Reckless

by William Nicholson

  ‘And tell her—’

  ‘No, Mother. That’s all she needs to know.’

  The tall nun bowed her head in silence.

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ said Rupert.

  *

  When Sunday came, Rupert was waiting outside Holy Trinity Church as Mass ended. Mary came out, wearing her headscarf, looking round to see if he was there. When she saw him, her face lit up.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come!’

  She took off her headscarf and shook her short hair.

  ‘How are you today?’ he said. ‘Sister Mary.’

  ‘Why do call me that?’

  ‘Because that’s what Sister Cecily called you. And the other one, the one with the eyebrows.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she said softly.

  Instead of returning directly up Brook Green to the house, they walked down one of the adjoining residential streets.

  ‘I was going home across the park on Friday,’ he told her, ‘and they were waiting for me.’

  ‘I knew it.’

  Her face had gone white.

  ‘Don’t worry. I didn’t tell them where you are.’

  ‘They’ll find me out in the end.’

  ‘Sister Cecily asked me to tell you that they love you and miss you.’

  ‘Oh, Blessed Jesus!’

  She was becoming more and more distressed.

  ‘Mary, it’s none of my business. But if you were in a convent, and then you decided to leave, that’s your right.’

  ‘You don’t know how it is.’

  ‘I know you’re frightened. What is it you’re afraid of?’

  ‘They’ll make me go back,’ she said very low.

  ‘How can they make you go back? Do they use force on you?’

  ‘They’ve no need of force,’ said Mary. ‘They’ve ways and means.’

  ‘But you don’t want to go back?’

  She shook her head vigorously.

  ‘This last week I feel like I’ve been free for the first time in my life.’

  They walked on past the quiet windows of the terraced houses, shuttered in Sunday calm.

  ‘How long have you lived in the convent?’

  ‘That one and others, fifteen years.’

  ‘Fifteen years!’

  ‘Since I was fourteen years old.’

  ‘But surely,’ said Rupert, ‘that’s too young.’

  ‘I was only there for my own good. For my protection.’

  ‘Protection from what?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘They meant well. Everybody meant well.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Rupert. ‘Have you been kept as some kind of prisoner?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Whatever I’ve done, I’ve done of my own free will. There’s no one to blame but myself.’

  She came to a stop and covered her face with her hands.

  ‘I thought I could get away,’ she said. ‘But there’s nowhere. Even you, you’ve been so kind to me. But you’re doing it too.’

  ‘Doing what?’ he said.

  ‘Making me tell.’

  Rupert was silent, mortified. But if he didn’t know what it was she feared, how could he help her?

  They started to walk again.

  ‘I’m such a little fool,’ she said, seemingly speaking to herself. ‘There’s no running away. They always find you in the end.’

  ‘The nuns?’

  ‘All of them.’

  Rupert thought about that. He didn’t know what it was she was running away from, but he did know that running away wasn’t the answer.

  ‘If they’re going to find you in the end,’ he said, ‘they might as well find you now.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘What you mean?’

  ‘Go back to the convent. Tell them you want to live your own life.’

  ‘My own life?’

  ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘They’ll make me stay. You don’t know them.’

  ‘They can’t make you stay if you don’t want to.’

  ‘That’s what you don’t know,’ she said. ‘You think it’s all simple. You want this, you don’t want that. But it’s not simple at all. That’s how they get you.’

  ‘They make you want to stay?’

  ‘They do.’

  By now they’d walked all the way down the road to the back of the great exhibition hall at Olympia. They turned about and retraced their steps. Rupert glanced at her from time to time as they went, as if to reassure himself that she was not in too much distress. It angered him that she should be so bullied by the nuns.

  ‘They should accept that you’re never coming back.’

  ‘They will never accept that.’

  ‘They would if I told them so.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I could come with you to talk to them. I’m not afraid of them.’

  ‘Would you do that?’

  ‘Yes. I would.’

