The Dictionary of Lost Words(88)

‘It’s all talk though, isn’t it? The same words over and over again, and what’s changed?’

I remembered Gareth asking why Tilda was really in Oxford. I’d long worked out that it wasn’t for me, but I thought maybe it was for her friend in the narrowboat. Now I realised it was something else altogether. But I didn’t want to know what.

‘How is Bill?’ I asked, not looking at her.

Tilda had mentioned Bill now and then. It was always fleeting and I was always grateful. But she would be leaving Oxford soon and I suddenly needed to know how he was.

‘Bill? That rogue. He broke my heart. He got some silly girl knapped and stopped being at my beck and call. I was furious.’

‘Knapped?’

She grinned. ‘I know that look. Do you still carry those slips of paper around in your pockets?’

I nodded.

‘Get one out then.’

We stopped walking, and Tilda laid her shawl on the grass beside the path. We sat.

‘This is nice,’ she said as I readied the slip and pencil. ‘It’s like before.’

I felt it too, but I knew that nothing would ever be like before. ‘Knapped,’ I said as I wrote it on the slip. ‘Put it in a sentence.’

She leaned back on her elbows and raised her face to the first day of summer. She took her time as she used to, wanting to get the quotation just right.

‘Bill got some silly girl knapped and now he’s a daddy, working all day and half the night to feed his squalling babe.’

It should have been obvious what knapped meant the first time she’d said it, but the newness of the word had made me deaf to the words either side of it. My hand shook a little as I finished the sentence.

‘He’s a father?’ I said, watching Tilda’s face. Her eyes remained shut to the sunlight, her jaw didn’t twitch.

‘Little Billy Bunting, I call him. He’s five years old. Cute as a button, loves his aunty Tiddy.’ She looked at me then. ‘He still calls me that, even though he can talk as well as anyone. He’s as bright as Bill was at that age.’

I looked at the slip.





KNAPPED


Pregnant.

‘Bill got some silly girl knapped and now he’s a daddy, working all day and half the night to feed his squalling babe.’

Tilda Taylor, 1913

Bill hadn’t told her about us. He had neither bragged nor confessed. It wasn’t the first time since giving Her away that I wished I had been able to love him.



Dr Murray called me over. ‘Esme, I anticipate your workload and responsibilities will increase over the next few months,’ he said.

I nodded, as if it were nothing, but I longed for more responsibility.

‘Mr Dankworth will be leaving us at the end of the day and starting with Mr Craigie’s team tomorrow,’ Dr Murray continued. ‘I believe he will be a great asset to our third editor. You know, better than most, how exacting he is.’ A twitch of whiskers and slightly raised brows. ‘Such qualities will go a long way to speeding up Craigie’s sections.’

Two pieces of good news in one conversation; I hardly knew how to respond.

‘Well, what have you to say? Is it acceptable?’

‘Yes, Dr Murray. Of course. I’ll do my best to fill the gap.’

‘Your best is more than good enough, Esme.’ He turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.

I was dismissed, but I didn’t leave. I chewed my lip and wrung my hands. I spoke in a rush before I could censor myself.

‘Dr Murray?’

‘Yes.’ He didn’t look up.

‘If I am to do more, will that be reflected in my wage?’

‘Yes, yes. Of course. Starting next month.’

It was clear that Mr Dankworth would have preferred to leave without any acknowledgement, but Mr Sweatman wasn’t going to let him. At the end of the day, he rose from his chair and began the farewells. The other assistants followed suit, each repeating general niceties and comments about Mr Dankworth’s eagle-eye. No one really knew enough about Mr Dankworth to say anything particular.

Mr Dankworth suffered our good wishes and handshakes, wiping his hand repeatedly on the leg of his trousers.

‘Thank you, Mr Dankworth,’ I said, sparing him the discomfort of shaking another hand and offering a small tilt of my head instead. He appeared relieved. ‘I’ve learned a great deal from you.’ Now he was confused. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t always show gratitude.’

Mr Sweatman tried to hide his grin. He coughed and returned to his place at the sorting table. The others peeled away. I tried to hold Mr Dankworth’s gaze, but he focused just beyond my right shoulder.

‘You’re welcome, Miss Nicoll.’ Then he turned and left the Scriptorium.

Soon after, Gareth arrived. He handed Dr Murray some proofs he’d been waiting for, acknowledged Da and Mr Sweatman, then made his way to me.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Mr Hart chose this afternoon to remind us all about the rules.’

‘The rules in his booklet?’

Gareth laughed. ‘They’re only the tip of the iceberg, Es. Every room in the Press has its own rules – surely you’ve seen them on the wall as you come in?’

I shrugged apologetically.