The Dictionary of Lost Words(118)

‘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.