The Dictionary of Lost Words(36)

‘Pass me the salt,’ she said, lifting the lid off the potatoes.

‘Well, will you?’

‘I don’t think I could,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘There’s some I won’t say and others I can’t explain.’

‘Maybe I could come with you on your errands. I could be the one eavesdropping. I won’t get in your way or make you dawdle. I’ll just listen, and if I hear an interesting word I’ll write it down.’

‘Maybe,’ she said.



I began to rise early on Saturdays to accompany Lizzie to the Covered Market. I filled my pockets with slips and two pencils, and followed Lizzie like Mary’s lamb. We would start with the fruit and vegetables – the freshest were had first thing. Then the butcher’s stall or the fishmonger’s, the bakery and the grocer. We would go down one ally and up the other, looking in the windows of the little shops selling chocolates or hats or wooden toys. Then we’d go into the tiny haberdashery. Lizzie sometimes came home with a new thread or needles. More often than not, I came home disappointed. The stallholders were friendly and polite, and every word they said was familiar.

‘They want you to spend your money,’ Lizzie said. ‘They ain’t about to risk offending your delicate ears.’

Sometimes I caught a word as we passed the fishmonger’s or a group of men unloading carts piled with vegetables. But Lizzie wouldn’t ask them what it meant and she wouldn’t let me anywhere near them.

‘I’ll never collect any words at this rate, Lizzie.’

She shrugged and continued on her well-worn path around the market.

‘Maybe I’ll just have to go back to saving words from the Scriptorium.’ That stopped her, as I knew it would.

‘You wouldn’t …?’ she said.

‘I might not be able to help myself.’

She contemplated me for a moment. ‘Let’s see what old Mabel’s peddling today.’



Mabel O’Shaughnessy repelled and attracted like two ends of a magnet. Hers was the smallest stall in the Covered Market: two wooden crates pushed side by side, their contents of found objects displayed on top. Lizzie usually steered us in a different direction, and for a long time Mabel had been nothing more to me than a passing image of sharp bones ready to tear through papery skin, and a tattered hat that barely covered patches of bare scalp.

When we approached, it was clear that Lizzie and Mabel were well-acquainted.

‘You eaten today, Mabel?’ Lizzie said.

‘Ain’t sold enough to buy a stale bun.’

Lizzie reached into our groceries and handed her a roll.

‘Who’s this then?’ Mabel said, her mouth full of bread.

‘Esme, this is Mabel. Mabel, this is Esme. Her father works for Dr Murray.’ She looked at me apologetically. ‘Esme works for the Dictionary too.’

Mabel held out her hand: long, grime-covered fingers protruded from the scraps of fingerless gloves. I didn’t shake hands, ordinarily, and instinctively wiped my funny fingers against the fabric of my skirt, as if to rid them of something distasteful. When I offered my hand, the old woman laughed.

‘No amount of wipin’ will fix that,’ she said. Then she took my hand in both of hers and examined it like only the doctor ever had. Her filthy fingers held each of mine in turn, testing the joints and gently straightening them. Hers were as straight and nimble as mine were bent and stiff.

‘Do they work?’ she asked.

I nodded. She seemed satisfied and let go. Then she motioned to the contents of her stall, ‘Nothin’ stoppin’ you then.’

I started picking through her offerings. No wonder she hadn’t eaten: everything she sold was flotsam, broken things dragged out of the river. The only colour came from a cup and saucer, both chipped but otherwise functional. She’d put one on top of the other as if they belonged together, though they never had. No one with the coin to spare would ever drink their tea from that cup, I thought, but to be polite I picked it up and examined the delicate pattern of roses.

‘China that is. The saucer too,’ said Mabel. ‘’Old ’em up to the light.’

She was right. Fine china, both. I put the roses back on the bluebell saucer, and there was something joyous about the combination among the silty browns of everything else. We shared a smile.

But it wasn’t enough. Mabel nodded again towards her wares, so I touched and turned and picked up one or two. There was a stick, no longer than a pencil but twisted along its length. I expected it to be rough, but it was as smooth as marble. When I brought it close to peer at its knotty end, an ancient face peered back. The cares of a lifetime had been carved into the old man’s expression, and his beard was wrapped around the twist of the stick. I felt a butterfly in my chest as I imagined it on Da’s desk.

I looked at Mabel. She’d been waiting, and now she offered me a gummy grin and an outstretched hand.

I took a coin from my purse. ‘It’s remarkable.’

‘Naught else to do with me ’ands now no one wants ’em round their shaft.’ I wasn’t sure I understood, and when I failed to react the way she’d expected, she looked to Lizzie. ‘She dumb?’ she asked.

‘No, Mabel, she just don’t have an ear for your particular form of English.’