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Miller H Caldwell, click here
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Chapter 9
Chapter 9
They Heed the Call
On Monday evening shortly after 7.30p.m. the first meeting took place. It was a windswept night most suitable for ensuring animosity in the approaching streets. They began to arrive at the brightly lit consulting room. Not all of them, but enough to get off to a hesitant start.
Tony sauntered into the centre of the room. ‘Good evening. Well, all you know me as your psychoanalyst and so I have met with all of you professionally. You don’t know what health matter brought each other to this meeting but let me say one thing. All mental health is on a continuum. Like a length of string. Some of us have strayed from the centre where all is calm and in order. That’s where we are heading and to get there, we need each other’s support. But first, some refreshment.’
A table supported a real coffee trembling brew, its odours permeating every atom of air. The kettle was more selective. Tea bags and bags of infusions stood in drunken lines on the tablecloth and a solitary Ovaltine tub guarded over them. Lizzie levelled two spoonfuls of Ovaltine into a mug which made her smile. She raised the mug to her eyes.
‘Typical. I dream of a world where a chicken can cross the road without having its motives questioned.’ Those present heard but were unsure if a smile, a guffaw or a nod was an appropriate response.
‘Typical of what?’ asked Tony.
‘Perhaps typical of a psychotherapist’s set of work mugs? My mug at home doesn’t have sayings except for one. Its message is simple.“This is my Mug” and that’s not thought-provoking.’
Tony laughed quietly and raised his eyebrows an inch. ‘It certainly is, Lizzie. It’s a very strong statement. It says, hands-off this is mine.’
Lizzie smiled at the thought that Tony could see through other’s minds.
‘I had a mug like these ones. I broke it,’ said Karen keeping her eyes to the floor realising it was her first disclosure to the group.
‘Accident?’ asked Lizzie.
She grinned. ‘Hmm...no, a fit of rage, last month.’
A moment’s silence followed as the group imagined the anger this apparently gentle woman must possess. Another raised his mug.
‘What’s written on your mug, Alan?’ asked Tony.
‘Er... Too blessed to be stressed.’
There was a murmur more than a laugh but it did ease the group’s anxiety and led to more word play.
‘You think being blessed is not a blessing?’
‘Depends, Tony. Depends who is blessing you and why.’
‘But surely a blessing is by nature just that. It can’t be negative. A blessing must lead to de-stressing. That’s what I think,’ said Alan.
‘Good point. Remember the mugs may read as profound statements but some are just humorous even if we can’t see the joke,’ Tony said.
Karen perused the other mugs. She lifted hers. ‘There’s a bit of me I recognise yet I don’t, on this mug. I’m not arguing. I’m just explaining why I’m right.’
The group let off an appreciative grunt then Karen explained. ‘You see I’m usually the last to pick an argument yet recently I’ve been more controversial, questioning things, seeing different points of view.’ The nodding heads not only seemed to acknowledge what she had said but also assessed her as a fellow group member, starting to reveal her medical issues perhaps.
They began to take their seats coddling their hot mugs, not sure how the evening would progress.
‘So it’s just us for this group therapy?’ asked Alan.
‘There are a couple more. Perhaps late arrivals or perhaps they will not take up this offer. I don’t know. Its voluntary but I am pleased to see so many of you. I feel I can give you all a fresh start.’
‘Fresh start in Life?’ asked Karen.
‘If that’s what you want, why not? We can get out of our boxes and explore if you wish. Remember what happens in this room, stays in this room. Let’s make a start. So, I have this woollen ball in my hand. I’ll throw it. When you catch it you have the floor to tell the group something interesting about yourself. Say as much as you feel comfortable in disclosing. I’ll give you a moment to think.’
Some heads looked up for inspiration; others sought the powers of eloquence from their stare at the floor before them. Many must have thought it too early to be speaking to strangers. How the session should have started was not on their minds either. But there was no time to retract or complain. Tony threw the ball from one hand to the other in a parabolic arc. It was hypnotic, a distraction for some. It prepared itself for a higher trajectory.
