‘When did you do it?’ he asked
‘This morning,’ I said, not looking up from my bowl of porridge. ‘You left it out when you went to bed last night.’
Da sat reading what I’d penned.
MADCAP
Often applied playfully to young women of lively or impulsive temperament.
‘On the boards, she was the merriest, gayest, madcap in the world.’
Mabel Collins, The Prettiest Woman in Warsaw, 1885
I looked up. Da was waiting for an explanation. ‘It captures a sense that wasn’t there,’ I said. ‘I’ve taken the quotation from another sense that it wasn’t at all suited to. I often think the volunteers have got it quite wrong.’
‘As do we,’ Da said. ‘Which is why we spend so long rewriting them.’
I blushed, realising Da had left the proof out because he was still working on it. ‘You’ll come up with something better, but I thought I might save you a little time if I drafted it,’ I said.
‘No. I’d finished with it. I thought my definitions were adequate.’
‘Oh.’
‘I was wrong.’ He took the proof and folded it. For a moment, we were silent.
‘Perhaps I could make more suggestions?’
Da raised his eyebrows.
‘About the meanings given to words,’ I said. ‘When I’m sorting them and adding new slips, perhaps I could write suggestions on any top-slips that I think are …’ I paused, unable to criticise.
‘Inadequate?’ Da said. ‘Subjective? Judgemental? Pompous? Incorrect?’
We laughed.
‘Perhaps you could,’ he said.
My request hung in the air while Dr Murray considered me over his spectacles.
‘Of course you can,’ he said, finally. ‘I look forward to seeing what you come up with.’
I’d had a speech ready in case he denied me, and so I was caught short by his easy agreement. I stood, stunned, in front of his desk.
‘Whatever you suggest is likely to be refined,’ he said. ‘Your perspective, however, will be grist to the mill of our endeavour to define the English language.’ He leaned forward then, and his whiskers twitched at the edges of his mouth. ‘My own daughters are fond of pointing out the inherent biases of our elderly volunteers. I’m sure they will be glad to have you on their side.’
From then on I did not feel superfluous, and the task of sorting slips took on a new challenge. Da would inform me whenever one of my suggestions made it into a fascicle. The proportion increased with my confidence, and I kept a tally on the inside of my desk: a little notch for every meaning penned and accepted. As the years passed, the inside of my desk became pitted with small achievements.
I enjoyed the freedom of having a salary, and I became familiar with a number of the traders at the Covered Market. I continued to join Lizzie on Saturday mornings, but with my own basket to fill, and an allowance from Da for groceries. When we were done with the food shopping, I would take her into the draper’s shop. Bit-by-bit I was replacing everything in our house that was worn out or depressingly functional. I enjoyed spending my money in this way, although Da only sometimes noticed. The last shop we’d go into was always the haberdashery, and it was my greatest joy to buy Lizzie a new thread.
On other days, when Lizzie wasn’t with me, I’d visit certain stallholders who I knew had a way with words. They spoke with accents from far up north or the south-west corner of England. Some were Gypsy or travelling Irish, and they came and went. They were mostly women, old and young, and few of them could read the words they’d given me once I wrote them down. But they loved to share them. Over a few years I’d managed to collect more than a hundred. Some words, I discovered, were already in the pigeon-holes, but so many were not. When I was feeling in the mood for something salacious, I would always visit Mabel.
A woman I’d never seen before was picking through Mabel’s wares in the same distracted way I usually did. They were deep in conversation, and I was reluctant to interrupt. I hung back among the buckets of flowers at Mrs Stiles’ stall.
I bought flowers from Mrs Stiles every week, but my association with Mabel over the past few years had been noted, and the florist was not friendly. This made lingering all the more awkward.
‘Have you decided what you want?’ Mrs Stiles had come from behind her counter to straighten flowers that didn’t need straightening.
I heard Mabel snort at something the woman said. Looking over, I glimpsed pale skin and a rouged cheek as the woman averted her face, just slightly, to avoid the rank breath that I knew assailed her. I wondered why she was still there; pity only required a moment. I had an uncanny sense I was watching myself, as others might have watched me – as Mrs Stiles must surely have watched me.
The florist was waiting for some kind of response, so I drifted towards the bucket of carnations. Their pastel symmetry was bland and somehow repellent, but they were well placed to see Mabel’s visitor more clearly. I bent slightly, as if inspecting the bunches, and felt Mrs Stiles’ barely restrained disapproval. Petals fell from some lilac blooms she was adjusting with too much vigour.
‘For you, Mabel,’ I said a few minutes later, handing over a small posy of lilacs, their scent an obvious relief to Mabel’s new acquaintance. I dared not look back at the florist, but Mabel was shameless. She took the posy and critically inspected its wrapping of brown paper and simple white ribbon. ‘It’s the flowers that matter,’ she said too loudly, then held them to her nose with exaggerated delight.
‘How do they smell?’ asked the young woman.
‘Couldn’t tell you. ’Aven’t
