All in the Mind (39 page)

Two spaces along from Ralph Hall sat David Temple, alongside his mother and Father Nicholas who had come to give moral support, but who was dressed in normal clothes out of respect for this being an Anglican church. Unlike Mrs Sturrock and her children, David was not surprised to see the crowds. He had often wondered how many hundreds of patients Professor Sturrock must have had during four decades as a practising psychiatrist. Even though he felt he had something of a special bond with the psychiatrist, he assumed the majority of patients would warm to Professor Sturrock as an individual, as he had. Some would feel they owed him their life, others that he had helped them in large ways and small. So it was inevitable, given how big the news had been over
the
last week, that people who wanted to pay respects would come to the funeral.

He had written his eulogy on Friday evening, and had rewritten it many times since. But the rewriting was just an expression of nervousness. The basic structure and the basic messages were unchanged. When he had doubts about a certain word or thought, he would ask himself what Professor Sturrock might say, and take guidance that way. He also found Father Nicholas helpful with some of the tips he gave about how to stand, how to pause, where to look, what to do with his hands. But the message was his, and he felt special that, of all the people here – the doctors and managers and academics, the charity people and the politicians and the patients – he, David Temple, possessor of one GCSE, and probably the lowest paid person in the church, was the one asked to have the final word.

His mother had dipped into her savings to buy him a new suit and shoes. The shoes were pinching around his toes as he tapped his feet and waited for Reverend Fletcher to call him. He was conscious of his collar feeling tight and prickly against his neck. When the moment came, he clutched his speech firmly in his right hand and walked to the pulpit, reminding himself of some of Father Nicholas’s tips. Deep breath. Pause when you get there to accustom yourself to the surroundings. Look for nice faces to talk to. Project towards the back. Speak slowly.

He was taken aback at how loud the heels of his new shoes were on the church floor, and it made him even more conscious of the fact that the focus was falling on him. When he reached the pulpit he took a deep breath, looked from one side of the church to the other, nodded towards Mrs Sturrock, then began.

‘My name is David. I have been a patient of Professor Sturrock’s for almost two years. I suffer from depression, and plenty more besides.’ There was the beginnings of a titter at the back of the church, so he paused, as advised by Father Nicholas, to let it grow to mild but friendly laughter.

‘Every week, he gave me homework.’ That got a few murmurs of recognition too, so he paused again. ‘He loved it when you did his
homework
.’ A few people laughed. Arta turned to Lirim and smiled. Lorraine whispered to Emily, ‘Even if you did it late.’

‘One of my homework tasks was to describe the best and the worst moments of every day. On the day he died, hearing the news was the worst moment. I’m sure I wasn’t alone in that. And the best was as I walked along the canal on my way home from work, and I was crying. Not sobbing, not weeping, crying. Tears just welling up in my eyes and trickling down my cheeks. And why was that the best moment of the day? Because earlier in the day I’d asked myself what he would advise me to do to get through the day, and I decided he would say I should finish work as normal, and have a good cry on the way home, in the dark, by the canal. So that is what I did. And every day since, my worst moments have been when I’ve thought about how he suffered, or I’ve thought about how nervous I’m going to be when I stand up here, or I’ve thought about what’s going to happen if I get a new psychiatrist who doesn’t understand me like he did. And all my best moments have been when I’ve asked him what he thinks, and somewhere in my mind, I find the answer.

‘So in my mind, he says to me, “I suffered for all sorts of reasons, because I’m no different to anyone else. I have good days and bad days. I have weaknesses as well as strengths. And things just got too much for me.” And when I’ve been nervous, he’s said to me, “The key to your humanity is your humility, David. You’re nervous because you’re humble, but we’re all of equal worth, and I trust you to get up there and say what you think, and in saying what you think, you’ll do fine.” And when I worry about getting a new psychiatrist, he’s saying, “You were nervous about me at first, but we got along well in the end, did we not?”

‘We did. We got along very well. Even if some days I couldn’t face going. And I want to take this opportunity to apologise to his secretary Phyllis for the appointments I missed.’ Tittering. Pause for mild laughter.

‘Professor Sturrock knew more about me than anyone else alive. I wrote down here on my speech – he shared my burden. That’s what Mr Hall said. He shared my burden. He shared our burden.