‘Okay.’ The ball was thrown to Alan. He caught it in both hands.
‘Well, I’m Alan. I’m 56 years of age. Gave up a career as a professional footballer and became a Methodist preacher. Given up scoring; now saving, as it were.’ The group laughed at his humour. ‘I write poetry too. Well doggerel and verses I make into songs.’
‘Do you sing the songs,’ asked Tony who then slapped his thigh. ‘Of course you would. How else could they be songs? Silly of me.’ The group relaxed with broad smiles recognising that even the psychiatrist could make a mistake.
‘Well yes, I play the guitar and sing them. Sometimes lead the congregation in singing the choruses.....but not recently.’
‘I see so are all the verses, sort of...well...sort of church songs?’ asked Karen.
‘I used to play in a folk group before I was ordained.’ Alan’s eyes looked for approval. Had he said enough? Tony nodded with a relaxed smile and Alan was relieved to launch the ball to Lizzie. Karen wondered what his songs were about.
‘Oh, well, I could tell you I was capped for England twice. Table tennis. Quick reflexes I’ve got. By training, I’m a computer analyst.’ Lizzie took a deep breath. ‘I’m a Christian. Some would say evangelical. I don’t mind what the call me. I am one of His hand servants, heeding his call.’ She had had her say. She threw the ball to Marty. Some felt Lizzie’s contribution stepped over the mark. Was she out to convert them? It was a natural concern. She must have been nervous, they imagined. Only Tony was pleased that it was curtailed. That was an achievement for Lizzie. The ball came to Marty in surprise. It fell off her lap. She bent down to retrieve it.
‘I’m a maths teacher. Brought up as a staunch Roman Catholic in county Mayo. I found the Baha’i religion answered more of my questions than any other so, that’s why, I guess I’m here, well that and my illness.’ Marty threw the ball to Karen. Karen was not ready to speak. Marty’s contribution had been too short. She felt short changed. She threw the ball back to Marty.
‘I’d like to hear more about you Marty, something outside religion. What makes you tick?’
Marty caught the ball. ‘I’m sorry. I was too brief wasn’t I?’ Her comment was received with smiles. ‘Drums I played. Started off in an Irish Pipe band but when I was a student I became the fourth member of a group. The Bactrian View we called ourselves. I play mouthorgan too.’
‘Bactrian View, that’s profound. Tolstoy?’ questioned Karen.
Marty smiled. ‘Took it from a camel I saw in a weekend magazine. A Bactrian camel, standing on its own. I wondered what you would see from such a height. That’s when the View came to us.’
‘That’s cool,’ Karen remarked, her eyes still in the hot desert somewhere watering a camel.
‘So that’s me. Well, if you add in my dog Smarty. He’s a collie.’
Marty had disclosed enough. She threw the ball again to Karen. She kept it this time.
‘I’m not a cleric. My religion is token more than practicing but I am a church organist, one that’s a little out of tune at present.’ The polite company smiled more than laughed at her answer. She hinted she had almost no faith, the first to do so. ‘I teach music in school and am the annual musical director of the Christmas pantomime. Oh and I’ve just joined the local Ramblers. ’
Karen threw the ball back to Tony, with a charming grin.
‘Thanks. I hope that broke the ice a bit. Now I think we will now......’
‘But I threw the ball to you. Which is your God Tony? How does it work for you?’ asked Karen.
Tony was taken aback but tried not show it. Instead he steadied himself. He uncrossed his legs. He took a sigh as he gathered his thoughts. Then there was a knock on the door. Tony went to open it instantly, giving him a moment longer to compose his answer.
‘Come in Farook. Help yourself to a tea or coffee and come and join us.’
‘I’m sorry I was late,’ he said bringing his hands together before him in a clasp of forgiveness.
