by Simon Parke
Ezekiel did not hide his puzzlement.
‘That’s how talk therapy works,’ continued Barnabus. ‘If we can make it to now, to the here and now, I mean, to who you are in this moment, honestly acknowledged - then something truthful might emerge.’
The Reverend nodded politely, tolerating the inadequate response and fingering a small leather tome he had withdrawn from his pocket.
‘The psalmist says, “Unless the Lord builds the house, those who labour, labour in vain”.’
Again the sense of interrogation, the sense of self-righteousness, which, therapeutically, is impossible to work with.
‘Who said the Lord isn’t building the house?’ asked Barnabus.
‘I do not hear you mentioning his name.’
‘Those in the sea don’t have to talk about water.’
Ezekiel was quietened for a moment, and so Barnabus continued:
‘Perhaps the Lord is at work - but in a disguise that hides him from your eyes?’
Barnabus felt the satisfaction of a counter-thrust hitting the mark. But he was more concerned at the combative nature of the exchange so far. Truth travelled best through relationship, and this wasn’t relationship but debate.
‘I do not come for myself anyway,’ said the Reverend Ezekiel.
‘So who do you come for?’ A new line of enquiry?
‘I come about my daughter.’ Ezekiel’s jaw tightened.
‘Your daughter?’
‘She is not well.’
‘A doctor may be better than me.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I work mainly with the mind.’
‘My son is a fine young preacher at only seventeen.’
‘That is very young to be preaching,’ said Barnabus.
‘A good boy, Michael, he knows right from wrong and respects his father. Are you married with children?’
‘Neither of the above.’
Ezekiel acknowledges this failing.
‘God has been good to me, I know,’ he says, ‘truly blessed in the fruit of my loins. But my daughter, she has a demon.’
‘A demon?’
‘She goes her own way.’
‘And how old is your daughter?’
‘She is - nineteen.’
‘Then she’s still young, Reverend, with a lot of maturing to do. I don’t believe we reach the age of responsibility until we’re twenty seven or twenty eight, by which time we’ve seen a little of the world and been able to distance ourselves from our parents.’
It seemed Ezekiel was not keen on distance.
‘Do you believe in demons, Mr Hope?’
Barnabus paused. He was aware of strong feelings arising inside him, but wary also of embarking on another confrontation. He looked for a bridge to bring them together, rather than a bomb to blow them apart.
‘I know the power of an un-well mind.’
‘With all due respect, that is not an answer to my question.’
‘The hard-wiring of the brain takes place in the first few years of life, Reverend, in response to the nurture offered. That is when the mind patterns are formed which we take into later life. I understand why people talk of demons because we can be very destructive, both towards ourselves and others. But maybe the real demon is our nurture; or in this case, simply a teenage girl in a religious household beginning to wonder who she is.’
The Reverend Ezekiel St Paul sat politely enough, with the beginnings of a smile.
‘We’ve tried to beat the demon out of her.’ Barnabus felt rising anger again.
‘And did that help?’ he asked.
‘The elders say she must now suffer greater punishment to be freed.’
‘Greater punishment?’
‘It is a kindness, believe me.’ He didn’t believe him.
‘Really?’
‘They must do what they must do. I would not be a good father if I did not allow that.’
Was this the hint of a cry for help? Was there something in the Reverend that wanted Barnabus to name this for the nonsense it was?
‘And we all want to be good fathers,’ said Barnabus.
‘You have no children.’
‘But if I did.’
‘If you did, they would be godless,’ he said.
But Barnabus wanted to stay with fatherhood, with Ezekiel’s fatherhood.
‘And as her father, how do you feel about the “greater punishment” you speak of? How do you feel about your daughter suffering in this way?’
For a moment the Reverend’s eyes watered, like a weak fire in the ice; but then he looked down and squeezed his bible.
‘You’re not happy about this, are you?’ said Barnabus. ‘And why would you be?’
‘The godless cannot help the godly, Mr Hope,’ replied Ezekiel, closing the issue.
‘Maybe that’s so, and maybe it isn’t. But in the meantime, I sense you don’t feel the godly are helping much either.’
Barnabus was aware of a slight crack in the Reverend’s well-patrolled defences. Just for a moment, this man had touched on true feeling, evidenced in the tiny tear, the struggle for words. Which way now? Would he lift anchor and risk more; or drop anchor in terror and panic. Barnabus had his answer soon enough.
‘The demon will be choked out of her,’ said Ezekiel, as though it were something quite settled.
‘Choked out of her?’
‘How else to make her God’s temple once again?’
‘But that’s child abuse.’
There was a pause. The judgement had slipped out, darting past the barriers of professional code. He’d never been sure how far to take acceptance, but felt a line had been crossed.
‘I will be consulting my lawyers,’ said the Reverend.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I will be consulting my lawyers, Mr Hope. I thank you for your time but wipe the dust off my feet as I leave. Tomorrow, I am told, we shall meet as fools.’
