The Liar's Dictionary

by Eley Williams

  Many lexicographers and encyclopaedists drew upon their predecessors in a sleight of standing-on-the-shoulders-of-giants (unacknowledged or scandalised as those giants might be by the presumption), and we should count ourselves lucky that dord hadn’t worked its way into Swansby’s pages.

  At this point in his lecture, David Swansby gave a nervous cough. He went on, avoiding my gaze.

  Some dictionaries deliberately constructed and disseminated fictions in order to protect their contents, whereby the violating act of inserting a fictional entry enabled that entry to become an anti-violation device. Think of it this way, David said: if (if!) you were compiling a dictionary, it would be very easy to purloin another person’s work and pass it off as your own since words are words are words, etc., etc. But if they made up a word and put it in their text and then saw that it had bobbed up in your pages, they’d know you copied their stuff.

  Mountweazel: the noun that refers to these bogus entries cooked up and inserted into a dictionary or encyclopaedia as a means of protecting copyright. Misinformation, fake news – gotcha, pal.

  This was a strategy also used by cartographers to safeguard their maps: just plop a non-existent ‘Trap Street’ in amongst the roads and byways in order to tell upon tracing replication in other publications whether other maps have copied yours.

  I permitted Tits the cat to curl up in my lap as David went on. He explained that mountweazels were named after one of the most famous fictitious entries, printed amongst the pages of The New Columbia Encyclopedia (1975). Lillian Virginia Mountweazel sits unobtrusively in the company of the composer Mussorgsky in the foothills of Mount Olympus and Mount Rushmore:

  Mountweazel, Lillian Virginia, 1942–1973, American photographer, b. Bangs, Ohio. Turning from fountain design to photography in 1963, Mountweazel produced her celebrated portraits of the South Sierra Miwok in 1964. She was awarded government grants to make a series of photo-essays of unusual subject matter, including New York City buses, the cemeteries of Paris and rural American mailboxes. The last group was exhibited extensively abroad and published as Flags Up! (1972). Mountweazel died at 31 in an explosion while on assignment for Combustibles magazine.

  I liked the sound of Lillian Virginia. It was a shame she didn’t exist.

  ‘So there are some of these fake words in our dictionary?’ I said.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ David said.

  ‘One?’ I asked. ‘One or two? What are they?’

  ‘Herein lies the issue,’ David said.

  He handed a printout to me. Tits was excited to see movement across the desk and perked up beneath my hand. The piece of paper was slightly coffee-damp around the edges.

  It was a scan of a Swansby’s dictionary page. The scan was not a good one, with the spectre of David’s fingertips visible at its sides. A single word and its definition were circled halfway down the column.

  cassiculation (n.), sensation of walking into spider silk, diaphanous unseen webs, etc.

  A good word, I thought. I can see the use for that.

  I brought the page close to my face as if trying to sniff out the fraud. ‘This is one of those fake words? These mountweazels?’

  ‘I’ve cross-checked as many dictionaries as I can bear: it’s not in any of them.’ David indicated his bookshelves, then ran his hands through his hair in such a way that seemed to imply that he was used to pulling it out.

  ‘I mean,’ I said, turning the word over in my mouth, ‘just one little word. Cassiculation. What’s the harm in—’

  ‘I went back to the archives,’ David interrupted. He was not usually an interrupting man. He held up a faded index card on his desk. ‘I went back to the original slip of paper that we had in storage. Each word has its own “slip” with its definition written on it. Have a look at it, here: no example usages given, there’s no etymology – it’s been written on the card in a completely non-standard way. God knows how it got through the editing process and was included, but this bloody word has been squirrelled away in the dictionary in every copy ever printed.’

  ‘If it’s one of these mountweazels,’ I said, picking up the index card, ‘and if I’ve followed you, surely there must be some record of it being inserted? Otherwise the trick doesn’t work. It wouldn’t work as a copyright trap. You need to know you’ve lain a trap to catch anyone out.’

