by Mo McDonald
Melanie says that maybe Margaret Thatcher achieved her wish to become Prime Minister because she had already been propelled into being leader of the Conservative Party by their bully boys. All the parties are the same when it comes to bullying. She is lucky to come along at the time when it is perceived politically correct to make way for a woman. She appears to be her own woman and not to be messed with, but even she must have been anointed by her tribe, before the public had any say in the matter. Now that I have seen what my husband’s sister has been through, I realise that the system is flawed and everything fixed. Robert (my husband) tells me it is better than most countries though, and that I ought to remember that. But local councils are run by activists who bring in friends they know will scratch their backs and do as they are told. It makes me so angry when I can see an honest, committed young woman like Melanie trampled on just to perpetuate the mafia-like group in the Town Hall. I am not a party person and after this I never will be. I did campaign for my sister-in-law and enjoyed chatting to people on their doorsteps, but I feel aggrieved for having been taken for a ride in believing that it is an honest and fair system.
Her main objective was to campaign against the probable sell-off of the council houses if Margaret Thatcher were to win the election. She feels that once they are sold, the housing problem will just get worse, with not enough affordable housing available for those who need it. Melanie is not a raving leftie, but a woman who would put her head above the parapet for the sake of others. That’s why Labour don’t want her. She is an ideas woman and that spells trouble in their eyes. Oh gosh, I seem to be rambling again – sorry! When writing to you, I seem to be able to think of what I feel.
Back to you though, I have just been under the spell of The Golden Chain. Both the main characters came very much alive for me. How sad beauty and truth can be. Your latest novel, Season’s Greetings, has not yet reached our local bookshop, so I look forward to it arriving sometime this summer. They have promised to order it. With so many of your stories in my head, I think of you as a dear friend.
Love & best wishes,
Marian Davies
I was glad that The Golden Chain had moved her; it was written as an attempt to psychoanalyse myself after the breakup with my first wife and a hasty remarriage. Season’s Greetings was describing the negative anima, blaming the mother for having a negative influence. It expressed irritable, depressed moods, uncertainty and insecurity, and was touchy throughout. The whole of my real life at that period seemed to take on a sad and oppressive aspect. I realised that I was just playing a role expected of me, not one I wanted. Writing the book helped me to face the truth.
Time was passing and a meeting with Marian had not been arranged. Looking into the situation, I discovered why, so I instructed my secretary to telephone Mrs Davies to explain that Bill Bruce had been off sick for a couple of months. I asked her to apologise for the delay and to arrange a suitable date before the end of the season. It was agreed that just one friend would accompany Marian before we shut up shop for the summer. As I listened in on the extension ,she sounded pleasantly surprised to hear from us. Her voice was warm and friendly. I liked the sound of her.
A few days before her arrival, I must have felt apprehensive. After all, inviting a complete stranger who might not even look very attractive was unusual. I decided safety in numbers and invited an old school friend who had expressed a desire to take a look around, too. It would also stop any unnecessary gossip.
MARIAN
If I go back to the beginning, it might make some sort of sense. It was Christmas, at the start of the eighties. I went to the library before the celebrations began and picked up two books for the holidays. One was The Needle and the other was Birth Place, both were by Jack Kelly. I must have been vaguely aware of his name to have decided to pick them off the shelf. After the festivities, between Christmas and New Year, I found it relaxing reading them. As a family we enjoyed the school holidays, happy in the security of our home. We were comfortable and we were happy.
A few weeks into the new year I noticed that The Times recommended viewers watch a newish programme called The Show of Shows and that Jack Kelly was doing a pretty good job as the editor and the presenter. It was to give a platform to artists from across the spectrum and promised to be both informative and entertaining. I was interested by this and settled down to watch.
My young family were asleep in bed and my husband was on call at the hospital. I was alone and peaceful, and curious to see the man who had written the two very different books I had just enjoyed. I can see the recording clearly in my mind’s eye even now. Jack was interviewing a writer about her novels and in particular her latest one about a successful man who risked everything he had achieved for love. As they ended their conversation, I heard Jack ask, ‘Do you think that the love affair is the most important thing in life?’ ‘Oh, yes, I do,’ came the reply. In that brief moment, I was hooked. When the programme finished, I was quick to put pen to paper.
That first letter was the beginning of what was to be a brainstorming experience for me and a part of my life that was both exciting and extraordinary. I was a participant in an intellectual experiment that I thought was just a friendly exchange of ideas. I honestly believed that I was being tolerated because I was a besotted fan. I had no knowledge about psychology and a writer’s mind, or anyone’s mind for that matter. It was the start of the eighties and I still had a lot to learn. I did like the idea of a ‘romance in the mind’ – a phrase that I noticed in one of Jack’s books. However, I learnt from his work that what I was seeking was intellectual stimulation and fulfilment for my imagination. As Carl Jung would say, I needed to develop my animus – the man within my psyche.
