Andy Murray - Into the Unknown: The Fantastic Life of Nigel Kneale

Nigel Kneale, 1960.

Introduction Not Rocket Science

MY OWN FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH THE WORK OF NIGEL KNEALE CAME VERY late on in his career, and strictly speaking its a non-encounter. In 1979, when I was seven, ITV screened Quatermass, Kneales belated conclusion to the 1950s serials about the character of that name. I wasnt allowed to watch it. My parents, whod grown up in the fifties, associated Quatermass with nerve-fraying fear and decided it would be too much for my young mind. I cant remember ever being stopped from watching any other programme.

A good friend of mine hell forgive me for mentioning that hes a shade older than me tells a similar story. His mother, whilst shed been a WREN in the fifties, had gone on an outing to see the Hammer Quatermass films. They scared her out of her wits, and even today the mention of the name Quatermass turns her white as a sheet.

An entire generation seems to have grown up petrified by the work of Nigel Kneale. In the days before genre television had been identified and compartmentalised, audiences en masse thrilled to Kneales unique and inventive style. It had elements of what we now call horror, and a dash of science fiction, but it was more straightforward that that. It was just good. Its tempting to over-simplify Kneales career, though, along the lines of he wrote Quatermass and it was scary. Over fifty years hes wrote a staggering amount of original work, taking in film, television, radio and prose fiction. His quality control remains inspiring. Its possible to argue that the Quatermass scripts are just the tip of the iceberg.

Writing for television might not be rocket science, but back in the early 1950s, it might as well have been. This was an entirely new field, a blank page, devoid as yet of techniques and established approaches. Many of todays leading television writers revere Kneale as the undisputed forefather of British TV drama. His work exerts a staggering and palpable influence even today, several decades after much of it was lost forever when the transmission tapes were wiped and reused. Nigel Kneale is not a household name in this country, as the likes of Dennis Potter and Alan Bleasdale are. This book is an attempt to explain why not and, more importantly, why he deserves to be.

Before we begin this biography, wed like to say that, in our opinion, it is not suitable for children, or for those of you who may have a nervous disposition.

Prologue The Martian at the Top of the Stairs

ITS 2003. HAVING RECENTLY TURNED EIGHTY, NIGEL KNEALE LIVES WITH his wife Judith in a leafy-green district of South London. Their neighbours include the actress Geraldine McEwan, the presenter Peter Snow and the composer Howard Goodall. This same house has been the Kneales home for over forty years. Their children daughter Tacy and son Matthew grew up here, and have since moved away. The Kneales living room is a quiet, understated testament to the extraordinary creativity of their family. Theres a discreet shelving unit housing video copies of the many films and TV programmes that Kneale has scripted. There are a host of beautiful works by his artist brother, Bryan including sculptures in the garden and an impressionistic portrait of Kneale himself above the sofa. Three rows of shelves hold books written by the family; volumes of Kneales scripts and stories, the best-selling childrens books that Judith has written over three decades, and the more recent addition of the award-winning novels by their son Matthew. Going right back to the early years of the previous century, there are collections of pieces written by Judiths father, Alfred Kerr, a German Jew who fled the country during the rise of the Nazis. Recently rediscovered and republished, Alfreds works are something of a publishing phenomenon in modern Germany.

The stairs leading up are lined with striking photographs taken by Matthew on his travels around the world. On the second floor, at the top of the house, are two workrooms. One is Judiths, where she still writes and illustrates phenomenally successful childrens books. Right next door is Kneales study. Due to his advancing years, he doesnt get up here much anymore. The room has a wonderful view of a nearby common. It now contains a rocking chair, meant for the Kneales new grandson. On the wall, theres the familiar three-legged emblem of the Isle of Man. There are more rows of books, from volumes on standing stones and Celtic traditions to Elizabeth Bowen novels and the plays of George Bernard Shaw, as well as several issues of New Scientist. There are also many stacks of scripts that Kneales written over the years some produced, some not. There are pictures of his children, and his beloved wife, and theres a home-made wall-chart, documenting the relative heights of the then-growing Tacy and Matthew through the sixties and seventies.

A martian from BBCTVs Quatermass and the Pit. One of these models went on to take up residence in the Kneale household.

And then, there in the corner, virtually obscured by the door when its open, theres a Martian.

It stands at a height of three foot, and dates back to the late 1950s.

Why do the Kneales have a Martian living in their top room? Well, its quite a story.

Manx Tom

MANY OF THE ESTABLISHED FACTS ABOUT THE ACCLAIMED MANX WRITER Nigel Kneale are rather misleading. For a start, he wasnt actually born on the Isle of Man and nor was he really called Nigel. In fact, his given name was Thomas Nigel Kneale: throughout his professional writing career, he adopted his middle name, effectively as a pen-name. To his family and friends, though, hes always been Tom. Hes also the most famous Manxman ever to be born in Lancashire. Because it was there, in Barrow-in-Furness, that Thomas Nigel Kneale came into the world on Tuesday April 28, 1922.

His parents were William Kneale (born in 1896) and Lilian Kneale, ne Kewley (born in 1889). Informally, his father had always gone by his own middle name, Tom, and, as traditional at the time, his son was named after him. Kneale says, My parents were Manx, and my ancestry goes back about a thousand years: old Manx. My mother was born on a little farm in the island, into a large family, up in the hills above Laxey, a little hill farm called Baldoon. They were all farmers and very proud to be, and saw themselves as a farming town. But then the bank, which had all their money, went bust as banks did in the island, bang, bang, just like that before there were any regulations to stop them doing so.

This financial catastrophe forced the family to relocate. They had to quit the farm, sell it, and take jobs in Douglas, Kneale explains. My grandmother bought a small boarding house, and my oldest uncle became a policeman, which was a shaming state. Another uncle became a joiner. They were all engaged in trades, and that was not the grandeur they had known when theyd been independent farmers. Actually, my mother very much enjoyed it, because she met a lot more people and she had a good time! Then when the First World War came, she met my father, who was then a junior journalist. They got married in 1920.

Rather unusually for the time, the couple elected to leave the island soon after, and follow the husbands ambitions. My father wanted desperately to write, and in the island then, there was no place where he