by Mo McDonald
‘Please, Robert, wait until tomorrow and see what comes in the post. I found out what he was doing and I rang his wife to tell him to post my letters back. You will see then that I am right. I have been used as a psychological experiment and I’m sorry for letting you down, but I haven’t behaved as he is suggesting, I promise.’
I could tell by the look on his face that he doubted my sanity. The hurt in his eyes showed that he was disappointed in me. The more I talked and tried to justify my behaviour, the more crazy I sounded. I felt close to tears and very afraid because I never wanted anything to happen to my marriage. I knew that I sounded like a ranting woman who had been compromised by a respected TV personality. Robert and I had a good life and we trusted each other. I was full of regret that I had caused a possible rift between us. I had felt so safe in my secret world, where I believed I wasn’t hurting anybody. Now it had all gone so terribly wrong and I was mortified. I had to make him believe that I was the victim – my letters were my only hope. I had to believe that Jack would honour my request to return them so that I could put them alongside his. But, of course, I didn’t have the edited programmes with the hidden meanings, too. How, oh how, would I explain that?
The next day, a large brown A4 envelope was delivered, addressed to me in bold capital letters. My correspondence was inside but no letter accompanied it. I waited nervously all day for Robert to arrive home so as to show it to him. I was sure that everything would be all right once he could see that I was telling the truth about asking for my letters back. However, when he saw how intimate the letters from me were, he was very annoyed and said that they were sexual and he didn’t like the way that I had pursued Jack. I said that I was truly sorry and that I had become too involved without intending to. He said that he would have to think it all over and we left it at that.
It was then I realised that without the cleverly edited programmes I had no way of convincing Robert or anyone what Jack had been up to. It had been such a clever psychological game that he had played, like a magician – not even the slight of hand could detect the hidden meaning. It had required years of grooming to achieve what he had achieved. How could I explain that I had been the attentive ear of the trained mind, radicalised by the master of illusions? The more I tried to explain, the more ridiculous I sounded.
Because of my voyage around the shelves in the library, I had made an enemy of Jack. I had understood his very soul and I had been foolish enough to let him know it. It was not until we both turned on each other that I saw Jack as a real flesh and blood person; before then, I had held him high on a pedestal. He had pulled me close to him, made me admit my own nature and then pushed me away. He had amused himself with me and then abused me.
Maybe the great man of letters was afraid of himself; afraid of his true feelings, unable to relate to anyone, except on paper, in fiction. And now he had betrayed me. I became too close even for his scheming plan. It was as though he thought I had stolen that secret part of him and that I would bring him down. I longed to confront him and to demand an explanation of why he had been so cruel; why he had thought that he could ruin my life by contacting my husband. Of course, the famous Jack Kelly had once again been very clever, though. His letter accusing me of being insane and a pest meant that I had no option but to sever all contact with him for fear of confirming his allegations.
I have explained before that I had held Jack in my imagined world. I had kept him deep down in that secret part of my mind, as a sort of guardian angel who kept my thoughts company. A comfort blanket of the mind. And instead of running the material through my fingers, I had allowed my mind to ponder on him like a hypnotic CD. The pain and torment I was experiencing had been all the more real because he was in my imagined world. Had he been in my real world, I could have forgotten him in next to no time. I have read that an affair of the flesh can be a beautiful thing, but soon it can become a mere habit – a thing apart from one’s Self. A spiritual affair, being right inside one’s head, must be very much a part of one’s very being. It must be an extension of the Self, I suppose.
As soon as I had been exposed to Robert, it was as though the drip had been removed from my veins. No longer could I run my life with energy, safe in the knowledge that all was well. We had talked and talked constantly for days after Jack’s letter and the more I had pleaded my case, the more judgmental he had been. He just couldn’t see that Jack could be wrong in any way. The celebrity world of television was held with deference and those within the BBC above question. The trouble was that I wasn’t some silly groupie flocking to Top of the Pops or the like; I was a married woman with a family and Robert could only see me as a foolish housewife with nothing better to do than to worship a television idol. That was how he saw it at the time. It was easier to believe me unhinged than to recognise that I had a need that was beyond domestic bliss. Bringing up a family was very demanding and I had innocently indulged myself, not realising that I was being entrapped. How pathetic I found myself; reason told me how lucky I was to have such a devoted husband. That had been why I had been so content to fantasise about Jack. Jung’s advice had served Jack well, but how had it helped me?
The shock of betrayal from Jack and the task of trying to convince Robert left me like a broken fuse, useless without any spark. I functioned as usual but Robert was obviously worried about me, because one morning I came down to breakfast to find the following note from him.
Darling Marian,
If your present state gets worse, don’t hesitate to call me. I am on duty. We need to talk later. I have decided it would be for the best if we get some outside help as Mr Jack Kelly suggested. You have been very strange since his letter to me. I am genuinely concerned about you and your behaviour is making me think that he was telling the truth in that you do need help regarding your mental state.
