Nicholas Mosley - Hopeful Monsters

I had a letter from Peter Reece, the clergyman I had stayed with years ago in the derelict town in the north. He gave me news of Nellie — the deaf-and-dumb girl whom my mother and I had befriended, whom I had first come across when she had gone bounding down the hill in her tyre. Nellie had been at the school for handicapped children run by nuns. Peter Reece wrote to say that Nellie was about to be inducted as a novice into the order of nuns; she had asked especially if I might be present at the ceremony. Peter Reece had sent his leter to my parents' house: he had not known where I was; nor, of course, that I was married.

I said to you That time when we missed each other in the north of England — '

You said* Yes/

I said 'And then I turned up in Berlin two years later at the time of the Reichstag fire — '

You said 'Yes?'

I said 'I suppose if I had not missed you that time in the north, then I might not have turned up just when it was necessary for you to get out of Berlin; and we might never have had our three days together — or this, or anything.'

You said 'You think you can't say that?'

I thought — Or you can say it about anything.

During the last six or seven years I had often thought I should visit Nellie: I had put it off, I did not quite know why. I had sometimes written to her: I had got letters back in a meticulous, childlike hand. She told me news of her school: the work and the gossip: she had said -1 do not suppose this will interest you. In later years she had ended her letters with 'With love from yours in Christ.' I thought now — Well, yes, but what does this mean: some shaping within the stone?

I said to you 'But if we ever have to go apart from each other again, do you think that this time we will have to leave so much to chance, or can we not make our own arrangements to come together?'

You said 'You think we will have to go apart?'

I said'No.'

You said 'We have been together, yes, for nearly two years.'

I wrote to Peter Reece to say that you and I would both come to Nellie's induction. I wrote to Nellie to say that you and I were married. I said to you 'I wonder if she will remember you.' You said 'Of course she will remember me!' I said 'You only met her

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once.' You said 'So how often did you meet her?' I said 'Oh yes, I see.'

We went by train to Nellie's ceremony. It was a grey cold day. We travelled to the landscape of mudflats and the estuary of the river — to where seeds, in the shape of humans, had once blown across the sea in small boats.

I said 'I don't see why there shouldn't be a world of coincidences as well as a world of cause and effect; why "gods" shouldn't be a word for our knowing this and trusting it.'

You said 'Put ourselves in the way of it? Of knowing what to do?'

I said 'Two years is not such a long time!'

You said 'We've been so lucky!'

We got out at the station to which I had come years ago; from which I had walked with my haversack down towards the river; where had been the derelict railway lines like the trails of dying animals dragging their way towards the sea. Here Nellie, the child Nellie, had gone rolling and bouncing like a seed; there had been a barrier like the edge of the known world; she had got through.

You said 'Don't be sad.'

I said 'Things are so frightening!'

You said 'I suppose you loved her.'

We got a bus from the bridge over the river to Nellie's convent which was some way out of the town. There were the mudflats; there were the ruins of the monastery built by men who had arrived in boats like acorn-cups; there the children had played with their burning-glass in the sun. I thought — The monks brought their own light, which was like fire.

I said 'It's things as they really are, that get you through?'

You said 'If you love them.'

The convent, which was next to the nun's school, was a grey stone building set back from the road: traffic struggled past like a retreating army. There was a bell that was worked by a chain near the door; when I pulled it a bit of the chain came away in my hand. A young nun came to the door and saw the chain in my hand and began to laugh. I said 'I'm terribly sorry!' The nun took us through to a room with cream-coloured walls and a large mahogany table on which there were cups and saucers and an urn; we were offered tea or coffee. The nun seemed always to be on the edge of laughter: as if what an extraordinary business it was to be offering tea or coffee! There were four or five other couples in the room; it seemed

that these were parents or relatives of other would-be novices to be inducted. Neither Nellie's mother nor father was there.

I thought — We, you and I, are Nellie's mother and father?

— It is because this is like one of those Shakespearian recognition scenes that I seem to be on the edge of tears?

The time came for us to be taken through to a chapel at the back of the building. We were placed in a gallery below which were rows of nuns like shadows. I thought — They see that they are shadows on the walls of a cave; they get out into the sun when they are praying? Three would-be novices were led in and knelt at the altar-rail: even in their habits and seen from the back I thought I could tell which one was Nellie. I thought I might say — Ah, we know each other, we are agents in hostile territory! An old priest moved to and fro beyond the altar-rail. I thought — This is a ceremony that has been performed thousands of times before, will be performed thousands of times again: could there be evidence that it holds the world together?

You were kneeling beside me. It seemed that it might be we, you and I, who were again being married; who were to be sent out into the world, of course together, but on our own in so far as we were agents in hostile territory.

I wanted to say to Nellie — Give us your blessing.

After the ceremony we went back into the cream-walled room where cakes and sandwiches had been added to the cups and urns. The nun who had welcomed us had been joined by others; several of them seemed to be on the edge of laughter. I thought — The people who landed here centuries ago in their acorn boats; what made them survive, what did they hear, was it laughter?

When Nellie, the young Nellie, came in, I saw I had been right, yes, that it was she: such an open, clever face; such bright dark eyes. It was as if she would always be close to laughter — in her black habit scattering bits and pieces of light. She greeted, and was greeted by, people near the door: they conversed with her in deaf-and-dumb language; they seemed to be sprinkling each other with drops of light. Then she looked across the room at you and me. I thought — Oh why have I not been here before! Because this would have been not too little, but too much? Nellie became quite still; she clasped her hands in front of her: I thought — There are, indeed, paintings like this: of the recognition of what seems to be too much. She came towards us across the room. I held out both my hands to her; she took these and placed them on her shoulders. She was quite

a small girl; pale; like something that has had to grow a long way towards the light. I thought I might say — I did not know if you would remember me! I said 'Nellie, I am so glad to see you, we have come to give you our love.' Nellie, looking at me, put a hand against my throat. I said This is my wife, Eleanor.' After a time Nellie said in a voice that was like bird-song coming from a roof 'Yes, I know.' She turned to you and you put your arms round each other and kissed. Then Nellie stood back and said something to an older nun who had come up to her, using her hands. The older nun said 'She says that every day she has prayed for you.' Nellie said quickly in the voice that seemed to come from the sky 'For you both.' The older nun laughed and said 'And of course will continue to pray for you.' Then we all started laughing. It was as if we might have to hold on to each other. I thought — Oh dear God, you see why I could not have come here before; I would have been burned up by this sun.