He must have been curious about my letter, because he replied. I have no idea why I gave the impression that I had read all of his books though, or that I looked forward to his programme when I had never even watched it prior to that. I think it was because his written words spoke directly to me and I felt a bond between us immediately. I felt that I could be open with him for some reason; I suppose because I felt honesty in his writing.
I have since wondered about the boldness in writing to a man that I didn’t know, except through his work, and a man that I had no intention of ever letting interfere with my marriage. The only explanation I can find is that of the women who write to men on death row: they allow their imaginations to run riot, knowing that person will never be free or a threat to them. My case was rather different from theirs though, because the man I wrote to was very powerful, not powerless and not awaiting the electric chair or the hangman. But I had assumed that because he was a celebrity, he was out of bounds and no threat to me whatsoever. Why would he be interested in me? I had no idea I played with fire by setting light to Jack Kelly’s emotions, and that the imagination is best used in being creative – a lesson I learnt from the Master.
JACK
Rereading her letters caused me to think of what was going on politically at the time. The Show of Shows was not the only programme I had hosted; I also chaired a weekly radio programme looking over the week’s current affairs. It was surprising to think back to the eighties and to contemplate the consensus-style politics that had been in postwar Britain. The main parties mostly agreed on fundamental issues such as the mixed economy, the role of Trades Unions and the need for an incomes policy. The country had seen previous Governments take care of provision of public services for such things as our much-loved health and education services. Little did we know how soon consensus-style politics would start to disappear!
I saw from my lengthy diary notes that only the year before my TV debut, at the end of March ’79, James Callaghan’s Labour Party had lost a motion of confidence by one vote, forcing a General Election in the May that year. I had discussed the fact that it was the first time television coverage had dominated the campaign as never before and although Margaret Thatcher blamed Callaghan for the
Winter of Discontent, she refused to appear alongside him and David Steel, when invited by the television programme Tomorrow’s World. My guests pointed out that she was aware that Callaghan was popular with the voters. However, she worked very hard to provide photo opportunities, to be seen with her shopping basket, drinking tea in factories or kissing newborn babies. David Steel was also camera-friendly, but he was accused of using stunts that made him look as though he had a large following of supporters, such as for example, by being photographed in narrow streets. Television was starting to play an important part in the battle to win votes.
I had also noted that I was horrified to hear of the car bomb that killed Airey Neave, who was the Conservative spokesperson for Northern Ireland. The IRA had placed the device under his car in the Common’s car park. It was a shocking thing to happen to a good man and one that made me ashamed on behalf of the Irish nation. Being Irish myself, I understood the Irish position, but we, the ordinary people of Ireland, didn’t agree with terrorist violence. It was shameful and to bring it to the mainland again was a crime against humanity, no matter what they were trying to achieve politically.
In April 1979, the year before my career as a broadcaster on television took off, the economy shrank by 0.8 per cent due to the ‘Winter of Discontent’ and we were faced with the possibility of a second recession in four years. Budgets became tight and I was extremely fortunate to be offered the contract as a new face of television. My radio approach had won the listeners’ ratings and gave me the opportunity to branch out from current affairs into a very broad spectrum of culture. This meant that I became a workaholic because my passion for current affairs continued and I couldn’t give it up. I wore two hats and enjoyed being known in every household, despite my Irish accent – or maybe because of it.
The appointed day arrived; Marian was coming to the studio. I felt a bit excited. It would be interesting to see what sort of woman she was. She had said my words reached her – now I had the chance to see what kind of a woman would write so openly to me. I dressed with care that day, wanting to make a good impression. I have to say I hoped she would not be disappointed.
It was arranged that my guests would be taken to the tiny viewing room just before we went on air. I felt that it was best to meet after rather than before the show. When the recording was over, I stood outside the soundproof booth and caught a glimpse of those inside. I knew which of the two women Marian was immediately – a strange innocence in her look told me it was her. I opened the door, popped my head into the room and, without saying hallo, I asked,
‘Will you stay for a drink?’
She replied, ‘We’d love to.’
I nodded, saying, ‘Wait here, then. I have one or two calls to make. Someone will fetch you to the hospitality room. Don’t move, though, or you will never be seen again in this huge maze of a building.’
Later, in the Green Room, I positioned myself between my school friend Mark and the producer, with other members of the crew on either side. My growing celebrity meant that I had a protection team with me when in public. Fans on the street and at book venues did like to get up close and personal at times. Marian and her friend were ushered in by my secretary. We shook hands and I said, formally, ‘It is very nice to meet you.’
‘Never having been to a studio before, it is very interesting. Thank you for letting us come,’ she replied equally formally.
About a dozen of us stood around chatting for an hour or so. In that time, she and I exchanged but a few sentences. She stood opposite in the circle of friendly chatter. I did make one direct remark to her,
‘I’m glad you liked the books.’
Without changing her expression, she replied, ‘You must forgive my letters for being personal but I felt that I had taken the books over.’
