The Dictionary of Lost Words : A Novel (2020)

by Williams, Pip

  ‘I think it’s my waters,’ I said.

  Ditte held a slice of cake and Beth the kettle. For a few seconds they hardly moved. Then suddenly they were flapping around like chickens in fright: turning this way and that and speaking over each other. They debated whether I should eat or avoid eating, continue with the raspberry-leaf tea or stop drinking it. Lie down or have a bath.

  ‘I’m sure the doctor said not to let her have a bath,’ said Beth.

  ‘But I remember Mrs Murray saying that a bath was such a relief, and she’s had hundreds of babies,’ said Ditte, with none of her usual calm and precision.

  I didn’t feel like eating, drinking or bathing, but neither of them thought to ask.

  ‘I think I just need to change into something dry,’ I interrupted. I was still standing in the puddle that had sent the sisters into such a flurry.

  ‘Have the pains started?’ asked Beth.

  ‘No. I feel just as I did ten minutes ago, only damper.’

  I hoped my response would calm them down, but they looked at me, bewildered. When they heard a knock at the door, they both rushed to answer it, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

  ‘Where is she?’ Sarah’s voice.

  All three came into the kitchen, Sarah in the lead, an enormous smile on her freckled face.

  ‘This is all perfectly normal,’ she said, holding my gaze until she was sure I understood. Then she turned to the sisters and said it more sternly: ‘Perfectly normal.’ Noticing the cake on the kitchen table and steam rising from the pot, she said, ‘Ah, excellent. Tea will be just the thing. Esme and I will join you in ten minutes.’ She took my arm and led me up the stairs.

  In my bedroom, Sarah kneeled on the floor in front of where I stood; she removed one shoe, then the other. Without comment, she reached under my skirt and unclipped my stockings. I felt her fingers walk the length of each leg as she rolled the stocking down. Gooseflesh followed in their wake. Sarah did not ask if she could care for me; she just did it.

  ‘Is it normal?’ I asked.

  ‘Your waters broke, Esme. And they flowed clear. It is perfectly normal.’

  ‘But Dr Scanlan said the pains would start straight after. I feel no different.’

  She looked up, her hand stroking my calf absentmindedly.

  ‘The pain will come,’ she said. ‘In five minutes or five hours. And when it does, it will hurt like the devil.’

  I knew this to be true, but had hoped there might be exceptions. I felt my face pale. She winked.

  ‘I advise swearing. It will relieve the pain when it is at its worst, though you have to be convincing. Nothing half-hearted or under your breath. Shout it out. Childbirth is the only time you can get away with it.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked.

  She stood.

  ‘Where do you keep your nightclothes?’

  I pointed to the bureau. ‘Bottom drawer.’

  ‘I’ve birthed two babies,’ Sarah said as she took out a clean nightdress. ‘Unfortunately, their waters did not run clear.’

  She helped lift my dress over my head, then the slip. She kneeled again and used the slip to pat my legs dry. She removed my drawers, checking every inch of the damp cloth before finally bringing them to her nose.

  I recoiled.

  ‘Smells as it should,’ she said, grinning at me. ‘I’ve also helped my sister birth five of her littluns. Her bloomers all smelled like this and each of those babes was born squalling.’

  She threw the bloomers on the pile of other garments. There was nothing else to remove. I was as naked as I’d ever been.

  ‘Will you stay?’ I asked.

  ‘If you want me to.’

  ‘Do women usually swear when they have their babies?’

  She dropped the nightdress over my head. It billowed, then settled against my skin like a breeze. She helped me find the arm holes.

  ‘If they know the right words, they can hardly help it.’

  ‘I know some quite bad words. I collect them from an old woman at the market in Oxford.’

  ‘Well, it’s one thing to hear them in the market and quite another to have them roll around inside your mouth.’ She took my dressing gown from the back of the door and helped me into it. ‘Some words are more than letters on a page, don’t you think?’ she said, tying the sash around my belly as best she could. ‘They have shape and texture. They are like bullets, full of energy, and when you give one breath you can feel its sharp edge against your lip. It can be quite cathartic in the right context.’

