The Dictionary of Lost Words(80)

‘Some think they can’t be left to starve to death.’

‘And what do you think, Lizzie?’

She looked up, her eyes rimmed red and watering from the onions. ‘I wouldn’t be that brave,’ she said.

It wasn’t an answer, but I might have said the same thing if I’d been honest with myself.



April 11th, 1910

Happy birthday, my dear Esme,

I can’t believe you are twenty-eight. It makes me feel quite old. This year, in light of your continued concerns, I have enclosed a book by Emily Davies. Emily was a friend of my mother’s and has been involved in the suffrage movement for half a century. She has quite a different approach to Mrs Pankhurst and is a firm believer in the equalising effect of women’s education – her arguments are quite compelling. I am hoping that if you read ‘Thoughts on Some Questions Relating to Women’ you might give some thought to taking a degree yourself. Which leads me to your letter.

I read it aloud over breakfast. Beth and I are at one with your concerns, though we do not feel as impotent as you seem to.

This is not a new fight, and while the actions of Emmeline Pankhurst’s army of women will certainly draw attention to the cause, they may not hasten a satisfactory resolution. We will get the vote sooner or later, but that will not be the end of it. The fight will go on, and it cannot rely solely on women prepared to starve themselves.

Our grandfather was outspoken on the topic of women’s right to vote back when ‘universal suffrage’ was the political argument of the day. I wonder how our dictionary will define universal. Back then, it meant all adults, regardless of race, income or property. But it did not mean women, and against this our grandfather railed. It would be a long campaign, he was heard to say, and to be successful it would have to be fought on many fronts.

You are not a coward, Esme. It pains me to think that any young woman would think such a thing because she is not being brutalised for her convictions. If Tilda is campaigning for the WSPU, it suits her completely. She is an actress and knows how to provoke an audience. If you want to be useful, keep doing what you have always done. You once made the observation that some words were considered more important than others simply because they were written down. You were arguing that by default the words of educated men were more important than the words of the uneducated classes, women among them. Do what you are good at, my dear Esme: keep considering the words we use and record. Once the question of women’s political suffrage has been dealt with, less obvious inequalities will need to be exposed. Without realising it, you are already working for this cause. As grandfather said, it will be a long game. Play a position you are good at, and let others play theirs.

Now, to other news. I have thought long and hard about whether silence is best, but Beth has convinced me that silence is a void filled with anxieties. Sarah writes that they have settled comfortably in Adelaide and that little Megan is thriving. There is more I could share on that topic, but I will wait to be asked.

Not unrelated to your enquiries, Sarah has just voted in her first election! Isn’t it wonderful? Women in South Australia have been exercising this right for the past fifteen years. As far as I can glean, none have had to smash any windows or starve themselves for the privilege. You are no doubt aware that a few of those good women have travelled to England to support the cause. Do you recall the young woman who chained herself to the grille in the Ladies’ Gallery and spoke in the House of Commons? Well, she is a local Adelaide girl. From all accounts, South Australia is none the worse for women’s suffrage. To the contrary, Sarah writes that it is quite a pleasant place once you get used to the heat. Society does not seem to have broken down in any way. It is only a matter of time before it happens here.

Before I sign off, Beth wants me to tell you that ‘A Dragoon’s Wife’ has just been reprinted. It seems the fight for suffrage is not incompatible with the romance of being swept off one’s feet. We are a complicated species.

Yours,

Ditte

Megan. Meg. MeggyMay.

She had a name and She was thriving. That was all I needed to know. All I could hold without bursting.

Two more birthdays passed. Megan turned three, then four. An account of Her became part of Ditte’s annual gift, as Lily’s story had once been. She would send a book, a letter, Her first steps, Her first words. The book was always put aside, and Ditte’s news soon forgotten. I struggled to recall the motion of my days.





Time marked the Scriptorium in subtle ways from one year to the next. Books piled higher and pigeon-holes were built for more slips, the shelving creating a nook for an old chair that Rosfrith brought over from the house. It became a favourite retreat for Mr Maling when he had need to study a foreign text. The beards around the sorting table were greyer, and Dr Murray’s grew ever longer.

It was never a noisy place, but the Scriptorium had an ensemble of sounds that combined to create a comforting hum. I was used to the shuffling of papers, the scraping of pens and the sounds of frustration that identified each person like a fingerprint. If a word was troubling him, Dr Murray would grunt and get down from his chair to take a lungful of air from the doorway. Mr Dankworth would make a metronome of his pencil, a slow tap marking the rhythm of his thought. Da would cease to make any sound at all. He would remove his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose. Then he’d rest his chin on his hand and raise his eyes to the ceiling, just as he would if our dinner conversation had stumped him.