‘Not at all. You are not too late. We’ve only just started. Observing prayer time delay you?’
He nodded. Then he shook his head. ‘That would have been a good excuse. But the truth is I was not too sure about coming here. It took some persuading ......of myself. Yes, I do speak to myself. Anyway carry on. I’ll join you in a moment.’
Tony returned to his seat.
‘You were about to tell us about your God, Tony.’
‘Yes Karen I was. You see I am an agnostic. I see God, if He exists, and He may well do so, as the Random Process Generator showering some with favours while ignoring others who need help. A sort of insurance policy provider bringing calm and order to anxious minds. An insurance policy which is stubborn to pay out.’ He felt relieved to have owned up to his disbelief although he had let himself down by playing into their hands. He had to retain professional distance from now on, no matter how difficult it might be with this diverse group.
‘So you’re the odd man out Tony, a non-believer?’ asked Alan.
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit hard? I mean I am not denying the possibility of there being a God, but until I am satisfied that there is one, I remain agnostic to the idea.’
‘So no faith at all? No God? Not an easy concept for me to accept,’ said Farook as he approached, stirring his well-sugared tea.
Tony pointed at Farook’s mug. ‘Go on read it out.’
Farook looked around the room. Smiles met his eyes to encourage him. He raised the mug to focus and his lips smiled through his beard. It seemed they had already read the ceramic text of his mug.
‘Worry works! 90% of the things I worry about never happen.’
‘Very true. To those who worry too much, take note,’ suggested Tony.
‘I worry about God, perhaps he’s not a man?’ teased Lizzie.
‘The Christian Church has always had a bit of a problem with God’s gender. He doesn’t have one. But to talk about him is impossible without giving him a gender,’ said Alan.
‘I see what you mean. Calling God ‘it’ seems a bit rude, talking as if God was an impersonal force like gravity or inflation. So God has to be "He" or "She" and in a patriarchal society there''s no contest. As The Catechism of the Catholic Church says: God is neither man nor woman: he is God,’ said Alan with clarity.
‘I think we can all accept that,’ said Tony.
Two empty coffee mugs were placed on the floor.
The silence was awkward for a moment. As if headlights had made them freeze. Karen moved uncomfortably in her seat.
‘I think...I mean...I’m not sure what we’ll get out of these meetings. Er... what I’ll get out of them. How will this group develop, how will it benefit me or what will we be talking about in the weeks ahead?’ she asked.
Alert eyes looked at Tony for clarification.
‘From my perspective, we’ve got off to a good start. I see a relaxed group being able to speak to one another and in doing so; it relieves tensions, gains confidence, the very tools of socialisation.’
‘But where’s it all going?’ asked Marty.
‘How would you like it to proceed?’ asked Tony somewhat provocatively.
‘If this was the last meeting, I’d go away feeling it was a lost opportunity,’ said Alan.
‘Yes I can understand that. But at the back of my mind is that we all had mental issues and we’ve all got some religious background. Are we addressing both or either?’ said Marty.
‘That will be for you to decide.’
‘Come on Tony, that’s not fair.’
‘I want it to continue. I need it,’ said Farook.
Eyes turned towards him for a fuller explanation but it was not forthcoming.
‘I need to pass you the ball, Farook. We’ve all held the ball. When you have it you can tell the group something about yourself.’
Farook took on board what had been said. He caught the ball in one hand. He smiled. ‘We love our cricket in Pakistan.’ His comment brought happy smiles to the fore. ‘I came to Britain when I was five years of age. My parents were ambitious for me, not so much my sisters. They wanted me to live out their dreams. British schooled, university trained ...you know the drill. But my father in his last few years felt the education I had received should be to lay a firm foundation in our Mosque. So instead of finding a profession, I became the Imam. That was in the late 90s.’
The group felt a privileged insight into Moslem life was well under way. From their forward seated positions their interest could be seen.
