I felt a pang of guilt. I knew too little of what he did. I’d assumed it was nothing more than mechanical monotony. After all, the words were chosen by the editors, the meanings suggested by writers. All he had to do was transcribe them. But that was not what I saw. He studied a slip then made a selection of type. He placed it, considered it, took a pencil from behind his ear and made notes on the slip. Was he editing? With the surety of having solved a problem, he removed the type and replaced it with a better arrangement.
Only in his sleep would I see him this unguarded. I was surprised to realise that I longed to see him sleep. The thought pierced my heart.
Gareth stood up straight and moved his head from side to side, stretching out his neck. The movements must have caught Mr Hart’s eye, because the Controller suggested a correction to the type on the forme he was inspecting, then walked towards his manager. Gareth saw him, and there was the slightest tightening of muscles in his shoulders and face: an adjustment to being observed. I too began to walk towards Gareth. When he saw me, a smile broke across his face and he was entirely familiar again.
‘Esme,’ he said. His delight warmed every part of me.
Only then did Mr Hart realise I was there. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ There was an awkward silence as Mr Hart and I both wondered whether we were getting in the way of the other’s conversation with Gareth.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I should wait in the corridor?’
‘Not at all, Miss Nicoll,’ said Mr Hart.
‘Mr Hart,’ said Gareth, bringing us all back to the business we were there for. ‘Edits from Sir James?’
‘Yes.’ Mr Hart approached Gareth at his bench. ‘It’s as you anticipated. I’m tempted from now on to let you make the change when you notice it; it would save a damn lot of time.’ Then, remembering me, he made a grudging apology for his language. Gareth suppressed a grin.
When they’d finished discussing the edits, Gareth asked if he could take his break early.
‘Yes, yes. Take an extra quarter-hour,’ said Mr Hart.
‘You’ve flustered him,’ Gareth said, as Mr Hart walked away. ‘I’ll just finish setting this line.’
I watched as Gareth selected small bits of metal type from the tray in front of him. His hand moved quickly, and the stick was soon full. He turned it out into the forme and rubbed his thumb.
‘Do you think Mr Hart was serious when he said he’d let you make changes to the copy before setting it in type?’
Gareth laughed. ‘Good God, no.’
‘But you must be tempted,’ I said carefully.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, I’d never thought much about it before, but seeing you here I realise you spend your life with words, putting them in their place. Surely you’ve developed opinions about what reads well.’
‘It’s not my job to have opinions, Es.’ He wasn’t looking at me, but I could see a smile hovering by the edge of his mouth.
‘I’m not sure I could like a man without opinions,’ I said.
He smiled then. ‘Well, in that case, let’s just say that I have more opinions about the copy that comes from the Old Ashmolean than I do about the copy that comes from the Scriptorium.’ He stood to remove his apron. ‘Do you mind if we stop by the printing room?’
The printing room was in full operation, huge sheets of paper coming down like the wings of a giant bird or being rolled off large drums in quick succession; the old way and the new, Gareth said. Each had a rhythm for the ear and the eye, and I found it strangely soothing to see the pages pile up.
Gareth led me to one of the old presses. I felt the air shift as the giant wing descended.
‘Harold, I have that part you asked for.’ Gareth took a small wheel-like part from his pocket and gave it to the old man. ‘If you have trouble fitting it, I can come back this afternoon and do it.’
Harold took the part, and I noticed his hands shaking ever so slightly.
‘Esme, may I introduce Harold Fairweather. Harold is a master printer, recently come out of retirement – isn’t that right, Harold?’
‘I’m doing my bit,’ said Harold.
‘And this is Miss Esme Nicoll,’ Gareth continued. ‘Esme works with Dr Murray on the Dictionary.’
Harold smiled. ‘Where would the English language be without us?’
I looked at the pages coming off the printer. ‘Are you printing the Dictionary?’
‘That I am.’ He nodded towards a pile of printed sheets.
I picked up the edge of one, held it between my thumb and fingers and rubbed the paper. I was anxious not to touch the words in case the ink was still wet. I had an image of smudging one and the word being erased from the vocabulary of whoever bought the fascicle that the page belonged to.
‘These old presses have personalities,’ Harold was saying. ‘Gareth knows this one as well as anyone.’
I looked at Gareth, ‘Is that so?’
‘I started on the presses,’ he said. ‘I was apprenticed to Harold when I was fourteen.’
‘When it plays up he’s the only one can coax it to behave, even before we lost half the mechanics,’ said Harold. ‘Don’t know how I’ll get on without him.’
‘I can’t imagine why you’d have to get on without him,’ I said.
‘Hypothetical, miss,’ he replied quickly.
‘You should visit more often,’ Gareth said as we walked along Walton Street. ‘Hart is in the habit of docking a quarter-hour from our lunch break these days, not adding it.’
‘Dr Murray’s the same. It’s like the Scriptorium and the Press are their battlegrounds. They have no other contribution to make.’ As soon as I said it, I regretted it.
‘Hart’s always been a hard taskmaster,’ Gareth said. ‘But if he
