The Dictionary of Lost Words(112)

‘Leave it for the moment,’ I said.

The boy walked forward, the man backward, turning his head to the side now and then to check he wasn’t going to bump into anything. I followed them out of the Scriptorium and watched as they loaded the last of the pigeon-holes into the lorry. They closed the doors, got into the cab and drove out of the gates onto the Banbury Road.

‘That’s it, then,’ I said to Lizzie as I came back in.

‘Not quite.’ Still kneeling, Lizzie held the dustpan in one hand and a small pile of slips in the other. ‘They’re filthy, mind,’ she said, handing them to me.

The slips were held together with a rusty pin and cobwebs. I took them outside and blew them clean, then returned to the sorting table. I spread the slips out. There were seven, each written in a different hand, with a quotation from a different book, a different time in history.

‘Read them out,’ Lizzie called from where she kneeled. ‘Let’s see if I’ve heard of them.’

‘You’ve heard of them,’ I said.

‘Go on.’

‘Bonde mayde.’ Lizzie’s sweeping stopped. ‘Bound maiden, bondmaiden, bond servant, bond service, bondmaide, bondmaid.’

Their quotations were almost benign, but on three slips Da had written a possible definition: Slave girl, bonded servant, bound to serve till death.

Slave girl had been circled.

I remembered the top-slip finding me beneath the sorting table.

Lizzie sat beside me. ‘What’s upset you?’

‘It’s these words.’

Lizzie moved the slips around, as if completing a jigsaw puzzle. ‘Will you be keeping them or giving them to Mr Bradley?’

Bondmaid had come to me – twice now– and I was reluctant to restore it to the Dictionary. It’s a vulgar word, I thought. More offensive to me than cunt. Would that give me the right to leave it out if I was editor?

‘It means slave girl, Lizzie. Has that never bothered you?’

She thought for a while. ‘I’m no slave, Essymay, but in my head, I can’t help thinking of myself as a bondmaid.’

Her hand went to her crucifix, and I knew she was thinking about the right way to say something.

When she finally let the crucifix rest, she was smiling. ‘You’ve always said that a word can change its meaning depending on who uses it. So maybe bondmaid can mean something more than what those slips say. I’ve been a bondmaid to you since you were small, Essymay, and I’ve been glad for every day of it.’



I closed the door of the Scriptorium, and Lizzie walked with me through the twilight, back to Observatory Street. We ate bread and butter at my kitchen table, and when my eyes began to droop, I asked if she would stay.

‘You’d probably be more comfortable in my old room,’ I said, ‘but do you mind sharing?’

Upstairs, Lizzie climbed beneath the blankets and folded herself around me. I told her about Bertie. About his fear, and mine.

‘I think now I can imagine a little of what it’s like for them,’ I whispered into the dark. I didn’t say Gareth’s name. We didn’t talk about his letter. The battle of Loos was hearsay and rumour all over Oxford.



I woke alone but to the clatter of Lizzie in our kitchen. She had porridge on the range, and when she saw me she spooned some into a bowl then added cream, honey and a pinch of cinnamon. I realised she must have been to the market already.

We ate in easy silence. When our bowls were empty, Lizzie made toast and brewed tea. She was comfortable moving around the kitchen in a way that I was not. I was reminded of our time in Shropshire.

‘Good to see you smile,’ she said.

‘It’s good to have you here.’

The garden gate sang on its hinges.

‘Morning post,’ I said. ‘He’s early.’ I waited for the sound of letters being pushed through the slot in the front door. When it didn’t come, Lizzie went down the hall to check if there was someone outside. I followed.

‘What’s he doing?’ I asked.

‘He’s holding …’ Lizzie clamped her hand over her mouth and her head shook back and forth, ever so slightly. There was a knock, almost too quiet to be heard. She took a step towards it.

‘Stop.’ It came out as a whisper. ‘It will be for me.’ But I was unable to move.

He knocked again. Tears rolled silently over Lizzie’s rough cheeks as she looked back at me. She offered me her arm and I took it.

The man was old, too old for the war, and so he was charged with delivering its sorrow. I held the telegram and watched him walk back along the length of Observatory Street. His shoulders hunched under the weight of his satchel.



Lizzie stayed with me. She fed me and bathed me, and held my arm to walk to the end of the street, then around the block, then to St Barnabas. She prayed; I couldn’t.

After two weeks, I insisted on returning to the Radcliffe Infirmary. Angus had been sent to a rehabilitation hospital near his hometown. Bertie had been moved to the Netley Hospital in Southampton. There were still three other boys there who had been silenced by their experience. I sat with them until the sister sent me home.

A month after the telegram, a parcel arrived. Lizzie brought it into the sitting room.

‘There’s a note,’ she said, taking it from under the string that held the brown-paper parcel together.