Magnet Man

By Ros Holland

Magnet Man is a richly layered narrative that delves deeper into Ros’ life as a forty-two-year-old woman, juxtaposing her past and present to paint a vivid portrait of her struggles and epiphanies. The story meticulously explores her multiple marriages, each shedding light on different facets of her personality and life choices.

Central to the narrative is her encounter with the enigmatic ‘Magnet Man’, a pivotal figure who ignites in Ros a fervent and transformative passion. Set across various European locales, the plot intricately weaves elements of trust, betrayal, and the tension between societal norms and personal desires.

Ros’ journey is one of profound self-exploration, where moral quandaries and the quest for true love lead her to unexpected discoveries and a deeper understanding of her own identity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781528988957

Ros Holland

Ros Holland had a career in education, including working as a special needs teacher, before becoming a lecturer and researcher in education and health education at Southampton University. She was the UK coordinator for the Europe Against Cancer Programme while at Southampton University. Ros, retired, now runs her own counselling and psychotherapy practice in Salisbury; writing, though, is her life (visit www.focuswriting.co.uk ). Poetry has long been a hobby for her, which Ros refers to as “playing with words” or “wordplay.” Ros uses narrative therapy with children and adults in her work with clients. Narrative Therapy (Martin Payne and colleagues, 2006), and others, encourages people—those who seek help—to explore through language, writing, drama, and the arts in general their inner narratives and inner world. It encourages therapists to use this material to help them heal, grow, and achieve, as well as integrate the past with the present, encouraging personal growth and success (a technique also use in personal-professional coaching as well as sports coaching). Ros uses and explores this writing technique in her personal memoir, The Black Pencil Woman: A Portrait of My Mother, Ros Holland (Book Guild, 2012). Her first poetry workshop, on National Poetry Day, will be held at Newcastle City Library and is entitled “Playing with Words.” As Philip Larkin said, “Prose is about other people; poetry about the self.” Ros was the UK coordinator for the Europe Against Cancer Programme while at Southampton University as a lecturer and researcher. She had two international research scholarships to Holland and Australia, developing research techniques for evidence-based health interventions.

Book preview

Magnet Man

Ros Holland

Austin Macauley Publishers

Magnet Man

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

Chapter – 1: Day-Dreamer

Chapter – 2: Hysterectomy

Chapter – 3: The Knowing

Chapter – 4: Geranium at Home

Chapter – 5: The Meeting

Chapter – 6: Those Blue Eyes

Chapter – 7: Northern Ireland and Dublin

Chapter – 8: Returning Home After Conferencing

Chapter – 9: Relationships Are All

Chapter – 10: London and Brussels

Chapter – 11: Oporto: Portugal

Chapter – 12: Bari: Italy

Chapter – 13: Germany: Hanover

Chapter – 14: Luxembourg

Chapter – 15: Return Home from International Conferences

Chapter – 16: Finland

Chapter – 17: Return Home

Chapter – 18: Glasgow; Regional City of Culture

Chapter – 19: Naples

Chapter – 20: West Germany: East Germany

Chapter – 21: Clinical Trials and Evidence- Based Medicine

Chapter – 22: Tallin; Estonia

Chapter – 23: Who Wouldn’t Want to Be in Paris?

Chapter – 24: Athens

Chapter – 25: Finland

Chapter – 26: Nicosia: Cyprus

Afterword

About the Author

Ros Weston was born in Stopwhistle, Northumbria which is near Hadrian’s Wall. Her childhood was spent in Throckley, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, now Tyne and Wear. Ros is a Fellow of British Psychological Society and a freelance psychologist. In her academic life, Ros was the Europe Against Cancer British Representative at the European Commission as well as being a lecturer and researcher at Southampton University. She taught on MA and PhD courses. She was then a member of the Cochrane Collaboration for Cancer Research.

Dedication

My book is dedicated to the European Cancer Programme (Prevention of Cancer, Diagnosis, Treatment and Care). My role was developing the EU Cancer Prevention Programme and rolling it out in the UK. Each member of the committee represented their national government at the EU Cancer Programme. I would also like to dedicate this book to the representatives of all the EU countries and the EU parliament.

Copyright Information ©

Ros Holland 2024

The right of Ros Holland to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528988940 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528988957 (ePub e-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank my colleagues at Southampton University where the programme was based; my thanks to:

Mr Barnier (EU) and colleagues

Keir Starmer (British Representative at the EU)

My colleagues across Europe, who were all representing their own countries.

My family, especially, and my friends for all their love and support.

