The Dictionary of Lost Words

by Pip Williams

then she died.” “Yes.” “But when we talk about her, she comes to life.” “Never forget that, Esme. Words are our tools of resurrection.”

“Me needlework will always be here,” she said. “I see this and I feel…well, I don’t know the word. Like I’ll always be here.” “Permanent,” I said. “And the rest of the time?” “I feel like a dandelion just before the wind blows.”

Menstruosity was the condition of being menstruous. And menstruous had once meant horribly filthy or polluted. Menstruous. Like monstrous. It came closest to explaining how I felt.

Our thinking was limited by convention (the most subtle but oppressive dictator).

I often wondered what kind of slip I would be written on if I was a word. Something too long, certainly. Probably the wrong colour. A scrap of paper that didn’t quite fit. I worried that perhaps I would never find my place in the pigeon-holes at all.

“I sometimes fear the Dictionary will fall short.” “How could it not?” I forgot I was in a hurry. “Words are like stories, don’t you think, Mr. Sweatman? They change as they are passed from mouth to mouth; their meanings stretch or truncate to fit what needs to be said.

“The Dictionary is a history book, Esme. If it has taught me anything, it is that the way we conceive of things now will most certainly change.

“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.”

I’d felt broken, as though I would fall should the scaffold of my work be removed. I didn’t feel that now, but there was a fine crack through the middle of me, and I suspected it might never mend. I remembered Lizzie apologising to Mrs. Lloyd the first time she stayed to chat, for the chip in the cup. “A chip doesn’t stop it from holding tea,” Mrs. Lloyd had said.

“It’s not about forgiveness, Essymay. We can’t always make the choices we’d like, but we can try to make the best of what we must settle for.

what would the Rules say about codswallop?” “Nothing; it’s not a valid word.” “But you’ve written it on a slip. I remember you doing it, right here at this table.” “That’s because it’s an excellent word.”

the words most often used to define us were words that described our function in relation to others. Even the most benign words—maiden, wife, mother—told the world whether we were virgins or not. What was the male equivalent of maiden? I could not think of it. What was the male equivalent of Mrs., of whore, of common scold?

we are never fully at ease when we are aware of another’s gaze. Perhaps we are never fully ourselves. In the desire to please or impress, to persuade or dominate, our movements become conscious, our features set.

“I had to choose,” he said. “Between a ring and the words.” I looked at my dictionary, traced the title with my fingers and heard the words on my breath. I imagined a ring on my hand and was glad for its absence. I wondered how it was possible to feel so much. No more words passed between us. He didn’t ask, and I didn’t answer, but I felt those moments like the rhythm of a poem. They were the preface to everything that would come after, and already I was plotting it out.

I’ve wanted to call you that myself; it’s been there, on the tip of my tongue. But it’s hers. It’s everything you were before I met you. Is that why I love it?

She buried her face in the fabric of the chair and smelled her mum’s hair, the familiar scent of Pears’ soap, which she’d always used to wash it. And which Meg still used. Deeper sobs. Was that what it meant to be a daughter? To have hair that smelled of your mother’s?