William Heinemann, 2020, 276 p.

Prefaced by a seven page disquisition on the perfect – or otherwise – dictionary, this, Williams’s first novel, (I have read her book of short stories,) is a two stranded tale of workers at Swansby’s Encyclopaedic Dictionary (famously unfinished.) There are twenty-six chapters each of whose headings consists of a letter (sequentially from A to Z) followed by ‘is for’ then a word starting with that letter and its usage as (n) or (adj) or (v) as it might appear in a dictionary. One of these words, yes, is denoted as (exclam). A literary conceit, then, and a delight for anyone with an interest in words.

To put us in the mood, that preface deploys words such as corymbs, psithurism (the p is silent Williams informs us,) corbicula, anemotropism, leucocholy, smeuse. No matter if that’s not your thing, the twin stories that come after – told in alternate chapters – will hold the interest.

Mallory works on the digitisation of Swansby’s Encyclopaedic Dictionary and on occasion has to field threatening telephone calls apparently provoked by the dictionary’s changed definition of marriage to be less exclusive. She is gay, lives with her partner, Pip, but is not ‘out’ at work. Her story is narrated in the first person, so we have access to all her passing thoughts, doubts and fears. By contrast Peter Winceworth’s story is rendered in traditional third person. It is set in late Victorian times where he is employed in the dictionary’s Scrivenery, in charge of preparing entries for the letter S. His surname is somewhat programmatory as he is a reticent soul, with an adopted lisp, and finds it difficult to fit in with his fellow workers – especially the chancer Terence Clovis Frasham, whose fiancée, Sophia, he almost literally bumps into at an entertainment one evening. She is the occasion of much of Winceworth’s subsequent tribulations which include a misunderstanding in a park over a pelican in breathing difficulties.

The plot concerns Swansby’s ongoing modern financial difficulties and the presence in the dictionary of numerous mountweazels. A mountweazel is a fake entry inserted in a work of reference designed as a safeguard against copyright infringement. Through uncovering them Mallory comes to a perception of Winceworth’s state of mind. Inventing these and their definitions can be an amusing pastime. How about asinidorose (n.), to emit the smell of a burning donkey, or agrupt (n.), irritation caused by having a denouement ruined? Or else an idle pursuit. We are even vouchsafed the definition of winceworthliness (n.), as the value of such an endeavour.

A (real) word which I found delightful was grawlix, for the meaningless symbols used to represent a profanity; as in %?£&!.

But none of this would be of any note were it not wrapped up in two stories that are engaging and occupied with recognisable characters. There were times when all the word-play did threaten to get a bit too much but Williams always managed to draw it back. We read fiction to understand and empathise with people after all. The words are merely what we need in order to do that.

However, Winceworth at one point thinks to himself, “a well-crafted sentence runs through the reading mind as a rope runs through hands but when that sentence contains errors or distracting ambiguities, eccentric syntax or bleurghs of vocabulary or grammar, its progress is stalled or coarsened.” (I couldn’t agree more. Hence why my reviews on here contain a pedant’s corner.)

Pedant’s corner:- cameleopard (usually spelled camelopard,) hugger-mugger (used as a synonym for poppycock, codswallop, folderol, balderdash, piffle etc. First I’ve heard of it.) “‘You need to know you’ve lain a trap’” (laid a trap,) “to not” (several times, with different verbs; ‘not to’.) “Like like the sun” (doesn’t need two ‘likes’.) “What the hell is an alembic is for starters?” (no need for the second ‘is’,) “paperwork strewn across on his desk” (either ‘across’ or ‘on’, not both.) “His hands and noticed they had balled up” (seems to be missing ‘He looked at’ before ‘His’,) “with such obvious a lie” (with so obvious a lie, or, ‘with such an obvious lie,) mountweasels (x 1, elsewhere spelled mountweazels.) “The light through office’s windows” (through the office’s windows.) “He smiled ghastily” (ghastlily.) “He stopped to pet one of the Swansby cats on the way out and humming some bars of Tchaikovsky” (‘while humming’ would be a more usual way to phrase this – unless it was the cat which was humming some bars of Tchaikovsky,) “the woman who had shrank back” (who had shrunk back,) hiccoughed (the word is hiccupped, the spelling hiccough is via a confusion with ‘cough’.)

Influx Press, 2017, 171 p.

