The Letterpress – Part 1: Backwards

"You set it backwards," said Hannah. "Upside down and backwards. Left to right becomes right to left."

"That's impossible," said Priya.

"It's a skill."

Priya looked at the type case: a shallow wooden tray divided into hundreds of tiny compartments, each holding a piece of metal type no bigger than a fingernail. She was thirty, an apprentice in a letterpress studio in Leeds, in an apron two sizes too big. The studio smelled of ink, paper and warm machine oil. A great cast-iron press stood in the corner like a sleeping animal.

Hannah, thirty-four, the printer, was short and strong, with a shaved head, forearms flecked with ink and a calm, clear voice. She held the composing stick in one hand. "Look. The letter's backwards. The p looks like a q. You'll get used to it."

"What if I make a mistake?"

"You will." Hannah's mouth quirked. "It's how you tell it was made by a person."

Priya set her first line. It took twenty minutes. The type clicked into the stick, cold and heavy. When she had finished, she locked it in the frame, inked the roller, and pulled the lever. The press clanked. She peeled back the paper.

A single line of words, deep and crisp, was pressed into the cream sheet: Hello, world. There was a tiny flaw in the w.

"It's wonky," said Priya.

"It's perfect."

"The w is crooked."

"It's yours."

Priya smiled. She had never made anything so permanent. For weeks, she set type, pulled proofs, cleaned the press. Hannah taught her the trade: the kerning, the spacing, the way a good page breathes. They worked in a quiet, easy tandem. In the evenings they ate chips from the paper, sitting on the stairs.

"Can I ask you something?" said Priya.

"Yes."

"Why do you still do this? It's so slow."

"Because it's slow," said Hannah. "It makes you pay attention."

"Green?" said Priya, a proof, an ink.

"Green," said Hannah, quietly. "Very green. Come. Set me a line."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Last Line.