The Dictionary of Lost Words(39)

‘So, someone who’s latch-keyed can come and go as they please?’

‘That is the suggestion.’

I looked over his shoulder and read the top-slip. There were various definitions in Da’s writing.

Unchaperoned; undisciplined; referring to a young woman with no domestic constraint.

‘All the quotations are from the Daily Telegraph,’ said Da, passing me one.

‘And why should that matter?’

‘Believe it or not, Dr Murray has asked that very same question.’

‘Of whom?’

‘Of the Press Delegates when they want to cut costs. Cutting costs means cutting words. According to them, the Daily Telegraph is not a credible source, and its words are expendable.’

‘I suppose the Times is a credible source?’

Da nodded.

I looked at the slip he’d given me.





LATCH-KEYED


‘All latch-keyed daughters and knicker-bockerred maidens, and discontented people generally.’

Daily Telegraph, 1895

‘It isn’t a compliment, then?’

‘That depends on whether you think young ladies should always be chaperoned, disciplined and under domestic constraint.’ He smiled, then became serious. ‘In general, I think it would be used to criticise.’

‘I’ll put them away,’ I said.

I gathered up the slips. As I walked back to the pigeon-holes, I put latch-keyed daughters in the sleeve of my dress. Superfluous to need, I thought.



By the end of 1902 I’d become confident collecting my own words, but at the Scriptorium, I was still running errands and adding new quotations to piles of slips that had already been sorted years earlier by volunteers. I found myself becoming frustrated by the definitions that some words were given. I was tempted to draw a line through so many, but it was not my place. Temptation, though, can only be resisted for so long.

‘Esme, is this your handiwork?’

Da pushed a proof across the breakfast table and pointed to a scrap of paper pinned to its edge. The handwriting was mine. There was nothing in his tone that indicated my edit was good or bad. I stayed silent.

‘When did you do it?’ he asked

‘This morning,’ I said, not looking up from my bowl of porridge. ‘You left it out when you went to bed last night.’

Da sat reading what I’d penned.





MADCAP


Often applied playfully to young women of lively or impulsive temperament.

‘On the boards, she was the merriest, gayest, madcap in the world.’

Mabel Collins, The Prettiest Woman in Warsaw, 1885

I looked up. Da was waiting for an explanation. ‘It captures a sense that wasn’t there,’ I said. ‘I’ve taken the quotation from another sense that it wasn’t at all suited to. I often think the volunteers have got it quite wrong.’

‘As do we,’ Da said. ‘Which is why we spend so long rewriting them.’

I blushed, realising Da had left the proof out because he was still working on it. ‘You’ll come up with something better, but I thought I might save you a little time if I drafted it,’ I said.

‘No. I’d finished with it. I thought my definitions were adequate.’

‘Oh.’

‘I was wrong.’ He took the proof and folded it. For a moment, we were silent.

‘Perhaps I could make more suggestions?’

Da raised his eyebrows.

‘About the meanings given to words,’ I said. ‘When I’m sorting them and adding new slips, perhaps I could write suggestions on any top-slips that I think are …’ I paused, unable to criticise.

‘Inadequate?’ Da said. ‘Subjective? Judgemental? Pompous? Incorrect?’

We laughed.

‘Perhaps you could,’ he said.



My request hung in the air while Dr Murray considered me over his spectacles.

‘Of course you can,’ he said, finally. ‘I look forward to seeing what you come up with.’

I’d had a speech ready in case he denied me, and so I was caught short by his easy agreement. I stood, stunned, in front of his desk.

‘Whatever you suggest is likely to be refined,’ he said. ‘Your perspective, however, will be grist to the mill of our endeavour to define the English language.’ He leaned forward then, and his whiskers twitched at the edges of his mouth. ‘My own daughters are fond of pointing out the inherent biases of our elderly volunteers. I’m sure they will be glad to have you on their side.’

From then on I did not feel superfluous, and the task of sorting slips took on a new challenge. Da would inform me whenever one of my suggestions made it into a fascicle. The proportion increased with my confidence, and I kept a tally on the inside of my desk: a little notch for every meaning penned and accepted. As the years passed, the inside of my desk became pitted with small achievements.





I enjoyed the freedom of having a salary, and I became familiar with a number of the traders at the Covered Market. I continued to join Lizzie on Saturday mornings, but with my own basket to fill, and an allowance from Da for groceries. When we were done with the food shopping, I would take her into the draper’s shop. Bit-by-bit I was replacing everything in our house that was worn out or depressingly functional. I enjoyed spending my money in this way, although Da only sometimes noticed. The last shop we’d go into was always the haberdashery, and it was my greatest joy to buy Lizzie a new thread.