by Pip Williams
‘She collects words,’ said Mabel.
‘What kinds of words?’
‘Women’s words. Dirty ones.’
I stood dumb, caught with no adequate explanation. It was as though Da had asked me to turn out my pockets.
But Tilda was interested, not appalled. ‘Really?’ she said, taking in the loose fit of my jacket and the daisy chain Lizzie had embroidered around the edge of the sleeves. ‘Dirty words?’
‘No. Well, sometimes. Dirty words are Mabel’s speciality.’
I took out my bundle of blank slips and a pencil.
‘Are you a dollymop?’ I asked, not sure how offensive it might be but curious to try the word out.
‘An actress, though to some it’s the same thing.’ She smiled at Mabel. ‘Our friend tells me that treading the boards was how she got into her particular line of work.’
I began to understand and wrote dollymop in the top-left corner of a slip I’d cut from a discarded proof. These slips were becoming favourites, though the pleasure I took in crossing out the legitimate words and recording one of Mabel’s on the other side was never without an echo of shame.
‘Can you put it in a sentence?’ I urged.
Tilda looked at the slip, then at me. ‘You’re quite serious, aren’t you?’ she said.
Heat flushed my cheeks. I imagined the slip through her eyes, the futility of it. How odd I must have seemed.
‘Give ’er a sentence,’ Mabel urged.
Tilda waited for me to look up. ‘On one condition,’ she said, smiling with anticipated satisfaction. ‘We’re putting on a production of A Doll’s House at New Theatre. You must come to the matinee this afternoon and join us after, for tea.’
‘She will, she will. Now give ’er a sentence.’
Tilda took a lungful of air and straightened. Her gaze fell just beyond my shoulder and she delivered her sentence with a working-class accent I’d not detected before. ‘A coin for the dollymop will keep your lap warm.’
‘That’s experience talkin’ if you ask me,’ Mabel said, laughing.
‘No one asked you, Mabel,’ I said. I wrote the sentence in the middle of the slip.
‘Is it the same as prostitute?’ I asked Tilda.
‘I suppose. Though a dollymop is more opportunistic and far less experienced.’
Tilda watched as I fashioned a definition.
‘That sums it up perfectly,’ she said.
‘Your last name?’ My pencil hovered.
‘Taylor.’
Mabel tapped her whittling knife on the crate to get our attention. ‘Read it to me, then.’
I looked around at all the market goers.
Tilda held out her hand for the slip. ‘I promise not to project.’
I gave it to her.
DOLLYMOP
A woman who is paid for sexual favours on an occasional basis.
‘A coin for the dollymop will keep your lap warm.’
Tilda Taylor, 1906
A good word, I thought, as I put the slip back in my pocket. And a good source.
‘I must get on.’ Tilda said. ‘Costume call in an hour.’ She reached into her purse and pulled out a program.
‘I play Nora,’ she said. ‘Curtain goes up at two.’
When Da came home from the Scriptorium, I had lunch ready: pork pies from the market and boiled green beans. A fresh vase of flowers was on the kitchen table.
‘I’ve been invited to the matinee of A Doll’s House at New Theatre,’ I said when we were eating.
Da looked up, surprised but smiling. ‘Oh? And who has invited you?’
‘Someone I met at the Covered Market.’ Da’s smile turned to a frown, and I quickly continued. ‘A woman. An actress. She’s in the play. Would you like to join me?’
‘Today?’
‘I’m happy to go alone.’
He looked relieved. ‘I was quite looking forward to an afternoon with the newspapers.’
After lunch, I walked down Walton Street towards town. At the Press, a crowd of people at the end of their working week spilled through the archway, the long afternoon ahead animating their conversations. Most headed the way I had just come, back to their homes in Jericho, but small groups of men and a few young couples started walking towards the centre of Oxford. I followed and wondered if any would be going to New Theatre.
On George Street, the small caravan of people I’d been walking behind peeled off to pubs and tea shops. None entered the theatre.