Chapter – 1

Day-Dreamer

I’ve always been a day-dreamer and have a habit of living in my head; thinking, analysing and pondering. I was forty-two when I got ’round to pondering on my life, my mistakes, as well as success. I pondered on the years of my second marriage; I found so much contentment, security and safety though I knew too soon this came at a price; a high price. I understand now, though I didn’t then, that I’d not had such emotional necessities throughout my childhood. I learned to live with insecurity; the ups and downs of life and marriage day in and day out. My parents taught me not to lie, and if I risked lying, to my father, in particular, he would bring out the tawse—a leather belt with tails. My mother’s anger was enough to make me cautious, and she had very hard rough hands if she smacked me. It hurt. Years later, I found to my horror, especially in my marriages, those you love who often go to church for years on end may also tell lies. I was never able to see through lying behaviour as a child or teenager and often haven’t in adulthood either. I’ m very trusting; I’m an infant in this trusting business even now. I didn’t heed it in my first marriage; sometimes I still don’t, though I’m a very mature adult. I make the same mistake over and over again. If it is to do with my professional work, I detect it early, often before others but never in my personal life. Other than in my work, I believe and trust too easily. I’m now seventy, and I can still be taken in. I can’t believe those I trust may lie to me even Jesus had to learn to come to terms with deceit. Trust can kill. I’ve been metaphorically ‘killed’ many times in my life—and now in my seventies, I question myself about being so naïve; especially in personal friendships or relationships?

Insecurity has been my constant companion. I love thinking and talking to myself. As an adult, I have more security in my professional being than in my personal self; this applied to being a mother too. I was the most insecure unsure mother around. It was just too much responsibility on top of the many repsonisbilities I’d coped with throughout my childhood and early adulthood. Theoretically speaking, I had the knowledge, was confident in my knowledge though practically and emotionally, I was scared stiff. I was a flaky poppy ninety-nine per cent of the time while my stouter stronger geranium personality tried to assert itself daily, hourly, minute by minute and nine times out of ten I ignored the sturdy geranium in favour of the poppy, the flaky poppy. Geraniums take care of themselves; they are tough and can overcome a bit of neglect. So when my flaky poppy self needs help the tougher geranium obliges and helps out.

I still have to look after my flaky poppy late in life. I was always striving to be a good daughter, sister wife and mother; and to be a good girl. My father always stressed the need for me to be a good girl; this was exactly the same for my brother—our parents weren’t sexist, he had to be a good boy.

My geranium self was and still is capable of giving a credible performance; tough in all seasons! It still takes control as I enter old age though now it tends to look after the flaky poppy; it protects the flaky poppy; the older woman.

As I enter old age with my old dry geranium stalk and stem, as well as its many crisp, dry brown leaf scars on this stem I realise I’m tired of this insane battle. Most of the time, I don’t want to be sensible! I didn’t when I was younger either. I wanted to be wild. Containing my wilder side over my lifetime has taken so much common sense and energy; it always did and still does. This geranium has worked so hard to control possible and probable geranium domination and missed so much fun and freedom in doing so. As a result, my wilting dead petals leave more scars on my stem every Autumn: dotting my stem with browny-beige dry flaky scars. My stem becomes shrivelled; dried out with ugly beige patches and is already half-dead in late Autumn and completely dead throughout the winter. Then as the seasons turn, I get another chance to show off in Spring. Spring brings new green shoots, new growth and of course flowers; the stout geranium flower once again.

In Sunday school, we were taught the devil was ever-present longing to cause trouble and blight of some kind. Geraniums are beautiful when in bloom standing proud, high and straight on their strong stems; showing off their lovely multi-headed red, white and pink hats of all shapes and sizes. We love the proud knobbly scarred Geranium in the winter as it rests, protecting its new shoots which begin to show in spring. New life abounds from these dry brown geranium knobbles like beauty and the beast. Geraniums show off; they want to be seen, be the centre of attention. Their scars tell the story of birth, death and resurrection over generations, and we value this miracle of life and death; the struggle to survive; the struggle to just to BE.

Yet a wilted dried up geranium isn’t a pretty sight, its beauty waned, its leaves turn dry and brown, crispy even; they rustle. Its dry stalks are a flaky pockmarked beige, nobbled and dry. Geraniums in the winter of their life are crispy dry, dull, brown and dead! They are tough and their blooms, though beautiful in spring and summer leave dark nobbly dry stalks, nasty flaky scars which then develop into multi-petalled beautiful red flowers in Spring and summer; theirs is a kind of beauty and the beast story. In old age their stems are woody, their leaves dry, crispy, knobbly. They sleep and resurrect in Spring blooming once again young and beautiful. This robust cycle continues year on year.

