The Dictionary of Lost Words(78)

‘Compositor’s thumb,’ he said, holding it up for me to have a closer look.

‘I should know better than to stare.’

‘You’re welcome to stare. It’s a mark of my trade, that’s all.’ He stepped down from his stool. ‘We all have one. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about thumbs.’

I’d come into the composing room in defiance of some perceived bar. Now, I felt foolish.

‘Mr Hart,’ I fumbled. ‘I thought I might find him here.’ I looked around as if he might be hiding behind one of the benches.

‘I’ll see if I can find out where he is.’ Gareth dusted the seat of his stool with a white cloth. ‘You can sit here if you like, while you wait.’

I nodded and let him push the stool beneath me. I looked at the type still held on the stick. It was almost impossible to decipher; not just because the letters were back-to-front, but because there was so little differentiation from the background. It was all gun-metal grey.

If the other compositors had been interested in the strange woman talking to Gareth, they no longer were. I picked up a bit of type from the nearest compartment.

It was like a tiny stamp, the letter slightly raised on the end of a piece of metal about an inch long and not much wider than a toothpick. I pressed it against the tip of my finger – it left the imprint of a lowercase e.

I looked at the stick again. He said it would fit into a page of the Dictionary. It took a while, but the words finally started to make sense. When they did, I felt a rising panic.

b. Common scold: a woman who disturbs the peace of the neighbourhood by her constant scolding

Was that what they were, those women in Winson Green? I looked at the proofs beside the forme. It appeared this type wasn’t being set for the first time; rather, Gareth was attending to edits. There was a note from Dr Murray pinned to the edge of an entry.

No need to define SCOLD’S BRIDLE; simply cross-reference to the relevant entry for BRANKS.

I read the entry that would be edited.

c. scold’s bit, bridle: an instrument of punishment used in the case of scolds etc., consisting of a kind of iron framework to enclose the head, having a sharp metal gag or bit which entered the mouth and restrained the tongue.

I imagined them being held down, their mouths forced open, a tube shoved in, their cries muted. What damage must it do to the sensitive membrane of their lips and mouths and throats? When the procedure was over, would they even be able to speak?

I searched the bench and picked each letter from a different compartment: the s, the c, the o, the l, the d. They had a weight, these letters. I rolled them about in my hand. My skin prickled with their sharp edges and was marked by the ink of forgotten pages.

The door of the composing room opened, and Gareth walked in with Mr Hart. I put the type in my pocket and pushed back the stool.

‘The first corrections for the letter T,’ I said, handing the proofs to Mr Hart.

He took them, blind to the smudges of ink on my fingers. I quickly put my hand in my pocket. Gareth was not so distracted, and from the corner of my eye I saw him check the type he had been setting. He found nothing missing, and his gaze swept over the tray. I clutched at the type, felt their sharp edges and held them so tight they hurt.

‘Excellent,’ said Mr Hart as he looked over the pages. ‘We inch forward.’ Then he turned to Gareth. ‘We will review these tomorrow. Come and see me at nine.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Gareth.

Mr Hart headed towards his office, still looking through the proofs.

‘I must be off,’ I said, walking away from Gareth without looking at him.

‘I hope you visit again,’ I heard him say.



When I walked my bicycle out of the Press, the sky was darker. Before I reached the Banbury Road, it had split apart. By the time I arrived at the Scriptorium, I was dripping wet and shivering.

‘Stop!’ Mr Dankworth shouted when I opened the Scriptorium door.

I stopped, and only then realised what a sight I must be. Everyone was looking in my direction.

Rosfrith stood up from where she was sitting at her father’s desk. ‘Mr Dankworth, are you proposing that Esme stand out in the rain all afternoon?’

‘She’ll drip all over our papers,’ he said more quietly, then he bent to his work as if uninterested in what happened next. I stayed where I was. My teeth began to chatter.

‘Father should never have sent you out. Anyone could see it was going to rain.’ Rosfrith took an umbrella out of the stand and then took my arm. ‘Come with me; he and your father are due back soon, and they’ll both be upset if they see you in this state.’

Rosfrith held the umbrella over us both as we crossed the garden to the front of the house. I was rarely invited into the main part of the Murray home, and could count on one hand the number of times I’d walked through the front door. In that moment, I imagined I was feeling a little of what Lizzie must have felt every day of her life.

‘Wait here,’ Rosfrith said when the front door was closed behind us. She went towards the kitchen, and I could hear her calling to Lizzie. A minute later, Lizzie was in front of me, patting me down with a towel warm from the linen press.

‘Why didn’t you just wait it out at the Press?’ Lizzie asked as she kneeled to undo my shoes and remove my soaked stockings.