  ‘Like when someone cuts in front of you on the way to the cricket?’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘Oh dear. Philip calls it my motormouth. I hope you weren’t offended.’

  ‘A bit surprised, but I think that’s when I started to really like you.’

  No words then; Sarah just stood on her toes and kissed me on the cheek. I bent slightly to meet her.

  ATTEND

  To direct one’s care to; to take care or charge of, to look after, tend, guard.

  TRAVAIL

  Of a woman: to suffer the pains of childbirth.

  DELIVERED

  Set free; disburdened of offspring; handed over; surrendered.

  RESTLESS

  Deprived of rest; finding no rest; esp. uneasy in mind or spirit.

  SQUALL

  A small or insignificant person.

  A sudden and violent gust, a blast or short storm.

  To scream loudly or discordantly.

  Light edged the curtains. The room was empty of its earlier crowd. The mess had been returned to order. Lavender masked the smell of blood and shit.

  Shit. I’d said that word aloud, over and over. And I’d said others that Mabel had taught me. My throat was hoarse with them. I hadn’t dreamed it.

  Though I did dream. And in the dream, a baby cried.

  It was crying still. My breasts ached from the sound.

  Their conversation was whispered, but I heard it.

  ‘Better off not seeing it, else she changes her mind.’ The midwife.

  ‘It needs a feed.’ Sarah.

  ‘To keep a lie-child condemns her and it. I’ll fetch a wet-nurse.’ The midwife.

  I threw back the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Unfamiliar muscles moaned from their ordeal. A terrible sting made me squeal. I had a memory of that pain, blurred by ether.

  I tried to rise, but my head throbbed and the sharp sounds of a moment before became dull, as if I’d just slipped below the water in a bath. I sat back down and closed my eyes. In the darkness behind my lids was the negative of a face, two points of unwavering light seared onto my retina. When I finally stood, I felt my insides slip out. I reached down to stop the flow, but there was no need; someone had fitted a belt and padded it with a towel.

  ‘Back to bed, sweet girl.’ It was Sarah. She was still there, her freckles in full colour, her eyes holding me, still unwavering.

  ‘I should nurse it.’

  ‘Her,’ she said.

  Her, I thought.

  ‘I should nurse Her.’

  NURSE

  Of a woman: to suckle, and otherwise attend to, or simply to take care, or charge of an infant.

  They were all there: Ditte and Beth, Sarah and the midwife. They watched as I nursed. They heard Her suckling as I heard Her suckling, but they couldn’t feel the strength of Her suck or the weight of Her against my belly. They were oblivious to Her smell. For half an hour, Her little noises were the only sound in the room. No one gave voice to their hopes or their fears.

  ‘Tears are quite normal,’ said the midwife.

  How long had I been weeping?

  How many times did I nurse Her? I couldn’t count, though I’d meant to. Time became an elastic thing, and the boundary between dreams and waking was blurred. They took it in turns to sit with us, never leaving us alone. I wanted to bury my face in that sweet place below the shell of Her ear, breathe in the warm biscuity smell of Her. ‘I could eat you up,
’ I wanted to say. I wanted to undress Her and trace every chubby crease, kiss Her from head to toe and whisper my love into the pores of her skin.

  Several weeks passed. I did none of these things.

  Sarah sat on the bed, her large, freckled hand stroking the golden down on our baby’s head. ‘You can change your mind.’

  I’d tried to imagine it a hundred different ways.

  ‘It’s not just my mind that would need to change,’ I said.

  She knew this. As she looked at me, I saw relief wrestle with a shadow of regret. She was glad, I think, that I’d said it out loud. She turned from me, took longer than usual to fold a new napkin.

  ‘Shall I take her?’ Sarah asked.

  I could think of no way to answer. I looked down and noticed milk had pooled at the edge of Her sleeping mouth. I moved a little and watched it dribble down Her chin. I felt the weight of Her, so much heavier than when I’d first held Her. I tried to think of a word that could match Her beauty.

