The Dictionary of Lost Words, стр. 20

In that moment, my anger towards Ditte faded, just a little, and an idea occurred to me. I would write to her.

I returned the proofs to their envelope and resealed it. As I left Sunnyside to walk home, I dropped Ditte’s envelope in the letterbox on the gate.

August 28th, 1897

My dear Esme,

As always it was a joy to come across your familiar hand as I was sifting through yesterday’s post. There were one or two letters from the Scriptorium besides yours: one from Dr Murray and another from Mr Sweatman. The letter ‘I’ is causing a bit of bother – all those prefixes, where should they stop?! I was grateful to put off the work to read about your summer back in Oxford.

But you told me almost nothing, other than that the weather was stifling. Six months in Scotland and it seems you’ve acclimatised to the chilly damp and boundless space. I wonder if you miss the ‘sweep of hills towards troubled sky and the unfathomable depths of the loch’?

Do you remember writing this after your first few weeks at Cauldshiels? I read it and was reminded of your father’s love of that place. The rugged solitude restored him, he said. I can’t say I shared his view. Hills and lochs are not in my blood as they are in yours.

But is it possible I have misunderstood your descriptions of the landscape; that your beautiful language has disguised your thoughts? Because your request has come as something of a surprise.

From all accounts, you are thriving at Cauldshiels. Near the top of your class in a number of subjects, ‘continually questioning’ according to Miss McKinnon. This is the fundamental attribute of scholars and liberals, my father always thought.

Your letters, without exception, describe an ideal education for a young woman of the twentieth century. My goodness, the twentieth century! I think this is the first time I have written it down. It will be your century, Esme, and it will be different to mine. You will need to know more.

I am flattered that you think I could tutor you in all you need to learn; so flattered, in fact, and so taken with the idea of having you live with us, that I discussed it for hours with Beth. Between us we could do an adequate job of history and literature and politics. We could add something to what you know of French and German, but the natural sciences and mathematics are beyond us. And then there is the time that would be required. We simply do not have enough of it.

You remind me that I have promised to always take your side, but when it comes to your education I think I would fail you. By declining your request, I hope I am taking the side of an older Esme. I hope you will one day agree.

I have written to Mrs Ballard and asked her to bake you a batch of ginger-nut biscuits. I think they will keep well on the long journey back to school and nourish you well into the first week of the new term.

Please write to me once you have settled back in. The account of your days is always a pleasure to read.

My love, as always,

Ditte

I sat on the edge of my bed and looked over at my school trunk. Up until that moment, I had been sure it would accompany me to Ditte and Beth’s house in Bath. I read Ditte’s letter again. My love, as always. I screwed up the letter, threw it on the floor and ground it under my foot.

Da and I ate dinner in silence. I don’t think Ditte had even bothered to discuss it with him.

‘Early start tomorrow, Essy,’ he said as he took the plates to the kitchen.

I said goodnight and climbed the stairs.

Da’s room was almost dark, but when I pulled back the curtains, the last light of the long day came in. I turned to the wardrobe. ‘Open sesame,’ I whispered, longing for an earlier time. I reached past Lily’s dresses and brought out the polished box. It smelled of beeswax, recently applied. I opened it and strummed the letters with my funny fingers, as if they were strings on a harp. I wanted Lily to speak. To give me the words that would convince Da to keep me. But she was silent.

My strumming stopped. The envelopes at the end were out of tune, not blue or white but the cheap undyed brown of Cauldshiels. I took out the last and moved to the window to read what I had written.

I remembered every word. How could I not? I had written them over and over and over again. They were not the words I had chosen. Those words had been torn up. Your father will only worry, said Miss McKinnon. Then she dictated something appropriate. Again, she said, as she tore the new pages. Neater, or he’ll think you are not improving, not trying. They are a jolly group of girls … a wonderful excursion … perhaps I will become a teacher … I managed an A on my history test. My grades were the only truth. Again, she said. Don’t slouch. The other girls had gone to bed. I sat in that cold room until the clock struck midnight. You have been spoiled, Miss Nicoll. Your father knows this as well as anyone. Complaining about mild discomforts will only prove the point. Then she laid out the last three attempts and asked me to choose the one that showed the best penmanship. Not the last. It was almost illegible. My funny fingers were bent as if still holding a pen. The pain of moving them was unbearable. That one, Miss McKinnon. Yes, dear, I think so too. Now off to bed.

And here it was. Treasured, as Lily’s letters were treasured. False words giving false comfort to a man forced to be mother and father both. Perhaps I