‘Indeed.’
‘So there is no need for you to dress up.’
Thirty One
Barnabus Hope knew of Martin Channing by reputation and would need to forget this when they met. There was no place for preconceived judgements in the therapy room. ‘Hitler’s just a man when he walks in that door,’ as his tutor would say.
The editor of the Sussex Silt was not Hitler, but excited strong reaction, intrigue and loathing. Even those who didn’t believe in demons believed Channing to be one, perhaps the devil himself. Majoring on the criminal, the snide, and the cess-pit of celebrity, the Silt left the reader infected with negativity... yet somehow gasping for more. Sales were booming and Martin Channing, former editor of a middle-England national, was greatly enjoying his new ‘hobby’, as he called it - though with his keen eye for remuneration, no one doubted it was a hobby that paid very well. And he was sitting with Barnabus now, who opened with a cheery line:
‘When your paper ran a feature on our Feast of Fools package, I didn’t expect the editor to be one of the participants!’
Martin settled himself in his blue cord jacket, pink shirt, crisp denim jeans - and smiled.
‘And neither did I.’
Referred to as the only reptile on earth in a cravat, Barnabus did wonder if he was being set up by Channing. Normally it’s the client concerned about confidentiality, but on this occasion, the fears went the other way:
‘I mean, whoever trusted a journalist?’ thought Barnabus. ‘He could destroy my reputation!’
‘I did suggest that our features editor Susie give it a shot. I mean, it all sounded rather fun and I used to know Frances at university - in the way you know anyone at university, which isn’t at all. I mean, you have sex but you don’t know them.’
B
arnabus’s mind was swimming.
‘I expect you’ve got psychology degrees falling out of your pockets!’ continued Channing happily.
Barnabus didn’t, and suspected Martin knew that he didn’t. Battle lines being drawn early.
‘And, well, I suppose I just wanted to give Frances a helping hand - do what I can for the community.’
‘You know Frances.’
Barnabus left it somewhere between a statement and a question.
‘But then Susie had to pull out, God knows why, flaky girl, and I thought, “Free therapy? Why not?”.’
‘And so here you are.’
‘Safe in the hands of an expert, I’m sure.’
Was Barnabus getting paranoid or was this another dig? He was always suspicious of comments in therapy delivered with a smile... a sign of evasion or attack.
‘So what do you think you might get out of therapy?’
‘I think it was the word ‘free’ I found most appealing.’ Barnabus allowed this deft and witty evasion.
‘Though I imagine you must be comfortably off, Mr Channing... not someone who needs free offers.’
Challenge him on the reality of his last statement, jerk the reins of control from his clever grip.
‘Is that a therapist using their privileged position to be nosy about the financial affairs of others?’
‘No, it’s a therapist wondering where your survival fears come from. Wondering why you invent financial insecurity, why you find the world such an insecure place?’
‘Well that’s telling me!’
‘It’s not telling you anything.’
‘The therapist’s revenge!’
‘I have no interest in revenge, Mr Channing, and no reason for it. I was just reflecting on your words.’
‘Hah!’
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘I’m trained in spotting hokum.’
‘So you’re a suspicious soul.’
‘Perhaps I’m just too sharp.’
‘Suspicion helps you as a journalist, but perhaps not as a human.’
‘Explain.’ Progress?
‘Suspicion can cut you off from personal truth,’ said Barnabus.
‘Suspicious people are frightened people and frightened people don’t dare look at themselves.’
‘Everyone has an interest in revenge,’ said Martin, as if it was self-evident.
‘Do you?’ asked Barnabus.
‘Take the therapist.’
‘We’re not really here to talk about me.’
‘But what do you do in a session, if a client makes you angry?’ Barnabus decides to go with the flow.
‘The first thing is to notice I’m angry.’
‘No, I’ll tell you what you do.’ Aggressive, thinks Barnabus.
‘You twist the knife in some way.’
‘And you know that because?’
‘Don’t tell me you just smile and think “That’s okay”.’
‘I recognise the client’s aggression for what it is.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘It’s called transference and it lies at the heart of talk therapy.’
‘Of course! Our old friend transference! Now what would the definition of that be these days?’
It was a word from his past, but now lay in the attic of his mind, under layers of dust.
‘It’s simply the unconscious process whereby attitudes, feelings and desires of early significant relationships get transferred onto the therapist.’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re doing it now... projecting your shadow side onto me, with this talk of knife-twisting desires for revenge.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Transference occurs in all relationships, to some degree. But in the hands of a good therapist, it’s not a bad thing but a good thing... uncomfortable but good, a life-shifting occurrence if handled well.’
‘So what if the transference gets violent?’ Barnabus felt trapped.
‘One thing I try and avoid,’ he said, ‘is a session becoming an interview or discussion.’
‘What else is there?’
