‘Minor enquiries,’ he said. ‘You know more than enough to respond.’
‘Thank you, Dr Murray.’
He nodded and returned to the copy he was editing.
For an hour or so, the rustle of work was only disturbed by the men removing their jackets and loosening their ties. The Scriptorium moaned when the sun found its iron roof. Mr Sweatman opened the door to let in a breeze, but there was no breeze to be had.
I read a letter asking why Jew had been split across two fascicles. Splitting a word across two publications had been the focus of more than one argument between Dr Murray and the Press Delegates. It was a question of revenue, the Delegates had insisted when Dr Murray informed them there would be a delay in the next fascicle – variants of Jew required more detailed research, he said. Publish what you’ve got, he was told.
It took six months before Jew was reconciled, and every week he received at least three letters from the public asking him to explain. I drafted a reply that suggested the requirements of printing insisted on certain page numbers for each fascicle and that the English language could not be edited to fit such limitations. There were times when a word would need to be split, but the meanings of Jew would be reunited when the next volume, H to K, was published.
I read what I had written, and was pleased. I looked up to where Dr Murray sat and wondered if I should ask him to review it before I sealed the envelope and attached a stamp.
Dr Murray would be having lunch at Christ Church and was already in academic dress, sitting at his high desk facing the sorting table. His mortarboard was firmly in place; his gown was like the great black wings of a mythical bird. From my corner at the back, he looked like a judge presiding over a jury.
Just as I was gathering the courage to approach the bench and ask for my work to be reviewed, Dr Murray pushed back his chair. It scraped across the floorboards in a way that would attract reproach if anyone else had done it. The men all looked up and saw the Editor begin to fume.
Dr Murray had a letter in his hand. His head moved from side to side, a slow denial of whatever he had read. The Scriptorium fell silent. Dr Murray turned and pulled A and B from the shelf.
I felt the thump of it landing on the sorting table like a blow to my chest.
He opened to the middle, turned page after page, then took a deep breath when he found the right place. His eyes scanned the columns, and the assistants began to shift. Even Da was nervous, his hand reaching into his pocket to worry the coins he kept there. Dr Murray scanned the page, returned to the top, then looked more closely. His finger traced the length of a column. He was searching for a word. We waited. A minute seemed an hour. Whatever word he was looking for was not there.
He looked up, his face volcanic. Then he paused, as if he was about to deliver a sentence. Dr Murray looked at us, each in turn, his eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring above his long silver beard. His gaze was stern and steady, as if searching for the truth in our hearts. Only when it came to me did it flicker. His head tilted and his eyebrows raised. He was remembering my years beneath the sorting table. As was I.
Who hath yow misboden? I imagined him thinking.
Da was the first to follow Dr Murray’s gaze to where I sat. Then Mr Sweatman. All of the assistants craned their necks to look at me, though the newest assistants were confused. I had never felt so visible as I did in that moment, and I surprised myself by sitting up straighter. I did not fidget or look down.
If Dr Murray had thought to accuse me, he made a decision not to. Instead, he picked up the letter again and re-read it, then he glanced at the open volume; there was no use searching it a third time. He put the letter between its pages and left the Scriptorium without a word. Elsie followed close behind.
The assistants breathed out. Da wiped his brow with a handkerchief. When they were sure Dr Murray had gone into the house, a few men ventured into the garden to seek a breeze.
Mr Sweatman got up and went to the volume of words on Dr Murray’s desk. A and B. He picked up the letter and read it through. When he looked at me there was sympathy in his eyes, but also the hint of a grin. Da joined him and scanned the letter, then read aloud.
Dear sir,
I write to thank you for your excellent Dictionary. I subscribe to receive the fascicles as they are published and have all four volumes so far bound. They occupy a book case made especially for them, and I hope, one day, to see it filled, though it may be a satisfaction I leave to my son. I am in my sixth decade and not in full health.
It is my habit, since you have furnished the means, to reflect on certain words and understand their history. I had cause to refer to your dictionary while reading The Lord of the Isles. The word I sought in this instance was ‘bondmaid’. It is not an obscure word, but Scott uses a hyphen where I thought it was not needed. Its male equivalent was adequately referenced, but bondmaid was not there.
I must admit I was perplexed. Your dictionary has taken on the status of unquestionable authority in my mind. I realise it is unfair to burden any work
