Letters to the Editor

by Mo McDonald

  Just before we went on air the next week, the news headline was that unemployment had reached 2,680,977. It was a shocking fact of life at the time. I remember sitting at home, that evening, waiting for the programme to follow, thinking that opera was very much out of the pockets of most working people. We featured a selection of operas, including the meaning of the very human relationship between Nero and Poppea, who adulterously chained themselves together. I edited the recording of “L’Incoronazione di Poppea” so as to send a special message to Marian, confident that she would understand.

  The next Tuesday morning, a card arrived and on the front was printed:

  ‘WHAT LIES BEHIND US AND WHAT LIES BEFORE US ARE TINY MATTERS COMPARED TO WHAT LIES WITHIN US.’

  Inside, she simply wrote.

  Dear Jack,

  How beautiful the farewell programme was, thank you.

  Love,

  Marian

  JACK

  It took a few more days before my scheming was rewarded, when finally she rang my office and my secretary put her through.

  ‘Hallo,’ I answered in a friendly tone.

  ‘Hallo, did I get myself in a twist again?’ she asked.

  ‘You did a bit but it doesn’t matter,’ I commented in a casual fashion.

  ‘I was sorry to let the side down,’ she confessed, obviously feeling that she was mistaken to think that I wanted her to phone me!

  ‘That’s all right, I don’t mind.’ I tried to sound as if I forgave her foolishness.

  ‘I desperately wanted to say hallo. I was fine and then suddenly I went haywire about rings and bells and all sorts!’

  ‘It comes and goes like that, doesn’t it? You seem to be able to pull yourself out of it very well though,’ I encouraged her.

  ‘Yes, I can, with your help,’ she replied.

  ‘I do very little, I think,’ I said.

  ‘You do a lot,’ she assured me.

  ‘I don’t always reply, but it doesn’t always seem I need to,’ I suggested.

  ‘I understand. I understand that. I never want to be a pest,’ she stressed.

  ‘I don’t think of you as a pest. It is very kind of you to follow the programme so closely. I really appreciate it,’ I said, in all honesty.

  ‘That’s good,’ she all but whispered.

  A silence followed and then she said, ‘Now that I have got to the phone, I don’t know what to say. I feel nervous.’ There was a pause. ‘What are you up to?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going to a pop concert tonight; we might film Tony Bennett later for the show.’ I thought this might impress her.

  ‘That’s nice,’ was all she said.

  ‘Are you still reading as much?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m really enjoying it.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I replied. I broke into the pause that followed, ‘I’ll speak to you again sometime.’

  ‘All right, goodbye,’ she agreed.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I added.

  She replaced the receiver first and I was left with the lonely sound of the line in my ear. I had wanted to say more but couldn’t allow myself to. In order to keep my head, I had to keep my distance. To dwell on the thought of her helped my creative ability, any closer and the relationship would have destroyed both my marriage and my individuation. I had to remain the master and she the slave if my plan was to proceed. I knew by saying that I would speak to her again sometime, I would cast the spell that would keep her my captive. I had an idea for a novel and intended to see what I could make of it during the coming break.

  Today it is hard to imagine a world without instant communication. Facebook, Twitter, smartphones, iPads etc. have made it possible to conduct a virtual relationship at a simple click. I do wonder whether Marian would have been content with the slow process of letter writing had we struck up a platonic friendship in this electronic age. We were both from a bygone world when the gap between communications made the experience even more intense because the imagination had time and therefore exercised like a muscle. Thoughts were given time to grow and to be nurtured in the space that time demanded. My use of the television was also coloured by the time that I spent editing, alone with my thoughts. It was a very different technology, not at all like the interactive kind today. I wasn’t in danger of being defamed by social media in the eighties!

  Time passed by in that summer and our family holiday was blighted because my wife developed food poisoning and I had to keep the twins occupied on the beach, away from the holiday hotel, so as to give her the space to recover. I did my bit but the writer in me was more than anxious to get back to my old routine, so as to be alone with my thoughts and my next novel, now that my non-fiction was finished. I needed to let my thoughts move the pen so as to live the life within, which was much more real to me than the everyday business of living.

  I realised that perhaps I could never be happy married to any woman; it was the situation, not the woman. The artist’s life for me was everything. My wife was very predicable so I suppose I was attracted to Marian’s imagination, which matched mine any day. It was like having a playmate, having Marian in my life; someone who would come out to play and join in the pretence. Grown-ups forget that they once enjoyed that part of the mind that so easily conjures up a world different from their own. That is why art is so important to me: the artist can create the world of make believe and move within it to his or her heart’s delight.

  I had time to read the newspapers thoroughly each day, while keeping an eye on the children. I would sit facing them as they made sandcastles and paddled, but as I read of the horror that was besieging cities up and down the country, it was as if I was reading about a foreign land rather than the UK I inhabited. I’ll give you an example of what I read. I am not making this up; I kept a diary note of the shocking daily headlines at the time because I was so stunned by it all.

