The Dictionary of Lost Words(35)

Each slip had its own personality, and while it was being sorted there was a chance the word it contained would be understood. At the very least, it would be picked up and read. Some slips were passed from hand to hand, others were the subject of long debate and sometimes a row. For a while, every word was as important as the one before it and the one after it, no matter what its slip had been cut from. If it was complete, it would be stored in a pigeon-hole, pinned or tied with other slips, their conformity highlighted by the oversized and colourful few that were cut to their own design.

I often wondered what kind of slip I would be written on if I was a word. Something too long, certainly. Probably the wrong colour. A scrap of paper that didn’t quite fit. I worried that perhaps I would never find my place in the pigeon-holes at all.

My slips would be no different to Dr Murray’s, I decided, and I began collecting all sorts of paper to cut to the right size. My favourite slips were cut from the blue bond paper Lily once used. I’d taken a few sheets from the drawer of Da’s writing desk. I would save these for beautiful words. The rest were a mixture of ordinary and extraordinary: a pile of original blank slips from the Scriptorium, forgotten in a dusty corner and surely missed by no one; slips cut from school essays and algebra exercises; a few postcards bought by Da but never sent (almost the right size, but not quite); and wallpaper offcuts, a little thick but beautifully patterned on one side.

I began to carry them around, hoping to capture more words like knackered.

Lizzie was a great source. In a week, I recorded seven words I was sure weren’t in the pigeon-holes. When I checked, five of them were. I threw my doubles away and put the remaining two in the trunk with knackered, tying them together with my ribbon.

The Scriptorium was not so fruitful. Every now and then Dr Murray said something interesting in his Scottish brogue, usually under his breath. Glaikit was a common utterance in response to incompetency or slow work, and I dared not ask him to repeat it, though I wrote a slip and defined it as idiot or nincompoop. When I searched the volume with F and G, I was surprised to find it was already there. The other assistants spoke nothing other than words they read in well-written books. I doubted any of them had ever spent much time listening to what was said in Mrs Ballard’s kitchen or what flew between the traders of the Covered Market.

I didn’t have to help in the kitchen anymore, but sometimes I did. I preferred it to going home alone when Da worked late. The new curtains and fresh flowers brightened up our house, but during the long summer evenings I preferred to stay talking with Lizzie. Then when it was cold, it seemed a waste to use the coal for just one person.

‘Could I ask you to do something for me, Lizzie?’ We were standing side by side at the sink.

‘Anything, Essymay. You know that.’

‘I’m wondering if you’d help me collect words,’ I said, looking at her sideways to gauge her reaction. Her jaw clenched. ‘Not from the Scriptorium,’ I quickly added.

‘Where would I find words?’ she asked, not taking her eyes off the potato she was peeling.

‘Everywhere you go.’

‘The world ain’t like the Scrippy, Essy. Words don’t lie around waiting for some light-fingered girl to pick them up.’ She turned and gave me a reassuring smile.

‘That’s just the point, Lizzie. I’m sure there are plenty of wonderful words flying around that have never been written on a slip of paper. I want to record them.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Because I think they’re just as important as the words Dr Murray and Da collect,’ I said.

‘’Course they’s—’ she stopped, corrected herself, ‘— what I mean to say is, of course they are not. They’re just words we use ’cos we don’t know anything better.’

‘I don’t think so. I think sometimes the proper words mustn’t be quite right, and so people make new words up, or use old words differently.’

Lizzie gave a little laugh. ‘The people I talk to at the Covered Market have no idea what the proper words are. Most of them can’t hardly read, and they stand all bewildered whenever a gentleman stops to chat.’

We finished peeling the potatoes, and Lizzie started cutting them in half and adding them to a large pot. I dried my hands on the warm towel hanging by the range.

‘Besides,’ Lizzie continued. ‘It ain’t right for a woman in service to be dawdling around them that like to use colourful language. It would reflect badly on the Murrays if I was seen to be engaging in the wrong sort of talk once I’ve finished my errands.’

I’d imagined a pile of words so big I’d need a new trunk to store them all in, but if Lizzie wouldn’t help I’d barely collect enough to strain my ribbon.

‘Oh, please, Lizzie. I can’t wander around Oxford alone with no purpose. If you don’t do this for me, I might as well give it up.’

She finished cutting the last few potatoes, then turned to look at me. ‘Even if I did hang around eavesdropping, I’d only be welcome with the women. Men, even the sort that work the barges, would tame their talk for the likes of me.’

Another idea began to form. ‘Do you think there are some words that only women use, or that apply to women specifically?’

‘I ’spose so,’ she said.

‘Would you tell me what they are?’ I asked.