Robert
I had made a complete mess of my life whilst trying to be both informed and trusted. I had handled the situation so very badly; justice had been done and fate had turned on me. If Robert left me, what would become of the family that I had always wanted to protect? In my mind, I had craved a romantic illusion, but what was my life about if not to have and to bring up my children? The humiliation of having my family doubt me was more than I could bear. I loved my children and surely they needed me just as much as I needed them. Robert had taken our children away to stay with his parents for the weekend and it frightened me. Carl Jung had encouraged me to recognise my fantasy in a man of words, but to learn and to grow from it, so as to be independent. I knew that I didn’t want freedom from my marriage, just independence of knowledge, and I wanted to find a way back to my well-ordered life with Robert.
I spent the day thinking over all that had gone on in my head over the past few years and I was ashamed that I had been so naïve and yet, in a strange way, very bold. I seemed to have been two very different people. Suddenly, it was clear to me; I knew what I had to do. Melanie had left a voice message on the answerphone reminding me that the book group was hosting a ‘Meet the Author’ event that she was chairing. As the details clearly came back to me, an idea formed itself in my head and I made my way on the bus to the modern community centre where the library was. I was a bit unsteady and I am sure that I looked anything but my normal self as people nodded or called out a friendly acknowledgment. But I was clear-headed enough to focus on my thoughts as I sipped a mug of coffee. I kept myself to myself as I looked about the gathering. What seemed like an hour later Melanie, spotted me.
‘Hi, Marian. Nice to see you, you look tired though, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, you?’
She chatted away, trying to encourage me to join her latest campaign and I was glad of the chance to just listen. I looked anxiously around for our guest speaker who was going to talk about his latest book. When he arrived, and after thanking us for coming, he explained that he had spent the past two years on his new publication about a relationship be
tween a hedge fund manager and one of his female clients, who got a bit too close for comfort and was instrumental in his downfall.
From being very tired, I suddenly became energised. I stood up and started to challenge him on how he had sourced his information and asked if he had based his fiction around a real-life situation. I questioned him on his psychology and asked whether he had been inspired by any particular woman. Surely, I suggested, he must have used a muse to write so emotionally about a woman in an intimate way. And how did he treat his fans? Did he lure them on allowing them to be infatuated by him? I was on a neurotic roll and I wouldn’t shut up. Every time he tried to pleasantly answer me, I pushed him more. I started to become hysterical and very aggressive, refusing to sit down until, finally, Melanie and Beth, the librarian, forcibly walked me out of the row that I was supposed to be sitting in, demanded that I please be quiet and showed me the door.
‘I am not to be trusted. I know that. Robert doesn’t trust me; I don’t even trust myself… No, get away from me. Leave me alone, I want to be alone!’ I screamed at them, shocking them into closing the door behind me as I fell into the corridor.
Once outside the library, I started to cry and it took me a few minutes to do my coat up as I stumbled along, keeping my head down as I walked. It was not until I found myself falling down from above the bonnet of a car that I realised I had been hit when crossing the road. As I fell towards the windscreen, I saw the terrified look on the driver’s face. The disbelief of seeing me falling onto the window like a limp scarecrow, out of the darkness of the night, must have seemed unreal because it happened so fast. As the brakes screeched to a dramatic stop, the impact caused me to bounce onto the road, just in front of the bonnet. A young man jumped out of the car as I tried to get up.
‘No, please lie down; don’t move while I call for an ambulance. You might have broken something. Don’t move.’
As I tried to get up, he called to a passerby, imploring her to keep me still on the ground, for fear of further damage to my body.
‘Please, stay on the road. The ambulance will be here soon. Let them check you out before you start moving.’
I ignored the instructions from them both, but as I got to my feet a terrible pain in my head forced me back upon the tarmac and the next thing I remembered was being rolled into A & E, where a thorough examination was carried out to establish whether I had broken anything or not. I know that I moved in and out of consciousness for a period of time that it was not possible for me to comprehend.
A nurse undressed me, discarding my torn clothes for a hospital gown, and as she moved me gently back on to the pillow I vomited violently all over myself, making her job of cleaning me up very unpleasant, I am sure. Someone was talking about checking my vital reflexes and taking my blood pressure and I was aware of a pinprick as a vein was located for a blood sample. I was left alone for some time after that until a male nurse or doctor came into the cubicle and explained that he was going to help me up so as to check how orientated I was. He helped me to sit on the edge of the high cubicle bed and I had difficulty reaching the floor without his aid. He got me to hold a papier-mâché dish in my hand and asked me to walk on tiptoe in as straight a line as I could. I was aware that I had to concentrate very hard so as to carry out the task. I did manage to keep in a reasonably straight line, despite the room appearing to be listing like a ship. I was very sick again after the exertion, but thankfully into the object that I was carrying.
‘Let’s get you back on the bed. The results of the blood tests ought to be with us within the hour. I have rung your husband and he is on his way.’
I was unable to keep my eyes open as I surrendered to the mattress beneath me. I was vaguely aware of a female voice explaining that she was going to attach an ECG machine to me to check my heart and it was surprisingly comforting to feel her gentle touch as she placed the tiny patches on my skin.