  The Toxteth riots break out in Liverpool and the British police use CS gas for the first time. Riots also break out in cities up and down the country. Forty-three people are charged with theft and violent disorder following a riot in Wood Green, North London. Inner-city rioting continues when a riot in Moss Side, Manchester, sees more than 1,000 people besiege the local police station. Rioting breaks out in Woolwich, London. Further rioting all over Bradford and West Yorkshire. Margaret Thatcher announces that the police may use rubber bullets, water cannons and armoured vehicles against urban rioters. The new Labour Party leader, Michael Foot, lays the blame for the rioting on the Conservative Government’s economic policies, which had seen unemployment rise by 70 per cent in the last two years.

  All of that had happened within the month of July, in just one month! One bit of good news that I noted was that the BBC had appointed the twenty-nine-year-old Moira Stuart as the first black newsreader. That was a good step forward in my industry.

  After the holiday, I called in to the office to go through some correspondence with my secretary concerning the next season’s agenda. She had filtered out my personal mail; as I have mentioned, I had quite a lot of fan mail in those days, most of which I answered. I was pleased to see Marian’s handwriting amongst them, although I was annoyed by its content.

  Dear Jack,

  Today I was sitting happily on a south coast beach looking through the newspapers and there was mention of you and a woman they said you like to be seen with. I felt sick, really sick. Please be honest with me if you are having an affair. Please tell me, I could not bear to write to you if you are. If you are, I would need you to pull all the plugs out and leave me to be alone in my self’s cell.

  Bye,

  Marian

  Another letter was also waiting, which she had written soon after.

  Dear Jack,

  I ought to learn a lesson from Gerard Manley Hopkins…

  ‘My own heart let me have more pity on; Let me live to my s
ad self hereafter kind, charitable; Not live this tormented mind with this tormented mind tormenting yet. Etc. Etc…’

  Wordsworth’s ‘Thoughts too deep for tears…’ is also beautiful.

  I am enjoying your articles in the Radio Times.

  Bye once again.

  Please think of me.

  Marian

  I had but a few minutes to dictate a message before dashing to Gatwick, but I felt compelled to answer her.

  Dear Marian,

  I was passing through the office en route to the airport. I intend working and writing in Ireland and I read your very sad card. There was a bit of silly gossip in the tabloids and, if I were you, I would not give it another thought. I hope that you are in good form and having a happy summer. We will be back on the air in the late autumn and I hope you enjoy the programmes then.

  With best wishes,

  Yours sincerely,

  Jack

  I hoped that would put her mind at rest and encourage her. I was angry about the gossip concerning myself and a woman writer. We often worked together, we liked each other that is true, but no more than if she were a male colleague. That sort of publicity really annoyed me.

  Then, before August was out, the tenth hunger striker died in the Maze prison; it was the day before I was interviewed about my book Ireland – A New Nation. Southern Ireland had a new second television channel, RTE Two, and one of their up-and-coming presenters gave me the chance to put forward my point of view. I mention this here because it has a bearing on Marian’s correspondence and I kept a recording of the following…

  The interviewer lifted the book and showed it to the viewers, saying to me:

  ‘This is your book Ireland – A New Nation, published in the past couple of months. I read it recently and I have to say that I was mesmerised by it and just couldn’t put it down. Got through it in about four days, in fact. So, for anyone who has not read it yet, the book deals with Ireland in the twentieth century. There is an amazing account of the Easter Rising in 1916 and the book takes us through the Troubles and eventually into the last few years.’

  I gave a half-smile and nodded. The interviewer carried on:

  ‘This is the first book that you have written that deals with Ireland and the Irish. Anyone who reads this book will probably ask the question: Who is the real Jack Kelly? Is he the darling of London’s literati or is the real Jack Kelly a fervent Irish nationalist? Or does Jack Kelly see himself as a citizen of the world? I have the feeling that Jack Kelly is a nationalist, someone who loves Ireland. But, at the same time, there is a sense that he does not have a great deal of time for the modern-day IRA. Would that be right?’

  I nodded, smiled and leaned towards him.

  ‘First, let me correct you, I have been writing about the Irish for years in my novels, but this is my first non-fiction account of Ireland and its people. I was calling it A History of Ireland until I realised that it is about recent history, hence the title Ireland – A New Nation. But yes. You can call me an Irish nationalist if you wish. If I had been a young man in Ireland in 1916, what would I have done? Of course, it’s easy for me to say it now, but I am fairly sure that I would have been involved in the fight for Irish independence. It was an armed struggle, a rebellion, and I believe it was justified.

