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Miller H Caldwell, click here
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Even more clerical patients
Chapter 4
A Flat Note
Major Ivan Ross was out of tune. Something was holding him back and it showed in his trombone playing for the Salvation Army. His was a very exacting instrument. His fingers had to find the exact length of tubing, to obtain the perfect note but his posture was that of a soggy scone. His glissando was straying beyond its comfort zone.
As leader of the citadel band, it was tricky for his underlings to confront him in any way. Yet all saw the elephant in the room facing the wall with a drooping unanimated tail. It took a songstress to break the impasse.
‘Ivan dear, what’s the matter,’ she asked laying her hand on his shoulder.
Ivan looked up but his eyes could not engage Ruth Hollings. She was not the right person to hear his anguish.
‘Just need a break,’ he whispered to resolve her question.
‘Okay. Let me fix it.’
So Ruth made arrangements for Ivan to have a two week break in the summer. That was two months away but the prospect of a free break at the Salvation Army’s rest home on the Yorkshire coast, seemed the appropriate solution Ruth had for him. Ivan considered the proposal with the appetite of a Impala-fed boa constrictor. There was no way he would go.
‘Perhaps you should see your GP,’ said Ruth with concern.
Ivan put down his trombone on the wooden floor. He stood up, placed his foot on the lengthy tubing, bent down and pulled at the instrument. In seconds the instrument was distorted, made unplayable. It doubled back on itself. He picked it up and threw it against the citadel wall and stormed out of the door.
There was a moment of silence from the mouth- opened musicians.
‘My, that’s not like him,’ was all Ruth could say to the Army members. They all had that same thought.
Tony received Ivan’s referral from his GP three days later.
♦
The quiet morning announced it was Sunday. Those who attended church were seated in their pews, standing or kneeling as convention required. It was time for Tony Scriven to reverse out of his garage and honour his more observant membership than his previous one in church.
The Golf Club had few cars in the car park and that did not auger well. Tony sauntered round the clubhouse and encountered the chalked board. The course was waterlogged. Unplayable until advised otherwise. Of course it was unplayable. He recalled the last seventy two hours of lashing rain assaulting his surgery windows since Friday morning. He recalled the dashes he made to his car at the end of the working day and the early switching on of room lights under the oppressive dark productive clouds.
He passed his car, making sure it was locked secure. He took the boundary path along the first tee and let his thoughts roam in his mind as his feet crunched the twigs beneath his weight.
Tony was a tall middle-aged man, living the life of a divorcee, contented in the routine he had carved out for himself over the past four years. He had found a selfish streak comfortable as he made his new home minimal, denuded of the clutter marriage had brought him over seventeen years. Above all he was content by his new single status. He had no intention of changing it. His work never failed to challenge his cerebral professionalism and it gave him a balanced life.
He progressed down the tee, spotting the divots while his trousers attracted burrs like a moths to as ceiling light. His thoughts turned to his recent clients. Never before had he had a spate of clergy come to his attention. He may have had a handful of school teachers and council workers bending under the pressures of punishing government cuts, but clerics?
Was not the clergy the backbone of the community serving the rites of passage? The christenings, with sprinkled water disturbing silent babes while hushing the screams of others being held in line, brought back some memories for him. The sherry and christening cake to follow amid well dressed aunts and uncles, parents and siblings and the occasional cleric and his wife would follow. Cake too at the weddings bringing couples together with a spiritual blessing and to top it off, at the close of life, a reassuring funeral was the cleric’s remit. There was much to do each week for every cleric and the ringing telephone would announce great joy or deep sadness. It was a life or death occupation and that made it a respected profession. But it seemed that the mental health of these figures in society was coming to the fore and not before time he thought. His case-load reflected their sudden appearance.
Tony began to wonder if his diagnoses would benefit from a stronger personal faith. Other medics had strong beliefs but his religious experiences to date were like water in a sieve. He could not grasp the tenants of faith enough to ground anchors. It was easier for him to say he was agnostic or ......sometimes... he was an atheist. He was not sure. He looked in his Google box on his phone to clarify what he really was. Yes, he was agnostic. He was sceptical. It was part of his medical training. He could see God as a concept but could see him no other way. Atheism went too far for him. An outright rejection of a god seemed wrong. There were so many cultures all over the world that accepted what we term God that it did not feel right to be an atheist and reject the very concept of God.