Yet poppies, like the devil, are beguiling,

Poppies are known as a symbol of love and re-incarnation; a resurrection after death, yet they are fragile. In my early years as an energetic child, I certainly had a sense of resurrection every morning and was full of life and love. My father warned me many times a day not to be needy of others, to stand on my own two feet or in geranium terms, to remember I had a tough stalk with lots of neat little scars—healed scars that seemed to appear daily yet would surely bloom again. I didn’t think about trying to avoid having more scars! Of course, new scars of one sort or another appeared every so often staring brownly and dryly on my crisply withered greeny-brown stalk as though I’d had hundreds of little tattoos. My dead drying geranium leaves were not a pretty sight—bone dry and crisp. Then they’d drop, and after a while new pinky-red buds appeared; a sign of hope. Those old scars on my stem loved to make themselves known before drying and dropping; leaving nasty beige-brown scars. My childhood was a constant battle between my flaky poppy self and my more dominant self—the scarred tough geranium. My stem was covered in dry beige flaky scars. When the geranium died in Autumn, the flaky poppy would step in and care just a little but also chastise me for my lack of common sense. I have so many woody hard scars on my geranium stalk! I was sensible; my daughter called me the sensibly. Yet I longed to be silly, wild and naughty but it wasn’t possible. My stem grew tougher and stronger, as well as woody and dry; it oozed sensible behaviour which left my pock scarred stalk with very little elasticity. It was not pretty.

I could cope with most things and wasn’t needy. This is what my father wanted—for me to be emotionally tougher than I was and never needy; hence the sturdy geranium. He didn’t realise, and I was too busy being good and strong to realise I had another side to me; a quieter, more gentle side and a tendency to want to be liked and loved. My father became very cross if he thought I was needy or needed to be with my friends—sometimes he would say I couldn’t go and play just because others were out playing. I’d cry, and he’d get very cross repeating that I must learn to be independent, not needy; always wanting to be with others.

I lived and learned as I got older, especially after marrying my first love. Very quickly, once my first love and I were married, I learned he was a very tough woody geranium though I’d not understood this before; even though his mother had warned me about his tantrums. I’d never seen any tantrum, so I took no notice of what she said; he’d instigated the friendship and the relationship, not me. We were in the same class at school from being five years old and then together in Sunday School or church every Sunday and youthy club on Friday evening. We were also in the Billy Graham Club—the evangelist movement saving everyone else and ourselves for God. We always sat next to each other at these religious events.

He chased me, followed me everywhere and was the first boy to ask me out. We were fifteen; he was gentle, witty and very funny. We became an item and married when he was 21, and I was 22. We were divorced ten years later.

It was to be another ten years before I found I was enjoying being in love for the first time in my life. This time I recognised love. I knew immediately we met I’d never been in love before even though I’d married and loved my husband. I loved, yes, though being in love is a completely different experience. I knew I hadn’t known passionate and genuine love until middle age, though I’d not realised this previously. How could I have known? I’m forty-six when I see the light; experiencing a wonderful, thrilling re-incarnation; being in love; a secret love.

My second husband had his demons; he became ill eighteen months after we met and had a breakdown, retired early. I was his third wife! Our lives changed without a ‘bye your leave’; no warning, no time to plan; his own past caught up with him and the emotional cost was high, very high for both of us and of course for my child; my daughter. If I’d ever dreamt of the scenario I least wanted at this point in our lives, hers and mine, it wouldn’t have been this one. I was watching and caring for a man who only months into our life together was now falling apart; emotionally and physically. The first few months of our relationship were tough going as my parents refused to see us or their granddaughter because we were ‘living in sin’. Neither of us was keen on marrying again, though were forced into marriage by my parents anger and frustration about our living together, especially living in sin with my child. This tough woody geranium who’d survived was now wilting; sinking into to her very, very, scarred roots—looking sad and lonely in her decaying state. This geranium more was more scarred, brown and dry it looked fawny beige; a dry sad colour.

Gardeners know geraniums can take a bit of neglect and still survive; they are capable of taking care of themselves and even if neglected for a while can resurrect surprisingly quickly. They are deemed to have restorative power; known as the salt of the earth plants. So, having thought I was now being cared for and would be in the future, I relaxed. I was working part-time; such joy to have half the day to myself and not always rushing around to keep everything going; and I had a three-day weekend. This was absolute bliss. We had a safe roof over our head; our family home was sold as part of the divorce settlement. There was no profit as we’d bought it less than a year previously before the mayhem of separating and divorcing. We’d moved from Northumberland to Southern England and left all our emotional supports behind. My husband was moved south with his job.

My neglected fragile poppy-self was beginning to bloom again into a wiser stronger geranium. This blissful poppy bloomed for a short while before the geranium time came again; too soon. Once again, I was called on to take care of my family financially, emotionally and practically. Caring for all of us was down to me; a repeat pattern; yet another scar was about to appear on my geranium stem—it whispered encouragement; spoke of being woody strong and surviving in any weather. At this point, I didn’t recognise repeat patterns neither did I fully understand what was going on at the time; maybe just as well? Or was it?

