Dr. Murray came back into the Scriptorium alone. I was surprised by the heaviness of the breath that escaped my lungs. He left the door open, and the fresh December air began circulating among the tables. Two of the assistants put on their jackets; Rosfrith pulled a shawl around her shoulders. I did not normally hold with Dr. Murray’s idea that fresh air kept the mind sharp, but I had become too warm to think straight, and for once I was glad of it. I returned to the task of justifying rime.

“This is for you.” It was Gareth.

For a moment, it was impossible to look up. All the heat that had been in my body was now in my face.

“It’s a word for your collection. One of my ma’s. She used to use it this way all the time, but I couldn’t find it in the fascicles we keep at the Press.” He spoke quietly, but I heard every word. Still I didn’t look up; I had no confidence that I would be able to speak. Instead, I focused on the slip of paper Gareth had placed in front of me. He must have taken it from the pile of blanks kept on the shelf nearest the door. It was the commonest of words, but the meaning was different. I recognised it from when I was a little girl.

CABBAGE

“Come here, my little cabbage, and give me a hug.”

Deryth Owen

Deryth, what a beautiful name. The sentence was more or less as Lizzie would have said it.

“Mothers have a vocabulary all their own, don’t you think?” he said.

“Actually, I wouldn’t know.” I looked over at Da. “I never knew my mother.”

Gareth looked stricken. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Please, don’t be. As you can imagine, my father has his own way with words.”

He laughed. “Well, yes, he would.”

“And your father?” I asked. “Does he work at the Press?”

“It was Ma who worked at the Press. She was a bindery girl. Organised my apprenticeship when I was fourteen.”

“But your father?”

“It was just my ma and me,” he said.

I looked at the slip in my hand and tried to imagine the woman who called this man her little cabbage. “Thank you for the slip,” I said.

“I hope you don’t mind me seeking you out.”

I looked at the sorting table. There were one or two furtive glances towards my desk and a strange smile on Da’s face, though his eyes were steadfastly on his work.

“I’m very glad you did,” I said, looking into his face then quickly back at the slip.

“Well, I’ll be sure to do it again.”

When he was gone, I opened the lid of my desk and sorted through my shoebox of slips until I found where Gareth’s belonged.

January 1913