  She was silent for a few moments. Then she looked up at him and he was ready, waiting for her look. She saw in his face that he meant what he said.

  ‘Would you promise not to let them take me away?’

  ‘Yes. I would.’

  ‘When would we go?’

  ‘We could go now.’

  ‘Now!’

  Her eyes widened with fear.

  ‘Then it’ll be over,’ he said.

  *

  The convent was a Victorian red-brick building, its windows and doors topped with pointed arches. The windows were frosted glass, giving the building a blind air. There was no name on the black-painted door, but there was a bell-push.

  Mary had her headscarf tightly tied, and her hands clasped. She was trembling. Rupert pressed the bell.

  The door was opened by an elderly nun in a grey habit.

  ‘Mary!’ she said. Then seeing Rupert beside her she became confused, and stepped back.

  ‘May I come in?’ said Rupert.

  The elderly nun seemed too awed to answer.

  ‘There is a visiting room,’ said Mary.

  They were in a dark hallway, with plain wooden stairs rising ahead. There was a faint smell of disinfectant.

  ‘Yes, the visiting room,’ said the elderly nun. ‘I’ll fetch Mother Martina.’

  The visiting room was square and empty but for a number of upright chairs placed round its walls. There was an empty fireplace, and a window, its frosted glass throwing bright grey light across the polished wood floor. On the facing wall hung a large crucifix.

  ‘I’m not surprised you wanted to get away,’ said Rupert.

  ‘The chapel’s pretty,’ murmured Mary.

  Mother Martina swept into the room. It was the tall nun Rupert had met in the park. Here on her own ground she seemed even taller and more formidable.

  ‘Sister Mary!’ she exclaimed, rapidly crossing herself. ‘God be praised.’

  ‘Mother.’

  Mary gave a little bobbing curtsy.

  ‘I’m obliged to you, sir,’ the nun said to Rupert.

  ‘She wanted to explain her decision herself,’ Rupert said.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  Mother Martina indicated the chairs round the walls. Rupert and Mary sat down side by side. Mother Martina drew a chair into the middle of the room where she could sit facing them.

  ‘What is this decision, Mary?’ she said.

  Mary looked down at her hands. She spoke in a whisper.

  ‘I want to leave, Mother.’

  ‘You want to leave what, Mary? Our house? Your faith? Your God?’

  ‘I don’t want to live here, Mother.’

  ‘You are free to come and go as you wish, Mary. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Have we ever asked you to do anything against your will?’

  ‘No, Mother.’

  ‘And was it not you who came to me, begging to be allowed to enter our house, and live with us?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

&nbs
p; ‘And now you tell me you want to leave. Why is that, Mary?’

  ‘I want,’ whispered Mary, faltering, ‘I want a life of my own.’

  ‘A life of your own? Do you mean to live by yourself on a desert island? Or in a wild forest? Or on a mountain-top?’

  ‘No, Mother.’

  ‘You mean to live among people, then, Mary?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘And who are these people?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mother.’

  ‘You mean to live among strangers rather than with your own sisters, here in the family God has given you?’

  Mary was silent.

  ‘It seems to me you don’t clearly know what it is you want, Mary. Have you thought to ask yourself what God wants? Have you prayed about this?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘If you’ve turned to God with a truly humble heart, he will have heard you. He will be guiding you now. Do you think God is asking you to go out into the big city, among strangers, where they know nothing of the gifts God has given you, where you can be of no use other than to feed their own evil purposes, where you will be flattered and deceived and used and discarded? Do you think that is what God wants for you, his chosen beloved child?’

  Rupert could endure no more.

  ‘Forgive me, Mother. This is nonsense.’

  ‘Oh?’ The nun raised her eyes to Rupert with the look of one who is accustomed to being obeyed.

  ‘What business is this of yours?’

  ‘Mary has asked for my help. That makes it my business.’

  ‘Mary,’ said Mother Martina, rising. ‘Come with me. I need to speak with you alone.’