I was early, but the emptiness of the theatre was still a surprise. It looked bigger than I remembered it. There were seats for hundreds of people, but there were barely thirty there. I struggled to decide where to sit.
Tilda came from behind the curtain and trotted up the carpeted stair to where I stood. ‘Bill said he saw the most striking woman come into the theatre and I knew it would be you.’ Tilda took my hand and pulled me towards the front row, where a single person sat.
‘Bill, you were right. This is Esme.’
Bill stood and made a little theatrical bow.
‘Esme, this is my brother, Bill. You must sit with him in the front row, so I can see you. Obviously, you will be lost in the crowd if you sit anywhere else.’ Tilda kissed her brother on the cheek and left us.
‘When you sit in the front you can imagine the theatre is full and that you have the best seats to a sold-out show,’ said Bill when we were both seated.
‘Is that something you have to do often?’
‘Not usually, but it’s been useful for this show.’
It was easy sitting there with Bill, though I knew I should probably feel uncomfortable. He lacked the formality that I was used to in the men who came and went from the Scriptorium. He was more town than gown, of course, but there was something else about him I couldn’t articulate. Bill was younger than Tilda by ten years, he said, which made him twenty-two. Just two years younger than me. He was tall enough to look me in the eye, and had Tilda’s fine nose and full lips, but they were hidden among a riot of freckles. He shared his sister’s green eyes, but not her honeyed hair: Bill’s was darker, like treacle.
I listened to him talk while we waited for the play to start. He talked mostly about Tilda. She’d cared for him when no one else would, he told me. Did they have no parents? I asked.
‘No. Not dead, though,’ Bill said. ‘Just absent. So I follow her wherever the theatre calls her.’ Then the lights went down and the curtain went up.
Tilda was mesmerising, but the rest of the performers were not.
‘I’m not sure tea will be sufficient this afternoon,’ said Tilda when we finally left the theatre. ‘Do you know where we can get a drink, Esme? Somewhere the rest of the cast won’t go.’
I had only ever been to pubs with Da for Sunday lunch – never just for a drink. We mostly stayed in Jericho, but we’d once gone to a tiny pub near Christ Church. I led the way to St Aldate’s.
‘Is Old Tom the owner?’ asked Bill when we were standing outside the pub.
‘It’s named for Great Tom, the bell in Tom Tower.’ I pointed to the belltower down St Aldate’s Road. I was ready to tell them more, but Tilda turned and walked inside.
It was five o’clock and Old Tom was beginning to fill, but Bill and Tilda were a striking pair. They cut through the crowd like a warm knife through butter. I followed, slightly bent, my eyes down. It was the wrong time of day for a meal, and I could count the women present on one hand. I imagined Lizzie grabbing her crucifix when I told her how I’d spent my afternoon.
‘How kind,’ I heard Tilda say as three men got up from their table and offered it to her.
Bill held her chair as she sat, then did the same for me. ‘What would you like?’ he asked.
I really wasn’t sure. ‘Lemonade,’ I said, in a way that begged approval.
The bar was only a few feet away, and Bill shouted his order above the heads of the other men. At first there were grumbles, but when Bill pointed to where we sat, suddenly our refreshment became everyone’s p
riority.
Tilda drained her whiskey. ‘Did you enjoy the play, Esme?’
‘You were quite wonderful.’
‘Thank you for saying, but you have skilfully avoided the question.’
‘It was mediocre,’ said Bill, saving me.
‘That may be the nicest thing anyone has said about it, Bill.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘It is also the reason our season has been cut. Effective immediately.’
‘Fuck.’
I was startled. Not by the word, but by his easy use of it.
Bill turned. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Don’t apologise, Bill. Esme is a collector of words. If you’re lucky she’ll write that one down on one of her little scraps of paper.’ Tilda held up her empty glass.
‘Sorry, old girl, our recent unemployment does not extend to two whiskeys.’
