I checked the pockets of my skirt and was pleased to find a small number of blank slips and the stub of a pencil. Like the skirt, neither had been used in a long while. I took a slip and rewrote the entry exactly as Da had composed it, then I pinned it where the original had been. I looked carefully at the rest of Da’s proofs and found two, three, four other occasions when Mr Dankworth had interfered.
I began to rewrite Da’s original edits, my confidence increasing with every word, but when I came to the last, my hand froze. It was an entry for mother. The proof already gave the first meaning as A female parent, but to this Mr Dankworth had added, A woman who has given birth to a child.
I left it.
Lizzie looked up from where she was kneading dough at the kitchen table.
‘There’s a troubled face if ever I saw one,’ she said.
‘I’ve made three mistakes this morning,’ I said. ‘He makes me so nervous.’ I slumped into a chair.
‘Let me guess. Mr Sweatman? Mr Maling? Or could it be that you’re talking about Mr Dankworth?’
Lizzie had been hearing versions of this complaint since we’d returned home from Shropshire a year before. I’d been escaping to her kitchen as often as I could. Usually she would work around me, but if there was a letter from Mrs Lloyd she’d brew a fresh pot and place a plate of biscuits, morning-baked, between us as I read aloud. She was recreating her Shropshire mornings, and I was always careful not to insert myself between her and her friend. I’d read carefully, without comment or pause, and when I was done I would take a pen and paper from the kitchen drawer and wait for Lizzie to compose her response. My dearest Natasha, she would always start.
Today there was no letter and there were no biscuits. I took a sandwich from the plate on the kitchen table. ‘He watches me,’ I said, taking a bite.
Lizzie looked up with raised eyebrows.
‘Not in that way. Definitely not in that way. He can’t say good morning, but he has no trouble telling me where I’ve gone wrong with grammar or style. This morning he told me I’d taken liberties with a variant meaning of psychotic. In his opinion, females are prone to overstatement, and for that reason should not be employed where precision is needed.’
‘Had you taken liberties?’ she teased.
‘It would never occur to me,’ I replied, smiling.
Lizzie kept kneading.
‘When I came back from lunch yesterday, he’d left a copy of Hart’s Rules on my desk. He’d pinned notes to my edits with the page numbers I should refer to in order to improve my corrections.’
‘Are Hart’s Rules important?’
‘They’re mainly for compositors and readers at the Press, but they help to make sure that everyone working on the Dictionary is writing in the same way, using the same spelling.’
‘You mean there are different ways of writing and spelling?’
‘I know it sounds like codswallop but there are, and the smallest thing can cause the biggest arguments.’
Lizzie smiled. ‘And what would the Rules say about codswallop?’
‘Nothing; it’s not a valid word.’
‘But you’ve written it on a slip. I remember you doing it, right here at this table.’
‘That’s because it’s an excellent word.’
‘Did it help? Him giving you the Rules?’
‘No. It just makes me question myself at every turn. Things I knew for sure are suddenly confusing. I’m working more slowly and making more errors than ever.’
Lizzie shaped the dough and put it in a tin, then she dusted it with flour. She was assured in this, as she was with everything that needed doing in the kitchen. Since her last fall, Mrs Ballard only came in to cook Sunday roast and write the lists for the weekly orders. Lizzie did everything else, though there were fewer Murrays to feed as the children were all grown and most had left. An occasional maid came most days to help in the house.
‘Will you come with me to the market on Saturday?’ Lizzie asked carefully. ‘Old Mabel’s been asking after you.’
Mabel. I hadn’t seen her since … The thought wouldn’t configure itself. Since what? Since I’d asked for her help? Since I’d gone to Ditte’s? Since Her. This was what happened every time I thought about my last visit to Mabel. It marked a moment in time, and thinking about it caused me to think of Her. I wondered how Sarah and Philip might have celebrated Her first birthday. What gift they would give Her for Christmas. I imagined Her walking and wished I’d heard Her first word.
‘She has a word for you,’ Lizzie said, and I looked up, startled. For a moment I wasn’t sure who she was talking about. ‘Says she’s been saving it. I wouldn’t ask, but I don’t reckon Mabel’s long for this place.’
I rose early and dressed with unnecessary care. I was nervous about seeing Mabel. Ashamed it had taken me so long. When the morning post fell through the slot in the door, I was glad for the distraction. It was one of Tilda’s sporadic postcards. The picture on the front was of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster.
November 2nd, 1908
My dear Esme,
You told me once that you wished our slogan was ‘Words not Deeds’ instead of ‘Deeds not Words’, and I laughed at your naivety. So, when I heard about Muriel Matters chaining herself to the grille in the Ladies’ Gallery in the House of Commons, I could not help but think of you.
It was an ingenious act of attention seeking (I’m sure Mrs Pankhurst wishes she had thought of it), but it will be her words that move minds. She is the first woman to speak in the House of Commons, and her words were intelligent and eloquently spoken. Hansard may not record them, but the
