by Mo McDonald
One particular night, I couldn’t find the lock on the front door so I punched the wooden panel, thumping it with one hand while holding the doorbell down with the other. I started singing “Wake Up Little Susie”.
The front door opened, causing me to fall through it as I threw my arms around Pauline to steady myself. She stood with me hanging around her neck as I continued the Everly Brothers’ song.
Pauline managed to close the door and to manoeuvre me into the kitchen, where she sat me on a chair, but I landed on the floor, still singing one of the songs from 1957 that I had loved as a teenager. I sat with my back against the table and my legs splayed out in front of me, as I went on “Wake Up Little Susie”.
Pauline handed me a mug of strong black coffee, but I knocked it away, almost spilling the scalding liquid over her hand. It fell to the floor between my feet. I leant against the chair and got to my feet and, with my face in her face, I sang…
‘You did wake up, little Paulie, for little Jackie. I wanta go home.’
Leaning towards her face, I tried in vain to kiss her mouth. She wiped my wet, sloppy kiss from her cheek and shouted, ‘Stop it, Jack, stop it. What’s got into you lately? I hardly know you any more.’
‘Oh, come on, Paul. Be a sport. I had a luvver-leee evening with the boys. I wanta have fun.’
‘Daddy, Daddy. Why are you singing in the middle of the night?’ asked Carl, one of my little boys.
‘Yes, Dada. We were asleep,’ said his twin brother.
‘Can we join the party?’ he asked, rubbing his eye with a tiny hand.
‘Of course, come here and we will all sing to Mummy.’
I tripped over my feet as I made an attempt to pick them up.
‘Err, Daddy, you smell,’ commented Matt as he noticed my alcoholic breath and turned away from me.
I turned to Pauline, extending a hand to her to be shaken, singing along.
‘Come on, boys, let’s go back to bed. Daddy is just feeling merry, that’s all.’
Pauline put a hand on each of their backs as she encouraged them to go upstairs with her, but not before she shot me the blackest of looks that left me in no doubt as to her feelings towards me.
MARIAN
I looked at Jean O’Connell, pleading with my eyes for her to help me out by saying something, but all she did was to stare back at me without any expression showing on her face. I felt nervous and very upset to be sitting in the hospital in front of a psychiatrist. I had lost my dignity because of the correspondence I had undertaken with the famous writer and broadcaster, Jack Kelly, I explained. But it had taken many visits, quietly sitting looking at each other before I let it spill out.
‘I thought I had a special secret and that Jack was a kind man who suffered me as a fan. That was until I got too close to his psychology and I realised that he was using me to his own advantage, as a psychological experiment.’
She made no comment as I continued.
‘Like all guilty people, I was very sorry once I was found out. I have come to realise that all cheats admit to how remorseful they are once they are exposed, whether in politics or any form of public life, and I had been judgmental of others, saying out loud, ‘I bet you’re sorry now!’ When Jack wanted to be rid of me, he wrote an accusing letter to Robert, suggesting that I needed to have my head examined by a doctor. I hated him for involving my Robert because the reason that I started a correspondence in the first place was to fulfil a need in me that was not satisfied by being totally domestic, but I didn’t wish to be taken outside that zone of home and duty. Not in reality, only in my imaginings. Jack encouraged me, nurtured me and then dumped me. Oh, what a tangled web he spun, and instead of gobbling me up, he spat me out, to face the threat of being thought insane.’
I found that I was very talkative once I got over the silence between us, glad to unburden myself on Jean. It was easier to tell a stranger. Robert had thought it through and decided that I needed psychological help and as he knew Jean, from his work at the hospital, he got me referred to her clinic. I was physically stronger after a few days bed rest, but it was hard going to her at first because I had not spoken of my secret to anyone. I found it very difficult being introduced to her and I didn’t understand that as a specialist she would sit looking at me, waiting for me to do the talking, the explaining. I had expected to be cross-examined by her and it was very off-putting feeling the stillness in the room. It took time before I understood that she would wait for ever, wearing me down with the indifference she seemed to show. Then, I felt it all pour out of me and I couldn’t hold it back.
I tried to explain myself and to show how hard it was to contradict the words of a respected man of letters. I went back to 1980 to try to make sense of the communication that had been conducted through the medium of television. I must stress that there were no online chat sites then, and in using the television in an interactive way we were way ahead of our time, no internet, no mobile phone, just electronic waves through the air into my home. I sounded contrite as I said that I had been happy as a wife and a mother and that I had tried to be good at both. I said I realised I had soaked up the romantic novels of Jane Austen and the Brontes and it would have been interesting to know what they would have made of my correspondence. I had marvelled at their heroes and admired their heroines, who were strong women of their time.
Jean stopped me at that, asking, ‘Do you consider yourself to be a strong woman?’
‘Not especially, no. I have never thought about it. My family was my whole life. I was innocent and naïve, I lived in a fairy-tale bubble and I was brought up on Hollywood movies in the fifties. I didn’t realise how childlike I was until I had a sort of awakening through getting close to Jack and his work.’
