The Dictionary of Lost Words(31)

Dr Murray would be having lunch at Christ Church and was already in academic dress, sitting at his high desk facing the sorting table. His mortarboard was firmly in place; his gown was like the great black wings of a mythical bird. From my corner at the back, he looked like a judge presiding over a jury.

Just as I was gathering the courage to approach the bench and ask for my work to be reviewed, Dr Murray pushed back his chair. It scraped across the floorboards in a way that would attract reproach if anyone else had done it. The men all looked up and saw the Editor begin to fume.

Dr Murray had a letter in his hand. His head moved from side to side, a slow denial of whatever he had read. The Scriptorium fell silent. Dr Murray turned and pulled A and B from the shelf.

I felt the thump of it landing on the sorting table like a blow to my chest.

He opened to the middle, turned page after page, then took a deep breath when he found the right place. His eyes scanned the columns, and the assistants began to shift. Even Da was nervous, his hand reaching into his pocket to worry the coins he kept there. Dr Murray scanned the page, returned to the top, then looked more closely. His finger traced the length of a column. He was searching for a word. We waited. A minute seemed an hour. Whatever word he was looking for was not there.

He looked up, his face volcanic. Then he paused, as if he was about to deliver a sentence. Dr Murray looked at us, each in turn, his eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring above his long silver beard. His gaze was stern and steady, as if searching for the truth in our hearts. Only when it came to me did it flicker. His head tilted and his eyebrows raised. He was remembering my years beneath the sorting table. As was I.

Who hath yow misboden? I imagined him thinking.

Da was the first to follow Dr Murray’s gaze to where I sat. Then Mr Sweatman. All of the assistants craned their necks to look at me, though the newest assistants were confused. I had never felt so visible as I did in that moment, and I surprised myself by sitting up straighter. I did not fidget or look down.

If Dr Murray had thought to accuse me, he made a decision not to. Instead, he picked up the letter again and re-read it, then he glanced at the open volume; there was no use searching it a third time. He put the letter between its pages and left the Scriptorium without a word. Elsie followed close behind.

The assistants breathed out. Da wiped his brow with a handkerchief. When they were sure Dr Murray had gone into the house, a few men ventured into the garden to seek a breeze.

Mr Sweatman got up and went to the volume of words on Dr Murray’s desk. A and B. He picked up the letter and read it through. When he looked at me there was sympathy in his eyes, but also the hint of a grin. Da joined him and scanned the letter, then read aloud.

Dear sir,

I write to thank you for your excellent Dictionary. I subscribe to receive the fascicles as they are published and have all four volumes so far bound. They occupy a book case made especially for them, and I hope, one day, to see it filled, though it may be a satisfaction I leave to my son. I am in my sixth decade and not in full health.

It is my habit, since you have furnished the means, to reflect on certain words and understand their history. I had cause to refer to your dictionary while reading The Lord of the Isles. The word I sought in this instance was ‘bondmaid’. It is not an obscure word, but Scott uses a hyphen where I thought it was not needed. Its male equivalent was adequately referenced, but bondmaid was not there.

I must admit I was perplexed. Your dictionary has taken on the status of unquestionable authority in my mind. I realise it is unfair to burden any work of Man with the expectation of perfection, and I can only conclude that you, like me, are fallible, and it was an accidental omission.

I enlighten you, sir, with good intentions and all due respect.

Yours, etc.



I walked as slowly as I could across the lawn and past the assistants stretched on the grass, each with a tall glass of lemonade in his hand. As I started up the stairs to Lizzie’s room, Mrs Ballard emerged from the pantry, two eggs in each hand.

‘Not like you to pass through my kitchen without a by-your-leave,’ she said.

‘Is Lizzie around, Mrs B?’

‘Well, good morning to you too, young lady.’ She peered at me above her glasses.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs B. There’s been an upset in the Scriptorium and we’re all taking a minute. I was hoping Lizzie would be around, maybe I could just …’

‘An upset, you say?’ She continued to the kitchen bench, and began cracking the eggs on the rim of a bowl. She looked at me to respond.

‘They’ve lost a word,’ I said. ‘Dr Murray is furious.’

She shook her head and smiled. ‘Do they think we’ll stop speaking it if it’s not in their dictionary? Can’t be the first word they’ve lost.’

‘I think Dr Murray believes that it is.’

Mrs Ballard shrugged and transferred the bowl to her hip. She beat the eggs till her hand was a blur and the kitchen filled with a comforting thrum.

‘I’ll wait for Lizzie in her room,’ I said.

Lizzie came in just as I was reaching for the trunk. ‘Esme, what on earth are you doing?’

‘It’s filthy under here, Lizzie,’ I said, my head under her small bed, my hands searching the void. ‘It’s not at all what I would expect from the most accomplished housemaid in Oxford.’

‘Come out from under there, Essymay. You’ll soil your dress.’