Was that what the mess on the floor was? Evidence of a curious mind? Fragments of frustration? An effort to understand and explain? Were Meg’s longings akin to Esme’s, and was that what it meant to be a daughter?
By the time her dad knocked at the door, Meg had stopped sobbing. Something was trying to emerge from her grief – to complicate it or simplify it, she did not know.
‘Meg, love?’ His manner was as gentle as it had been the night before, and he came into the room like a bird watcher afraid of startling a wren.
Meg said nothing; her mind tripped repeatedly over something uncomfortable.
‘Would you like some breakfast?’ he asked.
‘I’d like some paper, Dad. If you don’t mind.’
‘Writing paper?’
‘Yes, mum’s bond paper, the pale-blue paper in her writing desk.’ She searched her dad’s face for any sign of resistance, but there was none.
Adelaide, November 12th, 1928
As I write all this down, I hesitate. To call Esme my mother feels like a betrayal of Mum, but to deny her that title? Still, I hesitate. All night I have been contemplating the meaning of words, most of which I’ve never used or even heard of. I’ve accepted their importance in the contexts in which they were uttered, and for the first time I’ve questioned the authority of the many volumes that fill one shelf of the bookcase opposite where I now sit.
Mother would be in there. Of course it would, though I have never had any cause to look it up. Until this moment, I would have thought that any English speaker, no matter their education, would know the meaning of that word, know how to use it. Know who to apply it to. But now, I hesitate. Meaning has become relative.
I want to get up and pull the volume from the shelf, but I’m worried that the definition I read will not apply to Mum. So I sit a little longer and my memories of Mum erase all concern. But now, I fear that mother will not apply to Esme.
Meg folded the page and added it to the trunk.
Later, Philip Brooks placed a breakfast tray on the small table beside his daughter. A pot of tea, two slices of lemon in a little dish, four slices of toast and a newly opened jar of orange-and-lime marmalade. There was enough for two.
‘Join me, Dad,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Meg picked up her mum’s china cup from where she had left it the night before and held it out for him to fill. He poured her tea, then his. He added a slice of lemon to both cups.
‘Does it change anything?’ he asked.
‘It changes everything,’ Meg said.
He bent his head to sip his tea; his hands shook very slightly. When Meg looked at his face she saw that every muscle was working to hold back an emotion he wanted to spare her from.
‘Almost everything,’ she said.
He looked up.
‘It doesn’t change what I feel for you, Dad. And it doesn’t change what I feel for Mum, or how I will remember her. I think perhaps I might even love her a little more. Right now, I miss her terribly.’
They sat in silence among Esme’s things, and from across the park the soothing repetition of bat on ball marked the passing of time.
The man standing behind the lectern clears his throat, but to no avail; the auditorium buzzes like a hive. He rearranges his papers, looks at his watch, peers at the gathered academics over his reading glasses. Then he clears his throat again, a little louder this time, and into the microphone.
The clamour dies down; a few stragglers find their seats. The man behind the lectern begins to speak.
‘Welcome to the tenth Annual Convention of the Australian Lexicography Society,’ he says, with a small quaver in his quiet voice. Then, after a pause that is slightly too long, he continues.
‘Naa Manni,’ he says with a little more strength, his gaze sweeping around the room. ‘That is the Kaurna way of saying hello to more than one person, and I’m glad to see there is more than one person here today.’ There is the murmur of mild amusement. ‘For those of you who are visiting our city, and perhaps some of you who have lived here all your life, the Kaurna are the Aboriginal people who called this land home before this great hall was built, and before English was ever spoken in this country. We are on their land, yet we do not speak their language.
‘I use Kaurna words this morning to make a point. Back in the 1830s and ’40s, they were used by Mullawirraburka, Kadlitpinna and Ityamaiitpinna, Kaurna Elders known more commonly by white settlers as King John, Captain Jack and King Rodney. These Aboriginal men sat with two German men who were interested in learning the indigenous language. The Germans wrote down what they heard and fashioned meanings that might be understood by others. They were doing the work of linguists and lexicographers, though these are not terms they would have used. They were missionaries, but any one of us would recognise their passion for language, their desire to record and understand the spoken word, not only so it might inform proper contemporary usage, but also so it might be preserved, and its historical context understood. If not for their efforts, the linguistic world of the Kaurna people would be lost to us, and so too our understanding of what was meaningful to them, what is meaningful to them. Few Kaurna people speak their language today, but because it has been written down, and the meanings of words recorded, it is possible that Kaurna people – and, dare I suggest, whitefellas such as myself – will speak it again.’ His voice has risen to an excited pitch and his forehead shines under the harsh lights of the stage. He pauses to catch his breath.
‘Nineteen eighty-nine is a significant year for the English language, though it is probably true to say that few outside this hall would know it.’ There is a smattering of laughter, and he looks up, clearly pleased.