‘We’re here to help you listen to your life.’ Channing offered a withering smile.
‘If one of my writers used that phrase, I’d put a line through it and tell them to replace it with plain English.’
‘So the phrase is a problem for you, which is revealing in itself.’
‘I have absolutely no problems with the phrase, none at all, other than the fact that it’s gobbledygook.’
‘But the only reason to be here is to listen to your life.’
‘You have no idea about my reasons for being here.’
‘It’s the one good reason: to listen to your life in the company of another.’
‘I’m not sure I’d choose yours.’ Ignore.
‘Therapy is less a discussion - more a contemplation of the mystery who is you.’
‘That all sounds very dull.’
‘Are you using the word “dull” instead of the word “frightening”?’
‘Frances was right.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It doesn’t matter. And I need to be getting on, twenty-four hour news cycle and all that.’
Barnabus sat quietly for a moment, mortified. He felt like crying.
‘Why do you need to be getting on?’ he asked, as the editor made to leave.
‘We’ll meet tomorrow in rather different circumstances, I’m told.’
‘They will be a little different, yes,’ said Barnabus.
‘Clown outfits.’
‘Yes, I must get over my fear of people in masks.’
‘Ah, physician heal thyself!’
‘Well, it’s good to be honest about our fears, Martin. I’m not sure how honest you are about yours. I sense you’re running from something, something painful.’
‘Ooh! A parting shot!’
‘Why do you perceive everything as an attack?’
‘I don’t perceive anything as an attack.’
‘Remember how transference works, Mr Channing.’
‘That’s your big word today, is it?’
‘It describes something dangerous, yes.’
‘Then let’s hope it keeps away from the Feast of Fools - or something very cruel could happen. Goodbye! Things to do!’
Thirty Two
Later that night, Barnabus sat alone in his room in Henry House.
The space was small, a preponderance of beams and sloping floor, with bed and small desk. Perhaps it had once been the changing room for the lady of the house. The master bedroom was next door, with its own four-poster bed and grand window looking out on the gardens. But Frances had thought it best kept for special guests, though none had so far come. Frances liked the idea of special people arriving, and being put up in style by Mind Gains, famous people, people of substance; certainly people more important than Barnabus. For a socialist, Frances was a Grade One social snob, and it hadn’t crossed her mind that Barnabus might be hurt by this stance. In her eyes, he was lucky to be getting a rent-free room; and the fact that he didn’t pay rent had, in truth, become increasingly irksome for Frances. Yes, Mind Gains had an on-site caretaker free of charge. But did Barnabus really deserve free accommodation? Everyone else had to pay for where they lived, didn’t they? An unresolved sense of wrongdoing left resentment, a hard feeling to hide. Barnabus, for his part, viewed it differently. He felt he earned his keep via the countless small jobs and inconveniences that devolved to him because he lived on site.
‘Barnabus can do that,’ Frances would routinely say. The truth was, he felt more trapped than grateful.
But now he sat worried at his wobbly de
sk - blame the floor, not the desk maker - and wrote in blue ink. It was a nameless anxiety, elusive as mist, but cramping his breathing, squeezing it tight; and these lines were the best he could do. Simple lines, short lines, lines which took him back to another place, a warmer place, a safer place, memories... but not for long, he wouldn’t dwell, and with his work complete, he sealed and addressed the envelope, put on his coat, trod the creaky stairs down into the hallway and having locked the front door behind him, stepped out into the chill of the late October night.
It was a clear sky on the south coast of England with a fat smuggler’s moon to lantern his way to the letter box at the bottom of the drive. He wasn’t sure the postman came every day, but there was evidence he came some days and that was enough. The day’s sessions had been difficult, no question about that; and they’d left Barnabus wondering about his performance. He always wondered about his performance, it was hardly something new. He’d been wondering about his performance for as long as he could remember, but he particularly wondered tonight.
The Feast of Fools package - with just two sessions - demanded a more aggressive style than usual, this is what he felt, a deliberate attempt to create ripples, waves even... but the clients had created the turbulence as well. What was it Freud said? The therapist should be opaque to his patients, and like a mirror, show them nothing but what is shown to you. It was a passive approach, in which the therapist offers back to the client only what the client offers to them. Had Barnabus been opaque enough? Not always, no; transparency had broken out once or twice, his own colours revealed. But then sometimes he liked to be naughty and put a stick in the psychological spokes; just as sometimes he liked to be an angel, and encourage the suffering soul. Freud would have allowed neither... he didn’t encourage relationship, naughty or angelic.
But he must leave the encounters now. The meetings were recorded and best left to soak in their own juices, until next week. A lot could happen in a few days, in a few seconds even, and he felt better for walking, he often did. And while it wasn’t easy to pull the spears out of his back after sessions, he usually found they dissolved of their own accord, if left kindly alone.
‘It’s not personal,’ as the manuals said: ‘transference is never personal.’