  Mary rose at once. Rupert caught her by one hand.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Whatever you have to say to her can be said in front of me.’

  ‘I think not, sir,’ said the nun. ‘I need to speak to Mary on a private matter.’

  ‘You mean to warn her against me,’ said Rupert. ‘You mean to tell her I’m not to be trusted. That men can’t be trusted with vulnerable young women. That my intention can only be to seduce her and then abandon her. Because why else would I take the time and trouble to befriend her?’

  ‘I would not be doing my duty if I didn’t warn her,’ said Mother Martina with dignity. ‘I stand in the place of her own mother.’

  ‘Now I’ve warned her myself,’ said Rupert. ‘You can sit down again.’

  Mother Martina sat down again, gathering her long skirts about her.

  ‘Just because he speaks openly about such matters, Mary,’ she said, ‘does not mean he can be trusted.’

  ‘Are all men not to be trusted, Mother?’ said Mary.

  ‘No, not all. There are good men in the world. But I think the good men do not make a habit of picking up young women in parks. I believe this gentleman, if gentleman he is, had seen you before, and was looking out for you.’

  ‘Were you?’ said Mary to Rupert.

  ‘It’s true that I’d seen you before in the park,’ said Rupert. ‘I remembered you. Yes, I was looking out for you.’

  ‘There, now,’ said Mother Martina grimly. ‘We come to the truth at last.’

  ‘You were looking out for me?’ said Mary.

  ‘And what was it that so piqued your interest?’ said Mother Martina. ‘Why, I wonder, would a middle-aged man stare at a pretty young girl?’

  ‘She looked unhappy,’ said Rupert. ‘That’s what I remembered. She looked lost, and unhappy.’

  ‘So I was,’ said Mary.

  ‘I’ve felt those feelings myself,’ said Rupert. ‘I think that’s what made me want to help her.’

  The nun frowned at this.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear you were lost and unhappy, my dear,’ she said. ‘I wish you had told me.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ said Mary. ‘It seemed so ungrateful.’

  ‘You were so unhappy with us, you preferred to trust yourself to strangers?’

  ‘To this stranger, Mother.’

  The nun turned accusing eyes on Rupert.

  ‘If you have harmed this child,’ she said, ‘in thought, word or deed, may Almighty God strike you dead. May you suffer the torments of Hell for all eternity.’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘If this man is pure in heart he has no need to fear God’s judgement.’

  ‘Do you not fear God’s judgement, Mother?’ said Rupert.

  ‘What has that to do with the matter?’

  ‘We all come short of the glory of God.’

  Mother Martina turned to meet Mary’s eyes, her eyebrows raised.

  ‘He was brought up in the faith,’ said Mary.

  ‘He’s a Catholic!’

  Rupert bowed his head, accepting the charge.

  ‘I was educated by the Benedictines, at Downside Abbey.’

  ‘Well, now. Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Not that there aren’t plenty of rotten apples in our own orchard.’

  ‘You seem to me to have a remarkably bleak view of humanity, Mother,’ said Rupert. ‘There is virtue beyond the convent walls.’

  Mother Martina allowed herself to look at Rupert properly for the first time.

  ‘If I seem overprotective,’ she said, ‘it’s because this child is precious to me, and to God. She has a special destiny, and I have been charged with the duty of keeping her safe to carry it out.’

  ‘This special destiny is God’s work?’

  ‘It most certainly is.’

  ‘And you don’t trust God to protect her in his own work?’ The nun stared back at Rupert in silence.

  ‘She’s not a child any more,’ said Rupert. ‘She has her own life to live. And if God has plans for her, that’s between her and God.’

  ‘Do you rebuke me, sir?’

  ‘I do,’ said Rupert. ‘I think you care less for her than for your own power and glory.’

  A slow flush crept up Mother Martina’s sallow cheeks.

  ‘No one has ever spoken to me like that in all my life.’

