The trunk sat on the kitchen table. Lizzie and I sat either side of it, each holding a cup of tea.
‘I think it should stay here,’ I said. ‘My accommodation is temporary, and I don’t know when I’ll get something permanent.’
‘Surely you’ll collect more words.’
I took a sip of tea and smiled. ‘Maybe not. I’ll be working with men who don’t speak.’
‘But it’s your Dictionary of Lost Words!’
I thought about what was in the trunk. ‘It defines me, Lizzie. I wouldn’t know who I was without it. But as Da would have said, I have followed all avenues of enquiry and am satisfied I have enough for an accurate entry.’
‘You’re not a word, Essymay.’
‘Not to you. But to Her, that is all I am. And I may not even be that. When the time is right, I want Her to have it.’ I reached over and took Lizzie’s hand from where it rested against her chest. ‘I want Her to know who I am. What She meant. It’s all there.’
We looked at the trunk, worn from handling, like a well-read book.
‘You’ve always been its custodian, Lizzie, from the very first word. Please look after it until I’m settled.’
My own bags were packed when Gareth’s kit arrived.
I emptied it carefully onto the kitchen table. There was mud still on the socks I’d knitted; dirt and blood on his spare tunic and trousers. His or another man’s, I didn’t know. My letters were all there, and Rupert Brooke’s poems. I fanned through the pages and found my slip – love, eternal.
I unzipped his shaving kit, emptied his stationery box; I turned every pocket inside out and rubbed lint and dried mud between my fingers. I wanted everything he’d left to touch my skin. I opened my letters to him. The oldest were so worn along the folds, my words were hard to read. When I opened the last, his pages were tucked between mine. The writing was shaky, rushed, but it was Gareth’s hand.
October 1st, 1915, Loos
My Darling Es,
It has been three days. Is that possible? It feels like more. They were endless. We were to be kept back for a day to rest and then we weren’t. We were already exhausted, but we had to keep on fighting. Is that what we were doing?
Mostly we were dying.
I’ve not slept. I can’t think straight, but I know I must write to you, Es. Es. Es. Es. Es. Es. Essy. Esme. I’ve always loved how Lizzie calls you Essymay. I’ve wanted to call you that myself; it’s been there, on the tip of my tongue. But it’s hers. It’s everything you were before I met you. Is that why I love it?
Forgive me. I’m desperate to lie down, rest my head against your belly. I want to hear your heart beating. I rested my head against the chest of my orderly and heard nothing. Why would I? His legs had been blown off. His legs that had done everything I asked of them were no longer attached to his body.
I lost seven of my men, Es. For some, the weeks before this battle were the best they had ever had. Three might be fathers by the time the flesh has fallen from their bones.
I write this, my darling Es, because you say your imagination conjures images that words can’t come close to, and you would rather know the truth. I find it is a great relief to write without filter, and it is the closest I can get to resting against your breast and weeping. I am so grateful. But you have not imagined the distress you will feel. My account will seep into your dreams, and it will be me lying in the mud, my eyes like glass, bits of me blown away. Every morning you will wake in fear of what might be, and it will shadow you through the day.
I am spent, my darling Es. There is a buzzing in my ears and images in my mind that get clearer and more grotesque whenever I close my eyes. It is the gauntlet I must run if I am ever to sleep. I would be a coward to share this with you.
When the battle is over, I will tear this up and start again with a more tolerable arrangement of words. But right now, having arranged them exactly as I need to, I feel unburdened. When my lids close, I will be spared the worst, and it will be an image of you that ushers me to sleep.
Eternal Love,
Gareth
I folded the letter and put my slip within it. I turned the pages of Brooke’s book until I found ‘The Dead’. I read the first few lines in silence.
‘All this is ended.’ I said to the empty house. I could read no further.
I closed the poem around our final words. Stood. Walked up the stairs to the bathroom. I put Gareth’s comb back on the sink. I was leaving; it made no sense at all. But nothing did.
I released the latch and the lid sprang back, The Dictionary of Lost Words etched on its inside. The trunk was bulging, but there was room enough.
On top was our dictionary. I opened to the title page.
Women’s Words and Their Meanings
Edited by Esme Nicoll
I placed Gareth’s Rupert Brooke beside it.
I held the soldiers’ grotesque sentences, written in Gareth’s hand. I didn’t put them in the trunk. He did not mean for me to lock them away.
I could hear no sound from the kitchen and knew Lizzie must be waiting, not wanting to rush me. But she would be worried about the time. The train for Southampton was due at noon.
I took the telegram from my pocket and placed it on top of Women’s Words. The paper was butcher’s brown and sickly against the beautiful green of the leather. Half the message was typed: Regret to inform you that … An efficiency when the message was so often the same. The
