The Dictionary of Lost Words(49)

‘You’re scared, that’s all,’ Tilda said, her hand on my cheek like I was a child. She gave a bundle of leaflets to Bill and began to walk backwards. ‘Problem is, Esme, you’re scared of the wrong thing. Without the vote nothing we say matters, and that should terrify you.’



Lizzie was at the kitchen table, her sewing basket and a small pile of clothes in front of her. I looked towards the pantry for Mrs Ballard.

‘In the house, with Mrs Murray,’ Lizzie said. Then she handed me three crumpled leaflets. ‘I found them in your coat pocket. I wasn’t snooping, just checking the seams ’cos I was fixing the hem.’

I stood dumb. I had a familiar feeling that I deserved to be in trouble, but didn’t quite understand why.

‘I’ve seen them here and there, fallen out of letterboxes and stuck up at the Covered Market. I’ve been told what they say. Even been asked if I was going.’ She scoffed. ‘As if I could go to London for the day. She’ll lead you astray, Essymay, if you let her.’

‘Who?’

‘You know very well.’

‘I know my own mind, Lizzie.’

‘That may be, but you’ve never been any good at knowing what’s good for you.’

‘It’s not just about me; it’s about all women.’

‘So, you did deliver them?’

Lizzie was thirty-two years old and looked forty-five. I suddenly understood why. ‘You do everyone’s bidding, Lizzie, but you have no say,’ I said. ‘That’s what these pamphlets are all about. It’s time we were given the right to speak for ourselves.’

‘It’s just a lot of rich ladies wanting even more than they already have,’ she said.

‘They want more for all of us.’ My voice was rising. ‘If you’re not going to stand up for yourself then you should be glad someone else will.’

‘I will be glad if you stay out of the papers,’ she said, as calm as ever.

‘It’s apathy that keeps the vote from women.’

‘Apathy.’ Lizzie scoffed. ‘I reckon it’s more than that.’

I stormed out then, forgetting my coat.

When I returned to the kitchen just before lunch, Mrs Ballard was sat at the table, a cup of tea steaming in front of her.

‘Only three for sandwiches today, Mrs B,’ I said, looking around for Lizzie.

‘Too late for that.’ She nodded towards the plate on the bench, piled with sandwiches, just as Lizzie appeared at the bottom of the stairs that led to her room.

I looked over and smiled, but Lizzie only nodded.

‘Dr Murray has a meeting with the Press Delegates, and Da and Mr Balk have gone off to see Mr Hart,’ I continued, wanting to pretend we were not in a quarrel. ‘Spelling errors, apparently. Da said they’d be gone for hours.’

‘It will be sandwiches for our tea then, Lizzie,’ said Mrs Ballard.

‘No good wasting them,’ Lizzie replied as she crossed to the bench and began removing some of the sandwiches to a smaller plate.

‘I can do that,’ I said.

‘Will you be going to the theatre tonight, Esme?’ Lizzie was not so keen to pretend.

‘I suppose I will.’

‘You must know the lines by heart.’

It was a rebuke I had no answer for. It was true, and Bill liked to tease when he caught me mouthing Tilda’s words. ‘You could be her understudy,’ he’d said.

‘Would you like to come?’ I asked Lizzie.

‘No. I was obliged the first time, Esme, but once is enough.’

She might have stopped there if my relief hadn’t been so transparent. She sighed and lowered her voice. ‘You’re not so worldly as them, Essymay.’

‘I’m hardly a child.’

Mrs Ballard scraped back her chair and took the herb basket out to the garden.

‘Maybe it’s about time I became “more worldly”, as you put it. Things are changing. Women don’t have to live lives determined by others. They have choices, and I choose not to live the rest of my days doing as I’m told and worrying about what people will think. That’s no life at all.’

Lizzie took a clean cloth from the drawer and spread it over the plate of sandwiches she and Mrs Ballard would eat later that day. She straightened and took a deep breath, her hand finding the crucifix around her neck.

‘Oh, Lizzie. I didn’t mean —’

‘Choice would be a fine thing, but from where I stand things look much the same as they always have. If you’ve got choices, Esme, choose well.’



The final performance was sold out. They had three encores and a standing ovation, and the performers were drunk on it before they’d even raised a glass. Tilda led them from New Theatre to Old Tom, each arm entwined with that of an actor, both of whom leaned in with an intimacy that turned the heads of the evening crowd.

I walked behind with Bill. It was our usual position in this weekly procession, and as usual he found my hand and encouraged me to rest it on his forearm, bringing us close. But the mood was different. His own hand rested on mine, his fingers tracing an intricate pattern on my bare skin. He spoke very little and was less intent on keeping up.

‘They’re jubilant,’ I said.

‘It’s always like this on the last night.’