The only thing I could recall after that was waking up the next morning on the ward, wondering where I was and why I was attached to a drip feed that was hanging next to me from its stand. I tried to speak to a passing nurse, but my mouth was so dry my lips had trouble parting in time for the whisper to reach her. Much later that day Robert arrived, explaining that he had been with me when I was wheeled up to Brent ward and that I had been knocked down in the street by a car. He said that I was very lucky not to have broken anything and that I had been very stupid to wander out into the middle of the road, on such a dark, wet night. His stern manner disguised his concern, I knew him well enough to realise that, so I didn’t even try to defend myself; I didn’t have the energy to, anyway.
He changed his tone as he gave me a diagnosis of my condition. The report supplied by the tests from A & E established that I had vertigo, most probably from dehydration, and that I was mentally and physically exhausted. I waved my arm slightly, indicating I was wondering about the drip. He said that it was to replace essential fluids to rehydrate me and that I would feel less giddy and less disorientated in a day or two. He said that I was to sleep and not to worry about anything. I opened my eyes and feebly held out my hand for Robert to squeeze it.
‘I want everything to be okay.’
My voice was too quiet for him to even hear what I said, but he stroked my hand in his.
‘Melanie was here earlier; she is very upset. She said you were not at all yourself at the library and that you behaved out of control at a meeting.’ He sighed a concerned sigh as he said, ‘We will sort you out; just rest.’
JACK
As time passed and the weeks turned into months, I was aware of an empty feeling inside and I realised that I was missing Marian. Life lost its sense of adventure without her being out there for me and my work seemed dull and meaningless. I became merely the messenger of others and portrayed them for the great artists that they were, rather than the magician with his bag of tricks. I even started to feel sad for the loss of the attention that Marian had shown to me, and the attraction that I had felt towards her was reignited by the silence that was like a void between us.
I was drinking heavily to numb the pain that sending her away had caused me. I went through the motions at work, being professional enough to do just enough to seem to be in control of the proceedings. I set up meetings with composers, dancers, film-makers, musicians, poets, singers, actors and writers, editing their work with skill, but the thrill had gone from it for me. I felt like a sleepwalker who knows that he is dreaming, but is unable to awake from the scene in a dream. And the nightmare continued; no matter where I was or how hard I worked, I could not shake myself out of it. I had experienced the joy of living when first we started to correspond, with Marian so attentive to me and so appreciative. I had marvelled in being the teacher and her my pupil and I had been astounded by how fast she learnt to follow my every lead. What I reflected on was the open way in which she had told me every time she had discovered the route that I had taken in my writing, as though telling a parent she had learnt the alphabet, so pleased at her findings. A more sophisticated mind would have been guarded for fear of seeming to be offensive in her digging around in my psychology; instead, she told me as if it were the most natural experience in the world and that I had wanted her to strip me bare for her to see. She saw through me with the innocence of a child, proud to show me what she had found. I came to accept that it was a great compliment to be so admired and to be so understood. No one had ever bothered to take such an interest in the real me before. After she had gone, I went back to being admired on the outside but my inner world was ignored. My interior design was left wanting, like a room that could do with a lick of paint and some new lighting.
I became bad-tempered and quick to criticise. Drink became my escape, but it did not make me creative. I managed to broadcast, but not to write. If I am honest I was scared to write for two reasons; the first being that I was afraid of what my imagination might insist on revealing, and the second because
I was aware that my secret coded world was no longer secret and I had made an enemy of my most treasured fan. I had, in fact, shot myself in the foot.
I not only turned to the bottle but to the pop songs of my youth, reliving the feelings I had experienced when dumped by my first childhood sweetheart. Once again, the Everly Brothers’ songs filled my mind. Whenever I drank, I found myself full of self-pity, memorising the words and all too often singing, as I made my way home through the empty streets. “Bye Bye Love”.
I learned to quieten myself before getting to my front gate, so as not to make a scene and wake Pauline and the children up. It is cunning how the mind can coach itself into controlling some things, when intoxication becomes a habit. Even though I was very unsteady on my feet at such times, I managed to creep into the house and sleep in the study. Pauline and I had talked at length about the change in me and I convinced her that I just needed time, that I was going through a silly phase that was to be expected of a great writer like myself. I heard myself justify my behaviour as part of an artist’s rich tapestry. All the better to understand the human condition. I actually sounded earnest and true as I made up the ridiculous theory and earned myself time to be outrageously self-indulgent and vile.
One night, I didn’t make it into the house; I just lay down on an old wooden bench in the front garden. I opened my briefcase and pulled out a half empty bottle of Scotch. It was a hot night and I was very dehydrated, but in my delirious state I sang softly the words “Dream Dream Dream” by the Everly Brothers…
I woke up the next morning with the daylight – luckily, before being seen. I loved my children and I didn’t want to be disgraceful in front of them. I wanted to hold my marriage together and Pauline and I were lucky enough to have the family that we had. However, my drinking increased as I struggled with the man I had become. I was confronted by Pauline for the first time in our marriage due to my drunken state. Her health was improving and although I had helped her to adjust to the OSA condition, once she was stabilised and getting stronger, I soon forgot her and her needs and rolled home in the early hours most nights.