Day six: The dark night of Barry’s soul

Cressida was in a great mood when I arrived, beaming over an email that had just popped into her inbox.

From:tabs@tamsdesres.org.uk
Sent: February 2010 20:58
To:clilywhite@ctt.co.uk
Subject: Hugs and kisses

Hi, Cressida, darling girl!  What fab flowers! I know it was you sent them - Charlie says Abacus wouldn’t know the difference between a pansy and a peony, that northern mutt! He’s going to tell Drumsie you’re worth your weight in the proverbial, darling and that Abacus is an oik that should be got rid.  See you at tai chi tonight.  Ciao! Tabby

Mrs Tams had been a major client of Cressida’s at ‘Beauty Blooms’, one of her many previously held posts.  Cressida, who had no idea what she was emailing about, purred with pleasure. 

Barry wasn’t quite so chipper. “It’s been a long week. Do you feel anything’s been gained?”, I asked him during our coaching session.

Somewhere in Barry’s mind, a thought was growing. He’d got things wrong. Not all things, just some, but important ones. Yes, he’d learned things about time management and about self-confidence; he’d realised that he needn’t always blame himself; but mostly he was beginning to see it wasn’t simply a question of work/life balance, but rather that without a fulfilled life nothing could be balanced.

“So what about next week Barry? What would you like to be different?”, I asked.

Silence.

“What’s up, Barry? Is something bothering you?”

“Did I ever tell you my granddad was in a brass band?”

Had Barry lost it? Why was he talking about his grandfather all of a sudden? He went on to tell me about his upbringing – the rows of terraced houses, church every Sunday, all the things he loved as a young lad. Somewhere along the line  this had changed, he said. At university, when people asked where he came from he lied and said ‘Surrey’.  His mother and sister had taught him to despise his background and Erin had tried (unsuccessfully) to correct him.

“But I am proud”, he said. “Not everyone’s granddad played a double B flat tuba! Whatever happened to all those great industrial brass bands?”

Barry turned pale and looked at me. “Brass bands! The very word is like a bell, to toll me back from thee to my sole self…”

He stood up and I realised his problem. “Brass band! Police choir! Barbican! I was supposed to meet Erin!”

In seconds, the office was abandoned, the large stack of papers (including Charlie Tams’ returns) remained untouched. Somewhere down an empty corridor a door clicked shut. Was that a tuba playing?

Did he make it? Find out next week.