Holding her gaze, I said, ‘I have felt that myself about other people’s books.’
Her quiet response was, ‘I’m sure.’
We both nodded at a shared experience. I felt the need to move away, a shyness befell me, and as I did we caught each other’s look. I sat across the room, pretending to listen to the producer, only now and then allowing myself to glance over to her. She seemed unaware of me, intent on conversation with those around her. On reflection, I realise that we didn’t flirt. There was a mutual bond between us, though. I felt it. That was why I moved away, best to keep her at a distance and let my fantasy dwell upon her in my creative mind. As people started to make tracks for home, my secretary informed me that Mrs Davies was leaving.
‘Are you off?’ I asked stupidly.
‘Yes. Once again, thank you for letting us come.’ She smiled as we shook hands.
‘Goodbye.’
That was that. As the room emptied, I was left with Mark and Ron, feeling a little flat. I wanted Mark to feel that he could take his time because he had got a day off work to visit me and seemed to be enjoying himself.
Some thirty minutes later, the door opened and a shy face looked directly at me, walking across the room. Marian held out a copy of my latest book, Season’s Greetings.
‘Did you find us all right?’ I asked, surprised that she had found her way back to us as every floor looked the same in the modern concrete building.
‘No, I got horribly lost! I almost forgot that I had this in the car, will you sign it?’ she asked.
‘I could wish it were another,’ I moaned.
‘They said some rude things about that one, I remember.’ Mark volunteered this as he recognised the cover. He and I both nodded in agreement.
‘Oh well. It is the latest one,’ she insisted.
Reluctantly, I signed and dated a page; she turned to go immediately. Before she reached the door, I asked, ‘Do you know where to go?’
‘Not really. Is it left and then right, through the swing doors?’ she asked as she glanced back over her shoulder.
‘Left, then straight ahead to the lifts,’ I replied.
Once again we held each other’s look, then I turned my head away. When I glanced back, she was gone.
After her visit, I jotted down a few notes in my writer’s notebook. I found it hard to repress thoughts of her. What had happened to me was like a blow to the whole body, as if Marian was a force of nature so strong that every part of me was struck and weakened by it. My first wife had left me to marry a rock star, leaving me feeling empty and, yes, selfish. I now realise that I was just waiting, indeed longing, for the sweet sensation of love. My second marriage was useful but not colourful.
My artistic self responded to the image of Marian and my plan had been to use her in a simple psychological way to further my development as an individual, as well as a creative writer and editor. I was taken unawares and completely shocked by what she awoke in me; it was the most powerful need and lustfulness, and my intuition recognised it even though I tried hard to ignore it. I did fall head over heels in love, not with her but with the thing inside me that so wanted an object on which to place my fancy. I say that now, in hindsight, as I read through her letters, as my memory recalls that brief encounter.
I had many female admirers, some in everyday life and many as fans, but I knew that in this simple encounter I had to turn her head; I had found a fly for a web that I so yearned to weave. It was a sort of madness I had been fighting since my teens. Puberty had left me feeling psychologically disturbed in a strange way. I had felt it as a sort of frenzy that sex in itself was not able to fulfil. The best way to describe it is that I had been bitten by a bee, a bee that I was allergic to and to which my whole body was reacting to. It was as if the sting was infused into my bloodstream and I was helpless against its poison, and the more it hurt, the more I liked it. Marian could be the blossom and I felt that if I was able to buzz around her, it might be possible to make more and more honey. I was used to being the pollen around which my fans hovered at book signings and I received a lot of fan mail about me as a s
exy presenter. Now, though, it was very different because I had been stung. I had to find a way to further enslave Marian so as to manipulate her imagination under my control. But I didn’t see that I was in danger of falling under her control if our correspondence continued. I hadn’t experienced the power of the muse; I had only read about other, older, writers’ encounters in that respect. All I knew was that my Arts programme had to become the hive where I hoarded away the honey from the busy worker bees. As she left me on that one and only meeting, I saw that she too felt the bee’s sting immediately. My eyes were held as if by a sticky drizzle of syrup to hers and I was aware that they couldn’t turn away from her gaze without the deliberate effort of turning my head. It was an alarming experience trying to break the thread, as if a spider, not a bee, had woven us together across the empty space of the room. When she left, I knew I had found that feeling I had longed for and I was aware that something in me changed and I was greedy to feed the hunger I felt deep inside. I had not allowed myself to deliberately captivate a female for the sake of my art before. I had tried to concentrate on my work without pursuing a victim. After we met, my imagination urged me on like a criminal who must break into a person’s home, in order to hold them hostage.
Two days later, a thank-you note arrived:
Dear Jack,
Thank you for everything; you remain a romance in my mind.
Marian.
PS ‘a romance in the mind’ is something that you write of often!
Once again, I consulted Carl Jung. His writing encouraged the following:
‘But what does the role of the anima as guide to the inner world mean in practical terms?