Letters to the Editor

by Mo McDonald

  Marian didn’t comment on this at all, but sent a note soon after.

  Dear Jack,

  The ‘Shout All About It’ that you are chairing is being broadcast near me in May. I would love to have tickets. I shall be as quiet as a mouse! I am really happy to be writing to you again.

  Love,

  Marian

  So, she had picked up on the idea I had of hosting a live debate with audience participation. I had waited patiently to chair the programme and had deliberately chosen her area and planned it to fall in the month of May, as another mark of the anniversary of when we first met three years ago. As Freud explained, there is no such thing as coincidence! I had very much hoped she would apply for tickets and felt sure that she would speak to me afterwards. I couldn’t allow myself to send her the tickets, but I asked my secretary to contact the production team’s office and they confirmed that a Mrs Davies had requested two tickets.

  I kept very busy, realising that the only way to keep a cool head was to throw myself into my work. For example, I accompanied the crew to Harrogate because the UK was hosting the Eurovision Song Contest. It was very different from the recordings that we usually went to and it was interesting to see how it was covered. Germany won, which meant that they would be the host nation the next year.

  Marian wrote, but still she didn’t mention whether or not she would be at the live show.

  Dear Jack,

  Melanie telephoned this evening and sparks were coming down the phone as she exploded with horror at the news that the Conservatives have returned to the top of the opinion poll for the first time since late 1979. Mori shows, she said, that they have 43 per cent of the vote, ahead of the SDP–Liberal Alliance. She asks, ‘Have the public gone mad, just because the Royal Marines recaptured South Georgia the other day? Can’t they see that Thatcher only went to war to take their minds off the terrible economic state this country is in?’

  She is turning me into an activist, but only in my head!

  Marian

  I started to obsess, wondering whether she would be accompanied by her husband in May, and I planned to find out where she would be sitting. I wanted to capture her on film; the camera would be turned on the audience, as they put questions to the artists. I had it all planned. I had cast a net and I was within reach of the catch, with a chance to see Marian face-to-face one more time. I felt pleased with myself contemplating this, certain that my scheme would work, and when the evening finally arrived I felt excited. I squeezed my memory, but her face was wiped clean from it.

  A girl with a list was positioned by the entrance, ticking off the names of the people as they arrived. Bob, my driver, agreed to stand as though on guard, listening as each guest announced themselves as they were directed into a waiting room. By the time of admittance into the auditorium, Bob was positioned at the back of the stage near the wings. He watched as they seated themselves, then reported back to me as to the whereabouts of Marian. She was with an elderly grey-haired man. To my annoyance, they were sitting at the back of the stalls, so it would be difficult to get a close-up shot. I might have known that she would keep her distance; the seats weren’t numbered.

  The warm-up went well as I waited to be introduced for what seemed like an eternity, but I relaxed once we were on air. I congratulated myself that I had managed to get Marian out front in a live show. After conducting a correspondence via the television, I now had her sitting out there. I was exhilarated by the thought that soon she would be introducing herself to me. The hour and a half flashed by and I can’t even recall hosting it. I do remember closing the recording with happy anticipation, jumping up the minute the camera was off and running to the edge of the stage in my haste to appear accessible.

  Many people moved up to shake hands and I engaged in brief conversation for a few minutes. When I looked up, the theatre was all but empty, except for the crew and a commissionaire or two. I remember the feeling of disappointment as my eyes searched the empty rows of seats. She was gone.

  A commissionaire walked down the centre aisle and handed an envelope to me. My mouth was dry as I took it. Inside was an A4 white piece of paper and in the very middle, written in her hand, was the word ‘HALLO’. I felt deflated; she had cheated me. I had been so confident, so certain that we would meet. I could hardly believe it. I so wanted to see her face so as to hold its memory. I almost did.

  I didn’t stop to speak to any member of the production team as I jumped from the stage into the stalls. I ran up the centre aisle, out into the foyer and through the front door on to the street. I looked up and down, not knowing which way to dash in my quest to find her, then spotting the multistorey car park I ran like a mad-man, searching every floor in vain. Somehow, I found myself on the platform of the nearby railway station looking intently into each female face as I stumbled along, beside myself with the need to see her.

  I realise now that I would not have known her – and what had I intended to say if I had? ‘Oh, hi. I just happened to be catching the same train as you. I am Jack by the way, remember me? I am totally out of breath from running after you.’

  I was meant to be the intellectual, the man of the world, the man of letters, I would not have wanted Marian to have seen me panting and sweating and behaving like an idiot. She looked to me as her mentor, a cut above the ordinary man. Once the heat of the moment had passed and I was able to think straight again, I was glad not to have caught up with her. My behaviour was further proof that I was, indeed, unstable; I had allowed my obsession to become so out of hand. I felt really ashamed of myself for feeling like a schoolboy – and after all that I had learned from Mr Carl Jung! I had to put it down to my trade as a writer that I was so out of control. That had to be my excuse for allowing my feelings to control my actions. I had to get a grip and to become the master of myself again. I would work on a plan, a strategy to overcome the weak side of my nature. I felt that because I was aware of how ridiculous I had become it would surely help me to rein myself in. I had to remind myself that I was forty-one years old, not fourteen.