The first impression on reading this collection of short stories is that Williams has an abiding interest in words – see two of the story titles, not to mention aphaeresis* and apocope. That is all to the good, authors ought to have such an interest. So here we find Williams using stark and spectrum as verbs, giving us an unusual meaning for the word ‘boggling’ to do with the movements of rat’s eyes and also the pleasing coinage Timbucktootle. However she doesn’t appear to know that ‘staunch’ is not the spelling used to indicate suppression of blood flow.
*Aphæresis?

The stories themselves are short, none is more than fourteen pages long and the typeface is quite large, but all say what they need to.

The Alphabet (or Love Letters or Writing Love Letters, Before I Forget How To Use Them or These Miserable Loops Look So Much Better On Paper Than in Practice) is narrated by someone who has lost the plot – and her glasses – describing the disintegration of her world after a diagnosis of aphasia. It has a list of the letters of the alphabet and the shapes they each describe.
Swatch features a boy worried about the multi-coloured flecks in his eyes – even after his father has shown him the definition of the Scottish word glaiks (flashes) on his phone screen.
In Attrib. a Foley artist commissioned to provide the sound effects for the audio of an exhibition of huge reproductions of Michael Angelo’s works is annoyed by the sounds she has been asked to add to the description of The Creation of Eve.
Smote (or When I Find I Cannot Kiss You In Front Of A Print By Bridget Riley) is a stream of consciousness of someone in a gallery standing before that artist’s Movement in Squares – “a painting the surface of which itches with vertigo” – being too self-conscious to kiss their companion. The story is shot through with black-and-white images.
Bs are the thoughts of a half-awake woman in her partner’s bed as she is disturbed by the noises of a bird outside and a bee trapped the night before in a used Nutella jar.
Alight at the Next has non-standard typography. It presents the thoughts of someone about to get off a tube train beside their lover, who is standing very close, but a man obstructs them by trying to get on. Our narrator places a finger on the man’s forehead to stop him.
Concision invokes words from Finnish, Bantu and Rapa Nui to describe the feelings of the recipient of a telephone call staring at the dots on the receiver while being unable to respond to the caller, whom we assume is a lover or spouse.
In And Back Again the answer to an easy question about love brings to the responder’s mind a lyric from the musical Oliver! and conjures the fantasy of a trip to Timbuktu to prove the extent of devotion.
Fears and Confessions of an Ortolan Chef is exactly what its title says, an enumeration of the thoughts of a chef who – highly illegally – “drowns ortolan in Armagnac” before cooking them to be eaten by diners who cover their heads in blankets while doing so.
Synaesthete, Would Like to Meet is narrated by someone who had the Yellow Pages dropped on her head aged 8 and ever since suffered from synæsthesia. Until, that is, a reply on a dating service and the subsequent date provides relief. Her therapist is not so happy about that.
Bulk sees a group of people with varied purposes converge on the carcase of a whale washed up on a beach early one morning.
In Platform, someone recalls the moment their friend left them forever via a poster made from a blown-up photograph taken at the time. The photograph reveals details of the scene unnoticed at the time.
Rosette Manufacture: A Catalogue and Spotter’s Guide is exactly what its title says. An employee of a rosette manufacture describing its wares.
Scutiform follows the thoughts of a museum attendant on their habitual route taken on their daily break past three particular statues.
Mischief features the consciousness of someone in charge of rats which have been trained to detect landmines.
Spines describes a small incident involving a hedgehog in a swimming pool on a family holiday to the south of France.
Spins opens with Johnson’s Dictionary definition of the word ‘spider’ complete with the letter ‘s’ rendered in that old style I can only reproduce as f. The fpider concerned is noticed by someone lying on a bed for hours trying to think of what could have been after a lover had slammed the door on their way out following an argument.

Pedant’s corner:- “millions of potentials colours” (potential colours,) Blu-Tack (x 2, Blu-Tak,) “the chew of a maw” (maws do not chew; they are stomachs,) “the Tube doors, doors shut” (the repetition is not needed but may be an attempt at ) “lickerish plastic” (lickerish means dainty, tempting or lecherous. Williams has her spellings confused; she had previously described the plastic as having the colour of liquorice,) “the hotel might provided” (might provide,) Areopagitca (Areopagitica,) “pulled the door close behind me” (closed?) “the woman with the urn ask the group” (asked.) Synaesthete (I’d prefer Synæsthete,) “you are not here any more to remind me that the plural should be croci” (the character has this wrong, the plural of crocus in English is indeed crocuses. In any case, crocus is derived from Greek [krokos] not Latin: the Greek plural would be krokodes.) “‘The bakers was shut’” (baker’s,) staunch (stanch,) “is an ‘an insect’” (has ‘an’ once too many.) In the acknowledgements; skillfully (skilfully.)