He stopped. He looked up at the alto-cumulus peppered sky. He had no idea how it had all come to be and did not spend time on the thought but somehow this diverse group of clerics challenged him. Could they co-operate? Would they participate? Would it lead to conflict or cohesion?
Such a diverse group of clergy, he recalled. A musical Methodist, presumably so, for Wesley had given Methodists those triumphant and well loved hymns. Lizzie Taylor the bi-polar evangelical would be a challenge especially for the Imam for Farook would have a place in mind for women and an excited female cleric might be too much for him to stomach. Tony took the bull by the horns.
On his return to work he sent out letters to the clerics inviting them to a group meeting to assist in their therapy. He made two provisions. Firstly if they attended it would be at their free-will. Secondly he did not tell them that they were all clerics.
The telephone rang. Tony lifted it from its cradle.
‘Hello Dr Scriven speaking.’
Tony turned a new sheet over and started to write on his lined pad.
‘And where is he now.......in the hospital? I’ll be over in three minutes. Ward 3 you said?’
Tony read the notes. The patient was found in the Church of St Mary in a broom cupboard. Found by the church cleaner. Found with a razor blade and some blood stains on his shirt.
There, sitting in a well-lit rest room was Ivan. Tony approached him and shook his hand.
‘There’s a smaller room behind you. Shall we go there?’
Ivan rose and followed through the door to find a stark room with two chairs and a table.
‘Perhaps I can order two teas?’
Ivan nodded and Tony phoned reception.
‘So tell me about what happened?’
‘There was a scene at the Salvation Army Citadel. I am the band leader.’
Tony nodded gently encouraging the story to emerge.
‘I lost it. Something snapped. I broke my trombone and stormed out in front of them all.’
The knock on the door stopped his initial flow.
A nurse entered with a flask of hot water, a bowl of tea bags and a small Nescafe jar. Tony lifted a tea bag and held it suspended to see which drink Ivan would prefer. Ivan tapped the coffee jar.
‘St Mary’s? Tell me,’ asked Tony measuring the coffee.
‘After I left the Citadel I went to Boots and bought some razor blades. I wanted to be alone and St Mary’s was opposite. I went in and no-one was around. So I walked around and found the broom cupboard and sat in there. I took out the blades and stared to cut my arm. See.’
Tony looked at his arm sporting some three parallel scars; none approaching a vein.
‘So when did this all start?’
‘I don’t know. It’s been a long time coming. I've not been enjoying playing.’
‘Do you think you have lost your tone, your embouchure, your...eh.....’ Tony poured the milk still thinking what a trombone’s properties might be.
‘Lost it? No the exact opposite. Note perfect I've always been. I read music like enjoying a Dostoevsky novel.’
‘I see.’
‘But something told me it was time to give way to the feelings I was experiencing. It was dramatic I know but I had to tell them I’d no longer play the damn instrument.’
‘How long have you been playing it?’
‘All my life, since I was a kid.’
‘Tell me about your parents. Did they play?’
‘No, neither of them was musical. I was an only child. Spoiled me, I suppose. How would I know any differently? I whistled a lot. At primary school the teacher had me in the choir. Said I was musical, had an ear for that sort of thing. My parents were Salvationists needless to say. Not singers and not in the band of course. Just in the streets in their uniforms with a smile on their faces. They always smiled. So I guess I was about six when they wanted to take me into the band. I started with a trumpet but I really liked the trombone. I was good with all sorts of brass. Too bloody good. That’s the issue.’
Ivan put on a high pitched female voice. ‘Isn't he good? I've never heard the trombone played so well. Is that Ivan playing? You must be very proud of your son.’
And my parents always said I played perfectly. Perfectly bloody perfectly every time.’
‘A lot of pressure,’ said Tony.
‘Yeah.’
‘And what happened yesterday?’
Ivan had difficulty relating his childhood to what had happened the day before but it was becoming very clear to Tony.
Praise for children was a double-edged sword. It had been encouraged over the last few decades but on closer inspection it was creating in a child’s mind their constant perfection. By adulthood it continued for Ivan and when he realised he was at the cutting edge of brass perfection, he had nowhere else to go. His musical journey had reached the buffers.
When Ruth told him that no one could ever better his playing, he did not take it as a compliment. He knew his playing ratchet up the praise. It knew no restrictive bounds. It was fantasy and that was the realm that took over his actions. Never again would he play. His perfect notes would never improve.
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Web Site:
Fault Lines
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