Letters to the Editor

by Mo McDonald

  JACK

  My childhood home in Ireland was the sanctuary that I retreated to whenever I needed to be alone with myself, in order to write. It was my spiritual home and vital to my creative world within. After a while though, it was always good to get back to London for the new season. The Irish countryside was great, but London was the hub of the universe for a programme-maker like me. The planning for each year took place well in advance, so my control over Marian would take some time to implement. I had to be patient and follow a gently, gently approach so as not to arouse suspicion from the team or the viewing public. I was sure that once on air I would hear from Marian; that was the all-important thing, keeping her out there.

  While I was in Ireland, during August, the tragic assassination of the Duke of Edinburgh’s uncle, Lord Mountbatten of Burma, and his nephew and boat boy, by a Provisional IRA bomb took place. Like me, they were on holiday in the Republic of Ireland. It was made even sadder because Mountbatten loved Ireland and its people. Before the month was out, two men were arrested in Dublin and charged with the murders. I was called upon by the BBC to host a radio special on the event during the same month that eighteen British soldiers were also killed in Northern Ireland by IRA bombs. It was a terribly sad time, when the IRA terrorists were very active. Most of the Nationalist population were as horrified as I was and I wanted the British people to understand the Irish situation and to realise that England and Ireland had a very bad history that needed to be put to rest, once and for all. We needed a non-violent, political solution, something that seemed impossible at the time.

  In September I returned to the UK, glad to get back to kick-start the editing of the forthcoming programmes. My good friend Nadia was over from India and popped into the studio. She mentioned that Briton Martin Webster was found guilty of inciting racial hatred; he was from the far right politically at the time. She was on a two-year assignment to London for her local rag because the general unrest within the UK was starting to receive worldwide attention. She had studied in Dublin and was concerned by the problems that were evolving. It was good to see her again as we’d been to debates together, and we shared the love of the British but we also understood the trouble that nationalism could cause.

  Plans were afoot, by the production team, for Godfrey Hounsfield and Allan McLeod Cormack to be portrayed during our new season. They had won jointly the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for ‘The Development of Computer Assisted Tomography’. It wasn’t a subject we would normally cover, but it seemed of interest to some of our viewers at that time. Before I departed to interview them my secretary gave me the currency for my trip to Scandinavia. I was interested to see from my notes that she had ordered more than usual because all remaining foreign exchange controls had just been abolished in the UK. It was significant enough for me to note; before then, only a very limited amount of cash had been allowed out of the country as foreign currency. Prior to this banks had to mark and date the amount in the passport, too.

  A couple of weeks into the programme, my patience paid off!

  Dear Jack,

  It is nice to see you back on the air and I have enjoyed the first three weeks. I’m about to take a short course on how to use a computer. The thought of it interests me but I have no idea what to expect. When I was with you, a member of your team asked for possible features to cover and as I am lost in the beautiful English of D. H. Lawrence’s The Rainbow, I thought how interesting it would be if you were to explain Lawrence the man. Richard Aldington’s introduction, at the front of the book, is all I know of his life, but there must be lots to tell concerning the persecution that was inflicted on him. Somerset Maugham, another of my favourite writers, would also make an interesting subject. And what about the new pop group calling themselves Spandau Ballet, and Elton John who was the first musician to visit the Soviet Union from the West in May this year? The list is never-ending of the artists from A–Z you could interview. So exciting! How nice it would be if my favourite living writer would sum some of them up. It’s just a thought.

  Best wishes,

  Marian Davies

  PS It is good that The Times is being published again after nearly a year, so the dispute between management and unions, over staffing levels and new technology, must be over. I might find you in it any day now! M

  I waited about five weeks, until just before Christmas, to reply. My plan was that she would be eager to receive word from me and that her anticipation would mean she would follow the programmes intently. I hoped she would be waiting for a sign that I was still thinking of her and that she would then look forward to the next series that I was fine-tuning.

  Dear Marian Davies,

  Thank you for your letter and kind comments. It is good to receive your ideas.

  Best wishes for Christmas and the New Year.

  Yours sincerely,

  Jack

  I wanted to hold her attention, but would keep my replies formal – let my art speak for itself in good time. The programmes continued and I heard no more from her until near the end of February when she just sent a card congratulating me on the compliments that I was receiving and on a book award I’d won. Then, my latest book was published; I knew that she had a hard copy of my previous novel and I hoped that she would purchase one this time. The paperback would not be out for at least another year. I waited…

  Dear Jack,

  Once again I am sad because I have finished another of your books, Birth Place. It gave me much pleasure, thank you. I am amazed by the way you understand people, young and old, the good and the not so good. I think that I would be afraid of you, that you would know my next move, before I did.

  Visiting the West End last week, I was surprised to realise that one whole year has passed since my enjoyable visit to the studio. How quickly time goes by. I meant to mention earlier that the only item that did not ring true in Birth Place was the fabric of Helena’s underwear; satin is not often seen these days in everyday underwear. Man-made fabric is a lot cheaper. No charge for that piece of useless information!

  Please let me know when to look forward to your next publication.

