. It was always bland and repetitive. Sister Morley apologised and blamed rationing, but I didn’t mind: it meant I didn’t have to go home and cook for one.

‘Bertie,’ I said. He gave no response. ‘I came across a word today that I think you might like.’

‘He don’t like any words, Mrs Owen,’ his neighbour said.

‘I know that, Angus, but the doctors only use familiar words. This will be unfamiliar.’

‘Well, how will he know what it means?’

‘He won’t. But I’ll explain it.’

‘But you got to use familiar words to explain it.’

‘Not necessarily.’

Angus laughed. ‘You got your work cut out, missus.’

‘Well, if you keep eavesdropping, you at least will leave here with a larger vocabulary.’

‘Reckon I know all the words I need,’ he said.

Bertie ate his meal like any other man, and for its duration I could imagine him burping at the end and saying, ‘Excuse me, missus,’ like so many of them did. But when he’d had enough, he resumed his forward gaze and was as silent as ever.

‘Finita,’ I said.

Bertie’s eyes registered nothing.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Angus.

‘It means finished.’

‘What language is it?’

‘Esperanto.’

‘Never heard of it.’

‘It’s made up, in a way,’ I said. ‘It’s meant to be easy enough for anyone to learn – it was created to foster peace between nations.’

‘And how’s that going, missus?’

I smiled wearily as my gaze settled on the end of Angus’s bed: no feet beneath the sheet.

‘Still,’ he went on, ‘if it helps old Bertie here, it might not have been a waste of time making it up.’ He nodded towards Bertie’s tray. ‘Can I have the leftovers if he’s finished?’

I picked up the plate of food and took it over to Angus.

‘How do you say thanks in Esperanto?’ he asked.

I had a list of words in my pocket, but this one I knew by heart: ‘Dankon.’

‘Well, dankon, Mrs Owen.’

‘Ne dankinde, Angus.’



Mrs Murray knocked, then opened the door to the Scriptorium. We all looked up from our desks.

‘It begins,’ she announced, and with a cheerless expression she ushered in a boy wearing the familiar apron of the Press. He pushed in a trolley stacked with flattened cardboard boxes.

‘The Press has offered to help with the move and will be sending a boy each afternoon with a trolley. They will take whatever boxes you have packed to the Old Ashmolean.’ She looked as though she was about to say more, but no words came. We watched her look around the room, taking in the shelves of pigeon-holes, the books, the stacks of paper. It should have been a private moment. Her eyes settled at last on Dr Murray’s desk, on the mortarboard resting on the shelf beside Q to Sh. She turned and left.

Rosfrith and Elsie got up to follow their mother. ‘You can leave the boxes on the floor,’ Rosfrith said as she passed the trolley boy. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to figure out how to assemble them.’

Work could not stop, but assembling boxes became our morning-tea activity. At lunchtime, we’d pack them with old dictionaries and all the books and journals we could do without. A boy would turn up each afternoon at three o’clock to take them away.