‘But I haven’t told you the good news.’ Tilda smiled. ‘As Esme said, I was quite wonderful. A couple of the Oxford University players thought so too. They made up the majority of today’s audience, and they’ve asked me to join them in Much Ado about Nothing. I’m to play Beatrice. Their original has come down with chickenpox.’ She paused to let Bill take it in. ‘They have a terrific reputation, and the first few nights are nearly fully booked. I arranged a cut of the box office.’
Bill slapped the table so all the glasses jumped. ‘That is fucking brilliant. Is there a job for me?’
‘Of course; we are a package, after all. You will dress and undress and occasionally feed lines. They’ll be fighting over you, Bill.’
Bill returned to the bar and I took out a slip. Mabel had only ever used fuck in the negative.
‘You might need more than one,’ said Tilda. ‘I can’t think of many words more versatile.’
Fuck was not in F and G.
‘Looking for something in particular, Essy?’ asked Da as I put the volume back on the shelf.
‘I am, but you won’t want me to say it out loud.’
He smiled. ‘I see. Try the pigeon-holes. If it’s been written down, it’ll be there.’
‘If it’s been written down, shouldn’t it be in the Dictionary?’
‘Not necessarily. It has to have a legitimate history in the English language. And even then …’ he paused ‘… put it this way: if you don’t want to say it out loud, it may have fallen foul of someone’s sense of decorum.’
I searched the pigeon-holes. Fuck had more slips than most, and the pile was divided into even more variant meanings than Bill and Tilda could provide. The oldest was from the sixteenth century.
The Scriptorium door opened, and Mr Maling came in with Mr Yockney, our newest, smallest and baldest assistant. I put the slips back and went to my desk to sort the post.
At eleven o’clock, I went to sit with Lizzie in the kitchen.
‘Mabel says you made a new friend on Saturday,’ she said as she poured my tea.
‘Two friends, actually.’
‘Are you going to tell me about them?’
Lizzie said almost nothing as I recounted my day. When I mentioned Old Tom, her hand sought the crucifix. I didn’t tell her about Tilda’s whiskey, but I made sure to say I drank lemonade.
‘They’ll be in rehearsals for a few weeks,’ I said. ‘I thought we could go together when the play opens.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Lizzie. Then she cleared the table.
Before going back to the Scriptorium, I climbed the stairs to her room and added Bill and Tilda’s words to the trunk.
The Bodleian Library was just minutes from New Theatre, so every request to find a word or verify a quotation became an opportunity to visit Bill and Tilda in rehearsals. My enthusiasm for these errands did not go unnoticed.
‘Where to this morning, Esme?’ Mr Sweatman was walking his bicycle towards the Scriptorium as I was getting ready to ride off.
‘The Bodleian.’
‘But this is the third time in as many days.’
‘Dr Murray is in search of a quotation, and it is my job to hunt it down,’ I said. ‘It is also my pleasure – I love the Library.’
Mr Sweatman looked at the iron walls of the Scriptorium. ‘Yes, I can see why you would. And what is the word, may I ask?’
‘Suffrage,’ I said.
‘An important word.’
I smiled. ‘They are all important, Mr Sweatman.’
‘Of course, but some mean more than we might imagine,’ he said. ‘I sometimes fear the Dictionary will fall short.’
‘How could it not?’ I forgot I was in a hurry. ‘Words are like stories, don’t you think, Mr Sweatman? They change as they are passed from mouth to mouth; their meanings stretch or truncate to fit what needs to be said. The Dictionary can’t possibly capture every variation, especially since so many have never been written down —’ I stopped, suddenly shy.
Mr Sweatman’s smile was broad, but not mocking. ‘You have an excellent point, Esme. And if you don’t mind me saying, you are beginning to sound like a lexicographer.’
I rode as fast as I could along Parks Road and arrived at the Bodleian in record time. Blackstone’s Commentaries on the Laws of England was easy to find. I took it to the nearest desk and looked at the three slips Dr Murray wanted me to check. They each had the same quotation, more or less (it is the more or less that I need you to verify, Dr Murray had said).
