‘I need to check something in the Scriptorium,’ I said.
‘You won’t put your new words in the trunk?’
‘Not yet. I want to check to see how cunt was defined for the Dictionary.’
‘Esme.’ Lizzie looked desperate. ‘You can’t say that word out loud.’
‘So you know it?’
‘No. Well, I know of it. I know it’s not a word for polite society. You mustn’t say it, Essymay.’
‘Alright,’ I said, delighted at the effect the word had. ‘Let’s just call it the C-word.’
‘Let’s not call it anything. There is no reason it ever needs to be used.’
‘Mabel says it’s a very old word. So it should be in the volume for C. I want to see how close I came to defining it.’
The Scrippy was empty, though Da’s and Mr Sweatman’s jackets were still on the backs of their chairs. I went to the shelf behind Mr Murray’s desk and took down the second volume of words. C was even bigger than A and B; it had taken half my childhood to compile. When I searched its pages, Mabel’s word was not there.
I returned the volume and began searching the pigeon-holes for C. They were dusty from lack of attention.
‘Looking for something in particular?’ It was Mr Sweatman.
I folded Mabel’s slips into my hand and turned. ‘Nothing that can’t wait until Monday,’ I said. ‘Is Da with you?’
Mr Sweatman took his jacket off the back of his chair. ‘Stopped by the house to have a quick word with Dr Murray. He should be here any minute.’
‘I’ll wait for him in the garden,’ I said.
‘Righto. I’ll see you on Monday.’
I lifted the lid of my desk and placed the slips between the pages of a book.
I began going to the Covered Market alone. Whenever my work took me to the Bodleian or the Old Ashmolean, I would make a detour through the crowded alleyways of stalls and shops. I wandered slowly; I loitered at the window of the milliner so I could eavesdrop on the grocer and his boy standing on the street; I took my time choosing fish on Fridays in the hope of catching an unfamiliar word passed between the fishmonger and his wife.
‘Why won’t Dr Murray include words that aren’t written down?’ I asked Da as we walked to the Scriptorium one morning. I had three new slips in my pocket.
‘If it’s not written down, we can’t verify the meaning.’
‘What if it’s in common use? I hear the same words over and over at the Covered Market.’
‘They may be commonly spoken, but if they are not commonly written they will not be included. A quotation from Mr Smith the greengrocer is simply not adequate.’
‘But some nonsense from Mr Dickens the author is?’
Da looked at me sideways.
I smiled. ‘Jog-trotty, remember?’
Jog-trotty had caused considerable debate around the sorting table a few years earlier. It had seventeen slips, but they all contained the same quotation. It was the only quotation, as far as Mr Maling could ascertain.
It’s rather jog-trotty and humdrum.
‘But it’s Dickens,’ said one assistant. ‘It’s nonsense,’ said another. ‘It’s for an editor to decide,’ said Mr Maling. And as Dr Murray was away, it fell to the newest editor, Mr Craigie. He must have admired Dickens, because it was included in H to K.
‘Touché,’ said Da. ‘So, give me an example of a word you’ve heard at the market.’
‘Latch-keyed,’ I said, remembering the way Mrs Stiles at the flower stall had said it to a customer, and her glance in my direction.
‘You know, that word sounds familiar.’ He looked pleased. ‘I think you might find that there’s already an entry.’
Da’s pace increased, and when we arrived at the Scriptorium he went straight to the shelf that held the fascicles. He removed ‘Lap to Leisurely’ and began leafing through it, repeating ‘latch-keyed’ under his breath.
‘Well, a latch-key is used to unlock a night gate, but latch-keyed isn’t here.’ He moved to the pigeon-holes, and I followed.
Except for us, the Scriptorium was empty. I felt like a child again. Latch-keyed would be in the middle somewhere, I thought. Not too high and not too low.
‘Here it is.’ Da took a small pile of slips to the sorting table. ‘Ah, I remember now – I wrote the entry. Latch-keyed means to be furnished with a latch-key.’
‘So, someone who’s latch-keyed can come and go as they please?’
‘That is the suggestion.’
I looked over his shoulder and read the top-slip. There were various definitions in Da’s writing.
Unchaperoned; undisciplined; referring to a young woman with no domestic constraint.
‘All the quotations are from the Daily Telegraph,’ said Da, passing me one.
‘And why should that matter?’
‘Believe it or not, Dr Murray has asked that very same question.’
‘Of whom?’
‘Of the Press Delegates when they want to cut costs. Cutting costs means cutting words. According to them, the Daily Telegraph is not a credible source, and its words are expendable.’
‘I suppose the Times is a credible source?’
Da nodded.
I looked at the slip he’d given me.
LATCH-KEYED
‘All latch-keyed daughters and knicker-bockerred maidens, and discontented people generally.’
Daily Telegraph, 1895
‘It isn’t a compliment, then?’
‘That depends on whether you think young ladies should always be chaperoned, disciplined and under domestic constraint.’ He smiled, then became serious. ‘In general, I think it would be used to criticise.’
‘I’ll put them away,’ I said.
I gathered up the slips. As I walked back to the pigeon-holes, I put latch-keyed daughters in the sleeve of my dress. Superfluous to need, I thought.
By the end of 1902 I’d become confident collecting my own words, but at the Scriptorium, I was still running errands and adding new quotations to piles of slips that had already been sorted years earlier by volunteers. I found myself becoming frustrated by the definitions that some words were given. I was tempted to draw a line through so many, but it was not my place. Temptation, though, can only be resisted for so long.
‘Esme, is this your handiwork?’
Da pushed a