  David nodded. ‘That’s what I’m holding out for – that there’s a list somewhere in storage that we can scoop up, then tick off and winnow out all of these fake words before I digitise it.’

  ‘A list,’ I said. ‘So you think there might be more than one?’

  David sank behind his desk. ‘I’m afraid so.’ He twirled his finger dejectedly. ‘Turn the page. I made it my project at the beginning of the week to see whether another one surfaced – I opened the archives at random and found one after about three hours of checking for the same handwriting on the index card.’

  I turned my A4 sheets. Another scan, another circled word and definition. It might have been my imagination, but the circle looked slightly more frantic.

  asinidorose (n.), to emit the smell of a burning donkey

  ‘Jeez,’ I said. ‘Whoever came up with that must have been – a little bit – a little bit out there.’

  ‘I mean, it’s completely embarrassing,’ David said, gesticulating. ‘Mountweazels are common enough, but each edition only requires one of the damn things. And an editor needs to know about them, otherwise it’s just pointless. Pointless falsehoods! It’s inexplicable why they would just be sprinkled in there.’

  ‘Makes it look like the dictionary has a mind of its own,’ I said.

  ‘How embarrassing,’ David said.

  ‘You know what, I think this is fine.’

  David looked up. ‘Fine?’

  ‘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.’

  ‘Winceworth! Thank you, thank you: twenty-seven years young!’ the birthday host hooted, unprompted. They were still shaking hands. Winceworth stared at their wrists rising and falling. He congratulated Frasham on attaining membership to the society.

  ‘Oh, that.’ Frasham pumped their hands and drew their heads together. ‘I formed the club on my return. Had a word with my uncle—’ He opened a palm towards a man sitting by the window who had exactly the same air of charismatic gentility as his nephew. This depressed Winceworth, who had privately hoped that this demeanour might be pummelled out of Frasham by the progress of time.

  Frasham continued, leaning in too close: ‘My uncle and I managed to secure these rooms – not a bad set-up for a soirée, don’t you think?’

  Heaven knows the rooms’ intended purpose before Frasham and his uncle appropriated them for this ridiculous society. There were phantom yellow nicotine stains on the ceiling that spoke of masculine company, with corresponding grubby haloes above the armchairs. There were cartouches and black bulb-buttock Hermes statuettes dotted about in alcoves. Frasham had presumably added some small props to convey the society’s claims to the outré: Winceworth almost tripped over an elephant-foot umbrella stand on the way in. He was also fairly sure that Frasham must have family connections with Kew Gardens who were not above loaning out some specimens from their Palm House – scattered about the wide room were swathes of potted reeds and long grasses, so thick and lush they could conceal a panther.

  From what Winceworth could remember from previous conversations, Frasham’s uncle and the family money had something to do with rhubarb – rhubarb jam, preserves, conserves and marmalades shipped all over the world from a family estate. Winceworth never completely understood the difference between all of these things, but the emphasis was on cloying sweetness and teeth-on-edge, sour, tongue-curling congealments.

  ‘So,’ Winceworth said, smiling brightly, too brightly, consternation already broiling in his stomach. He worried that if he had to keep forcing this smile, the corners of his mouth would meet around the back of his head, and that then his head would detach and roll away. ‘So!’ he said again. ‘You are not only a member and founding member, but also, in fact, the sole member of the 1,500 Mile Society?’

  ‘One of two thus far, dear boy, one of two.’ Frasham beckoned a waiter to his side and Winceworth was suddenly holding a warmish exclamation mark of champagne. ‘When you manage to fling yourself further than Battersea you will be able to join us up there, what do you say?’

  Winceworth followed Frasham’s extended hand – the man seemed incapable of pointing with a finger directly, gesturing instead as if he was taking part in a louche, dandified version of a Renaissance court dance – and let his eyeline be trained towards a wooden plate on the wall. It looked like a School House Prize commendation board.