I found the page, scanned it, ran my finger along the sentence and checked each quotation against it. They were each missing a word or two. A good day at the Library, I thought, as I drew a line through what the volunteers had written. As much as I wanted to be on my way, I took care to transcribe the correct quotation onto a clean slip.
In all democracies therefore it is of the utmost importance to regulate by whom, and in what manner, the suffrages are to be given.
I read the quotation again, double-checked its accuracy. Looked for the publication date: 1765. I wondered to whom Blackstone thought the suffrages should be given. I wrote the word correction in the bottom-left corner of the slip and added my initials, E.N. Then I pinned it to the three other slips.
I took the longer route back to the Scriptorium, stopping in at New Theatre.
Inside, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark. The players were onstage, paused mid-scene. A few people were seated in the middle rows.
‘I was wondering if I’d see you today,’ said Bill when I sat beside him.
‘I have ten minutes,’ I said. ‘I wanted to see them in their costumes.’
It was a dress rehearsal. Opening night was just three days away.
‘Why do you come every day?’ asked Bill.
I had to think. ‘It’s about seeing something before it’s fully formed. Watching it evolve. I imagine sitting here on opening night and appreciating every scene all the more because I understand what has led to it.’
Bill laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that you don’t speak often, but when you do it’s perfect.’
I looked down and rubbed my hands together.
‘And I love that you never talk about hats,’ Bill said.
‘Hats? Why would I talk about hats?’
‘Women like to talk about hats.’
‘Do they?’
‘The fact you don’t know that is what will make me fall in love with you.’
Suddenly, every word I ever knew evaporated.
May 31st, 1906
My dear Esme,
Your new friends sound like an interesting pair. By interesting, I mean unconventional, which is generally a good thing, though not always. I trust you can judge the difference.
As to the inclusion of vulgar words in the Dictionary, Dr Murray’s formula should be the sole arbiter. It is quite scientific, and strict application insists on certain types of evidence. If the evidence exists, the word should be included. It is brilliant because it removes emotion. When used correctly the formula does exactly what it was designed to do. When put aside, i
t is useless. There have been times when it has been put aside (even by its inventor), so that personal opinion can be exercised. Vulgar words, as you call them, are the usual casualties. No matter the evidence for their inclusion, there are some who would wish such words away.
For my part, I think they add colour. A vulgar word, well placed and said with just enough vigour, can express far more than its polite equivalent.
If you have started to collect such words, Esme, may I suggest you refrain from saying them in public – it would do you no good at all. If you do feel like expressing them, you may like to ask Mr Maling for their translation into Esperanto. You’ll be surprised at how versatile that language is, and how liberal Mr Maling can be when it comes to vulgarities.
Yours, with love,
Ditte
Much Ado about Nothing opened at New Theatre on the 9th of June. Bill’s function on opening night was to help the actors with stays, stockings and wigs. Malfunctions were frequent, and so I sat with him in the wings and watched from the side.
‘Are you ever tempted?’ I asked, as we watched Tilda become Beatrice.
‘I couldn’t act to save my life,’ Bill said. ‘Which is why I’m so good at dressmaking.’
‘Really?’
‘And carpentry and front-of-house and anything else that may be required.’ His hand brushed against mine. ‘And you? Have you ever been tempted?’
I shook my head. Bill’s fingers flirted with mine, and I didn’t move them away.
‘Can you feel it?’ he asked, stroking the scarred skin.
‘Yes, but it’s far away, as if you were touching me through a glove.’
It was a poor explanation. His touch was like a whisper in my ear, the breath of it spreading through my whole body and making me shudder.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Not at all.’
‘How did it happen?’
When I was little, the answer had been a complicated knot of emotion in the middle of my chest – I’d had no words to explain it. But Bill’s hand was steady around mine, and I craved its warmth.
‘There was a slip …’ I began.
‘A word?’
‘I thought it was important.’