The Dictionary of Lost Words(66)

Lizzie climbed out of the buggy, and Tommy climbed out after her. ‘I’ll get that, Miss Lester,’ he said, reaching for the basket of provisions in the back.

‘Thank you, Tommy,’ said Lizzie. She watched him take the basket into the kitchen then looked up at Mrs Lloyd. ‘Lovely morning, Natasha. For sure, I’ll miss our outings.’

Natasha. What an exotic name for a farmer’s wife. I continued to watch them through the open window of the bedroom. Mrs Lloyd shimmied across the front seat of the buggy and leaned down to rest her hand on Lizzie’s upturned cheek. ‘Bostin,’ I heard her say. I didn’t know what it meant, but Lizzie seemed to. She covered Mrs Lloyd’s hand with hers as if she were grateful for the comment. They carried on their farewell in quieter tones. When I saw Tommy heading back to the buggy, I hurried down the stairs to say my own goodbye and wave them off.

As soon as we were back in the house, I turned to Lizzie. ‘What did Mrs Lloyd mean when she said bostin?’

Lizzie turned towards the stove, intent on getting the kettle on to boil.

‘Oh, it’s just an endearment.’

‘But I’ve never heard it before.’

‘Nor me,’ Lizzie said, taking our teacups from beside the basin, where I’d left them to dry that morning. ‘Natasha said it once or twice, and other people besides. I thought it was a foreign word so I asked where it was from.’

‘What did she say?’ I searched my pockets, but they were empty. Lizzie poured hot water into the pot to warm it. She opened the tin of tea in readiness.

‘The word’s from here – not foreign at all.’

I looked around the kitchen, but there was nothing to write on or with.

‘There’s a notebook and pencils in the top drawer beside your bed,’ Lizzie said, picking up the pot and rotating it to warm the sides. ‘You fetch them first.’

Lizzie was sitting at the table when I came back down; our cups were steaming, and there were a plate of biscuits and a pair of scissors beside the pot. ‘To cut the page down to size,’ Lizzie said.

When I was ready, she began. I was reminded of old Mabel, and the reverence she gave to this process. What was it that made them sit up straighter and check their thoughts before they spoke? Why did they care so much?

‘Bostin,’ Lizzie said, pronouncing the n with care. ‘It means lovely.’ She blushed.

‘Can you put it in a sentence?’

‘I can, but you must write Natasha’s name below it.’

‘Of course.’

‘Lizzie Lester, my bostin mairt.’

I wrote out the slip, then cut another.

‘And mairt? What does that mean?’

‘Friend,’ said Lizzie. ‘Natasha is my friend, my mairt.’

I guessed at the spelling, and looked forward to adding these new words to my trunk. It had been a while since I had thought about it.

Tomorrow we would be gone from Cobblers Dingle. I was going to miss the waves of green hills. I would miss the silence. When we first came, I found it too quiet, my thoughts too loud. But the silence had turned out not to be complete: the valley hummed and sang and bleated. When my thoughts had been heard and argued with, and when some kind of peace had been struck, I’d begun to listen to the valley like some would listen to music or a holy chant. There was solace in its rhythm, and it slowed the beat of my heart.

I seemed better, according to Ditte. Her letters had been regular, even if mine, in the beginning, had not. I had recently regained the habit of writing to her, and apparently this was one sign of my improving health. Another, Ditte wrote, was an unexpected letter from Lizzie.

Mrs Lloyd penned it. How brave of Lizzie to ask. She wrote that ‘Everything is high or deep or endless – there’s no shortage of places to do yourself in, yet Essy comes home every time with no sign of trying.’ If only everyone was as straight-speaking as her.

Was I better? Before Shropshire I’d felt broken, as though I would fall should the scaffold of my work be removed. I didn’t feel that now, but there was a fine crack through the middle of me, and I suspected it might never mend. I remembered Lizzie apologising to Mrs Lloyd the first time she stayed to chat, for the chip in the cup.

‘A chip doesn’t stop it from holding tea,’ Mrs Lloyd had said.



As our final day ended, the sky blushed pink – a parting gift, I thought. Lizzie had made a picnic of cheese, bread and Mrs Lloyd’s sweet cucumber pickle. She laid it on the lawn beside the cottage.

‘God is in this place,’ she said, without shifting her gaze from Wenlock Edge.

‘Do you think so, Lizzie?’

‘Oh, yes. I feel him more here than I ever have in church. Out here it’s like we’re stripped of all our clothes, of the callouses on our hands that tell our place, of our accents and words. He cares for none of it. All that matters is who you are in your heart. I’ve never loved him as much as I should, but here I do.’

‘Why is that?’ I asked.

‘I reckon it’s the first time he’s noticed me.’

For a very long time, neither of us spoke. The sun broke through a long brushstroke of cloud and came down over Wenlock Edge and the Long Mynd behind it – one was like a shadow of the other.

‘Do you think he’ll forgive me, Lizzie?’ It was barely more than a thought, but I knew I’d spoken the words.