Free This Too Shall Pass by S. J. Finn Page B

After each subheading he would read out our score, which seemed to be divided into four quarters but added up to a total of ten points. Anton only got through one tenth of one category, after which, clearly losing interest, he became tongue-tied and couldn’t read further for stumbling. He began to summarise in clipped precision.
    Broadly speaking, the problems fell under three major headings. Firstly and most onerously: our files. Not just our filing system, although that was in need of some sorting, but our assessments, file notes, the order we kept the notes in, even the handwriting – it was all in need of improvement. Secondly and more serious for others because our team had the best results for this, were our waiting lists and throughput tallies. Some teams had wait times of up to six months and the number of people being seen in some teams was extremely low. (I could see Elliot from the corner of my eye, nodding at this. I could also tell by the way he sat up with a biting, alert look on his face that this must have pertained particularly to his team. I imagined that, under his expression, he was saying to himself: I’ll turn the wreck of a team I’ve inherited around, I’m really a hero under all the other personas I have?) And thirdly: our lack of oomph. This, without putting too fine a point on things – another tendency of Anton’s was to give you a feel for things and let the detail emerge – referred to our incapacity to engage with the outside world.
    â€˜Finally, people,’ he said, ‘I’ve come up with a new name for the place. SKY-Hooks.’ He wrote the name on a large whiteboard behind him. SERVICES FOR KIDS AND YOUTH – HEALTH OUTLOOKS.
    Could be worse, I thought, nodding as I considered the name. And then I became aware of the reaction of the others in the room who clearly weren’t going to be so generous. My eyes shifted. I wondered what the customary “get fucked” angle was around here and then immediately, I had the feeling I was about to find out.
    â€˜I’m concerned about a few things, Anton.’ All heads swivelled to Deborah Armata, a woman who had an unsettling habit of clearing her throat every three minutes – more if she was speaking. After some rhetoric about accreditation and how careful we had to be of not letting the tail wag the dog, Deborah went on to say she was very concerned about the devolution of the powerful and resonating therapy we offered here at Marlowe Downs. She went on to point out that it could only be reached by the deep and laborious probing of analytical frameworks, and should not be forsaken for the sake of glossy widespread appeal. This dissertation went on and I began to realise the reality of what I’d put my hand up for. Deborah – along with some of the others I recognised from the hallways and the staff lounge – was the sort of person I’d probably avoid in normal circumstances.
    Anton, however, was an expert at dealing with exactly this sort of person. Deborah’s verbose and didactic manner was Anton’s ticket to salvation. By being silent he allowed her to bore everyone into a petrified state and hang herself at the same time.
    â€˜Marlowe Downs is in trouble,’ Deborah’s voice ground on, ‘that much is clear. What we have to do (chafing of throat like a saw to bitumen) is to make sure we don’t take the old growth trees from the wood while we’re simply trying to clear the undergrowth.’
    My mouth dropped open, not only because of the terrible clichés she was using, but because I could suddenly see the road ahead, and it was paved with consternation. Deborah alone would drive me senseless.
    Elliot weighed in on the argument. He at least had a suggestion: to create a rapid referral and response process that he would be happy to write up and bring to the meeting in a fortnight’s time. Then the clinical head of psychiatry, Dr Albert