  Love from,

  Marian Davies

  I wanted to show her that I was pleased to get this friendly little note, so I replied by using her first name, even though she still signed her surname. I wanted to gain her confidence because I had an idea for the next season. So, I instructed my secretary to use my personal letter heading, which included my direct line and number.

  Dear Marian,

  I am genuinely delighted that you enjoyed Birth Place. It’s lovely of you to comment on my books and to give me little tips. The fact that you remember your visit to see me is very pleasing.

  Best wishes,

  Yours sincerely,

  Jack Kelly

  It pleased me to send this to reach her on the anniversary of when we’d met. I had noted the precise day. I was biding my time behind the show, careful not to alert the team to my hidden meanings. Playing with visual clips and edited words, so as to send gentle suggestions to the unsuspecting Marian. I was like the hypnotist who knows that his participant is in the real world while their subconscious is spoken to directly. I needed to perfect my skill patiently, without rushing, until I knew for sure that Marian was in the willing state of trance. She had to want a hidden message for it to work and work I was determined that it would, given time. A year had come and gone since we had met and I had already planted the idea in her head that anything can be whatever we want it to be, if we use our imagination.

  During the summer, once again, I embedded myself in Ireland. Our old castle had once belonged to an English landowner whose family had been given a title and land for favours to Queen Elizabeth I of England. The family moved out of Ireland back in the 1960s, leaving the cold building to fall into rack and ruin. It suited my wife Pauline and me when I bought it after deciding on some re
novation work. We realised that I would have plenty of space to write in one of the old towers and she and the children could relax in the rambling old place during the holidays each year. I flew backwards and forwards to London, to arrange interviews that were to be shown once the autumn series started. I had plenty of time to plan my path into Marian’s mind as I made notes on how I would edit the forthcoming programmes so as to continue to tickle her ear.

  When I returned to the office after the summer break, a card was on my desk. On the front was a printed commercial verse.

  RECEIVING YOUR LETTER GAVE ME MUCH PLEASURE,

  ALTHOUGH YOU NEVER SEE ME AND

  ALTHOUGH I SELDOM WRITE TO YOU

  I HAVE WRITTEN A THOUSAND LETTERS

  TO YOU IN MY THOUGHTS.

  Inside, she had written…

  ‘I could not resist!’

  Bye, Marian

  PS Keep safe. The BBC coverage of the SAS storming the Iranian Embassy in Knightsbridge was scary. Imagine, they killed five of the six terrorists and freed all the hostages. It was like watching a Bond movie! I had never seen live news coverage like that before.

  There was no more communication until late September. In the meantime, I was busy with the next season’s agenda. I intended, or should I say hoped, to really make her use her imagination. It is every artist’s dream to be able to prove his/her worth by inspiring another to become creative – a ‘brainchild’, you might say. If I could get her to follow my train of thought, who knew what she might be capable of? I had to try.

  MARIAN

  Unrest was very real in the UK and yet I continued to live in the comfort of a loving marriage and a happy family. Looking back, I feel very self-indulgent for the experience that I paved for myself; along the path, the yellow brick road was leading to the wizard. I was unsuspecting that he was, in fact, a wizard of the imagination, who had every intention of stirring up his cauldron of spells in his cutting room.

  When I think of the violent protests on the streets of this country during that time, I am filled with bewilderment that I didn’t take more notice of what was going on in society. Melanie was constantly telling me about the rioting that was happening throughout the country and she and Robert were very animated during 1981 when the whole of England seemed besieged with riots in cities from the North to the South. It is only as I look back that I wonder whether I was deliberately ignoring the hardship of the unemployed and the racial prejudices that were happening, so as to keep us secure as a family unit. Or was I so selfish that it didn’t matter to me? In my world, I only ever knew about the situation if I bothered to tune in to the evening news coverage or picked up an occasional newspaper, or listened to Robert and his sister talking it over. I was shocked by people having to live in fear of the bombs from the IRA, and hunger strikers dying for a cause they believed in. But I wasn’t affected by the horror of it all and I was cushioned from the public spending cuts and racial hatred, not to mention the workers fighting to keep their jobs. I lived in a local land of plenty; I wanted for nothing in my make-believe world, where I was corresponding with Jack. I seem to have been a Stepford wife and mother in reality. How did I do it. How was I so sheltered? I know that I had the security of Robert to thank for that and my parents, who wrapped me in cotton wool and encouraged me to believe in my safe world. My mother always said that I was born lucky and that it was better to be born lucky than rich.

  My family was my whole life. I was not seeking to change my life, but to add colour to the life I already had. I didn’t even know that was what I was doing, but events will prove this to be true. I was innocent and naïve, from a world unrecognisable now. Convent-educated, when nuns were nuns and girls like me were protected from the harsh reality of life. I lived in a fairy-tale bubble and even though I was married with four children, I had no idea of the dark side of most people’s lives. Being an only child, privately educated and brought up on Hollywood movies in the fifties, I didn’t realise that I was taking on one of the intellects of my time. Jack Kelly, I was told, was a brilliant man and I treated him as such until I found out he had feet of clay. I hadn’t realised I was being daring. I acted in a childlike way, which felt so acceptable, having no idea of the consequences of my actions at all. I had no way of knowing what would happen.

