The Dictionary of Lost Words

by Pip Williams

Some words are more important than others—I learned this, growing up in the Scriptorium. But it took me a long time to understand why.

“You ready, lass?” she asked. I leaned against her crate and wrote her words: There was a young harlot from Kew, who filled her cunt up with glue. She said with a grin, if they pay to get in, they’ll pay to get out of it too.

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.

But its root was mesne, which reminded me of mense, meaning generous, kind, tactful.

She cared more for what mattered and less for what didn’t. When I was with her I felt I might do something extraordinary. With her gone, I feared I never would.

“Fear ’ates the ordinary,” she said. “When yer feared, you need to think ordinary thoughts, do ordinary things. You ’ear me? The fear’ll back off, for a time at least.”

“Every woman wants to be married, Essymay.” “If that’s true, then why isn’t Ditte married, or her sister? Why not Elsie or Rosfrith or Eleanor Bradley? Why not you?” “Not all women get the chance. And some…well, some are just brought up with too many books and too many ideas, and they can’t settle to it.”