‘This year, the second edition of the Oxford English Dictionary has been published, sixty-one years after the completion of the first. It combines the first edition and all the supplements, as well as an additional five thousand words and meanings. This work – this documenting of language – has been done by lexicographers, some of whom I know are in the auditorium today. For this great effort, we congratulate you.’ He claps, and the audience joins in, some with whistles and whoops. ‘Settle down, everyone, we have a staid and serious reputation to uphold.’ More laughter. He waits it out, relaxed now.
‘The great James Murray once said, “I am not a literary man. I am a man of science, and I am interested in that branch of anthropology which deals with the history of human speech.”
‘Words define us, they explain us, and, on occasion, they serve to control or isolate us. But what happens when words that are spoken are not recorded? What effect does that have on the speaker of those words? One lexicographer, whom we can all be grateful has read between the lines of the great dictionaries of the English language, including Dr Murray’s OED, is Professor Megan Brooks: professor emeritus of the University of Adelaide, chair of the Australasian Philological Society and recipient of an OAM for services to language.
‘Without further ado, I invite Professor Megan Brooks to the podium, where she will deliver the opening address. Her lecture is titled “The Dictionary of Lost Words”. ’
Applause accompanies a tall, upright woman onto the stage. As she approaches the lectern, she tucks a stray lock of faded red hair behind her ear. The man offers his hand, and she shakes it, a smile on her lined face. He bows slightly and backs away.
From her jacket pocket, Megan Brooks takes a white envelope, and from it she carefully slides out a frail slip of paper, yellowed with age. This, and only this, she places on the lectern, gently smoothing it with her gloved hands.
She looks out to the auditorium. She has done this a thousand times, but this time will be her last. What she is about to say has taken her a lifetime to understand, and she knows it is important.
Her eyes focus on the middle row, and she scans individual faces quickly, not settling. They are mostly men, but there are quite a few women. They are all well into their careers. She c
an feel a restlessness beginning in the vast space, but she ignores it and scans the row below, then the row below that. She notes faces beginning to turn towards their neighbours, whispering. Still, she continues her search.
At the second row from the front, she pauses. There is a young woman, surely no more than an undergraduate student. She is at the beginning of her journey with words, and there is a curiosity in her face that satisfies the old woman. She smiles. It is a reason to start. Megan Brooks picks up the slip.
‘Bondmaid,’ she says. ‘For a while, this beautiful, troubling word belonged to my mother.’
This book began as two simple questions: Do words mean different things to men and women? And if they do, is it possible that we have lost something in the process of defining them?
I have had a love–hate relationship with words and dictionaries my whole life. I have trouble spelling words and I frequently use them incorrectly (affluent, after all, sounds so much like effluent, it really is an easy mistake to make). As a child, when I used to ask the adults in my life for help, they would say, ‘look it up in the dictionary’, but when you can’t spell, the dictionary can be an impenetrable thing. Despite my clumsy handling of the English language, I have always loved how writing words down in a particular way can create a rhythm, or conjure an image, or express an emotion. It has been the greatest irony of my life that I should choose words to explore my inner and outer worlds.
A few years ago, a good friend suggested I read Simon Winchester’s The Surgeon of Crowthorne. It is a non-fiction account of the relationship between the Editor of the Oxford English Dictionary, James Murray, and one of the more prolific (and notorious) volunteers, Dr William Chester Minor. I thoroughly enjoyed it, but I was left with the impression that the Dictionary was a particularly male endeavour. From what I could glean, all the editors were men, most of the assistants were men, most of the volunteers were men and most of the literature, manuals and newspaper articles used as evidence for how words were used, were written by men. Even the Delegates of the Oxford University Press – those who held the purse strings – were men.
Where, I wondered, are the women in this story, and does it matter that they are absent?
It took me a while to find the women, and when I did, they were cast in minor and supporting roles. There was Ada Murray, who raised eleven children and ran a household at the same time as supporting her husband in his role as Editor. There was Edith Thompson and her sister Elizabeth Thompson, who between them provided 15,000 quotations, for A and B alone, and continued to provide quotations and editorial assistance until the last word was published. There were Hilda, Elsie and Rosfrith Murray, who all worked in the Scriptorium to support their father. And there was Eleanor Bradley, who worked at the Old Ashmolean as part of her father’s team of assistants. There were also countless women who sent in quotations for words. Finally, there were women who wrote novels and biographies and poetry that were considered as evidence for the use of one word or another. But in all cases, they were outnumbered by their male counterparts, and history struggles to recall them at all.
I decided that the absence of women did matter. A lack of representation might mean that the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary was biased in favour of the experiences and sensibilities of men. Older, white, Victorian-era men at that.
This novel is my attempt to understand how the way we define language, might define us. Throughout, I have tried to conjure images and express emotions that bring our understanding of words into question. By putting Esme among the words, I was able to imagine the effect they might have had on her, and the effect she might have had on them.
From the beginning, it was important that I weave Esme’s fictional story through the history of the Oxford English Dictionary as we know it. I soon realised that this history also included the women’s suffrage movement in England as well as World War I. In all three cases the timelines of events and the broad details have been preserved. Any errors are unintentional.
