The Liar's Dictionary

Pip rolled her shoulders as she read aloud. ‘“In the fourteenth century, a variation of the game was developed, characterised by the fact each pawn was delegated a particular purpose.”’

‘Sounds lovely,’ I said, tapping away at my phone.

‘It goes on. If I am reading the handwriting correctly “Ivan the Terrible died while playing chess, as depicted in a painting by Konstantin Makovsky.” Why on earth would anyone think that was a relevant detail to put in an article about chess?’

‘The internet seems to think that’s entirely true.’

Pip drummed her hands. ‘Whoever wrote this must have been bored. I bet there are words all about elaborate boredom in there that he’s cooked up just to pass the time.’ I waved at the Swansby volumes in front of me as if to indicate that she should be my guest. ‘What about – what were the ones that David found? One about walking through cobwebs, and something about a donkey burning?’

‘The smell of a donkey burning,’ I corrected.

‘Got to be into something, I suppose.’

Somewhere above us came a distinct scuttling in the ceiling. A piece of plaster floated down and landed square in the coffee Pip had brought me. It was a flake the shape of Hy-Brasil.

‘This place is falling apart,’ Pip said. ‘Is that rats above us?’

‘I can’t imagine David will do anything about it if it is. I don’t think he really manages to cope with how much it must cost just to keep the place running as it stands: I doubt he’s going to spring for speculative mousetraps.’

‘Maybe it’s ghosts,’ Pip said cheerfully.

‘They can pay rent like the rest of us.’

Pip returned to the desk. ‘Chess, chess-apple, chess-board, chessdom, chessel – I resent alphabetical order,’ she said.

‘Welcome to my world. What’s a chessel?’

‘It says here that it’s a vat of cheese.’

‘Nice.’

‘Dictionaries should arrange everything by nouns, then verbs, then moods, then – geographically. I don’t know. Shut up.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘I was talking to the ratghost.’ We were possibly being driven word-mad by this point in proceedings.

‘I had a professor,’ I said, massaging my temples, ‘who once told me that rats were the first archivists – ripping strips of paper from early books and manuscripts and taking them away to their nests.’

‘Do rats live in nests? Dreys?’

‘That’s squirrels,’ I said, uncertainly.

‘Squirrel a better verb than rat,’ said Pip. ‘It’s a shame that cat with the awful name can’t do anything about whatever it is up there. Everyone slacking at their jobs!’

Some more moments of reading.

‘You once told me that the office cat is descended from a load of office cats,’ Pip said.

‘That’s what I’ve been led to believe.’ I was becoming a little annoyed by her interruptions: it was difficult to concentrate with someone unused to the need for brain-crimping silence when intensively word-sieving. ‘Masses of them. Chowders.’

‘You mean clowders.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘If there were so many cats about, I wonder whether that might have inspired him,’ Pip said. ‘Say what you see and all that. Define what you know.’

I gave her a thumbs-up, unconvinced, and returned to my pile of index cards.

N is for

nab

(v.)

Immediately post-pelican, and leaving the scene in the capable hands of a park-keeper, Sophia took Winceworth’s arm and sallied forth beyond the park’s gates. ‘I demand, in the words of Hippocrates, to be fed eclairs and served hot tea before the day proves all too much.’

Winceworth at once forgot any local knowledge and his brain pitched with dither. Sophia did not seem to notice – as he stuttered and glared at their surroundings and every point on the compass, she took the time to fuss over the blood on her sleeves. She picked up her stride and before Winceworth knew what was happening they were browsing nearby streets and market stalls for shawls. He was unused to shopping quite so casually, and hung back as she made easy conversation with the retailer, touching textures of fabrics with her fingertips and nodding with interest as they extolled different cloths’ virtues and characteristics. A new shawl duly acquired, Sophia promptly announced that she would now like to visit a stationer’s. Her arm looped through his, and before long Winceworth was walking just off Pall Mall with a bottle of Pelikan-brand India ink and a new silver fountain pen in his pocket just above his heart.

‘You mustn’t feel so uncomfortable accepting gifts!’ Sophia said, laughing at his twisting and squirming shoulders. ‘Especially since you sacrificed your Swansby pen for such a noble cause. It is only right that I replace it.’