I told her about finding his novels and how I had then been drawn to his television programme and had immediately sent off a fan letter, which was out of character, and how I had allowed myself to ask to go to the studio and about our meeting.
I spent many hours with her off and on, gradually unravelling the experience and the encouragement I had received from the man who was a complete stranger to me, apart from his books. I attempted to convey the journey I had found myself on and the thrill of finding a voice that seemed to guide me, both through his written word and in his editing of other people’s work. I spoke of the feeling of being taken over and yet the strength I had also felt, as I discovered far more of him than he had ever intended.
We touched on my very treasured childhood and the spiritual atmosphere that had coloured my emotions ever since. How my romantic nature had been embellished by the theatre of the Latin Church and my love of Ireland, which had enriched my mind from the stories of the past. And how I had found an infinity with my father and Jack in their love of the land and its people. How having Jack whispering in my ear was a continuation of the love I received from my father and it had felt so right and so easy. Even if somewhat surprising at first.
I told her I had felt concerned that I might be a nuisance, but that he had continually urged me not to think or to feel like that at all. I realised when talking to Jean, and it was to her mostly, not with her, that I had not really felt guilty or disloyal to Robert because in my mind I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was as if I was in a time capsule when communicating with Jack and only if Robert was working late or on nights and the children were secure in their beds. Somehow, it felt as if I had sat down at a piano and the melody had just flowed. Then, when the allotted time was over, I put him away like a score of music until it was time to practise again. I had felt very content before unlocking the thought pattern that lead to Jack’s scheming. Finding out unhinged me, and the feeling of being used and then dumped confused and upset me.
I stressed that my traditional Catholic upbringing gave me a certain longing for spirituality.
‘It helps me to understand myself a bit better, now that I have recognised the
feeling. I came to see Art as a form of religion, where people find a place to dwell. The beauty of The Show of Shows was almost a place of worship, exposing the soul of the artist in his or her work. Jack is both good and bad, like us all.’
I looked down at my hands as I continued.
‘I realise that I must forgive him so as not to become obsessed with him again, in my anger towards him. I just want to get on with my life and try to see that I was lucky to be shown a way to develop my mind and to become an individual. I might never have roamed beyond myself without reaching out to him. I just hope that Robert will love me again and understand that I needed to be just a little mad in order to find myself. I do so hope that he will.’
Jean looked at her watch and it dawned on me that to be professional she had to stick to the allocated time, and I wondered if I could be as detached from patients as a psychologist had to be. It would be hard not to get involved, but of course their training would prepare them for that. No matter what point I was making or how upset I was, she always brought our session to a close on the dot – an hour was given and that was that until the next time. I had learnt a lot, but I still had a long way to go if I was ever to be within a career like that – anyway, my children were still young and needed me.
I wrote a lot of this down in the clinic that I entered after I was admitted to hospital, following being run down in the street. Robert’s colleagues helped him to persuade me to enter for nervous tension, because I was exhausted after not sleeping for weeks. I volunteered myself to be admitted. It was very difficult for me to convince Robert that I wasn’t out of my mind, but gradually he came round to believing me, although he remained angry regarding my foolish behaviour. The only prescription was that I should rest and use truth-telling as a form of therapy. Jean knew that because I had found writing so helpful it would have a healing effect.
So within the security of my surroundings, I reconstructed the experience that had lead to my shame. Reading back to myself the words I had written, it seemed like a fiction – only the room that I wrote in reminded me I had a problem. I did enjoy the neat, bare little cell they called my room. It was basic and functional and I felt like a nun within its walls. It suited me to feel that way for a time, uncluttered and clean. I visited Jean and we talked and then I spent each day reading through my old correspondence. Robert had brought in the brown envelope containing it and I had placed Jack’s formal letters inside, too.
When I got to the verses I had written, just seeing them was a shock. I could see that I had been upset and surprised by the state of mind I must have been in at the time. I felt my writing to be insensitive and ugly. I had not remembered conjuring up such thoughts, but I did remember doing them quickly one after another. I think a bit like wanting to spit them out so as to be rid of them. They showed that I was feeling very angry and wanting to lash out.
I have to say that when Robert was forced to confront me, self-loathing and guilt almost destroyed me. However, anger and confusion were by far the strongest emotions of all. So having the accident in the road saved me really, because I felt safe in that confined space at the clinic and I didn’t look forward to the day when I was to leave. When the time did come to leave, though, I felt stronger than I had done for a long time and I decided that I would study and maybe when the time was right I, too, would become a professional woman like Jean. I was reasonably young and the world had a lot to offer if I applied myself. The eighties were opening up for women, so it was up to me what I wanted to make of myself. I also knew that Robert and I had to talk intimately to each other before it was too late and get to know each other as the people that we had become. I felt sure that we loved one another sufficiently to do that. He had spent his adult life in the pursuit of healing others and disease filled his working day. It was up to us to heal our marriage and to find the core of what we considered to be a sacrament. It was what we believed in.
