The Dictionary of Lost Words(95)

The printing room was in full operation, huge sheets of paper coming down like the wings of a giant bird or being rolled off large drums in quick succession; the old way and the new, Gareth said. Each had a rhythm for the ear and the eye, and I found it strangely soothing to see the pages pile up.

Gareth led me to one of the old presses. I felt the air shift as the giant wing descended.

‘Harold, I have that part you asked for.’ Gareth took a small wheel-like part from his pocket and gave it to the old man. ‘If you have trouble fitting it, I can come back this afternoon and do it.’

Harold took the part, and I noticed his hands shaking ever so slightly.

‘Esme, may I introduce Harold Fairweather. Harold is a master printer, recently come out of retirement – isn’t that right, Harold?’

‘I’m doing my bit,’ said Harold.

‘And this is Miss Esme Nicoll,’ Gareth continued. ‘Esme works with Dr Murray on the Dictionary.’

Harold smiled. ‘Where would the English language be without us?’

I looked at the pages coming off the printer. ‘Are you printing the Dictionary?’

‘That I am.’ He nodded towards a pile of printed sheets.

I picked up the edge of one, held it between my thumb and fingers and rubbed the paper. I was anxious not to touch the words in case the ink was still wet. I had an image of smudging one and the word being erased from the vocabulary of whoever bought the fascicle that the page belonged to.

‘These old presses have personalities,’ Harold was saying. ‘Gareth knows this one as well as anyone.’

I looked at Gareth, ‘Is that so?’

‘I started on the presses,’ he said. ‘I was apprenticed to Harold when I was fourteen.’

‘When it plays up he’s the only one can coax it to behave, even before we lost half the mechanics,’ said Harold. ‘Don’t know how I’ll get on without him.’

‘I can’t imagine why you’d have to get on without him,’ I said.

‘Hypothetical, miss,’ he replied quickly.



‘You should visit more often,’ Gareth said as we walked along Walton Street. ‘Hart is in the habit of docking a quarter-hour from our lunch break these days, not adding it.’

‘Dr Murray’s the same. It’s like the Scriptorium and the Press are their battlegrounds. They have no other contribution to make.’ As soon as I said it, I regretted it.

‘Hart’s always been a hard taskmaster,’ Gareth said. ‘But if he isn’t careful he’ll lose more men to his unreasonable demands than to the war.’

We walked into the heart of Jericho. It was crowded with lunchtime activity, and Gareth nodded at every second person. Every family was connected to the Press in some way.

‘Will he lose you?’ I said.

Gareth paused. ‘He’s particular, occasionally moody, and he drives himself and his staff harder than necessary, but he and I have a way of working that suits us both. I’ve grown fond of him over the years, Es. I think it’s mutual.’

I’d seen it myself, many times. Gareth had an ease and confidence that softened Mr Hart as it softened Dr Murray.

We turned into Little Clarendon Street and walked towards the tea shop. ‘But will he lose you?’ I asked again.

Gareth pushed open the door, and the bell above tinkled. I stood on the threshold, waiting for him to reply.

‘You heard Harold,’ he said. ‘Hypothetical.’

He guided me to a table at the back and pulled out the chair for me to sit.

‘I saw the look he gave you,’ I said, as he pulled out his own chair. ‘It was an apology.’

‘He knows compliments make me uncomfortable.’

Gareth couldn’t look at me. Instead, he looked around for the waitress. He caught her eye and turned back to examine the menu.

‘What do you fancy?’ he said, without looking up.

I reached my hand across the table and enfolded his. ‘I fancy the truth, Gareth. What are you planning?’

He looked up. ‘Essy …’ But nothing came after it.

‘You’re scaring me.’

He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled something out. He held it in his fist between us, and I saw his face flush and his jaw clench.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

His fingers curled back, revealing the crushed remains of a white feather.

‘Put it away,’ I said.

‘It was tied to the back door at the Press,’ Gareth said.

‘So, it could be for anyone. Hundreds of people work there.’

‘I know that. I don’t think it was for me, necessarily. But it makes you think.’

The waitress interrupted, and Gareth ordered.

‘You’re too old,’ I said.

‘Thirty-six is not too old. And it’s better than being twenty-six, or sixteen, for God’s sake. Those boys have barely lived.’

The waitress put the pot of tea between us. I barely breathed as she carefully placed the teacups and milk jug.

As soon as she moved away, I said, ‘You sound like you want to go.’

‘Only the young or stupid would want to go to war, Essy. No, I don’t want to go.’

‘But you’re thinking about it.’