by Mo McDonald
This positive function occurs when a man takes seriously the feelings, moods, expectations and fantasies sent by his anima and when he fixes them in some form – for example, in writing, painting, musical composition etc. etc. When he works at this patiently and slowly, other more deeply unconscious material wells up from the depths and connects with the earlier material. After a fantasy has been fixed in some specific form, it must be examined both intellectually and ethically, with an evaluating feeling reaction. And it is essential to regard it as being absolutely real; there must be no lurking doubt that this is only a fantasy. If this is practised with devotion over a long period, the process of individuation gradually becomes the single reality and can unfold in its true form. Only the painful (but essentially simple) decision to take one’s fantasies and feelings seriously can, at this stage, prevent a complete stagnation of the inner process of individuation, because only in this way can a man discover what this figure means as an inner reality. Thus, the anima becomes again what she originally was –‘the woman within’, she conveys vital messages to the Self.’
I had read all that before; it now helped me to decide to use the idea of this strangely attractive woman to help me live out my fantasies in a creative way and to develop the Self. What great timing for this psychological experiment, when I was free to use material on the programme and play God in my editing room. I felt that I could promote the work of others while fulfilling myself, too.
My own writing was but one way to express myself. I thought long and hard on the exciting possibility of editing the spoken word of other artists in order to get my own thoughts across the airwaves to the attentive ears of Marian. I felt like a schoolboy hiding away in the darkened room with a box of tricks, so explosive that I could well have been working on an undercover secret mission. The works would disguise my hidden meaning and be coded so that the world would not decipher it. And I would do it in front of the nation as I informed and entertained them. The power of the editor was like an aphrodisiac. The dawning of Facebook and Twitter was still many decades away and hosting a user-friendly Arts programme was very much a novelty. It excited me to use the programme as a vehicle to communicate. To use the television screen as a monitor was ahead of its time, making use of the electronic equipment of the day to reach out, sending my message, with its hidden meaning, loud and clear. It would be public yet private.
I had to think of how to coach Marian’s ear to pick up on my intent. I was about to take a summer break when, to my delight, I received the following letter from her.
Dear Jack,
I want to write to you again before you leave London for the summer in Ireland. I could cry when I think that I had the chance to talk to you and did no more than make polite conversation. What I really wanted to say when I met you was that I read your books greedily one after the other and now I feel hungry for your words. I felt so very involved with you through your stories that now I miss you. Please do not think of me as a frustrated suburban housewife. Through your writing you fulfilled a need in me, as though you were writing just for me. I look forward to the return of the programme later in the year – what a long gap. I know that I am daft to fall in love with a man through his books, but maybe it happens quite often to your readers and you are used to it. Jack, I don’t expect you to answer this letter; you have been more than kind already. It helps me to put pen to paper and confess; it must be my Catholic upbringing!
Love to you,
Marian
I instructed my secretary that we were not answering this and she duly noted this across the top of the letter. I decided that I would spend the summer writing a new book and psychoanalyse my inner world. Ever since writing The Needle, I had turned to Jung, Freud, Proust and André Gide for guidance. Their thoughts and experiences helped me through a very difficult period of my life. The Needle was the first time that I had used the dream-world symbols in order to express how I was feeling. That summer, I wrote Birth Place, the story of different women, thus meaning that I was hopeful of new possibilities. It expressed the need for a spiritual union, the desire to be wooed and the fear of disappointment. I felt an excitement when writing this, as I was sure that Marian would read it, and I could put a face before me when alone with my thoughts. I was speaking directly to myself when using the symbolic images, though. I didn’t want Marian or anybody knowing what I was really doing. It pleased me to have a code in which to hide, while at the same time helping me to understand myself. I knew I was a complex personality with the need to be secretive. I suppose it gave me a sense of security to write one thing but to mean another. It was a double-edged sword, in order to defend myself against the harsh realities of life. I could express my desires and human condition without hurting anybody. The respectable life was endurable with this safety valve as a release. My imagination would save me from myself and was already earning me a very good living.
MARIAN
The day I went to the studio, I felt a bit silly, because I didn’t really know what to expect. I had never been a groupie following the Beatles or the Rolling Stones and I only ever saw Elvis or Cliff Richard in films. So the idea of going to see a novelist, who appeared on the television, record one of his programmes was quite out of character for me. My family didn’t seem to think it strange; I think they thought it was just a nice thing to do.
I remember wearing a red skirt and a matching blouse, with a black belt and black court shoes. I felt that I looked nice and I know that I always looked respectable, never sexy, unless feminine would be judged that way. I washed and blow-dried my hair, and was glad that it went well, and after I’d put on some foundation, lipstick and eye shadow, I double-checked myself in the mirror and caught a smile flicker across my face. I think I felt grown up getting ready to go on an outing that didn’t include my husband, three sons or my daughter. I hadn’t done much, if anything, on my own since leaving my job to have our first baby. It felt nice, not exciting but pleasant. I was doing something just for me. I rang my friend to let her know that I was about to pick her up, but her line was engaged. It seems strange now to think that the landline was the only means of contacting someone then, but it was. I waited for the line to be free – no chance then of a quick text message to say that I was on my way.