  I did know that I was being drawn more and more to him and I marvelled in the fact he seemed to like hearing from me. My family knew that I was sending the odd fan mail, but I didn’t even mention Jack to Helen again. He was not in my day-to-day life. I zoned in on the evenings when he was on air and I got lost in the subjects that he was interviewing or talking about, and I did feel very close to him when reading his written word. I must admit I did wonder that he bothered with me, but I assumed that many other fans were getting his attention, too. He had a high profile when television was well and truly in its heyday, and the nation was becoming more and more aware of him as a celebrity. I liked the fact that he was on a pedestal, safely out of reach and no danger to my marriage. I felt safe and just a little bit privileged.

  I couldn’t resist sending the card that seemed to say it all, but then I went quiet for three or four months after sending it. The tabloids had run an article on him at the start of the summer and his wife had given a few statements about the family home being in Ireland each summer. I found myself thinking of his fiction and that close feeling that he had of the land and the people of Ireland, and I understood that it was his Irish roots and love of the country that I related to in his books.

  The fact that he was born in Ireland and knew of the things I treasured from my childhood, and that his family were from the same sort of farming stock as mine, had everything to do with why I was so drawn to his writing. My father had filled my imagination, as a little girl, with his stories from his homeland. Having been born in London and having a parent from another country, I found it very intoxicating and I delighted in tales about daddy’s childhood and nonsenses such as the fact that the sun always shone in Ireland. All I knew of then was the hustle and the bustle of city life and I thrilled at the sound of his Irish accent while sitting on his big lap, as he whispered sweet nothings into my ear. The contrast between his childhood and mine in London meant that he need make nothing up and he instilled in me a fondness of his land that I will wear in my heart for ever.

  Arles, where my father was born, is about five miles outside the town of Carlow. It is on high ground, built on a ridge. It is not a pretty village, but it does overlook very pretty farmland and the river Barrow runs beneath it, in the meadows below. The river acts as a boundary between County Carlow and County Laois. Although Arles is not within the county of Carlow, Carlow was the town that serviced it. Today, in a car, the town of Portlaoise is easily accessible, being only fourteen miles away. Back then, it made sense to trade in and with the local town. In my father’s day, the railway was vital to the prosperity of the town and played an exciting part in country people’s lives. He told me that the daily newspapers arrived from Dublin on the 8am train and that he could recall there had been trains going up and down to the capital at 8, 10 and 12 in the mornings and later at 3, 6 and 9pm. He said that it was great on a summer’s evening to walk behind the church and wait with a group of boys for the train, with its trail of smoke waving through the countryside, to appear in the valley below. He was able to see the train as it left Maganey station heading towards Carlow, bringing home day-trippers from Dublin, after a football match or a demonstration. Standing there amongst the gravestones, he said, was a wonderful experience that might not be imagined today. His mind was entertained as if watching a film, with the landscape in the distance below and the Wicklow Mountains in the background. The seasons appeared as if in a film with the weather setting the scene.

  I could tell that was the spot that inspired his imagination, causing him to eventually leave home for a foreign shore, the promise of adventure, in a world waiting to swallow him up in its vastness. H
e had no means of seeing the world beyond that point. Television had not been invented and the only radio was owned by Father Lawlor, the parish priest. Father Lawlor had cut down the branches from a tree and fixed a wire to run from it to the window of the presbytery, thus making an aerial for his battery-operated transmitter.

  ‘That was the first time I heard English accents from across the sea!’ he told me.

  He had often mentioned little things like that; he was pleased that Ireland had become prosperous, but he liked to remember the world that he had known when life was simple and the seasons mattered. It was a time when people cared about each other, and manners and respect were everything. He had lived all his life as a gentle man, despite the bursts of temper he had never quite learned to control. He had believed that manners maketh man (and woman, in particular). He was a good father and I had grown up always wanting to please him.

  We had spent many magical summer holidays in Ireland during the 1950s. The Ireland of that era had not changed much from the way it had been at the beginning of the twentieth century. My relatives, all prosperous farmers, still didn’t have electricity or running water. Many of the benefits of the twentieth century had not reached out much further than Dublin. As a Londoner, I found all of that exciting. I felt as if I were in a novel and that life had stood still especially for me to experience it. To me, the country that my father had come from was full of mystery and romance.

  He had been very proud of the fact that his was one of the leading families in the fertile farming land just south of Dublin. He was shy when telling me this though, as if he had no right to put labels on the likes of farm labourers or the postman. He would say there was the priest, the teacher, the wealthy farm owners and the doctor, who was the only car owner; the rest were working class. We must remember that in 1911, when he was born, village life was very class-conscious and money and land were deferred to. Neither the First World War nor the Russian Revolution had started then, both of which brought about huge changes in society. He came from a place called Arles and his words painted as colourful a picture in my head as Vincent Van Gough did with his paints; he too lived in a town of the same spelling, in the South of France.