The Dictionary of Lost Words(59)

‘I would like to draw it,’ she said.

I had become used to standing naked in front of the mirror, tracing my curves from breast to pubis. I was trying to commit them to memory. I agreed.

While Beth drew, I stood beside the window in my bedroom and looked out at the garden. It was a mess of colour and overgrown edges. The apple tree was full of life, and its blossom littered the ground beneath. It was beautiful, I thought, in its unpruned neglect. Sunlight fell across my belly, and its heat was proof of my nakedness. But I felt no shame or embarrassment. Beth sat on the bed, and I could hear the scratching of her charcoal against the paper.

When she asked me to lay one hand above and one below the bloom of my belly, I complied. My skin was warm, and I pressed against it. Then there it was: a movement beneath the tightening skin. A response. Against all reason, I caressed the growing thing inside me and whispered a few words of greeting.

I didn’t notice when Beth put the sketchbook down. She draped a dressing gown over my shoulders and went to the door to invite Ditte in.

‘Beautiful,’ Ditte said, looking at the sketch, but she struggled to look up at me. She left as quietly as she had come, but I saw her wipe her eyes.



‘Sarah Brooks will be coming for afternoon tea today,’ said Ditte while we were eating lunch. Normally she would have told me the day before.

‘I’ll go for a walk around Victoria Park. It’s a lovely day.’

Ditte looked at Beth, then back at me. ‘Actually, we’d like you to stay.’

I looked down at my belly, now huge and undeniable, then I looked quizzically at Ditte.

‘They’re good people,’ she said.

At first, I didn’t understand. I’d been deprived of any company other than that of the sisters since April, when Da visited for my twenty-fifth birthday. It was almost June; I was huge.

Beth rose from the kitchen table and began to busy herself with the coffeepot. ‘They have been unable to have a baby of their own, Esme,’ she said. ‘They would make good parents for yours.’

The words were falling into place as Ditte reached her hand across the table to take hold of mine. I didn’t pull it away, but I couldn’t return the gesture of her gentle squeeze. I was winded, unable to speak from the vacuum that had just been created in my chest. It wasn’t just a lack of breath; it was an inadequacy of words. I had a feeling that I understood precisely, but had no words for.

On the periphery of that feeling, I could see Beth turn from the stove, coffeepot in one hand, her features uncomfortable with the smile they were trying to support. What did she see to make her face collapse and her hand shake? A little coffee spilled on the floor, but she made no move to clean it up. Instead, she looked to her sister. I’d never seen her so unsure.



I couldn’t settle on what to wear, though my choices were few. The last time I’d seen Sarah, I’d thought my belly well hidden. Now, I wondered if she had known all along. The idea made me uncomfortable, annoyed. I put on a dress that accentuated my bosom and sat too tightly around my middle, then I stood in front of the mirror. There was something obscene about it, and something wonderful. I traced my funny fingers over the curve of my breast, over my nipple, over the swell of baby beneath the tightened skin. I felt it move and saw the undulation beneath the fabric of the dress.

I changed into a blouse and skirt, both borrowed from Ditte. I wore a housecoat over the top.

As soon as I came into the sitting room, Sarah stood up. The sisters wanted the afternoon to be more comfortable than it could possibly be, so they remained seated and threw out casual phrases of welcome that sounded forced and overly cheerful: ‘Here you are’; ‘You’ll have tea, won’t you, Esme?’; ‘We were just commenting on how warm it is’; ‘A slice of Madeira, Sarah?’

Sarah ignored them and came straight over to where I stood. She took both my hands in hers. ‘Esme, if you would prefer this not to happen, I understand. This will be far harder for you than for anyone. You must take your time, and you must be sure.’

It was regret and sorrow and loss. It was hope and relief. And it was other things that had no name, but I felt them in my gut and could taste their bitterness. The frustration of not being able to articulate any of it came in a flood of tears.

Sarah caught me, wrapped her strong arms around me and let me sob on her shoulder. She felt solid and unafraid.

When Beth finally poured the tea, we were all blowing our noses.

We drank tea and ate cake, and I watched a crumb stick steadfastly to the corner of Sarah’s mouth. I noticed how she listened to everything Beth said, never interrupting but not always agreeing when she had a chance to reply. I listened to the sound of her voice and was reminded of how easily she laughed. I wondered if she could sing.

I had avoided thinking about what would happen when the pregnancy was over. I didn’t ask questions and the sisters had only ever hinted at it. Was this always the plan? I thought.

Of course it was.

Did it need to be?

Of course it did.

The baby was a girl. This I knew, though I couldn’t say how. And I’d begun to love her.

‘Esme?’ Beth said.

All three women were waiting for me to reply to something I’d not heard.

‘Esme,’ Sarah said, ‘would it be alright with you if I visited again?’