The Dictionary of Lost Words(94)

The door to Mr Hart’s office was ajar. I knocked and pushed it open a little wider.

‘Yes,’ he said, without looking up from his papers.

I walked towards his desk, but still he didn’t look up. I cleared my throat. ‘Last-minute edits, Mr Hart. Speech to spring.’

He looked up, the creases between his brows deepening as he took the proofs and the note from Dr Murray. He read the note and I saw his jaw clench. Dr Murray wanted another edit – the third or fourth, I wasn’t sure. I wondered if the plates had been cast. I dared not ask.

‘Illness doesn’t make him less pedantic,’ Mr Hart said.

It wasn’t meant for me, so I remained quiet. He stood and walked towards the door. He didn’t ask me to wait, so I followed him.

The composing room was quiet of talk, but there was a percussive clicking of type being placed in sticks then turned out into formes that would hold a whole page of words. I waited by the door as Mr Hart approached the nearest bench. The compositor was young – no longer an apprentice, but too young for the war. He looked nervous as Mr Hart cast an eye over his forme. I wondered how easily mistakes could be noticed when everything was back-to-front. Mr Hart seemed satisfied and patted the assistant on the back, then he moved towards the next bench. Dr Murray’s edits would have to wait.

I remained just inside the door and searched the room. Gareth was at his old bench: despite now being a manager, he was needed to set type for a few hours a day. I watched him like a stranger might. There was something unfamiliar about him. His face was more intent than I’d ever seen it and his body surer. It struck me that we are never fully at ease when we are aware of another’s gaze. Perhaps we are never fully ourselves. In the desire to please or impress, to persuade or dominate, our movements become conscious, our features set.

I’d always thought him lean, but watching him work, his shirtsleeves rolled up and the muscles in his forearms taut, I noticed the elegance of his strength. In his concentration and the fluidity of his movements, he looked to me like a painter or a composer, his placement of type as deliberate as notes on a sheet of music.

I felt a pang of guilt. I knew too little of what he did. I’d assumed it was nothing more than mechanical monotony. After all, the words were chosen by the editors, the meanings suggested by writers. All he had to do was transcribe them. But that was not what I saw. He studied a slip then made a selection of type. He placed it, considered it, took a pencil from behind his ear and made notes on the slip. Was he editing? With the surety of having solved a problem, he removed the type and replaced it with a better arrangement.

Only in his sleep would I see him this unguarded. I was surprised to realise that I longed to see him sleep. The thought pierced my heart.

Gareth stood up straight and moved his head from side to side, stretching out his neck. The movements must have caught Mr Hart’s eye, because the Controller suggested a correction to the type on the forme he was inspecting, then walked towards his manager. Gareth saw him, and there was the slightest tightening of muscles in his shoulders and face: an adjustment to being observed. I too began to walk towards Gareth. When he saw me, a smile broke across his face and he was entirely familiar again.

‘Esme,’ he said. His delight warmed every part of me.

Only then did Mr Hart realise I was there. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ There was an awkward silence as Mr Hart and I both wondered whether we were getting in the way of the other’s conversation with Gareth.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I should wait in the corridor?’

‘Not at all, Miss Nicoll,’ said Mr Hart.

‘Mr Hart,’ said Gareth, bringing us all back to the business we were there for. ‘Edits from Sir James?’

‘Yes.’ Mr Hart approached Gareth at his bench. ‘It’s as you anticipated. I’m tempted from now on to let you make the change when you notice it; it would save a damn lot of time.’ Then, remembering me, he made a grudging apology for his language. Gareth suppressed a grin.

When they’d finished discussing the edits, Gareth asked if he could take his break early.

‘Yes, yes. Take an extra quarter-hour,’ said Mr Hart.

‘You’ve flustered him,’ Gareth said, as Mr Hart walked away. ‘I’ll just finish setting this line.’

I watched as Gareth selected small bits of metal type from the tray in front of him. His hand moved quickly, and the stick was soon full. He turned it out into the forme and rubbed his thumb.

‘Do you think Mr Hart was serious when he said he’d let you make changes to the copy before setting it in type?’

Gareth laughed. ‘Good God, no.’

‘But you must be tempted,’ I said carefully.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, I’d never thought much about it before, but seeing you here I realise you spend your life with words, putting them in their place. Surely you’ve developed opinions about what reads well.’

‘It’s not my job to have opinions, Es.’ He wasn’t looking at me, but I could see a smile hovering by the edge of his mouth.

‘I’m not sure I could like a man without opinions,’ I said.

He smiled then. ‘Well, in that case, let’s just say that I have more opinions about the copy that comes from the Old Ashmolean than I do about the copy that comes from the Scriptorium.’ He stood to remove his apron. ‘Do you mind if we stop by the printing room?’