‘My father left me and my mother when I was a kid. That was my burden. I never liked to admit it, but it was. It’s been interesting these past few days to learn all these new things about Professor Sturrock. I thought he had five children, not three. I used to get jealous of these five children in my imagination, three boys and twin girls, because I thought he must be such a great father to have, when you’re like me and you’ve never really had one. But what do I know? Did I ever think he would kill himself ? No. No way. He was the man with the answers as well as the questions. So all I know is what he was to me, not what he was to himself, or his real family.

‘Was he a father figure to me? Of course he was. There was nobody I respected or relied on more. But also he respected me. Before he died, he sent me a message saying nobody described better than I did “what this is like”. That’s when I knew. I’d had an inkling before, but then I knew. He got depressed too. Really depressed. Being depressed is not the same as being fed up or a bit hacked off with life. Being depressed is when you can’t face the day. When you wake up and you feel like heavy weights are attached to your eyelids. When the knot inside you has grown and grown so you don’t know where the knot ends and the rest of your body begins. Every little thing requires a big, big effort, and then you’re knackered when you make it. And we used to talk about downward rhythms and curves and I sometimes had an inkling it was a fellow sufferer not a doctor speaking, but it wasn’t my place to ask. I wish I had. I wish he’d told me his dreams like I told him mine. Wish he had told me what he wanted on his gravestone like I told him what I wanted on mine. Wish he had told me what his demons were. Demons and angels. He must have said that to all of us. He said we all have them. Every one of us. And some days the demons win and some days it’s the angels. And on the day he died, the demons stormed the citadel and they won. But I remember the angels in him. We gave him our burdens. He gave us his angels.’

David tapped the side of his head. ‘He’s in here, somewhere, keeping an eye on the wiring for me, having a word every now and then. And when his gravestone is carved, it will be for his wife and
children
to say how it should be inscribed. But I hope it says something like this: “A humble man, he gave more than he got.”’

He was on to his last page. He had just two sentences left, one saying he hoped Professor Sturrock’s family would find the strength to rebuild their lives, the other saying he wanted to say thank you to Professor Sturrock on behalf of all the patients who had come to the funeral. But reading out a gravestone inscription for Professor Sturrock had hammered home the finality of what had happened, the fact that all he had left now were memories and words, and the hope of an ongoing influence. He felt his heart pumping, air swirling around inside his guts, and tears building, ready to pour. He couldn’t go on. He said, ‘Thank you for listening,’ and hurried back to his place, for the first time in his life hearing hundreds of people applauding him.

Father Nicholas leaned over to him.

‘That was the most beautiful eulogy I have ever heard,’ he said.

Reverend Fletcher did the bidding, then asked the family to come and lay flowers on the coffin. Mrs Sturrock had a rose, Suzanne and Michelle sunflowers, Jack a carnation. Jack went to kiss the coffin lid, and started to sob uncontrollably. Reverend Fletcher went to comfort him, placed his hand on his shoulder as with the other hand he urged others to come and lay flowers. Lance Corporal Spiers was one of several war veterans who filed to the front. Matthew Noble and his wife went together to lay their bunch of lilies. Arta laid an iris and went to hug Mrs Sturrock.

Then there were those Professor Sturrock hadn’t seen for a long time. Harry Archer wasn’t dead after all. He was in his fifties, didn’t have a flower to lay, but walked to the front to touch the coffin anyway. Malcolm Grove hadn’t known they were meant to bring flowers, so he sneaked outside and stole a rose from the church borders, and took it forward. Margaret Halton was there too. Weighing in at a healthy nine stone three pounds. And Len Appleton, who never fully recovered after seeing his son killed right in front of him, had a camellia, and he took it to Mrs Sturrock at the front. ‘Give this to his mother, will you? I know what it’s like to lose a child.’

It took twenty-five minutes before people had returned to their seats. The coffin had hundreds of flowers piled up on it. Many more had fallen to the floor. The choir sang ‘Thou Knowest Lord, the Secrets of our Heart’, Mrs Sturrock’s favourite piece of music. ‘Purcell,’ Mrs Parks whispered to her daughter. ‘Beautiful,’ said Emily. Then the coffin was carried out. Hundreds of mourners, many in tears, rose to their feet as Mrs Sturrock and her family filed out behind it: pew upon pew of flawed people come to bid farewell to a man who healed many of them, but never healed himself; who preached forgiveness, but could not forgive himself.

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Published by Arrow 2009
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Copyright © Alastair Campbell 2008

Alastair Campbell has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Hutchinson
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