Helen looked pretty as she got into the car and we giggled about the chance of meeting the famous Jack Kelly, feeling, I think, like naughty teenagers who had been given permission to go out on the spree for a few hours. The traffic was not too busy around that time of the day so we arrived in the car park within about half an hour of leaving home, which meant that we had an hour to wait before our appointed time of arrival. I always drove into London in those days.
‘I wonder what he will be like,’ Helen mused.
‘I can’t imagine. I am beginning to wonder what we are doing here,’ I answered as we laughed.
‘Have we gone mad?’ I suggested. Helen bit on her lip, then said, ‘I think perhaps we have!’
We continued like that for the rest of the time, urging each other to turn tail and run for home.
‘I wonder why he agreed for us to come?’ Helen asked.
‘Maybe it’s normal for fans to write in and make such a request,’ I replied. ‘I was surprised that he even engaged in correspondence with me and bothered to send a signed photograph. I suppose it must happen all of the time.’
‘Yes, or maybe his agent does all that just to keep the ratings for the programme up,’ Helen offered.
‘Oh, don’t say that. I felt that it was him responding to me. That would be awful and embarrassing.’
I pulled a face, imagining Jack being forced into meeting a couple of silly women whom he hadn’t really wanted to meet in the first place.
‘Ah well, the country has recently voted in a woman to be Prime Minster for the first time in our history, so I suppose us women shouldn’t be shy about popping into a studio for a couple of hours!’ He
len winked at me as she said this.
She was right, the Conservative Party had been voted in and Margaret Thatcher had become PM; maybe this fact had something to do with this visit. Had it started me thinking outside the box without even realising it? I had tried not to take much notice because I was still smarting over my sister-in-law Melanie’s experience with politics. But it had been exciting to see a woman achieve the highest political position in the land, surprising too because when she had been a minister she had become known as ‘Maggie Thatcher, the milk snatcher.’ She had taken away the daily bottle of milk from schoolchildren and within a few months of her reign, milk was to increase by more than 10 per cent to 15p per pint. As a Mum, I had noticed that.
Robert had long debates in our home with his sister and his parents. Much of what they said went over my head. Looking after the children took up most of my time and I was ready to unwind with my feet up by the time such conversations got going. The Tory Manifesto had promised to control inflation and to keep the unions in check. There had been fears of a deeper recession with the previous Callaghan government and people were afraid that the unions had become too powerful. Margaret’s case might have been helped too by the ex-Labour Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, declaring that his wife Mary might vote Tory just to support a woman into office. Also, the Tory advertising campaign, directed by Saatchi & Saatchi, claimed that ‘Labour isn’t working.’ So Britain’s first woman Prime Minister was voted in with a safe working majority; the swing, to the Conservatives, of 5.2 per cent gave them the largest majority since 1945.
I made the tea and provided the biscuits while this grown-up talk went on. I was glad to have helped our eldest with his homework and have time to myself before bed, but even so the message got through to me, drip by drip.
Helen and I chatted about this as we sat in the car. Neither of us were activists for any party, but with our families growing up we were starting to take notice of the current situation in Britain. The evening television news was full of the change afoot and we were vaguely aware of the unrest that had been bubbling up over the past decade. There was no such thing as rolling news, of course, so as suburban housewives we were not well informed. Helen and I were both fortunate in that our husbands had good careers and we were provided for. Our mission in life was to run the home and look after the children. We both made that our full-time job. Remember, I am talking about the very early eighties.
The hour soon passed and we made our way to the reception at the front desk. I announced that we had come at the invitation of Jack Kelly, to see the recording of The Show of Shows. The receptionist directed us to sit down and told us that Jack’s secretary would soon be along to fetch us. Helen and I took a seat in the foyer, glancing up each time a young woman passed us, in anticipation of being collected. Just before three o’clock, we found ourselves on the basement floor of the building, inside a viewing booth, waiting for the programme to begin. A man was already sitting in there, who was introduced to us as Jack’s old school friend, Mark. We three sat in the dark, looking through the glass panel at the well-lit studio, facing an empty desk and chair, while the cameramen and the production team tested the equipment.
Then, Jack walked through the door to take a seat behind the desk. He looked well groomed in his tailored suit and long, fashionable hairstyle. He didn’t acknowledge us, but after a cue he started to introduce an already-recorded act, which was screened onto a monitor in front of us. I think we were expecting it all to be live; instead, it was pre-recorded and rolled out and stopped at the appropriate times to allow Jack to talk between the recordings. I was fascinated by the process, so much so that I can’t even remember who was actually featured that day. I was just impressed by the proceedings. Within the hour, it was all done and dusted and Jack made funny faces and cracked a few jokes that we couldn’t hear before he left the studio floor.