Perhaps the biggest challenge in writing this book was being true to the real-life people who inhabited its historical context. I am not alone in my fascination with the Oxford English Dictionary, and I devoured the work of dictionary scholars and biographers. Lynda Mugglestone’s book Lost for Words gave me the confidence to accept that women’s words were indeed treated differently to those of men, at least sometimes. Peter Gilliver’s book The Making of the Oxford English Dictionary furnished my story with facts and anecdotes that I hope anchor it in truth. Twice, I had the privilege of visiting the Oxford University Press, where the Oxford English Dictionary archives are held. I searched through Dictionary proofs for evidence that this word or that had been deleted at the last minute, and I was given access to the original slips, many still tied in bundles by the original string that held them together in the early twentieth century. I found the slips for bondmaid: that beautiful, troubling word that was as much a character in this story as Esme. But there was no sign of the top-slip that might have shown the definition – it really had been lost. When the boxes and boxes of papers proved overwhelming, I turned to the people who tended them. Beverley McColloch, Peter Gilliver and Martin Maw shared stories and insights that could only come from a deep fascination and respect for the Dictionary and the Press that produced it. Our conversations animated the history.
Most of the men of the OED can be easily found in the historical record. With the exception of Mr Crane, Mr Dankworth and one or two fleeting characters, the male editors and assistants are based on real people. I have, of course, fictionalised their interactions with other characters in the story, but I have endeavoured to capture something of their interests and personalities. The speech made by Dr Murray during the garden party for A and B is taken verbatim from the foreword to that volume.
Mr Nicholson and Mr Madan were the Bodleian Librarians at the time portrayed in this book. Although they have few lines, I hope I have captured something of their attitude.
I have tried to render the characters of Rosfrith Murray, Elsie Murray and Eleanor Bradley as best I can, but there is a paucity of biographical information available, and I cannot guarantee that their nearest family would agree to the personality traits I have assumed.
Perhaps the most important real-life character in this novel is Edith Thompson. She and her sister, Elizabeth, were dedicated and highly valued volunteers. Edith was involved in the Dictionary from the publication of the first words until the publication of the last. She died in 1929, just a year after the Dictionary was completed. I got to know her a little from the materials that have been preserved in the OED archives. It is an extraordinary feeling to come across a note penned by Edith and pinned to the edge of a proof. Her original letters to James Murray reveal intelligence, humour and a wry wit. When she wanted to better explain a word, she was in the habit of drawing annotated pictures.
I have taken the liberty of turning Edith Thompson into a key character in this story. As with other women, it is difficult to find a comprehensive account of her life, but what I do know, I have woven through this book. She did, for instance, write a history of England that was a popular school text. She also lived in Bath with her sister. Her note to James Murray regarding the word lip-pencil is real, but the rest is fiction. It was important to me that the real woman behind this character be named and recognised for her contribution. But to acknowledge my fictionalisation of her life, Esme gives her the pet name Ditte. As for Elizabeth Thompson (known as EP Thompson), she really did write A Dragoon’s Wife (and I have an original 1907 edition sitting on my desk), but I could find nothing else to guide me as to her character. I have turned her into a woman I would like to know, and given her the nickname Beth to acknowledge this fictionalisation.
Finally, to the words. All books referred to in this story are real, as is the timeline of OED fascicle publications, OED entries, excised or rejected words and quotations. The words collected by Esme are real, though the quotations are as fictional as the ch
aracters who speak them.
At the end of the book, I refer to Aboriginal Kaurna Elders who shared their language with German missionaries. It should be noted that the spelling of Kaurna names and words is not a simple matter. The Kaurna language was, for a long while after European settlement, waiting to be spoken and understood. That is now happening, and as more people learn to speak it, questions about spelling, pronunciation and meaning arise and are subject to consideration. I have been guided by the advice of Kaurna Warra Karrpanthi (‘Creating Kaurna Language’), a committee set up to assist with Kaurna place naming and translations. Their work continues to enliven the Kaurna language and contributes to Reconciliation.
By the time I had finished the first draft of this novel, I had become acutely aware that the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary was a flawed and gendered text. But it was also extraordinary, and far less flawed and gendered than it might have been in the hands of someone other than James Murray. I have come to realise that the Dictionary was an initiative of Victorian times, but every publication, since ‘A to Ant’ in 1884, has reflected some small move towards greater representation of all those who speak the English Language.
During my visits to Oxford, I spoke with lexicographers, archivists and dictionary scholars, women and men. I was struck by their passionate fascination with words and how those words have been used throughout their history. Today, the Oxford English Dictionary is in the process of a major revision. This revision will not only add the newest words and meanings, it will update how words were used in the past, based on a better understanding of history and historical texts.
The Dictionary, like the English language, is a work in progress.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
The act of acknowledging, confessing, admitting or owning; confession, avowal.
This is just one story. The telling of which has helped me understand things I consider important. I have made it up, but it is full of truth. I would like to acknowledge the women and men of the Oxford English Dictionary – past and present; known and unknown.
The Dictionary of Lost Words : A Novel (2020) Page 36