‘In July 2001 I visited a cousin, Sahil, in Florida. I had not seen him for ages and so it was a welcome break and I was relaxed. I had a wonderful time. Although I still had my daily prayers to attend to, Sahil paid little attention to his faith. We discussed this for some time. I was not angry with him. I saw young men leaving the Mosque and not saying their prayers but worshipping their mobiles. Times were changing for some Muslims in the West.’
‘I didn’t think that could happen, Farook,’ said Alan.
‘It happens in all religions does it not?’ Heads acknowledged that it did but were surprised that Farook had mentioned the fact at all.
‘From Florida I went to New York where there is a sizeable Muslim population. I wanted to see the city so took a bus down town to the centre. I planned to see the Empire State building. A building I had heard of as a very young boy in Pakistan.’
Farook stopped. It was if he was there again or perhaps thinking why he was mentioning his travels. ‘Then it happened. I heard the plane’s engine whine as it the engines sounded near. I looked up. It went straight into the side of one of the Tower buildings. I froze looking at what I was seeing. What an accident not more than a few hundred yards from where I stood. Others were frozen to the spot too. As if a starter gun had sounded, we all went towards the building. In my mind there may have been many dead but many injured too. Perhaps some prayers for the injured, the deceased and the dying were my duty.
I got to the base of the burning Tower and saw the final seconds of life for the bodies falling to the ground from the affected floors above. I knew this was a very serious accident.’
‘Gosh 9/11. You were there Farook?’ The question need not have been asked but Farook lifted his eyes and nodded to Marty.
‘Then another explosion happened. I presumed the noise came from a collapsed floor not far above me. But the shrieks and sobs, the shouts and the curses began and I recognised a second plane had hit the other tower.’
Farook’s account created a silence as each created the horror and terror of 11th September 2001in their own minds.
‘That was when I realised, only one faith, one corrupted faith was responsible. Mine. Yes, thousands were killed that day but so too many, many Moslems. This was not the faith I knew nor did it represent my feelings. It was a watershed in my thinking. We had to live in a peaceful world and that meant change. But change was not on the minds of my fellow worshipers. They were at a loss to explain how this could come about. They saw it as a fresh generation fighting against traditional conservative Western values.’
Farook’s account brought him great sympathy. It was heartfelt.
Mugs were returned to the table while comments were muddled but all in amazement that one of their fold had been at the centre of a terrible world-watched crime.
Tony brought the gathering back to the present. ‘Then let’s meet next Monday night.’
A few heads nodded making their views apparent.
‘I’m up for it,’ said Lizzie.
A show of hands suddenly sprung up like fir trees. ‘Yes, I’ll definitely be here,’ said Farook.
‘Er...it seems to me ....that there are quite a few of us ....who play music. I wonder...’ said a hesitant Alan instantly feeling he had swerved the group away from its original purpose.
Eyes looked at each other. It was hard to gauge if it was a lukewarm response or a lit taper about to explode.
‘I mean, I play guitar; Marty drums and mouth organ, Karen has the keyboard. Lizzie you sing don’t you?’ asked Alan.
‘Sing? Of course, every day I sing and in my bath too.’
‘Good. Tony, am I speaking out of turn?’
Tony saw where Alan’s thoughts were going and this seemed an ideal bonding opportunity he felt he could encourage. Just what they needed in fact and he told them so.
‘Tony, do you play any instrument?’ asked Alan.
‘It’s not my group activity. I’ll be more of an observer.’
‘No, I mean, do you play any instrument?’
‘Well Alan, I can’t deny I play a mean saxophone.’
‘Great, just what we need.’
‘Farook do you play anything?’ asked Lizzie with an encouraging smile.
Farook twiddled his thumbs. ‘I listen to Radio 2 when I can. It’s not encouraged. But I’d like to listen...make tea? I’m good at that.’
‘Right, instruments to the fore, next Monday?’ Tony could see by the smiles that the group saw a purpose in meeting again.
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Web Site:
A Clerical Murder
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Ron