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Over a few years I’d managed to collect more than a hundred. Some words, I discovered, were already in the pigeon-holes, but so many were not. When I was feeling in the mood for something salacious, I would always visit Mabel.
corner of a slip I’d cut from a discarded proof. These slips were becoming favourites, though the pleasure I took in crossing out the legitimate words and recording one of Mabel’s on the other side was never without an echo of shame.
“Fuck.” I was startled. Not by the word, but by his easy use of it. Bill turned. “Sorry,” he said. “Don’t apologise, Bill. Esme is a collector of words. If you’re lucky she’ll write that one
searched the pigeon-holes. Fuck had more slips than most, and the pile was divided into even more variant meanings than Bill and Tilda could provide. The oldest was from the sixteenth century.
about seeing something before it’s fully formed. Watching it evolve. I imagine sitting here on opening night and appreciating every scene all the more because I understand what has led to it.”
“And I love that you never talk about hats,” Bill said. “Hats? Why would I talk about hats?” “Women like to talk about hats.” “Do they?” “The fact you don’t know that is what will make me fall in love with you.”
Suddenly, every word I ever knew evaporated.
For my part, I think they add colour. A vulgar word, well placed and said with just enough vigour, can express far more than its polite equivalent.
Bill’s fingers flirted with mine, and I didn’t move them away.
Since meeting Tilda and Bill, I had found myself looking at the clock more often.
“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.
“I’m not like you, Tilda. I’m not like any of those women back there.” “You have a womb, don’t you? A cunt? A brain capable of making a decision between bloody Balfour and Campbell-Bannerman? You’re exactly like those women back there.”
Bill knew what I knew—that I was different from those women. That I might agree with them but did not have the guts to stand in the midst of them.
When he finally came to my letter, he’d regard it with the same seriousness with which he regarded all the others. He’d read it through, nod his head as if agreeing with an important argument then call me over to seek my opinion.
“Seventy-eight,” Bill said into the silence. “The Scriptorium.” “You can skip it, if you like.” I took a quick step towards the letterbox on the gate and dropped the pamphlet in. It fell to the bottom with a gentle swish.
“You have a reputation, Esme, as a natural scholar. According to Dr. Murray you are the equal of any Oxford graduate. He is particularly fond of telling the story of you camping all day beneath the sorting table. He claims his lenience has allowed the development of a particular affinity for words.” Horror turned to gratitude, and the heat stayed in my face. “He would not approve of me telling you this, of course,” said Beth. “Praise dulls the intellect, in his opinion.”
“In time you will get used to us, Mr. Shaw-Smith,” said Beth, and I wondered if she was referring to us three, or to the whole of womankind.
“If you want a bit of steam in a novel, the skin must flush and the pulse must race—for characters, and for readers, in my opinion.”
“Only the young or stupid would want to go to war, Essy. No, I don’t want to go.” “But you’re thinking about it.” “It’s impossible not to.” “Well, think about me instead.” I heard the child in my voice, the desperate plea. I hadn’t asked this of him before, and I’d avoided any sentiment that might encourage more than friendship. “Oh, Essy. I never stop thinking about you.”
LOSS “Sorry for your loss, they say. And I want to know what they mean, because it’s not just my boys I’ve lost. I’ve lost my motherhood, my chance to be a grandmother. I’ve lost the easy conversation of neighbours and the comfort of family in my old age. Every day I wake to some new loss that I hadn’t thought of before, and I know that soon it will be my mind.” Vivienne Blackman, 1915
This place is like a village; everyone is related to someone, and each death ripples through it.”
I thought about those native peoples who mark their skin at moments in life that define them. Words would be inscribed upon me. But which words?
“It took a year, Es. And every day that I held a slip with your handwriting, I came to know you better. I fell in love with you word by word.
Gareth took my hands again. The tremor in his was gone. “I had to choose,” he said. “Between a ring and the words.”
For a terrible moment, I imagined us frozen on a mantelpiece, Gareth remaining ageless; me old and wrapped in shawls, sitting alone by a fire.
I held his gaze, knowing the memory of Da was stronger when it was shared.
Among the propaganda of glory, and the men’s experiences of the trenches and death, something needed to be known of what happened to women.
The words, your handwriting, the familiar texture of the paper—they will be my daily reminder that you are real.
Meg turned away from the window and walked over to the bookshelf. It contained all twelve volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary. They were on a low shelf, so they would be easy to reach, though when she was small Meg could barely lift them. Her parents had been collecting them for as long as she could remember, the last only arriving a week earlier.