  A few days later, I heard from her.

  Dear Jack,

  Hallo, I really enjoyed being at the recording, though I was disappointed that a list of names could have given my presence away. I wanted my note of ‘hallo’ to surprise you at the end. My dear old Dad joined me; we had a pleasant evening. Have you finished your novel? When will it be published? I am not asking questions so as to press you to reply, please know that. Thank you for your article. I was most flattered to receive it.

  Bye,

  Love, Marian

  She referred to an article that I had written on funding, which I had enclosed in my previous letter. I still couldn’t help myself; I had to reply so as to let her know that I had hoped to meet her. This shines a light on the fact that I was not in control, but that she was.

  Dear Marian,

  I am surprised that you didn’t come up and say hallo. It would have been nice to meet your father. I am glad that you are still following the programme, which ends soon, until the autumn. Yes, the first draft of my next novel is complete and should be published a year from now. I am delighted that the article pleased you.

  With kind regards,

  Jack Kelly

  It was true I would have liked to meet Marian’s father because Jung points out that it is the father who influences the woman’s animus, the man within.

  ‘It is he who endows his daughter’s animus with the unarguable, incontestably true convictions that never include the personal reality of the woman as she actually is.’

  Marian must be stopped from developing him too much so as to maintain her softness. I found that women in the media world were losing that side of themselves by moving too much in a masculine environment and being educated above their needs. The essential maternal instincts ought not to be overshadowed in intellectual development, but rather enhanced, in o
rder to keep the woman feminine yet educated.

  MARIAN

  I invited my father to join me at the theatre because I knew that he enjoyed Jack’s novels about Ireland and Robert was busy that evening anyway. We had a nice meal, which my mum cooked before we set off, and I remember being pleased to attend the performance with a feeling of being in control. I was excited to see Jack on the stage but not overwhelmed in any way. Seeing him didn’t set my heart a flutter; in fact, it confirmed the feeling that I had had when speaking to him on the telephone – that we were strangers in reality. I had even gone there prepared with an envelope with his name on the front and a folded sheet of paper inside, with just ‘hallo’ written right in the middle of the page.

  I clearly remember feeling glad to have been, but had no regrets that we had not met. It had been my choice not to approach the stage at the end, even though many fans did. I watched them shake his hand as he stretched down to welcome them. His presence was not the same as the man that I corresponded with. The linking of minds was a different world and I was still in the real world, secure in the knowledge that I was being taken home to my family by my father, who I loved so dearly.

  When we reached my house, it was good to find my mum babysitting in the cosiness of my home. The fact that I had not thrown myself in front of Jack somehow empowered me. Slowly, I became aware of an awakening and a restless urge, of a sense of purpose that was more grown-up and not only within the hub of the family.

  JACK

  So all had not gone totally to plan. I had been certain that she would take the chance to meet me, face-to-face. It was to have been the prelude to a very special piece of work that I was gifting to her. My scheming had been very deliberate; my skills so powerful that I had never doubted them. Then that was to have been the end of this platonic, yet captivating relationship. I had been sure that I would have secured her image clearly in my head, before sending her on her merry way. That was not to be.

  The end of another season of televised programmes followed quickly and I had commissioned a delightful little film, which was very special. It was planned as a fond farewell and supposed to further mark the third anniversary of when Marian and I first met. The year before, if you recall, I had the opera Lucia di Lammamoor as a gift to her, in all its grandeur and theatrical splendour. This time, I was aiming at something a little simpler in order to get my message across and to bring our relationship to a close. The season had been planned with this in mind and, as I have mentioned, much thought went into the programmes long before they went on air each week.

  I knew exactly what I was aiming at, even though I had digressed. When I say it was simpler, it was, but hidden within the symbols of the dream world, the garden is where the imagination grows and blossoms. I made use of a film clip from a silent movie with music playing in the background. In a flower-filled garden, a pretty young woman listens to a young man, who asks her if she remembers when they first met. ‘Do you remember?’ he asks, as she looks shyly away. ‘Do you remember?’ Still she doesn’t reply. The young man implores her to recall how earnestly he needs her and how she had loved him so much, but that he really had to go in order to save them both. I edited the programme with the subtitles written across the screen as he mimed his words with passion.

