I dismounted under the imposing stone arch. The quadrangle was crowded with people who clearly belonged there. Boys in white aprons pulled trolleys loaded with reams of paper, some printed and cut down to size, others blank and as large as tablecloths. Men in ink-stained aprons walked in small groups, smoking. Other men, without aprons, scanned books or proofs instead of the path ahead, and one mumbled an apology when he bumped my arm, though he never looked up. In pairs they talked and gestured towards loose sheets of paper, the contents apparently flawed. How many problems of language were solved as they traversed this square? I wondered. Then I noticed two women, a little older than me. They walked across the quad as though they did it every day, and I realised they must work at the Press. But as we drew close, I could see their talk was not like that of the men: they were leaning in, and one had her hand up near her mouth. The other listened then laughed a little. They had nothing in their hands to distract them, no problems to solve. Their day was over and they were glad to be going home. They nodded as I passed.
A hundred bicycles lined one side of the quad. I left mine a little apart so I would find it easily on my way out.
Mr Hart didn’t answer when I knocked at his office door, so I wandered down the hall. Da said the Controller never left the building before dinnertime, and never without taking leave of the compositors and making an inspection of the presses.
The composing room was close to Mr Hart’s office. I pushed on the door and looked around. Mr Hart was on the other side of the room, talking to Mr Bradley and one of the compositors. The Controller’s large moustache was what I remembered most from my visits with Da. Over the years, it had grown whiter, but it had lost none of its volume. It was like a landmark now, guiding me along the rows of compositors’ benches, their slanted surfaces crowded with trays of type. I felt I might be trespassing.
Mr Hart glanced at me as I approached, but didn’t pause in his conversation with Mr Bradley. The conversation turned out to be a debate, and I had the feeling it would continue until Mr Hart prevailed. He did not have the stature of the second editor, and his suit was not of the same quality, but his face was stern where Mr Bradley’s was kindly. It was only a matter of time. The compositor caught my eye and smiled, as if apologising for the older men. He was a good deal taller than both of them, lean and clean-shaven. His hair was almost black, his eyes almost violet. I recognised him then. A boy from St Barnabas. I’d spent a lot of time watching the boys play in their yard when none of the girls would play with me in ours. I could tell he didn’t recognise me.
‘May I ask how you spell forgo?’ he asked, leaning towards me.
‘Really, they’re still talking about that?’ I whispered. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
His brow creased, but before he could ask anything else, Mr Hart addressed me.
‘Esme, how is your father?’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘Is he here?’
‘No, Dr Murray sent me.’ I handed over the note, a little crushed by my nervous hand.
Mr Hart read it and nodded slowly in agreement. I noticed the twirled ends of his moustache turn up a little. He passed the note to Mr Bradley.
‘This should settle things, Henry,’ he said.
Mr Bradley read the note and the ends of his moustache remained still. He conceded the argument about forgo with a gentlemanly nod of the head.
‘Now, Gareth. If you could show Mr Bradley the mats for get,’ said Mr Hart, while he shook the editor’s hand.
‘Yes, sir,’ the compositor said. Then to me, ‘Nice to meet you, miss.’
But we haven’t really met, I thought.
He turned towards his bench, and Mr Bradley followed.
I went to say goodbye to Mr Hart, but he had already moved on to another bench and was checking an older man’s work. I would have liked to follow him, to understand what each man was working on. Most were setting type from manuscripts: in each case, the piles of uniform pages were in a single hand. Just one author. I looked towards the bench where Mr Bradley now stood with the young compositor. There were three piles of slips tied with string. Another pile was unbound, half the words already in type and the other half waiting.
‘Miss Nicoll.’
I turned and saw Mr Hart holding open the door. I wove back through the rows of benches.
Over the next few months, Dr Murray gave me several notes to deliver to the Controller. I took them gladly, hoping for another opportunity to visit the composing room. But every time I knocked on Mr Hart’s office door, he would answer.
He only asked me to stay if an immediate reply had been sought from Dr Murray, and on those occasions I was not invited to sit. I thought this an oversight rather than a preference on Mr Hart’s part, because he always seemed harried. He would rather be in the composing room too, I thought.
In the mornings I belonged to Mrs Ballard, but I showed little aptitude. ‘There’s more to it than licking the bowl clean,’ she said every time another cake sank or was found, on tasting, to be missing some key ingredient. It was a relief to both of us that my time in the kitchen was being curtailed by errands for the Dictionary.
