The Dictionary of Lost Words(24)

‘It isn’t because he disapproves,’ whispered Mr Sweatman once. ‘It’s because he’s so single-minded. When he’s puzzling over an entry, his beard could be alight and he’d fail to notice.’

One afternoon I approached Da at the sorting table. ‘Could I be your assistant?’ I asked.

He put a line through something on the proof he was working on and wrote a note beside it. Then he looked up.

‘But you’re Mrs Ballard’s assistant.’

‘I don’t want to be a cook; I want to be an editor.’

The words were a surprise, to Da and to me.

‘Well, not an editor, but an assistant maybe, like Hilda …’

‘Mrs Ballard isn’t training you to be a cook, just how to cook. It will come in useful when you’re married,’ said Da.

‘But I’m not going to get married.’

‘Well, not right away.’

‘If I get married, I can’t be an assistant,’ I said.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because I’ll have to look after babies and cook all day.’

Da was silenced. He looked to Mr Sweatman for some support.

‘If you’re not going to get married, then why not aim to become an editor?’ Mr Sweatman asked.

‘I’m a girl,’ I said, annoyed at his teasing.

‘Should that matter?’

I blushed and didn’t answer. Mr Sweatman cocked his head and raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘Well?’

‘Quite right, Fred,’ said Da, then he looked at me to judge the seriousness of my statement. ‘An assistant is exactly what I need, Essy,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure Mr Sweatman could do with a hand every now and then.’

Mr Sweatman nodded his head in agreement.



They were true to their word, and I began to look forward to my afternoons in the Scriptorium. Usually I was asked to make polite replies to letters congratulating Dr Murray on the latest fascicle. When my back began to ache or my hand needed a rest, I would return books and manuscripts. There were shelves of old dictionaries and books in the Scriptorium, but the assistants needed to borrow all kinds of texts from scholars or from college libraries to investigate the origins of words. When the weather was fine, it hardly counted as a chore. Most of the good college libraries were near the centre of town. I would ride down Parks Road until I got to Broad Street, then I’d dismount and walk among the bustling crowds between Blackwell’s Bookshop and the Old Ashmolean. It was my favourite part of Oxford, where town and gown struck an unusual alliance. Both were superior, in their own minds, to the visitors trying to get a glimpse of the gardens in the grounds of Trinity College, or gain entry to the Sheldonian. Am I town or gown? I sometimes wondered. I didn’t fit snugly with either.

‘A nice morning for a bicycle ride,’ Dr Murray said one day. He was coming in through the gates of Sunnyside when I was going out. ‘Where do you take yourself?’

‘The colleges, sir. I return the books.’

‘The books?’

‘When the assistants have finished with them, I take them back to where they belong,’ I said.

‘Is that right?’ he said, then made a noise I couldn’t interpret. When he’d gone on his way, I became nervous.

The following morning, Dr Murray called me over.

‘I’d like you to come with me to the Bodleian, Esme.’

I looked over to Da. He smiled and nodded. Dr Murray put on his black gown and ushered me out of the Scriptorium.

We rode side by side down the Banbury Road and, following my usual route, Dr Murray turned onto Parks Road.

‘A far more pleasant ride,’ he said. ‘More trees.’

His gown billowed, and his long white beard was swept back over one shoulder. I had no idea why we were going to the Bodleian Library, and I was too stunned to ask. When we turned onto Broad Street, Dr Murray dismounted. Town, gown and visitor all seemed to fall back as he made his way towards the Sheldonian Theatre. As he passed into the courtyard, I imagined the guard of stone emperors along the perimeter nodding to acknowledge the Editor’s presence. I followed like a disciple until we came to a halt at the entrance of the Bodleian.

‘Ordinarily, it would not be possible for you to become a reader, Esme. You are neither a scholar nor a student. But it is my intention to convince Mr Nicholson that the Dictionary will be realised far sooner if you are permitted to come here and check quotations on our behalf.’

‘We can’t just borrow the books, Dr Murray?’

He turned and looked at me above his spectacles. ‘Not even the Queen is permitted to borrow from the Bodleian. Now, come.’

Mr Nicholson was not immediately convinced. I sat on a bench watching students pass and heard Dr Murray’s voice begin to rise.

‘No, she is not a student, surely that is obvious.’ he said.

Mr Nicholson peered at me, then quietly presented another argument to Dr Murray.

The Editor’s response was louder again. ‘Neither her sex nor her age disqualifies her, Mr Nicholson. As long as she is employed in scholarship – and I assure you, she is – she has grounds for becoming a reader.’

Dr Murray called me over. Mr Nicholson passed me a card.

‘Recite this,’ said Mr Nicholson, with obvious reluctance.