The Dictionary of Lost Words(67)

Lizzie stayed silent, and the Long Mynd finally made a memory of the setting sun, leaving a landscape of blue hills. When she got up and went into the cottage, I realised it was not God’s forgiveness I cared about; it was hers. I imagined her dilemma. She wanted to reassure me, but couldn’t lie with God’s face turned on her.

The drone that had been filling my ears since She was born, the shade that had been drawn over my eyes, the dull feeling in my arms and legs and breasts – they lifted all at once. I could hear and see and feel with an intensity that stole my breath and frightened me. I shivered, suddenly cold. There was the faintest smell of coal smoke and the sounds of birds calling their own to roost, their songs as clear and distinct as church bells. My face was wet with loss and love and regret. And woven through it all there was a thread of shameful relief.

Lizzie came out with a rug, crocheted in all the colours of an autumn wood. She wrapped it around my shoulders and weighed it down with her solid arms.

‘It’s not his place to forgive you, Essymay,’ she whispered into my ear. ‘It’s no one’s but yours.’





Lizzie and I stepped from the train. We put our cases down and pulled the collars of our coats higher against the November chill. Shropshire had been our Indian summer, and Oxford felt like winter. As we waited for a cab to take us to Sunnyside, I had to remind myself that behind the hard stone of all the buildings, a river flowed.

At Sunnyside, scarlet leaves still clung to the ash between the Scriptorium and the kitchen. Lizzie and I stood beneath it to say our goodbyes. It had a heaviness about it, this farewell, as if we were leaving to travel in different directions, when in fact we were back on shared and familiar ground. But something had shifted. Lizzie was different, or perhaps it was just that now I saw her differently, as a woman who existed beyond my need for her. When we’d left Oxford I’d been her charge, as always. Now we embraced as friends, comfort going in both directions. In Shropshire, we had each found something we’d longed for, but as I held her, I feared Lizzie’s new confidence would be too fragile to survive who she had to be in Oxford. She had her own concerns for me, and she voiced them into the quiet space of our embrace.

‘It’s not about forgiveness, Essymay. We can’t always make the choices we’d like, but we can try to make the best of what we must settle for. Take care not to dwell.’

She searched my face, but I couldn’t give her the assurance she wanted. I hugged her a little tighter, but promised nothing.

Mrs Ballard was leaning on a walking stick and holding the kitchen door for Lizzie. I turned towards the Scriptorium. It was time to return to our lives.

Every time I came home, the Scriptorium seemed smaller. I’d been grateful for it when I returned from Ditte’s: it had wrapped around me, and as long as I’d stayed within its word-lined walls I’d felt protected. This time was different. I stood in the doorway, my travelling bag still heavy in my hand, and wondered how I would fit.

There were three new assistants. Two had joined the sorting table, and the other was set up at a new desk a little too close to my own. Da saw me hovering, and his face broke into a smile that threatened to overwhelm me. He pushed back his chair in such haste that it toppled. As he tried to catch it, the papers he was working with went flying. I dropped my bag and went to help, bending to reach beneath the sorting table for a stray slip. I handed it to Da, who took my hand and held it to his lips. Then he searched my face, as Lizzie had just done.

I nodded, gave a small smile. He was satisfied, but there was so much to say and too many people looking on. Work around the sorting table was suspended, and I felt stupid for coming straight to the Scriptorium instead of going home. But I’d known Da would be working, and I was afraid of an empty house.

He hooked my arm through his and turned me towards the new assistants.

‘Mr Cushing, Mr Pope, this is my daughter, Esme.’

Mr Cushing and Mr Pope both stood. One was tall and fair, the other short and dark, and each offered a hand in greeting then pulled it back to allow the other to go first. My own hand hung awkwardly, unshaken, between us. If they weren’t so preoccupied with each other I might have wondered if they were avoiding the touch of melted skin, but they laughed. Then each urged the other to proceed, and the farce continued.

‘Just bow to the young lady and try not to bang your heads,’ said Mr Sweatman from the other side of the sorting table. ‘You see what happens when you leave us, Esme? We must make do with music-hall comedians.’

Mr Cushing, the taller, bowed, which gave Mr Pope the opportunity to take my hand.

‘Well, that’s cheating,’ said Mr Cushing.

‘Opportunistic, my friend. Fortune favours the bold.’

They began addressing me in turns. They were pleased to meet me, had heard so much about my work on the Dictionary, were delighted when Da told them about my research for Miss Thompson – they had studied her history of England at school. They hoped my lungs had felt the benefit of my time in Shropshire. I blushed at the thought I’d been the topic of conversation, at the truth and lies of it.

‘Dr Murray will be glad for the sight of you, Miss Nicoll,’ said Mr Cushing. ‘Only yesterday, he mentioned in passing that we take up twice the room but produce half the copy of the young woman who works at the back of the Scriptorium. I presume that is you, and it is a pleasure.’ Again, he bowed.