  ‘I don’t know the truth in your heart, Mother,’ said Rupert. ‘But you do. This young woman has told you she does not want to live here any more. Why do you keep her?’

  ‘I keep no one! Every soul in my charge is free!’

  ‘Then you’ll let her go, with your blessing.’

  Deeply hurt, Mother Martina turned to Mary.

  ‘I don’t know how we’ve failed you, Mary,’ she said. ‘I wish you had told me sooner. Is it really true you want to leave us?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘And do you want my blessing?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Then you have it. Our door is always open to you. May God watch over you. We will pray for you.’

  With that she rose and left the room. Mary stayed on her chair, head bowed, trembling.

  ‘There,’ said Rupert. ‘It’s over.’

  *

  Outside, the sun was shining. They walked up the road and into the park. There, as if safe at last, Mary lifted her arms and whirled round and round. Rupert smiled to see her so happy. Then they set off together, sauntering across the park.

  ‘You were amazing, you know?’ Mary said.

  ‘Mother Martina’s right to warn you. I could be planning to seduce you and abandon you.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t strike me as the seducing type.’

  ‘From your vast experience of men.’

  ‘No, Rupert, don’t mock me.’ Her sweet face laughed at him. ‘I admit I know nothing at all, but I’m not a fool.’

  ‘Not at all. You have a special destiny.’

  ‘Oh, phooey,’ she said.

  ‘Phooey?’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more about that.’

  ‘Just tell me one thing. Are you a nun or aren’t you?’

  ‘I never took vows. I lived with the nuns as what they call a postulant.’

  ‘For fifteen years?’

/>   ‘Don’t ask me any more, Rupert. Please.’

  She slipped her arm through his and leaned a little against him as they walked.

  ‘What you’ve done today,’ she said, ‘I’ll never be able to repay you. But if there’s ever anything you want, you only have to ask.’

  ‘I don’t want anything from you, Mary.’

  ‘I’ve never known a man like you.’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve known many men at all.’

  ‘A person, then. All the others want something from me. They don’t see me at all. They see something they think I’ve got, that they need. But you’re different.’

  He supposed she meant that men wanted her in the way that men want women. He wondered whether he was different from the rest after all.

  *

  Back in his own flat in Pimlico, Rupert settled down to work on the paper he was preparing for Mountbatten on his ‘Aim for the West’. He found himself unable to concentrate. Instead, he kept recalling Mary’s face, and the direct gaze of her eyes. He wondered about the unexplained facts of her life in the convent, and her mysterious special destiny. There was so much about her he didn’t know.

  Other people are unknowable. Why then this urge to learn secrets, to dig deeper? There’s no end to the mystery of the human soul.

  Into his mind jumped one of the philosophical topics proposed by the appropriately named John Wisdom, his teacher at Cambridge.

  Other minds are, and are not, like a fire on the horizon.

  John Wisdom, keeper of the flame of his master Ludwig Wittgenstein, loved to provoke his students with ambiguous images. This one had stayed with Rupert, perhaps because it held out the promise of shared warmth.

  A fire on the horizon. The remote possibility of love.

  He could see Mary’s sweet unadorned face looking up at him, her brow wrinkling, trying to make him out, just as he was trying to make her out. He saw in her face, as he had seen the first time, as he had seen again when she sat trembling in the convent’s visiting room, a look that contained all the sorrows of the world. Such a look should make the observer turn away, fearful of contamination, but he had not wanted to turn away. Her look had spoken to him saying: I know sorrow, but I also know love, and love is greater.

  He laughed softly at that, alone in his room. He mocked his own pompous thought, capitalising the nouns. Sorrow and Love, and the greatest of these is Love. Oh yes? What was this capitalised Love that was supposed to trump the misery of existence? It sounded dubiously close to the Love of God, that God with whom he had parted company years ago. No God means no Love. All that is left is little love, without the capital letter. Something personal and short lived, based on need and illusion.