  There was none. There are none. There never would be a word to match Her.

  I gave Her to Sarah. A few months later, Sarah and Philip emigrated to South Australia.

  There was no end to the words. No end to what they meant, or the ways they had been used. Some words’ histories stretched so far back that our modern understanding of them was nothing more than an echo of the original, a distortion. I used to think it was the other way around, that the misshapen words of the past were clumsy drafts of what they would become; that the words formed on our tongues, in our time, were true and complete. But I was realising that, in fact, everything that comes after that first utterance is a corruption.

  I had forgotten, already, the exact shape of Her ear, the particular blue of Her eyes. They got darker in the weeks I nursed Her; they may have gotten darker still. I woke every night to Her phantom cry and knew I would never hear a single word wrapped in the music of Her voice. She was perfect when I held Her. Unambiguous. The texture of Her skin, Her smell and the gentle sound of Her sucking could be nothing other than what they were. I had understood Her perfectly.

  With every breaking dawn, I recreated the detail of Her. I would start with the translucent nails on Her tiny toes and work my way up through chubby limbs and creamy skin to golden lashes, barely there. But then I would struggle to recall some little thing, and I understood that as the days and months and years went on my memory of Her would fade.

  Lie-child. That’s what the midwife had called her. But it wasn’t in ‘Leisureness to Lief’. I searched the pigeon-holes: five slips, pinned to a top-slip. It had been defined. A child born out of wedlock; a bastard. It had been excluded. A note had been written on the top-slip: Same as love-child – excise.

  But was it? Did I love Bill? Did I miss him?

  No. I’d just lain with him.

  But I loved Her. I missed Her.

  She couldn’t be defined by any of the words I found, and eventually I stopped looking.

  I worked. I sat at my desk in the Scriptorium and filled the spaces of my mind with other words.

  September 20th, 1907

  Dear Harry,

  Tucked into your many pages of news about the Dictionary and life in the Scrippy were a few words that have been worrying me. You are not one to exaggerate, and in my opinion you are prone to optimism when none is warranted, so I can only assume your concern for Esme is appropriate.

  I have heard of such moods in women who have been through what she has, and we must consider the possibility that she is grieving. Her situation is not uncommon. (The past year has been quite an education in these matters, and you would be surprised at how many young women find themselves in trouble. Some of the stories I’ve heard are chilling, and I will not repeat them. Suffice to say, our dear Esme is lucky to have such a loving father.) And so, let us continue to care for her until she returns to herself.

  We are quite lost without her. As Beth says, her constant enquiring kept us honest. One might have expected her to grow out of it, and there were times, I must confess, when I wished she would just accept the wisdom of others. But she requires convincing, and I am sure my History will be the better for it.

  But now you tell me she has fallen quiet, so I have taken the liberty of making a few enquiries.

  I have a friend with a small cottage in Shropshire. It is nestled into the hills and has views across to Wales (on a good day, of course). The tenant has recently passed on, and so the cottage is empty. Beth and I spent a week there not so long ago. Beth will vouch for the walking: it is superb, with many steep paths to test the heart and distract the mind. It is just what Esme needs. I can vouch for the comfort: it would not suit some young ladies, but Esme is not fussy.

  I have secured the cottage for the month of October. I have also written to James and Ada Murray, and they have agreed that Lizzie should accompany Esme on the trip. Before you protest, Harry, I was very discreet, though I did need a ruse. I said that I’d heard Esme was having trouble recovering from a cold she contracted while staying in Bath. James immediately agreed she should build her strength. He is firmly of the belief that a good walk can cure anything and was keen to point out that he doesn’t agree with wrapping people up and sitting them in lounge chairs by the sea the moment they start to cough. I thought he might object to Lizzie being gone for so long, but he admitted she’d had no more than a few days off in years and deserved a holiday. I sent my agreement in the afternoon post of the same day (along with a few words he wasn’t expecting for another week, just to ensure he wouldn’t change his mind).

