The word was bondmaid. Below it were other words that ran together like a tangle of thread. I couldn’t tell if they made up a quotation sent in by a volunteer or a definition written by one of Dr Murray’s assistants. Da said that all the hours he spent in the Scriptorium were to make sense of the words sent in by volunteers, so that those words could be defined in the Dictionary. It was important, and it meant I would get a schooling and three hot meals and grow up to be a fine young lady. The words, he said, were for me.
‘Will they all get defined?’ I once asked.
‘Some will be left out,’ Da said.
‘Why?’
He paused. ‘They’re just not solid enough.’ I frowned, and he said, ‘Not enough people have written them down.’
‘What happens to the words that are left out?’
‘They go back in the pigeon-holes. If there isn’t enough information about them, they’re discarded.’
‘But they might be forgotten if they’re not in the Dictionary.’
He’d tilted his head to one side and looked at me, as if I’d said something important. ‘Yes, they might.’
I knew what happened when a word was discarded. I folded bondmaid carefully and put it in the pocket of my pinny.
A moment later, Da’s face appeared under the sorting table. ‘Run along now, Esme. Lizzie’s waiting for you.’
I peered between all the legs – chairs’, table’s, men’s – and saw the Murrays’ young maid standing beyond the open door, her pinafore tied tight around her waist, too much fabric above and too much fabric below. She was still growing into it, she told me, but from under the sorting table she reminded me of someone playing at dress up. I crawled between the pairs of legs and scampered out to her.
‘Next time you should come in and find me; it would be more fun,’ I said, when I got to Lizzie.
‘It’s not me place.’ She took my hand and walked me to the shade of the ash tree.
‘Where is your place?’
She frowned, then shrugged. ‘The room at the top of the stairs, I s’pose. The kitchen when I’m helping Mrs Ballard, but definitely not when I ain’t. St Mary Magdalen on a Sunday.’
‘Is that all?’
‘The garden, when I’m caring for you – so we don’t get under Mrs B’s feet. And more and more the Covered Market, ’cos of her cranky knees.’
‘Has Sunnyside always been your place?’ I asked.
‘Not always.’ She looked down at me, and I wondered where her smile had gone.
‘Where did it used to be?’
She hesitated. ‘With me ma and all our littluns.’
‘What are littluns?’
‘Children.’
‘Like me?’
‘Like you, Essymay.’
‘Are they dead?’
‘Just me ma. The littluns was taken away, I don’t know where. They was too young for service.’
‘What’s service?’
‘Will you never stop asking questions?’ Lizzie picked me up under the arms and swung me round and round until we were both so dizzy we collapsed on the grass.
‘Where’s my place?’ I asked as the dizziness faded.
‘The Scrippy, I guess, with your father. The garden, my room, and the kitchen stool.’
‘My house?’
‘’Course your house, though you seem to spend more time here than there.’
‘I don’t have a Sunday place like you do,’ I said.
Lizzie frowned. ‘Yes, you do, St Barnabas church.’
‘We only go sometimes. When we do, Da brings a book. He holds it in front of the hymns and reads instead of singing.’ I laughed, thinking of Da’s mouth opening and closing in imitation of the congregation, but not a sound coming out.
‘That’s nothing to laugh at, Essymay.’ Lizzie held her hand against the crucifix I knew rested beneath her clothes. I worried she would think badly of Da.
‘It’s because Lily died,’ I said.
Lizzie’s frown turned sad, which wasn’t what I wanted either.
‘But he says I should make up my own mind. About God and Heaven. That’s why we go to church.’ Her face relaxed, and I decided to get back to an easier conversation. ‘My best place is Sunnyside,’ I said. ‘In the Scriptorium. Then in your room, then in the kitchen when Mrs Ballard is baking, especially when she’s baking spotted scones.’
‘You’re a funny little thing, Essymay – they’re called fruit scones; the spots are raisins.’
Da said Lizzie was no more than a child herself. When he was talking to her, I could see it. She stood as still as she could, holding her hands so they wouldn’t fidget, and nodding at everything with barely a word. She must have been scared of him, I thought, the way I was scared of Dr Murray. But when Da was gone, she’d look at me sideways and wink.
As we lay on the grass with the world spinning above our heads, she suddenly leaned over and pulled a flower from behind my ear. Like a magician.
‘I have a secret,’ I told her.
‘And what would that be, me little cabbage?’
‘I can’t tell you here. It might blow away.’
We tip-toed through the kitchen towards the narrow stairs that led to Lizzie’s room. Mrs Ballard was bent over a flour bin in the pantry and all I saw of her was her very large behind, draped in folds of navy gingham. If she saw us, she’d find something for Lizzie to do and my secret would have to wait. I put a finger to my lips but a giggle rose in my throat. Lizzie saw it coming, so she scooped me into her bony arms and trotted up the stairs.
The room was cold. Lizzie took the coverlet off her bed and laid it on the bare floor like a rug. I wondered if there were any Murray children in the room on the other side of Lizzie’s wall. It was the nursery, and we sometimes