  I felt a little nervous as the pictures and subtitles were broadcast across the air; once again, I had used another artist to speak for me, even though in silence. I hoped Marian would understand that it was from me to her. She would have to think carefully about what was really happening. As the music started, the young woman appeared and sat in the garden, to be later joined by a handsome stranger. Something worried her and what it was would hopefully be revealed. Marian would have to concentrate very hard. It was full of Freud’s dream symbols, showing how a woman must listen to her animus so as to find her whole self. At first, she is frightened by what she finds within herself and wants to hide it, but slowly she faces the truth and welcomes what she sees there. Over the last few years, in my work, I had been trying to show Marian how to achieve the insight to develop the animus; the man within. The old 1920s film conveyed this so well without a word being spoken.

  I waited anxiously to hear from her and two days later a large card arrived. The picture was of a young woman surrounded by beautiful flowers in her garden. Inside, she wrote:

  Dear Jack,

  May I really believe that Saturday’s programme was contrived on my behalf? Dare I be so conceited? I enjoyed every minute of it, but is it not too presumptuous to even say thank you? How clever you are! How wicked! How naughty! How nice! I had to work hard on analysing the programme to work out what the symbolism was all about. Thank you for helping me to cultivate my own garden.

  Love to you,

  Marian.

  PS ‘There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead; when she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad, she was horrid.’ My dad used to recite that to me… Bye, M

  In my work as a writer and editor, I constantly looked at the dictionary of dreams which quoted the following: GARDEN: ‘The inner life of the individual with its flowers and fruits. Aspects of his/her personality that he/she is cultivating. The various qualities of the dreamer’s mind may be represented and the dream may indicate what is being neglected. The colours of the flowers, for example, could indicate the senses, the feelings, the intellect or the intuitions. The garden may be orderly or disorderly; and so may the mind. If it is arranged in regular patterns, squares or circles. If it is overgrown with brambles or choked with weeds; certain features of the character are not likely to thrive in such circumstances. If the garden is unkempt, this may reflect the dreamer’s former disappointments and fear of disappointment.’

  Marian had understood. I felt pleased and at the same time guilty because I had calculated everything, using her to add meaning to my work. I’d had a great time at her expense, which was why I had tried to distance myself by suggesting that she stop writing to me. As I explained, she was good for my creative career; I could only be good for her if she could rid herself of any romantic idea that she might have about me. My intended plan was for her to realise that she was to stand alone after that little silent movie was shown. I hadn’t thought long term or that she might have a problem shaking herself free of me, or that I too would have become so involved.

  The season ended with a fittingly gloomy reflection to my mood, as poetry of the darker side of the human condition was read. My beautiful experiment had a flaw, just like reality, and I had to admit that playing with another person’s life had been a selfish indulgence, but in many ways I was not responsible for her magnetic mind. How could I have known from the start how successful my experiment would be?

  MARIAN

  Early in June, I found myself sitting in the garden with pen and paper. To my own surprise, I found some words to string together. I remember that it was a beautiful summer’s day and I had felt inspired by an energy in its brightness…

  ‘Sitting under the willow tree thinking about my life;

  What it is to be somebody’s Mother, somebody’s wife.

  It is fine to have brought forth children to cherish and to care;

  But at times it is so demanding I ask ‘what am I doing there?’

  The ‘I’ that is me is often very much aware of the Self that must remain hidden.

  Please let me realise my freedom through my soul and through my brain,

  The body must be a prisoner but the mind needs no ball, no chain.

  The wife faithful and domestic, the Mother kind though an autocrat;

  The Self lives in the imagination – nobody owns that.

  In my imagination I tackle amazing feats, my pursuit of excellence unending as I discover the man in my streets.’

  For some reason, I sent it off to Jack, like a child proud of her homework, adding, ‘Please excuse my ind
ulgent little ditty; the beauty of this day must have gone to my head. M’

  JACK

  It was bittersweet to see her developing her verse; my brainchild was growing under my guidance. Her verse, though far from good, was not bad at all. I had groomed her, not knowing that the internet would one day be available to many to do far worse things than me. It was a bonus for all the solitary hours I had spent creating an artist out of my own Art.

  Although off the air for the summer, I had plenty to do in preparation for the next season, but the peculiar relationship between Marian and I was far more compelling, as I’ve said, than any normal affair. I had always valued the life within my head far more than reality. I played the role expected of me, chance had seen to that, but at the same time I hugged my fantasy to me. I dwelt on it; she was no more than a thought away; her letters keeping me going, as a draught to a flame. The end had not taken place, as I had assumed it would. I had expected the final curtain and to bow out with the close of the silent movie. That it would be done and dusted, but we were both in too deep for that. I was in the lucky position of being able to sneak off to write whenever the urge came over me. Never before had words flowed so easily from my pen. Every so often I read and reread the wave of letters that had flooded in from Marian over the years. As I wrote, it was her voice that whispered in my ear and I had already decided on the next title, so as to please her.