Two more short chapters
Chapter 11
Getting in Tune
Harmony prevailed as they gathered the following Monday and took their hot drinks.
‘I see it’s a 12 string model, Alan,’ said Marty.
‘Yes, Echo Ranger 12. I’ve had it a long time as you can see.’
Alan played a three chord strum for her benefit.
Karen was setting up a portable keyboard’s stand.
‘Can I lend a hand?’ asked Farook.
Karen looked round at the bearded Imam and wondered if he knew anything about the instrument.
‘Thanks. Can you take the keyboard out of its cover please.’
Farook eased the black and white notes from its case and brought it to the stand. His gaze lingered on the bewilderment of dials, slide volumes and different instruments panel.
‘Does it sit on top here?’
‘Yes, it will. But depends on where the electric socket is. Can you see one?’
Farook bent as he walked around the room, running his eyes along the skirting board.
‘Over here,’ he called out.
Then the door opened and eyes turned towards a man, a visitor. He was a man of excessive obesity. A round face with a jet black brushed back coiffure and a neat short black moustache too. His eyes scanned the group until he saw Tony.
‘Paul, glad to see you. Have you come to join us?’
He shuffled forward and nodded.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. May I introduce Paul Risk, Salvationist without his trombone, right?’
‘Yea, but I got a new one. It’s in the car.’
Tony looked at Paul’s slightly unkempt appearance.
‘Paul, a minute, over here.’
Tony led him to the end of the room where they sat down. ‘So second thoughts?’
‘You could say that. I wanted to speak to you and I saw there was a light on here. Chance meeting I suppose. Coincidence I have a new instrument in the car.’
‘Not easy to hold a consultation here with everyone around setting their things up. Make an appointment. I can see you on Tuesday.’
‘Don’t need an appointment. I’m no longer a Salvationist. I’ve gained a freedom, play when I want to. Play what I want to. I’m in recovery and pleased to find where I am. That’s what I came to tell you.’
‘Good to hear it Paul. You know we have found some of us can play instruments so it’s a music night. They’ve never played together before. You could be a good tutor for us.’
Paul looked round the room. If music was the night’s theme, he was in a safe zone. ‘The Muslim, what does he play?’
‘He’s helping out. I suspect he won’t be playing.’
Paul nodded. He thought as much. ‘So who has the sax?’
‘Look no further,’ Tony replied.
‘You on sax? Well, brass is looking good.’
‘Play your trombone loudly, hide my mistakes. Go bring yours in.’
Paul needed no further encouragement and he walked smartly towards the exit door. Some saw it as an abrupt departure and looked at Tony.
‘He’ll be back in a minute.’
The room swelled with the A note tuning each instrument. Karen’s fingers ran up and down the keyboard in an arpeggio but could only just be heard as her volume was set low.
‘Okay, finish your coffees then take a pencil and a piece of paper. Write down in order of preference your type of music you like to play. Mark then 1,2,3.’
Tony deposited the paper on the desk.
Tongues were peeking out of bottom lips as concentration gripped their thoughts. All, except Farook, who twiddled his pencil and stared blankly at the sheet.
Tony collated the papers and sorted the categories. ‘Three for folk; three for Jazz modern and traditional. Glad to see there’s no Hip Bop or whatever the youngsters jive to.’ The group laughed.
‘Alan , can you suggest a folk song start?’
Alan opened his blue, hard backed jotter collection of songs and flipped through from back to front.
‘He’s got the whole world, in His hands,’ he said feeling everybody should know the tune.
‘Bit churchy, isn’t it?’ asked Karen.
Alan sat back abruptly. ‘Only a suggestion. Have you got one?’
Karen had not an instant reply. Her ponderings took her eyes to the ceiling.
‘Dylan, The times are a-changin’,’ she said looking around for support.
And that was their first harmonious effort. Thereafter, the traditional jazz took over with Sweet Georgia Brown and Midnight in Moscow. The group gained in confidence as they played and Tony came in with his saxophone to give a solo spot in each song. His confidence grew too.
Tony knew he had been able to bring these patients out of their shells; out of their secluded environments and despite their doctrinal differences, had them socialising beyond his wildest dreams. They had gelled. It was just what Tony had wished for. Times were indeed changing.
Chapter 12
A Change Afoot
The following week the clients or musicians as they now saw their selves were anxious to return. Each wondered where their music might take them. Practice was the vehicle and they were enthusiastic. It seemed to bond them and forget about their illnesses.
That night a man dressed in jeans and a T-shirt sporting a moon symbol against a dark star-lit sky background arrived. He had black hair and an almost dark complexion. Nobody seemed to have any idea who this man was.
‘Can I help you?’ Tony asked.
The man smiled. He approached Tony and held his hand out.
‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’
Tony thought for a moment, his size, his voice, could only mean one thing.
‘Farook?’
‘I was Farook. I’m now Frank.’
‘Frank?’
‘Yes, changed by deed poll through my lawyer. Frank Armour, joining you, sir. Time to amend your files.’
‘I see. So your Muslim faith, er...where are you with that?’
Frank smiled raising his shoulders. ‘I’ve thrown in the towel. I’ve started to go to Alan’s church.’
‘And how will your Mosque see that?’ Tony enquired.
‘That’s why I changed my look. But this is the UK; I suspect they will leave me alone. God help me if they don’t.’
Tony looked across the room at Alan. He caught his eye. Alan put his thumb up as if announcing one convert had arrived in his fold.
‘I’m not a musician but with my larger taxi I can take the players around if they want to play for an old folks home or something like that.’
The idea caught on and they sat down to prepare a musical evening for the local home for the elderly, the Edendale Citizens Retreat.
Tony rang them that night and a date was arranged. They wished them to come one Friday evening and that meant two consecutive days practice. But each had found their voice through their instruments as Marty gave the drum kit a good whacking to keep their timing in order.
‘If we are going to a Home, then I think we should call ourselves something. Any ideas?’ asked Lizzie.
Heads nodded indicating it was a good idea then their silence put them into thinking mode.
‘The Singing Clerics?’ offered Karen.
‘I think we want to get away from our church anchors. What brought us together? Are we making progress? Sink or Swim is my offering.’
Lizzie’s suggesting seemed to get some interest. In fact after a few more suggestions were made, they came back to hers. Sink or Swim it became. Tony did not see his clients in such a light but he was not going to interfere.
‘Then on Friday, we meet here at 7p.m. Farook, I mean Frank, can then pack his taxi with keyboard, drum kit and he says you will all fit in. The home’s not more than three miles away anyway. Are you all able to come to our first concert?’ asked Tony.
There were no dissenters, just keen musicians who seemed to have found their calling through folk and traditional jazz music. Frank revelled in what he heard at the music practises through the tapping of his feet.
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It looks like, "We Are the World," has really gelled. Music is a great healer. Also, service to others like the old people's home. Interesting that a Salvation Army guy would leave that cult. I believe there are more Franks (formerly Farook) around than we realize. I certainly hope that my former grad assistant, Farid, has gone that route. While pretending to blend in with us very well at work, gaining praise, the way he treated his family so strictly bothered me. The last I heard from him, was that he was looking for testimonials for passage to Canada. Probably afraid of being deported back to Pakistan after illegally entering the country on a tourist visa and then violating the rules by staying and putting his kids in school.
Ron