The Dictionary of Lost Words(83)

‘This is for you.’ It was Gareth.

For a moment, it was impossible to look up. All the heat that had been in my body was now in my face.

‘It’s a word for your collection. One of my ma’s. She used to use it this way all the time, but I couldn’t find it in the proofs we keep at the Press.’ He spoke quietly, but I heard every word. Still I didn’t look up; I had no confidence that I would be able to speak. Instead, I focused on the slip of paper Gareth had placed in front of me. He must have taken it from the pile of blanks kept on the shelf nearest the door. It was the commonest of words, but the meaning was different. I recognised it from when I was a little girl.





CABBAGE


‘Come here, my little cabbage, and give me a hug.’

Deryth Owen




Deryth, what a beautiful name. The sentence was more or less as Lizzie would have said it.

‘Mothers have a vocabulary all their own, don’t you think?’ he said.

‘Actually, I wouldn’t know.’ I looked over at Da. ‘I never knew my mother.’

Gareth looked stricken. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Please, don’t be. As you can imagine, my father has his own way with words.’

He laughed. ‘Well, yes, he would.’

‘And your father?’ I asked. ‘Does he work at the Press?’

‘It was Ma who worked at the Press. She was a bindery girl. Organised my apprenticeship when I was fourteen.’

‘But your father?’

‘It was just my ma and me,’ he said.

I looked at the slip in my hand and tried to imagine the woman who called this man her little cabbage. ‘Thank you for the slip,’ I said.

‘I hope you don’t mind me seeking you out.’

I looked at the sorting table. There were one or two furtive glances towards my desk and a strange smile on Da’s face, though his eyes were steadfastly on his work.

‘I’m very glad you did,’ I said, looking into his face then quickly back at the slip.

‘Well, I’ll be sure to do it again.’

When he was gone, I opened the lid of my desk and sorted through my shoebox of slips until I found where Gareth’s belonged.





There was a crowd gathering around the Martyrs’ Memorial when I rode towards the Bodleian. I could have avoided it by going down Parks Road as I usually did, but instead I rode the length of the Banbury Road until the crowd diverted me.

Notices had been posted all over Oxford. Leaflets littered the streets, and all the newspapers had run stories in support and against. The suffrage societies of Oxford were coming together for a peaceful procession from St Clement’s to the Martyrs’ Memorial. It would be hours before they started, but things were being set up and there was already an expectation, an excitement. It might have been a fair, but with the crackle of a looming thunderstorm in the air.

There were fewer people in the Bodleian than usual. I took my time searching the shelves of Arts End. The books Dr Murray wanted me to check were old, the quotations almost foreign on the page and easy to get wrong. I sat at a bench worn smooth by long-dead generations of scholars and wondered how many had been women.

I rode back the way I had come. The procession had arrived, and the crowd had swelled. Women outnumbered men by three to one, but I was surprised by the men who were there: all sorts. Men with ties and men without. Men on the arms of women. Men standing alone. Men huddled in small groups, capped and collarless, their arms folded in front of them, their legs pegged wide.

I leaned my bicycle against the railing of the tiny cemetery beside St Mary Magdalen, then I stood on the edge of the crowd.

When I’d read about the procession, I’d hoped Tilda might return to Oxford for it. I’d written to her and included a leaflet: I’ll wait by the little church near the Martyrs’ Memorial.

She’d sent a postcard back.

We shall see. The WSPU has not been invited (Mrs Pankhurst’s methods are not embraced by many of the educated ladies of Oxford). But I’m glad you have joined the sisterhood and will be adding your voice to the cry – it’s about time.

A woman was speaking on a platform set up by the Martyrs’ Memorial, though from where I stood it was difficult to see whom, and I could barely hear what she said above the jeering. The leaflets had instructed us to PAY NO ATTENTION to those who wanted to disrupt, and for the most part the women and men who supported the speaker were doing just that. But the detractors were many, and they shouted from all corners of the crowd. Music began to blare from a gramophone placed in an open window of St John’s College. A cloud of pipe-smoke rose from a group of men beside the speakers’ platform. Another group began singing so loud that it was impossible to hear anything else. On the edge of the crowd, I felt strangely vulnerable.

The crowd around the Martyrs’ Memorial churned. I stood on my toes to see what was happening and saw the disturbance move out through the sea of people. It came towards me, but I only realised what it meant when two men emerged in front of me, their arms locked around each other, each throwing punches. The man wearing a collar and tie was larger, but his arms flailed and his fists kept missing their target. The other man was more accurate. He wasn’t wearing a jacket despite the cold, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. I moved back, but Magdalen Street was still congested and I was pushed up against the bicycles leaning against the railings of the church cemetery.