The door to the viewing booth opened as he popped his head in and, without asking who we were, looked straight at me. ‘Will you stay for a drink?’ he asked.
‘We would love to.’ I was quick to answer.
He looked very serious as he stressed that we were to stay where we were until someone came to collect us, to take us to the Green Room. He made a point of saying that we would never be seen again in the tall building if we ventured out on our own – he was convinced that we would get lost. He had a few calls to make apparently, before he would be free to join us.
Mark chatted to us and he told us that he had used the new Jubilee line to get to the studio – it had opened that month. He explained that he was nervous about the future because of the proposal to sell off the Government’s stake in British Petroleum and that nationalised industries were under threat and a lot of jobs would go. I was able to say that my eldest boy was pleased because he had secured a summer job at the newly opened Thorpe Park in Surrey; it was to become the third most popular theme park in the UK.
Suddenly we were stepping out of the lift on the tenth floor, behind Jack’s secretary. She showed us into a rather boring-looking modern room, which was used for hospitality after recordings of all the different television programmes made there had taken place. It was a bit disappointing being in the functional room on top of the entire box-like building and surprising to me that so many lively, interesting, energetic programmes were housed in such a concrete slab of architecture. I suppose I felt that art ought to be conceived in beautiful places, just as I felt that mass ought to be said in beautiful churches. I was a lover of meaningful structure, not just the soft centre of things.
We walked across the room to where Jack was standing in the middle of some of the team. As we approached, his secretary introduced Helen and myself to him. We shook hands and I was struck by his long fingers with large manicured nails. They weren’t like any hands I had seen before; they seemed unusual to me. He was very self-contained as he said how nice it was to meet us. I remember saying something about how interesting it was to be there as it was all quite new to us, to watch a recording. I think I mentioned that I loved his books and that I’d felt taken over by them, and as I said that a glance between us seemed to say more than words. He nodded and said that he knew what I meant, because other writers had affected him in that way.
A glass of wine was offered to us and we turned away from Jack’s group, engaging in conversation with a couple of members of the team. It was all very friendly, concerning different aspects of the programme and the artists that had appeared on it. They even asked us for ideas about who to include in coming seasons. The time passed in a flash and I became aware that people were starting to go, so I felt that we ought to take our leave and not outstay our welcome.
Jack’s secretary took us back over to him, explaining that we were about to go home.
Looking up, he said rather feebly, ‘Are you off?’
He stood up and once again we shook hands and I thanked him for letting us join him. He smiled his boyish smile and we turned on our heels and left the room, being shown to the lift by his ever-patient PA. It had been very nice, but it all felt a bit flat when Helen and I got back to the car.
‘It was very nice and so was he.’ Helen grinned at me.
‘Yes, but it all seemed to go so fast. We hardly spoke to him,’ I responded, spotting a copy of his latest book on the back seat.
‘Oh, Helen, look, I forgot to take this in to get it signed. Wait here, I won’t be long. I have to go back, I really do. That’s what I came for!’
I slammed the car door shut before she had time to answer, almost running in my haste to catch him before he too left the building. I rushed past reception without a word to them, making straight for the lift. I wasn’t even sure which floor we had been on, but my hunch proved to be right and somehow I made it to the Green Room unguided. When I pushed the door open and held out his book as I approached him, I said earnestly, ‘Look, I almost forgot I had this with me. Please will you sign it?’
> He was sitting with Mark and one other man and he pulled a face as he caught sight of the sleeve. ‘I could wish it were another,’ he confessed as Mark made some rude remark about the critics.
‘Oh, well. It’s your latest, so that’s all right,’ I encouraged.
He signed his autograph and the minute he handed the book back to me, I turned to go.
‘Thank you,’ I said, glancing over my shoulder.
In that split second, we held each other’s gaze for the second time; a sense of knowing was between us, but I didn’t know what of.
‘Do you know where to go?’ he asked.
‘Not really is it left and then right, through the swing door? I replied, glancing back again.
‘Left, then straight on,’ he replied.
Instead of turning his eyes from me, he lifted his chin, moving his whole face away as if he couldn’t move just his eyes. The unusual movement made me feel he was sorry to see me go. It will seem fanciful to recall it now, but I was aware of rays of light streaming from his eyes as he looked away, as if electric beams were pulsing from them. I couldn’t understand it then and I can’t explain it now, but it happened. There was a connection that I had never experienced before.
After that, I wrote expressing regret at not having taken the chance to really speak to him and it was at least six months before we were in contact again. Looking back, I can see that he had devised a plan to entrap me in his forthcoming programmes, but at the time I hadn’t the slightest idea of that. I conducted myself like a devoted fan, enjoying nothing more than fan mail to my favourite writer, not knowing his scheming plot to capture my imagination so as to groom me to listen to his every word. Others may say that he was trying to inspire me, but it was much more than that.