  In gold lettering, there was Frasham’s name (Cantab) above that of Ronald Glossop.

  Glossop was at that moment stationed by the door and making sure everyone signed their name in a guest book as they entered. Winceworth must have walked right past him without noticing, and certainly without being asked. As he watched, Glossop passed his lime-green handkerchief across his face and caught Winceworth’s eye. He raised his glass, Winceworth sipped his champagne, Frasham quaffed. A clock struck somewhere.

  A band was playing in a corner of the room, punctuating the air with occasional blarts of oboe. Winceworth considered making some uninformed compliment on Frasham’s choice of music, but even as he opened his mouth, Frasham was buttonholed by another guest and steered away. Thankful for the lull, Winceworth relaxed into his usual social routine – counting paces as if he was in a cell.

  He completed an uninterrupted lap of the room before switching tactics. He decided to spell out certain invisible words against the room’s carpet. By making his way across the two parallel sides of the room and then cutting across the centre, he executed an H. He then endeavoured to complete an E, then traced two Ls across the room before concluding with another lap: a final O. As well as taking up time, this had the added benefit of allowing his face to tighten with genuine preoccupation. By spelling out letters on the carpet like this, Winceworth found he could successfully evade conversation without seeming rude – by looking genially but intently in the direction he had set his abecedarian course, nobody thought to approach and engage him in discussion. This became a slightly more awkward affair once the serving staff recognised his isolation from the herd and Winceworth became aware of them tailing his progress. To credit the 1,500 Mile Society waiting staff, they were wonderfully attentive – after two further glasses of champagne, Winceworth tried to dissuade the waiter’s advance by requesting the most outlandish drinks that he could imagine. He hoped the task would prove a longwinded one and that he would be left in peace, but almost immediately he was presented with an elderflower spirit and something that apparently was derived from rhubarb honey served in a glass urn. Thwarted. It tasted of soap used by a despot with a secret. He changed tack, and decided to be frank with the waiter. He asked for whisky. It was all going on Frasham’s bill, ran Winceworth’s logic, so who was he to argue with such generosity? He also ordered drinks for the musicians in the corner – they bobbed their instruments in thanks.

  Across the room one could tell that Frasham had said something witty because a fairy ring of sycophantic university friends burst into applause.
Then from a side door a cake was produced, so massive and heavy it required pallbearers. The cake was mocked up to look like a book, covered in blue royal icing with the host’s name picked out in white fondant letters in the place of a title. The band struck up the first notes of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’, Frasham cut into his cake with a huge knife and the 1,500 Mile Society rang to the clank of ice against glass, cufflinks against glass and canes upon the carpet. Glossop bent over the guest book, smiling.

  Slices of cake were handed around by waiters and Winceworth, successfully spelling out the whole alphabet twice across the floor and now feeling quite drunk, decided that he would attempt one further circuit of the room before he left. He convinced himself that pacing rather than conversation brought out the best in him, reasoning that it was a product not of nervousness so much as flânerie. He helped himself to cake from a tray and had a flash of inspiration – he could pace out an alphabetic diagram of London’s streets beyond this room. Holding on to the wall, he began to devise specific routes through the city that would trace graphical Roman letters. Walking and alphabets could be, he decided, a marvellous distracting therapy. To pace the letter A he could begin at Cambridge Circus, trot up Earlham Street, turn at Seven Dials and follow St Martin’s Lane (with Tower Street forming the letter’s central spoke). Some letters were clear in his mind – D would be the perimeter of Billingsgate Fish Market, for example, and St James’s Square could form the O. If he ran its perimeter five thousand times, he thought, he too could enter the 1,500 Mile Society. A general snooze of Ss and Zs existed between the newly pulled-down church on Finsbury Circus and the lunatic asylum at Hoxton House – he added all these to his expanding index.

  Winceworth was dimly aware of passing Glossop. The man was licking his thumb and turning the guest book’s pages.