My new husband’s past caught up with him and had its effects on his health and future. Like animals under siege, we dug deep in ourselves to survive emotionally and financially, and so I had to find a full-time job; once again taking over the responsibility of earning a living to keep hearth and home together for the second time in my life. It was harder this time than previously as neither my daughter nor I were ready for more upheaval and change; yet again I couldn’t collect her from school nor take her to school; this had been disrupted three times before she was eight years old and something I’d always wanted to do. Every time I tried, the plan was wrecked by pressing financial pressures and this time, my husband’s ill health plus financial worries. William never did come to terms with having a major emotional breakdown and chronic depression; he changed from a tough geranium with many brown scars on his stem to a wilting paper-thin poppy. He wouldn’t talk about this nor seek help; he turned down counselling, and it’s true to say he never was the person I met. He’d been divorced twice; I was his third wife. He recovered but was never the same; I’d only known him for eight months. So living suddenly and very happily as a poppy after we met, my geranium self was called back to the practical and emotional garden to take care of him and take over the toiling of the family soil, the giving of love and care—this stout solid citizen geranium was back in action again; in familiar territory just when she thought she’d found love, support and care happily learning to be a contented flaky poppy.

To say I was disappointed is to believe the frustration and anger I felt at the time even though I liked working and having a career I much preferred to be around my home, as well as being a wife and mother; part-time work was all I ever wanted, though the universe (or God?) had other ideas. My husband seemed so sure of himself, calm, comfortable and settled. How on earth I didn’t recognise his flaky poppy, I’ve no idea. This is a question I’ve asked myself many, many, times over the last 37 years.

There was joy in our developing relationship, especially the tantric aspects which I’d never dreamed of experiencing; a surprise, a joy and totally satiating. To say I flowered spiritually is to acknowledge the powerful journey I was now part of in relation to my husband. He was deeply engrossed in his own journey, and this had positive effects on me and for our relationship. In those early days, there was a deep peace within our partnership. For the first time in my life, I’d not known nor experienced ‘sexual satisfaction’ mostly being left high and dry; I now understood love and satisfaction. I’d often wondered but never asked. Shiva arrived for me, and I was very, very pleased and honoured she had. I’m not saying full enlightenment arrived immediately, though I knew instinctively I had something special I hadn’t had before—a man who at least at some level understood that he too had an inner female aspect even if it was not full enlightenment either. I’m a long way to go in terms of enlightenment, but this was a start; it softened me. I valued this aspect of our relationship and always have; Shiva was working her magic and continued to do so for over thirty years. There was a very strong thread holding us together through some very, very, hard times and along many tough and challenging paths. One being my mother and stepfather refusing to see us and their granddaughter for over three years, then only accepting reconciliation by forcing us to marry so we could end this cruelty to their granddaughter and them. In fact, by requesting this they caused us all more cruelty and sorrow than they ever knew. As a newly constructed family, we definitely didn’t need nor want this interference. Had we not married maybe our relationship would have survived for only a short period. Once married the saga of another divorce for either of us was beyond our emotional and intellectual capabilities—it was off-limits, though both of us thought about it more than once we knew we had to see this marriage through. We didn’t want to marry; we were happy as we were, and both of us had negative histories in regard to marriage. Neither of us was conventional even though we looked very conventional. I played the more conventional role, and this too took its toll; Victor loved to think he was radical and unconventional; under the pressure of any kind he crumbled; he was so, so much more conventional than me and neither of us realised this—the lack of understanding of our own personalities, social class and cultures was our downfall. We were very, very, different, and the age gap was much too big. Clever clogs, my mother called me clever cogs, jumped right into his pond.

Of course over the years, I learned there was much I didn’t know about my husband; and as he never completely recovered from his breakdown there was a long way to go and much hard work for us to survive as a family. Had I known then what the future held I would have walked away as my parents wanted me to do; indeed, they begged me to leave and care for my child myself. When I wouldn’t, they refused to see us, another blow to my daughter’s security. They stayed away for over a year, and my husband eventually persuaded me that we should just turn up at their home, and they wouldn’t turn us away; they didn’t. Reconciliation became possible. I wonder now if I was arrogant and they actually could see more than I was able to see at the time. I thought about my daughter more than anyone else and always felt her stability was more important than my own; having a roof over our heads after losing our home was so very important—in retrospect perhaps too important. On reflection, I’m certainly less sure about my arrogance now. I doubt, even with more experience, whether anyone could be sure in such circumstances. I sealed our fate though I didn’t know it at the time; all settled down,