The Liar's Dictionary

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘This is great. Make it an asset of the digitalisation. Digitisation. Whichever.’ I warmed to my theme, seeing an opportunity to be people-pleasing. ‘Totally – hoick these up on the old socials, use them to shine a light on the –’ I cast around for the right words – ‘I don’t know, the idiosyncrasies of dictionaries. Kick up a bit of a stink on Countdown’s Dictionary Corner or amongst the cryptic-crossword community – you can’t buy that kind of USP. It’s zany, it’s out there, nice traction with new demographics.’ I had warmed so thoroughly to his subject, object, verb, that it seemed to me quite the hot topic.

I had no idea what I was talking about, and this kind of language seemed to cause David physical pain. He visibly aged at the mention of USP. ‘It makes the whole of Swansby’s into a laughing stock, that’s what it does,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to be the editor who not only sees the end of the line for the dictionary but also ensures it’s remembered as some kind of barmy sideshow.’

Tits yawned and I rubbed his ear until the purrs began. I thought it might alleviate the mood.

‘So what do you want us to do?’ I said. It occurred to me that David might have called me in for actual bad news. ‘Do you want the digitisation to stop?’

‘No!’ said David. ‘God, no. No, that’s not going to happen. But while I carry on digitising, updating, I do

want all hands on deck going through the archives to rout out all of these index cards.’

Tits yawned again.

‘By all hands on deck, you mean—’

‘I’ve seen you reading the Dictionary at your desk,’ said David. ‘I’ve noticed the pages spread out in your office.’

A guilty pang that I had been caught in my slacking. ‘Just out of curiosity,’ I said. I felt myself redden. Boredom. The word was boredom. ‘Just incidentally.’

‘I want you to just – well!’ David clapped his hands. ‘Just keep reading, but cross-check the index cards from the archive. Read the 1930 edition, the nine volumes, and the proofs. If there’s anything there that seems amiss you – you just, well, you let me know?’

I stood up, holding the index card. Thoughts of spiderwebs and burning donkeys filled my head.

‘Certainly,’ David said, to nobody at all. He looked pleased, and somehow a lot lighter on his feet. It was as if passing on the confession had unburdened him. ‘So, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ve brought up most of the A-word boxes and put them down by the – ah – by the litter tray over there. I’ll help you bring the others up to your desk. Not a moment to lose: how about it?’

H is for

humbug

(n.)

Winceworth’s mind returned yet again to the previous night’s party and the reason for his headache, his current life defined by the ringing of his head. To trace the history of this particular headache meant following Winceworth-of-yesterday as he made his way through an evening crowd, vying for space between the hats and shoulders and shawls of Long Acre. All this time the word curriebuction kept rising in his thoughts. He ate a chestnut loudly, as if to dislodge the word.

He had not wanted to be i) late, or ii) there at all because it would involve celebrating Frasham’s birthday.

The last thing that man needed was more attention. Winceworth planned to visit for half an hour, make his excuses and leave sober and informed and thoughtful and better for the exercise. Maybe he would go home and read some poetry, or philosophy, or take up a study of art history. He had been curious to attend the meeting place of the 1,500 Mile Society, however. According to the invitation, one could only be a member once the requisite 1,500 miles had been travelled from London. Winceworth had never heard of such a club.

Once he had located the right building near Drury Lane and made enquiries of the stern-faced, bow-tied doorman as to the society’s whereabouts, he was marshalled down a corridor and then to a brightly lit oak-panelled room. It was hot with chatter and jangling with the sound of bracelets against champagne flutes.

The room was large but Frasham was difficult to miss. Surrounded by his university friends and fellow Swansby’s employees, he sat in one of the 1,500 Mile Society’s leather armchairs in a fine grey suit and bright pink boutonnière, playing with a cigarette case. Frasham had completely lost the Spotted Dick, boiled-pork bulkiness that, at a younger age, must have been an advantage when barrelling across a rugger pitch or sitting on a first-former. Siberia obviously suited him – he seemed an irritatingly attractive mix of rugged well-put-togetherness, with a fine new red moustache and his black hair waxed close over his ears in thick liquorice loops.

Winceworth greeted Frasham with a handshake, forcing himself to seem jovial. The handshake was oily and over-long. Somehow it seemed Winceworth’s fault for being so.

‘Winceworth!’

‘Frasham.’