The Dictionary of Lost Words(16)

MOLLIFY


‘To mollify, by these indulgences, the rage of his most furious persecutors.’

David Hume, The History of Great Britain, 1754

I thought on it. ‘You were trying to make him less angry,’ I said.

‘Yes.’





I thought I’d wet the bed, but when I pulled back the covers, my nightdress and sheets were stained red. I screamed. My hands were sticky with blood. The ache I’d been feeling in my back and belly was suddenly terrifying.

Da burst into my room and looked around in a panic, then he came to my bedside, worry all over his face. When he saw my bloodied nightdress, he was relieved. Then he was awkward.

The mattress gave in to the weight of him as he sat on the edge. He pulled the covers back over me and stroked my cheek. I knew, then, what it was, and was suddenly conscious of myself. I pulled the covers higher and avoided looking at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘Don’t be silly.’

We sat there for an uncomfortable minute, and I knew how much he wished Lily was there.

‘Has Lizzie …’ Da began.

I nodded.

‘Have you got what you need?’

I nodded again.

‘Can I …?’

I shook my head.

Da kissed my cheek and stood. ‘French toast this morning,’ he said, closing the door as if I were an invalid, or a sleeping baby. But I was fourteen.

I waited to hear his footsteps on the stairs before letting go of the covers and sitting on the edge of the bed. I felt more blood leak from me. In the drawer of my bedside table was a monthlies box that Lizzie had made up especially, with belts and padded napkins she’d sewn from rags. I bunched up the length of my nightdress and held it between my legs.

Da was making a racket in the kitchen, letting me know the coast was clear. With the box under my arm, I crossed the landing to the bathroom and held tighter to the wad of fabric that stopped me from dripping.



No school, Da said. I would spend the day with Lizzie. My eyes welled with the relief of it.

We left the house and began the familiar walk to Sunnyside. As if nothing was different, Da told me a word he was working on and asked me to guess what it meant. I barely knew how to think, and for once I didn’t care. The streets stretched long, and everyone we passed looked at me as if they knew. I walked as though nothing I wore was a good fit.

There was a dampness between my thighs, then the trace of a single drop, like a tear running across a cheek. By the time we were on the Banbury Road, blood was running down the inside of my leg. I felt it seeping into my stockings. I stopped walking, squeezed my legs together, held my hand to the place that was bleeding.

I whimpered. ‘Da?’

He was a few steps ahead. He turned and looked at me, looked down along the length of my body and then around, as if there might be someone better equipped to help. He took my hand, and we walked as fast as we could to Sunnyside.

‘Oh, pet,’ Mrs Ballard said as she ushered me into the kitchen. She nodded at Da, discharging him of any further responsibility. He kissed my forehead, then strode across the garden to the Scriptorium. When Lizzie walked in, she gave me a pitying look then went straight to the range to heat water.

Upstairs, Lizzie removed my clothing and sponged me down. The basin of warm water swirled pink with my humiliation. She showed me again how to fit the belt around my waist and the rags inside it.

‘You didn’t make it thick enough, or tight enough.’ She put me in one of her night shifts and made me get into bed.

‘Must it hurt so much?’ I asked.

‘I guess it must,’ Lizzie said. ‘Though I don’t know why.’

I groaned and Lizzie looked at me with an expression of kindly impatience. ‘It should hurt less over time. The first is often the worst.’

‘Should?’

‘Some ain’t so lucky, but there’re teas to make it better,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Ballard if she has yarrow.’

‘How long will it last?’ I asked.

Lizzie was adding my clothes to the basin now. I imagined they’d all stain red and that would be my uniform from now on.

‘A week – maybe less, maybe more,’ she said.

‘A week? Must I stay in bed for a week?’

‘No, no. Just a day. It’s heaviest on the first day, which might be why it hurts so much. After that, it slows down and eventually stops, but you’ll need the rags for about a week.’

Lizzie had told me I would bleed every month, and now she was telling me I would bleed for a week every month and have to stay in bed for a day every month.

‘I’ve never known you to stay in bed, Lizzie,’ I said.

She laughed. ‘I really would have to be dying to spend a day in bed.’

‘But how do you stop it running down your legs?’

‘There are ways, Essymay. But it ain’t right to talk of them to a girl.’

‘But I want to know,’ I said.

She looked at me, her hands in the tub of water; it didn’t disgust her to have my blood on her skin.

‘If you was in service you might need to know, but you ain’t. You’re a little lady, and no one will mind you spending a day in bed every month.’ With that, she picked up the basin and went down the stairs.