When Professor Snape muscled in on my marriage

Inside were 26 volumes of black diaries, cocooned in bubble-wrap as if they were diamonds from De Beers. Lifting one from its nest, Alan sat back, flicking through what, from a distance, looked almost as immaculately written – and illustrated – as a medieval illuminated manuscript.

These were the diaries of the late actor Alan Rickman, better known in some circles as Professor Snape. Within a matter of days, as Alan began the task of editing them into a single volume for the publisher Canongate, I realised that, as someone once famously said, there were three of us in this marriage, and two of them were Alans.

Truly, Madly, which is published this week, dominated not just Alan’s life for more than a year, but the rest of our family’s and friends’ too. “How are the Snape diaries doing?” our nine-year old granddaughter would ask, as the project advanced. “Have you mentioned me to Mrs Snape?” Neighbours would inquire about progress, offering their own views of an actor who, it seems, was universally respected or, in the case of Harry Potter fans, revered.

That’s the thing about living with a writer or editor: whatever they are working on seeps into the household. It’s as if the subject of a book becomes a tangible presence: at the breakfast table, on the way to the shops, in the midst of the evening news. In this instance, conversations would often start with “Alan says…” or “Alan thinks…”. To a bystander, it would no doubt have sounded as if my husband had developed an emperor complex, speaking about himself, as Donald Trump used to, in the third person. At this rate he’d soon be using the regal “we”, like Maggie Thatcher, and we all know where that leads.

Written across 25 and more years, Rickman’s diaries covered much of his professional career. They contain over a million words, but Alan’s job was to pare everything down to a manageable length. The elegant handwriting, in black ink, was lovely to behold, but not always easy to read. Like Cato pouncing on the unsuspecting Inspector Clouseau, Alan would burst into my study every few days to ask if I could help him decipher an impenetrable word or phrase. Invariably, I was of no help. Despite having once done a course in palaeography to help me read documents from the middle ages, I found a 20th-century actor’s hand beyond me. Fortunately for Alan, time spent with the diaries meant he began to understand how Rickman thought, and – eventually – wrote. Occasionally Rickman’s widow, Rima, was also able to help.

After a morning’s hard graft, he would fill in the story so far over lunch: the young actor’s insecurities, the problems with overbearing directors or – worse – no directing at all. The tedium of being on set from daybreak, with only a few lines to deliver. Putting on weight between costume fittings. Friction between members of the cast. Late-night dinners, rueful hangovers, and punishing sessions in the gym. Within weeks, we knew far more about Rickman’s habits, quirks and opinions than those of our oldest friends.

At the outset, Alan could not know exactly what was lying in store. A public figure’s image can be deeply misleading, and it was possible that as the diaries unfolded, so would somebody he might not like. Remarkably, however, what they revealed was a man even more genial, generous and gifted than commonly known. That came as a relief, but what would it be like working on a figure you grew to despise or loathe?

Previously there’d already been a third person in our marriage in the shape of Muriel Spark, as Alan wrote his memoir of his friendship with her. That was an entirely different venture, written out of long-standing affection and awe. To this day, it sometimes feels as if she is still in the ether around us.

A less easy guest has been Mary Queen of Scots, an omnipresence in the house for the past couple of years while I’ve been writing a book about her. More roisterous were the Border reivers who featured in one of my novels, a clan who, it has to be said, were fascinating company.

But imagine working on a biography of Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini, or any number of ghastly global figures. Years of unpicking the careers of such pathologically cruel individuals, and the consequences their actions had on millions, would surely colour your every waking hour. Not to mention your nightmares. Even when distanced by time, it is impossible to have contact with such malignity without feeling tainted by proximity, your privacy invaded by people you would not, in normal circumstances, let over the door.

What would dinner-time discussions be like in these biographers’ homes, as the depths of their subjects’ depravity emerged? Presumably such authors create a cordon sanitaire between work and home life, protecting those closest to them from the steady drip-feed of misery. Quite how the writers themselves cope, however, is another matter.

To that extent, there are parallels between actors’ and writers’ lives. For so long as somebody is playing a role, be it on stage or screen, that alter ego is a constant shadowy companion, like Banquo’s ghost at the feast. It is the same with writers, whether of non-fiction or novels. Hours spent inhabiting another life makes for a tightrope act between your existence and theirs. Dorothy Dunnett became so immersed in the 16th century that once, when her husband walked into the room, she looked up and asked: “Who are you?”

The day the Rickman diaries were packed up and returned to their custodian was another turning point, and not just because we no longer needed to worry quite so acutely about the house going on fire.

Did the place feel quieter without Rickman among us? Not at all. That’s the thing about people in books. You might think the page is turned and life goes back to normal. In reality, they will remain with you, in some shape or other, for the rest of your days.

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