The Dictionary of Lost Words(68)

‘We weren’t offended,’ Mr Pope was quick to say. ‘We’re blow-ins. Here for the semester. Our reward for studying philology. I think I’ve learned more this past month than I would in a year at Balliol. I also take my hat off to you, Miss Nicoll.’

There was an audible sigh from the back of the Scriptorium.

‘You are disturbing the peace, Mr Pope,’ Da said with a smile.

‘Quite,’ said Mr Pope, and he and Mr Cushing nodded towards me and lowered themselves back into their chairs.

Da took my elbow and led me to the back of the Scriptorium.

‘Mr Dankworth, may I introduce my daughter, Esme.’

Mr Dankworth finished the edit he was making, rose from his chair and offered a curt nod. ‘Miss Nicoll.’

I returned the nod and the greeting, and he sat back down. His attention was back on the pages in front of him before Da and I had turned to leave.

‘Not a blow-in,’ Da said, when we were out of earshot.



The next day, the Scriptorium was even more crowded. Dr Murray was sitting at his high desk, and Elsie and Rosfrith Murray were moving about the shelves as they so often did when their father was at work. They each greeted me with an embrace, the warmth of which was unprecedented but not unwelcome.

‘I hope you are quite well now, Esme,’ Elsie said quietly, and I wondered what story she had been told. But before there was any more conversation, Dr Murray interrupted.

‘Ah, good,’ he said, when he saw me standing with his daughters. He came over with a sheet of paper in one hand and a pile of slips in the other. ‘The etymology of prophesy has caused Mr Cushing some concern. It is obvious where he has strayed.’ Mr Cushing caught my eye and nodded in agreement. ‘Perhaps you could review his efforts and make the necessary corrections? They will need to be ready for typesetting in a week.’ Dr Murray handed me the materials. Then, as an afterthought, he said, ‘A good walk. It does one the world of good, don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

He looked at me as if trying to judge the truth of my answer, then he turned and went back to his work.

I made my way around the sorting table, said good morning to Mr Sweatman and bonan matenon to Mr Maling, and rested my hand on Da’s shoulder for just a moment. He patted my hand, and when he turned to look towards the back of the Scriptorium, I realised it was a conciliatory gesture. I could barely see my cherished workspace beyond the bulk of Mr Dankworth, whose desk had been placed perpendicular to mine.

When I was closer, I saw that the surface of my desk was piled with books and papers that I knew I hadn’t left there a month ago. I remembered the stray slips with women’s words sitting inside it, waiting to join the others in the trunk under Lizzie’s bed. Anxiety fluttered in my chest.

Mr Dankworth must have heard me approach, but he didn’t turn around. I stood beside him for a moment, taking him in. He was large, not fat, and everything about him was as neat as a pin. His dark hair was short and parted in a straight line, right down the middle. He had no beard and no moustache, and his fingernails were as well-kept as a woman’s. He must have chosen to sit with his back to everyone.

‘Good morning, Mr Dankworth,’ I said.

He glanced at me. ‘Good morning, Miss Nicoll.’

‘Please, call me Esme.’

He nodded and looked back to his work.

‘Mr Dankworth, I was wondering if I could reclaim my desk?’ There was no indication he’d heard me. ‘Mr Dankworth, I …’

‘Yes, Miss Nicoll, I heard you. If I could finish this entry, I’ll attend to it.’

‘Oh, of course.’ I stood, waiting for permission to proceed. How easily I was put in my place.

He continued to bend over his proofs. From where I stood, I could see ruler-straight lines through unwanted copy and neat corrections noted in margins. His left elbow rested on the desk, and his hand massaged his temple as if coaxing the words out of his brain. I recognised something of my own attitude in this posture, and my first impression of him, not at all charitable, moved a little towards the positive.

A minute passed. Then another.

‘Mr Dankworth?’

His hand fell with a thump against the desk, and his head jerked up. I saw his shoulders lift with a deep breath and imagined his eyes rolled towards the heavens. He pushed his chair back and moved between his desk and mine. There was barely room for him.

‘Let me help you,’ I said, picking up a book from my desk and trying to catch his eye.

He took it from me, his eyes averted. ‘No need; there’s an order. I’ll do it.’

He removed the last book, and I waited, fingertips kneading my skirt, to see if he would turn back to my desk and lift the lid. For a moment, I was back at school, lined up with all the other girls ready for inspection. The insides of our desks, our stockings, our drawers. I never understood why they mattered. Mr Dankworth returned to his chair, and the sound of its protest brought me back to the Scriptorium. He’d finished. My desk was bare. But there was now a wall of books along the front and side edge of Mr Dankworth’s desk. An effective screen.

I sat down and spread out the pile of slips for prophesy. I ordered them by date, then referred to the notes Mr Cushing had prepared.



A week went by, and the Scriptorium felt like an old friend I had to reacquaint myself with. Mr Pope and Mr Cushing rose from their chairs every time Elsie, Rosfrith or I entered, and competed to help or pay the nicest compliments. Their loquaciousness was an irritation to almost everyone except Da, who rewarded their attentions to me with small smiles and nods. Dr Murray was not so encouraging.