JACK
It had been so final. I had left myself no open door through which I could contact her. To drop her a line enquiring about her well-being would not be in order and I could not bring myself to telephone her home. She would have refused to speak to me, anyhow, after what I had done. I tried sending the odd little remark over the air so as to tease her out of her silence but to no avail. My health and my temper took a turn for the worst and I had difficulty maintaining my job. As for writing, it was as though my spirit was dead; it refused to communicate and I would spend hours just staring at a blank page, quite unable to assemble words into sentences.
I developed a sore throat, which remained with me for days, but as I was unused to visiting the doctor I waited for it to go away. During the week I managed to keep going, but by Saturday I was completely washed out and the pain attacked me the moment I woke up. The familiar street sounds hurt my ears as passersby went about another day, oblivious to my sorry state. My throat was so enlarged that I had to suck the air and to swallow was painful. As I tried to move my body, the dead weight of it frightened me into panic. The simple movement of my head told me how ill I was and the sweat that such a movement caused confirmed this.
My wife had taken the children to her parents for the weekend. I was alone. A violent exhaustion within my mind pleaded for more sleep. But my body would not grant such a mercy. As I tried to evade the day, the noise of my heart hammering against my ribcage forbade sleep to invade my senses. I dared myself to get up, finding relief in the act of will, and slowly crossed the carpeted floor to draw the curtains. As the daylight stung my eyes, the thought came to me that I must endure pain, hug it to me so as to cleanse myself of the guilt. Guilt, remorse, regret, call it what you may, had made me ill.
A true love had sprung from my art, Marian. She had understood my very soul and I had treated her so badly. It was not until she was gone that I realised how much she had meant to me. I had pulled her close to me, made her admit her own nature and then pushed her away, so afraid to allow myself to get close to her. Yes, 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 even that was denied me. I no longer had the gift to write. It was as though she had stolen that secret part of me. I needed her absolution. I longed for a sign from her that she understood and that she had forgiven me, but no word had come to set me free.
I was not only alone in the house; I was completely alone within myself. Even if a hundred people had suddenly visited my home, I would still have been isolated, such was my depression. In the bathroom, I waited while the water filled the bath and as I undressed with effort, I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. The face of the man looking back at me filled me with anxiety; my forty years looked far more. Once in the bath, I expected to relax but the warm water made my body shudder violently. My flesh shivered and my head went into cramp. In panic, I pulled myself upright and got out of the bath. I stood wet and naked leaning against the basin. I had to fight against the terrible urge to collapse as my mind tried to alert me to the coming vomit. Tears ran down my face as the last stages of bile heaved up from my intestines. There was mucus coming from my nose and the pain from my dry throat made my eyes water even more.
Feeling my way around the room, I managed to position my aching body onto a chair. It was all so difficult and exhausting; I could have cried from the strain involved. But through this physical pain came the understanding that the real wound was in my head. The waves of depression hung over me, like a monster dangling from the ceiling, threatening to beat me down, and I knew that in order to stay conscious I had to make myself stand up tall and get dressed. I knew how to do that simple thing, but I could not communicate with my body in order to make the necessary movements. Sitting on the edge of the chair, I could see my clothes just two yards away but I could not believe that my muscles would listen to me commanding them to make the few steps. I could not even stand. It frightened me to be so feeble and jelly-like. Then, the whirlwind must have
subsided for somehow I must have dressed. I have no memory of this or of how I got out into the high street. Perhaps what had happened in my head had some way changed my appearance because several people glanced at me. I could feel the sweat on my skin, but I didn’t have the courage to look at my reflection in the shop windows. I felt so ill and I truly felt ugly as if the fever had turned me into the elephant man. My mind was under ceaseless attack and I was aware of the traumatic breakdown I was experiencing. I knew that it was due to a terrible depression I had been unable to escape from since ending my relationship with Marian.
I have explained before that the imagined world has always been more real to me than reality, so my need of her was very real. The pain and torment I had experienced had been all the more real because she was in my imagined world. Had she been in my real world, I could have forgotten her in next to no time. An affair of the flesh was so easy for me; I loved them and left them constantly, but what had been in my head was a very part of me. A part that I took everywhere – waking or sleeping my mind never let me be.
As soon as I had betrayed her to her husband, it was as though the drip had been removed from my veins. No longer could I receive the nourishment that had supplied vital energy to my brain. Overwork plus mental exhaustion had caused me to find myself walking down the street a sick man whose nerves were frayed and worn. No vital flux left to fire my energy. Suddenly, a woman in her late thirties stepped out of a shop and her red hair and brown eyes made me stop and catch my breath. I stumbled and knocked into her, making her drop her basket on the pavement. Instead of helping her I ran, the fight or flight in me finding the hidden reserve of energy that nature provides in order to run from danger. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see her running after me, arms waving in an attempt to catch my attention. The noise of the traffic was deadened by the pounding of my heart as my blood raced to my head, as through trying to find a place to escape to.