  However, the other elephant in the room was, and is, partition – a major mistake in my opinion. The British government’s idea to divide Ireland into two countries, a Catholic state and a Protestant state, does not make much sense to me. But I have to say that there is a difference between what happened then and what is going on now. Then, Ireland was a country going through a rebellion. We had 1916 and another seven or eight years of fighting, but those Irish nationalists or republicans – whatever name you want to give them – what they were doing was fighting for an independent Ireland. If we move forward to the present day and the new people, the Provisional IRA, it’s quite different now. These people are using bombs to make a point. Bombs! So what do we know about bombs? They kill people. This is using terrorism to make a political point. I don’t want to see British soldiers being killed and I don’t want to see police officers killed, and I don’t want to see anyone else killed or maimed.’

  The interviewer cut in: ‘So, basically, we are back to the old adage, “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.” Let’s face it, a lot of Irish people support them.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But talking to people in Ireland I have the sense that there is not as much support for the IRA as you might think. Most Irish people accept that Northern Ireland exists. It’s there and it’s an entity. They may refer to it as ‘the six counties’, but they know it’s a bit more than that. They don’t necessarily like it. Yes, there is discrimination against nationalists in the North. But the North is there and it’s likely to remain part of the UK. Maybe not in the long term, because things change and it might not exist in another hundred years or so. However, it seems that the majority of people in the North see themselves as British rather than Irish. The bottom line is that here in the 1980s the IRA are not going to change opinions by using bombs and bullets. It’s not going to happen that way.’

  The interview went along those lines and it did help to promote my book. Of course, we had no idea of what was to come and that the Good Friday Peace Agreement would actually happen in 1998. At the time of talking, it had seemed an impossible achievement.

  That summer, in the early eighties, turned to autumn and my family allowed me a fair amount of time to myself and my writing. They could read the signs when I wanted to write and for the best part of a month I got on with it, lost in my world of fiction now that my project on Ireland was launched. Jung’s theory certainly worked well during that period. I gave in to my fantasies, allowing myself to dwell on the idea of Marian, and the creative forces within me flowed over onto the page. He instructed never to imagine a fantasy as anything other than real, so with that thought in mind I explored the possibilities of Marian.

  At the end of each of these writing purges, I usually felt happy to return to my family, having been allowed time to get close to Marian and happy in the knowledge that I could return to my secret inner world when time allowed. But by September, I was well into the feel of the story and felt reluctant to return to our London home. Life had to go on, the children had to return to school after being at their grandparents with Pauline and I had to get back to recording and editing the programme.

  With Marian still in mind, I plotted the theme that should run throughout the season. It was not just my writing that flourished – my work as editor was also helped by thoughts of her. My idea now was to show her how to use her imagination, I had encouraged her to find it, so now I had to get her to use it. Once again, I consulted Jung, who believed that the only way that the masculine side of a woman’s mind could be truly developed was for her to forget all about silly thoughts of love; only then could she hear the important message from her animus. He would be her spiritual guide to a creative being. I had to guide her path away from the gentle loving thoughts of me so as to allow her to develop and to experience individuation, too.

  Carl Jung’s wife, Ema (the German spelling), wrote a very important study on the animus saying:

  ‘What we women have to overcome in our relation to the animus is not pride but lack of self-confidence and the resistance of inertia. For us, it is not as though we had to demean ourselves, but as if we had to lift ourselves.’ (From Animus and Anima, Spring Publications, Dallas, Texas, 1978.)

  And Jung himself wrote:

  ‘Woman is compensated by a masculine element and therefore her unconscious has, so to speak, a masculine imprint. This results in a considerable psychological difference between men and women, and accordingly I have called the projection-making factor in women the animus, which means mind or spirit.’

  I was learning how to guide Marian and I found thi
s in ‘The Syzygy: Anima and Animus,’ Collected Works, 9ii.para.28f.

  JACK

  As the autumn progressed I became very busy, but I was aware that it had been a while since I’d heard from Marian. I was pleased when I did receive a brief note from her, the remarks in it making reference to a script I had written for a film some years earlier. The BBC showed it one evening.

  Dear Jack,

  I could feel that you had written the script for The Beating Heart and I could hardly wait until the end to see if I was right. How beautiful. Also, I am enjoying Brideshead Revisited on the TV. I love the characters and the beautiful setting; I am so glad that it runs until December. Melanie was with me as I watched it and kept talking about the women’s peace camp that has been set up at Greenham Common. I know it’s all very important, but I just wanted to get lost in the story. I did pay attention though when she said that the hunger strike has been called off after seven years. I thank God about that. Oh and Melanie mentioned the reviews about your non-fiction book Ireland –A New Nation. They are very encouraging. I have asked Robert to buy it for me for Christmas.

  Love,

  Marian

  Then, I was pleasantly surprised to receive a postcard on which was the picture of a pile of books being eaten by a worm. I smiled at the sight of this. Enclosed in the envelope was a separate piece of paper with the following Shakespeare’s sonnet written in her hand.