‘It wasn’t my place to judge what you said or how you said it. I just wanted to record, and maybe understand.’
She nodded. ‘Gareth showed me every word with my name against it. I memorised where they were and what they said.’
‘Why is it a good thing to have copies?’ I asked.
‘’Cos now they’ll get an airing,’ she said. ‘You can give one to Mr Bradley and one to the Bodleian. Anything important that’s been written down, they keep. You said that. Every book, every manuscript, every letter written from Lord Whatsit to Professor Who-knows-what.’
‘And you think this is important?’ I was smiling for the first time in weeks.
‘I do.’
Lizzie rose and returned her copy of Women’s Words to the opened parcel in my lap. She patted it, put her hand to my cheek, then went to the kitchen.
Lizzie came with me to the Bodleian.
Since allowing me to become a reader, Mr Nicholson had softened to the presence of women in his library, but I was not so sure about his successor. Mr Madan looked at the title page. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Owen.’ He took off his spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief, as if to remove the image of my name.
‘But why?’
He returned his spectacles to the bridge of his nose and turned a few pages. ‘It’s an interesting project, but it’s of no scholarly importance.’
‘And what would make it of scholarly importance?’
‘If it had been compiled by a scholar, for a start. Beyond that, it would have to be a topic of significance.’
It was ten in the morning. Scholars billowed by in their gowns, long and short – though there were fewer men and more women than the first time I stood at that desk. I turned to where Lizzie sat. It was the same bench I’d occupied years before while Dr Murray argued my case to become a reader. She looked as out of place as I had felt. I rose to my full height and turned back to Mr Madan.
‘It is a topic of significance, sir. It fills a gap in knowledge, and surely that is the purpose of scholarship.’
He had to tilt his head up a little to look me in the eye. I felt Lizzie shift behind me, saw his gaze flick towards her, then back to me.
I would stay there until Women’s Words was accepted, I thought. If I had a chain, I would have gladly locked myself to the grille in front of the desk.
Mr Madan stopped turning pages. His cheeks flushed and he covered his discomfort with a cough. He had scanned page six. C words.
‘An old word, Mr Madan. With a long history in English. Chaucer was quite fond of using it, and yet it does not appear in our Dictionary. A gap, surely.’
He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and looked around, searching for an ally. I looked around also.
Our conversation was being observed by three old men, and Eleanor Bradley – there to check quotations no doubt. She smiled when I caught her eye, nodding her encouragement. I faced Mr Madan again.
‘You are not the arbiter of knowledge, sir. You are its librarian.’ I pushed Women’s Words across his desk. ‘It is not for you to judge the importance of these words, simply to allow others to do so.’
Lizzie and I walked arm in arm along the Banbury Road to Sunnyside. We came through the gates as Elsie and Rosfrith were coming out. They embraced me in turn.
‘Will we be seeing you at the Old Ashmolean today, Esme?’ Elsie asked, her hand gentle on my sleeve. ‘The pigeon-holes are all in place, and the only thing missing now is you. It’s a bit tight at the moment, but Mr Sweatman has made some room for you at his desk.’
I looked from one Murray sister to the other, and then to Lizzie. We were children together, once. Would we grow old together?
‘Could you wait a moment, Elsie, Rosfrith? I’ll be right back.’
I walked through the garden. The ash was losing its leaves, and autumn winds had already blown them toward the Scriptorium. I had to clear them from the doorway before going in.
It was cold, almost empty, except for the sorting table. The bondmaid slips were exactly where Lizzie and I had left them. I sat where Lizzie had sat moving the words around. She couldn’t read them, but she had understood them better than I had. I felt my pockets for the stub of a pencil and a blank slip.
BONDMAID
Bonded for life by love, devotion or obligation.
‘I’ve been a bondmaid to you since you were small, Essymay, and I’ve been glad for every day of it.’
Lizzie Lester, 1915
I pulled the door of the Scriptorium shut and heard the sound of it echo into the almost-empty space inside. Just a shed, I thought, and walked back to where the three women were waiting.
‘These are for Mr Bradley,’ I said, handing Elsie the bundle of slips. ‘Lizzie found them as we were cleaning up. They’re the missing bondmaid slips.’
For a moment, Elsie wasn’t sure what I was talking about, then the crease between her brows gave way to wide eyes. ‘Goodness,’ she said, peering closely at the slips, not quite believing.
Rosfrith leaned in to look. ‘What a mystery that was,’ she said.
‘The top-slip doesn’t seem to be with them, unfortunately,’ I gave Lizzie the quickest glance. ‘But there are some suggestions about how it might be defined. We thought Mr Bradley would be glad to have them, after all this time.’
‘I have no doubt that he will,’ said Elsie. ‘But surely you can give them to him yourself?’
‘I won’t be coming to the Old Ashmolean, Elsie. I’ve been offered a position at the Netley Hospital in Southampton. I think I’m going to take it.’
