Louisa Hall - Speak

1663

ed. Ruth Dettman

14th . At dinner, spoke to father again. Asked for funeral for Ralph. Rejected, on theological grounds. Soulless animal: no other world in which Ralph is still living. Much loved, good life, etc. But soulless animal, and body washed away by the sea.

Must remember his details. Feet, for instance: two white, one black, one brown. Too often forget, eating radishes or salt horse as if nothing real has been lost. God forgive me my forgetfulness. No detail, no matter how small, can be permitted to weaken. If there be no other world in which Ralph is alive, he must remain here. Daily, then, I must wait for his return, which will never occur.

My skin has turned brown from sitting on deck, as salty as if I am a pillar. Found this transformation repulsive at first, but have since found some satisfaction. Perhaps I will become a part of the ship, made of leather, canvas, and tar. Soulless, same as Ralph, and both of us for ever at sea.

15th . Surprising incident today. Difficult to write. Not sure I understand. Feel as if I have halfway climbed over a fence, and wait there, suspended. Had visit from Whittier, carrying books. Found me in seat amongst crates and said that if it would please me, he would say words for my lost companion. Opened his book, it being poems he reads on occasion. Cannot now remember exactly, but said (I think) that he be no gifted speaker. That he would borrow some words. Smoothed over his page, spoke with uncertain voice. Ralph dead ere his prime (he said), but must not go unwept.

Heart caught in writer’s chest, and awful confusion. Face stung by sharp gale. Ralph’s death my fault, but also Whittier’s. Desire to heap blame upon him, confused with gratitude for gentle ceremonial gesture. Felt tears hotly rising: nearly sent Whittier away, for did not want him to witness my sorrow. But he faced out to sea. Did not gape at my tears, but spoke only of Ralph’s love for green lawns and driving afield in the morning, battening flocks whilst the dew was still fresh. Found myself caught by remembrance, of Ralph going forth, guarding our meadow, standing on hilltops. His bark, and the weight of his lean. Whittier continued, and I awash in desire for the place that we lost. For flowers of our home: amaranthus, jessamine. For his body, under the sea. For Ralph, on deck, being seasick and vomiting, yet looking homewards with sorry expression. For his familiar body, swept by the waves. For Ralph, being still with us.

Could not hear the rest of the sermon, for my whole head was brimming with sorrow. Whittier closed. Held book under his arm, and standing with his head down said something in regards to not having flowers to bring to his grave, then offered from behind his back a shell, the shape of a small horn, it being intended to hold Ralph’s spirit as it holds the sound of the ocean. I give you my word (he said) that I will think of Ralph, walking these waves, whenever I should gaze on this water. He shall not go unremembered. And I give you my word that we shall live always close to the ocean, if you should wish, so that we may be reminded of Ralph—

Broke off then. Felt silly, perhaps, or overly rhetorical. Perhaps overcome with emotion. Curious man. Turned abruptly, leaving writer alone on her deck.

For some time writer looked upon shell: white, and patterned with rust, and having a lip like a pearled trowel. Some creature once lived in that pearled chamber, now long abandoned, and given over to rust.

Looked some time on this shell, then returned to cabin to sleep. There, it being dark, and the chamber full of Ralph’s absence, I could not fall asleep. Sat up and lit candle to write report of the day. Kept Whittier’s shell beside bed.

Alan Turing

Officers’ Mess

Hanslope Park

Hanslope, MK19 7BH

12 June 1945

Dear Mrs. Morcom,

I’m sorry to have worried you. I take a rather morbid tone sometimes, but really I’m quite content. All in all — despite the occasional lost-at-sea feeling — this past year was happy. I moved from the grim Crown Inn, escaping water stains on the ceiling, a fan that click-click-clicked with each turn, and the typical inn-sensation of treading on someone else’s property who wishes you out of her hair. My current lodgings are better. At first, after moving to the Officers’ Mess, I lived in another temporary room. Another set of frayed towels, the washstand in the corner, the dried bouquet of lavender. As I was moving out, I thought to myself, what dull chambers in my particular nautilus! But since then I’ve moved here, to my little Hanslope cottage. I live with a friend called Robin and a tabby cat called Timothy. We have the luxury of a walled garden. Last winter, as you know, was reprehensibly long, but we broke it up by going off to the movies. I saw Snow White three times, if you can believe it, and have been cackling lines ever since. Did you happen to see it? I found it enchanting.

So all in all, winter wasn’t so endless, and then it was spring, and I began to feel hopeful again. I’ve taken to foraging for mushrooms, and Mrs. Lee cooks them up with butter and salt. The elusive death cap still evades me, but the edible ones spring up everywhere. We have Mess Night once a month, when we all get up in jackets, eat pheasant, and dance with a handful of good-humored ladies. At the cottage we keep a small garden, and overnight last week the viburnum blossomed. I’ve taken to running long distances again, and sometimes enter a race. Robin will never be Chris, but he is good company, and day to day there’s invention, pursuit, and a comfortable little routine. I read a great many books: Austen and Trollope, mostly, as well as some poetry by Eliot. There’s a lulling thing in his voice that makes me feel as if a spell has been cast that shall wake us all so that we might fly out of the mirror and speak to each other clearly at last.

Outside, the world is astoundingly green. I take runs through sheep-dotted meadows. There are great chestnut blooms and so on. Despite the ongoing plague of hay fever, there is in general the feeling of a new world stirring. Lifting its head after long years of war and trying to be lovely again.

The old loneliness that I complain of so often is mostly hidden from sight. Every once in a while it pops up in dark corners. Then I have the sense that the wicked queen is with me, beckoning with witchy fingers, holding her poisonous apple.

I have the feeling that as a man I am not so much as I once was. I think I will always wish for the kind of love I had in my youth. I seem incapable of giving up the dream of true companionship. I’ve tried to make offers of friendship, but I am often repulsed. Sometimes, there have been marvelous nights of long conversation; other times I have been sent from the room.

Still, on the whole, I am better than I was. This past year was a respite. Robin, our cottage, Timothy, the little yard with its flowering shrubs. And now there is the comforting press of a very real goal. I have purpose, which is all I really require. Purpose and motion: progression in my ideas, running, cycling. I think sometimes it is not in our nature to remain still. We are, after all, inhabitants of a perpetually rotating planet. As long as I’m moving, then, and towards a goal so near to my heart, I have nothing real to complain of.

Sincerely yours,

Alan Turing

P.S.: Do you remember, from previous letters, my habit of appending incessant postscripts? Now I find that when I approach the end of a letter I become weary, and am all too prepared to sign off. But I think perhaps there was something rather stupidly brave about that compulsion for postscripts. We ought to keep up our striving, don’t you think? Refusing to end at the conventional moment? Or so I used to think. Now, there is comfort in an envelope. Sealed, pressed, addressed. Sent off, for your safekeeping, with all of my affection and love.