The Dictionary of Lost Words(50)

‘What will happen?’ I leaned in closer, as if conspiring.

‘There will be at least one arrest, one dunking in the Cherwell, and …’ He looked at me.

‘And?’

‘Tilda will find her way into the bed of one of those two – whichever is able to sneak her into their rooms.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘It’s her habit,’ he said, clearly trying to gauge my reaction. ‘She denies them all season – fucking is bad for the play, she says – then she lets them have her.’

I knew it already; Tilda had said as much. At the time I’d blushed, and Tilda had said, ‘If the gander can do it, why not the goose?’ She’d refused my arguments, and I’d begun to hear them as borrowed and not truly my own.

‘You know, Esme,’ she’d said, ‘women are designed to like it.’

Then she’d told me how.

‘What is it called?’ I’d asked the next day, the memory of my fumbling and the exquisite pleasure of it still fresh.

Tilda laughed. ‘You managed to find it, then?’

‘Find what?’

‘Your nub. Your clitoris. I’ll spell it for you, if you want to write it down.’ I took a slip and a stub of pencil from my pocket. Tilda spelled it out. ‘A medical student told me what it was called, though he had little understanding of it.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Well, he described it as a remnant cock – proof we were of Adam, he said. But, like you, he had no idea what it could do. Or if he did, he thought it irrelevant.’ She smiled. ‘It brings a woman pleasure, Esme. That’s its only function. Knowing that changes everything, don’t you think?’

I shook my head, not understanding.

‘We’re designed to enjoy it,’ Tilda had said. ‘Not avoid it or endure it. Enjoy it, just like them.’

As we followed Tilda and her entourage, Bill seemed shy for the first time since I’d met him.

‘She won’t come home tonight,’ he said.

An appropriate response rested on my tongue, but I said nothing.

‘She made sure I knew that.’

His words travelled through me, to the place I now had a word for. I knew what would happen if I went with him. I longed for it.

‘I can’t be late,’ I said.

‘You won’t be.’



A few days later, Bill, Tilda and I met for tea at the station. Bill kissed my cheek. Anyone watching would have guessed old friends, cousins, perhaps. They wouldn’t have noticed his gentle breath in my ear, or the shiver that met it. Over three evenings, he had explored me. Found seams of pleasure I didn’t know existed. Should he stay in Oxford? He’d asked. If you have to ask, I’d said, then probably not.

Tilda handed me a paper bag.

‘Don’t worry, they’re not leaflets.’ She smiled.

I opened the bag.

‘A lip-pencil, eye-pencil and eyebrow-pencil,’ said Tilda. ‘Easily obtained, though perhaps not from the hairdresser your godmother goes to. I also bought you some lipstick. Red, to go with that hair of yours. You’ll need a new dress to make it work.’

I took out a slip. ‘Put lip-pencil in a sentence.’

‘The lip-pencil followed the contours of her ruby lips like an artist’s brush.’

‘She’s been practising that,’ said Bill.

‘I can’t write that on a slip.’

‘If this is for the real Dictionary, doesn’t it need to come from a book?’ Bill asked.

‘It’s supposed to, but even Dr Murray has been known to make up a quotation when those that exist don’t do justice to the sense.’

‘That’s my sentence, take it or leave it,’ said Tilda.

I took it. Bill poured more tea.

‘Do you have a play already lined up in Manchester?’ I asked.

‘It’s not theatre work that’s taking us to Manchester, Essy,’ said Bill. ‘Tilda’s joined the WSPU.

‘Which is?’

‘The Women’s Social and Political Union,’ said Tilda.

‘Mrs Pankhurst thinks her stage skills will be useful,’ said Bill.

‘I can project my voice.’

‘And make it sound posh.’ Bill looked at his sister with such pride. I couldn’t imagine him ever leaving her.





Elsie Murray made her way around the Scriptorium, her hand full of envelopes. I watched as each of the assistants received one, variations in thickness indicating seniority, education, gender. Da’s envelope was thick. Mine, like Rosfrith’s and Elsie’s, looked almost empty. She stopped by her sister’s chair, and as they spoke Elsie re-pinned a lock of fair hair that had escaped Rosfrith’s bun. Satisfied it would stay, Elsie continued towards my desk.

‘Thank you, Elsie,’ I said as she handed me my wage.

She smiled and put an even larger envelope on my desk. ‘You’ve been looking a bit bored these past few day days, Esme.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘You’re being polite. I’ve done my fair share of sorting and letter-writing. I know how tedious it can be.’ She opened the envelope, pulled out a page of proofs and slid it towards me. ‘Father thought you might like to try your hand at copyediting.’