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Chapter 4
Chapter 4
A Flat Note
Ivan Ross was out of tune. Something was holding him back and it showed in his clarinet playing for the local town’s symphony orchestra. His was a very exacting instrument. His fingers and his tongue had to be in unison to craft the perfect note but his posture was that of a soggy scone. His glissando was straying beyond its comfort zone.
Ricky, the orchestra leader, felt it uncomfortable to enquire, yet he saw the elephant in the room. So too did the symphony conductor who took the bull by the horns to break the impasse.
‘Ivan dear, what’s the matter,’ she asked laying her hand on his forearm.
Ivan looked up but his eyes could not engage Ruth Hollings. She was perhaps 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 suggested Ivan have a two week break in the summer. No music practice. The next public concert was two months away. She suggested a break at his sister’s home on the Yorkshire coast. It seemed the appropriate solution for him, with bracing sea waves, seagulls gliding and shrieking their news. Ruth conjured the idyll in her own mind. The thoughts, however, were not transferrable. Ivan considered the proposal with the appetite of a well fed alley cat. He would not move. There was no way he would go out of his way.
‘Perhaps you should see your GP,’ said Ruth with concern.
Ivan put down his clarinet on the wooden floor. He stood up, placed his foot on the instrument, bent down and pulled at the instrument hard. In seconds the instrument’s reed, metal finger holes, pads and the bell were damaged beyond repair. It was distorted, made completely unplayable. He picked the remains up and threw it against the hall 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 symphony members. They all had that same thought, in much stronger terms.
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 for prayer. It was time for Tony Scriven to reverse out of his garage and honour his more active membership.
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 thirty five 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 clouds.
He took the boundary path along the first tee and let his thoughts roam as his feet crunched the twigs beneath his weight.
Tony’s freedom on the course meant so much to him. A selfish streak had grown within his independence. His new home was minimal, denuded of the clutter marriage had entrapped him by over seventeen years. There was no-one to share and appreciate his abode and that situation showed no signs of improving. Of course it couldn’t without an effort on his part.
He progressed down the tee, counting the divots while his trousers attracted burrs like a magnet. Then his thoughts turned to his recent cleric 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? No not even one.
Was not the clergy the backbone of the community serving the rites of passage? The christenings, with sprinkled water disturbing silent babes and hushing the screams of others being held in line? It brought back some memories for him. The sherry and christening cake to follow amid well dressed aunts and uncles, parents and siblings. Clerics with their partners regularly attended such happy occasions. 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 caseload certainly reflected their sudden appearance. Mental health conditions were ubiquitous and the isolation of clerics in their communities seemed to contribute to the malaise of their ministries.
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 drained through 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 too. It was part of his medical training. He could see God as a concept but could see him no other way. Yet 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 that very same concept.
He stopped. He looked up at the alto-cumulus sky. He had no idea how it had all come to be in the first place 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? Could it change his perspective?
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 Christian might be too much for him to stomach. Tony decided on a plan as he turned to return up the side of the fairway to his car.
On his return to work on Monday 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 told them that all had their faith.
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 five minutes. Ward 3 you said?’
Tony read the case notes as he walked to the ward. 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 only two chairs and a table.
‘Perhaps I can order two teas?’
Ivan nodded and Tony phoned reception.
‘So tell me about what happened?’
Ivan sat down and undid his jersey’s central three buttons. ‘There was a scene at the Symphony. I am the lead clarinettist.’
Tony nodded gently encouraging the story to emerge. Another musician, he thought.
‘I lost it. Something snapped. I broke my instrument 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 with his index finger.
‘St Mary’s Church? Tell me,’ asked Tony measuring the coffee. ‘How did that come about?’
‘The next day after the orchestra scene I went to Boots and bought some razor blades. I wanted to be alone and I saw St Mary’s on the opposite side of the road was open. I went in and no-one was around. So I walked around and found the broom cupboard by chance and sat in there. It was claustrophobic. It seemed the best place to end life. I took out the blades and started to cut my arm. See?’
Tony looked at his arm sporting some three parallel scars; none approached 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 clarinet’s properties might be or require.
‘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.’ Tony scribbled away.
‘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. She said I was musical, had an ear for that sort of thing. My parents encouraged me needless to say. So I guess I was about ten when they wanted to take me into the junior orchestra. I started with a trumpet but I really liked the clarinet. I was good and I knew it, too bloody good. That’s the issue.’
Ivan put on a high pitched female voice. ‘Isn’t he good? I’ve never heard the clarinet 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 he knew. It had been encouraged over the last few decades but on closer inspection it was creating in a child’s mind their need for constant perfection. In adulthood it continued for Ivan and when he realised he was at the cutting edge of 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 complements ratchet up the praise. His music knew no restrictive bounds. Never again would he play. His perfect notes would never improve; they would never be heard again. Tony felt sure of that.
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Web Site:
A Clerical Murder
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Ron