  My dear Harry, I hope these arrangements suit you, and of course I hope they suit Esme. I’m sure we shall have no problem convincing her. The train journey from Oxford to Shrewsbury is straightforward, and my friend assures me of the cooperation of their neighbour Mr Lloyd. He is paid a small retainer to keep the cottage in good order. He will collect the girls and settle them in.

  Yours, etc.

  Edith

  We arrived at Cobblers Dingle as the sun was setting and the mild day was giving way to a chill. Mr Lloyd insisted he get the fire started in the stove before leaving. As he bent to the job, he informed us he would pop in or send his lad to check the stove and set the fire in the bedroom each afternoon, though the shed was full of cut wood and kindling if the need arose earlier.

  Lizzie stood when he bid us farewell. His slight bow was offered to her, and although it was my place, she was forced to respond.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Lloyd,’ she said. ‘We’re most grateful.’

  ‘Anything you need, Miss Lester, I’m but ten minutes up the lane.’

  When he’d gone, Lizzie became industrious. As I stood in the doorway, watching Mr Lloyd’s buggy recede down the long carriageway into the lane, I heard her opening drawers and cupboards, taking a mental inventory of supplies and kitchen utensils. She found the kettle full and put it on the stove, then she prepared a pot for tea.

  ‘We can be grateful for a well-stocked pantry,’ she said, replacing the lid on a tin of tea leaves and pouring the boiled water into the pot before turning towards me. I was still standing in the doorway.

  ‘Come and sit, Essymay.’ Lizzie took my arm and led me to a chair at the small kitchen table. After she put the steaming cup in front of me, she touched my arm and sought my gaze. ‘It’s hot, mind,’ she said, as if I were five years old. She had cause for such caution.

  Lizzie seemed taller, straighter. It wasn’t just that Cobblers Dingle was small. Without the authority of Mrs Murray and the instruction of Mrs Ballard, she took on an air of assurance I’d rarely seen in her. She explored every nook and cranny of the cottage and sought to understand its many idiosyncrasies. She is mistress of this place, I thought on our second morning, the idea breaking through the fog of my mind like a shaft of light, but quickly retreating from the effort of further contemplation.

  I sat where she placed me and watched her perpetual motion around me. If I roused, it was because she propelled me. I never resis
ted, but I was incapable of initiating anything.

  A few days after we arrived, Mr Lloyd came to the kitchen door with a cake from Mrs Lloyd and a basket of eggs. Lizzie was forced, once again, to talk with him. She managed three sentences instead of her previous two.

  The day after that, Mr Lloyd sent his son, Tommy, to tend the fires. Lizzie insisted he join us for tea and proceeded to interrogate him about the opportunities for walking in the area.

  ‘There’s a path that goes right up the hill to the copse of beech trees,’ he said, his mouth full of his mother’s cake. ‘It’s steep, but the view is good. From there you choose to go where you like, just mind you shut the gates.’

  Lizzie bent to tie the laces of my boots. It was a familiar gesture from years before. Her head was uncovered, and grey hair grew like wire from her crown. She’s growing old, I thought. But she was only eight years my senior. It had always seemed more. I wondered if she wished for a different life, if she imagined Cobblers Dingle as her own little house. I wondered if she pined for a baby she would probably never have.

  Mr Lloyd had doffed his hat and looked her in the eyes when he spoke. Anything you need, Miss Lester. And she’d blushed, as if it was the first time a man had gone out of his way for her. But she was too old now, I thought. Too old to do anything other than what she had been doing since she was eleven. Bending to tie my laces. Bending to one task after another at someone else’s behest. One or two of my tears fell into the nest of her hair, but she didn’t notice.

  By the time we reached the path, our skirt hems were damp from crossing the small field beside the cottage, and I was already out of breath. Lizzie was diligent about securing the gate, so I had time to assess the route. It was as steep and uneven as Tommy had warned, and the top of the hill – who knew how far up – was hidden by a meandering line of trees. Twisted, moss-covered branches encroached onto the path here and there, and I realised the route must have rarely been used by anything taller than a sheep. More than anything, I wanted to turn back.