The Memory Game

‘You look thin,’ she said. ‘Here.’ She heaped tomato salad beside the pasta, then a stack of beanshoots, until I cried ‘When!’ in mock horror. ‘You’ve got to keep me company.’

We took our trays over to a small table in a corner where there was no chance of anybody joining us.

‘I suppose I ought to ask how you know Alex,’ I began.

‘Yes,’ said Melanie in a firm, schoolmarmish tone. ‘But I must begin by saying that I know why you know Alex.’

‘Really?’ I said, shocked. ‘Isn’t it meant to be private?’

‘Well, yes, of course,’ she said quickly. ‘But your case is a matter of public record now, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so, but still…’

‘My dear Jane, I’m here to help you and I can tell you that you will need support.’

‘Why you, Melanie?’

Melanie had just taken a bite of bread and when she tried to reply she began to choke. I thumped her on the back. There was a long pause.

‘Thank you, I can speak again now,’ she said. ‘I started to see Alex ten years ago. I was depressed, my marriage was in trouble, I wasn’t coping with the stress of my job. You know, Jane, the normal state of the working woman.’

I smiled and nodded.

‘I spent a couple of years talking about my early life and all that, but nothing seemed to change. One day, Alex said to me that he believed I had been abused by a close member of my family and that I was suppressing the memory. I was furious, I rejected the idea totally and considered stopping the analysis, but something made me continue. So we carried on, teasing away at certain episodes in my childhood, some blank spots, but nothing happened. It all seemed pointless, until Alex suggested that I should picture myself being abused and go from there.’

Melanie paused and took a gulp of water.

‘It was like a floodgate opening. There were certain images tormenting me, sexual images. As I focused on them, developed them, I realised they were memories of sexual assault by my father. I won’t tell you the things he did to me, they were terrible things, perverse things that I could scarcely imagine. And as Alex and I went on we uncovered more and more. I realised that my mother had conspired with my father, not just by allowing it to happen but actively helping. And my brother and my sister had been raped and abused as well.’

She spoke with uncanny calmness, as if she had schooled herself to tell this terrible story. I wondered what I could possibly say.

‘That’s awful,’ I said, conscious of its inadequacy. ‘Were you absolutely sure it was true, that you didn’t imagine it?’

‘I was tormented with worry and I needed a lot of help and reassurance, most of which was provided by Alex.’

‘What did you do? Did you tell the police?’

‘Yes, after a while. They questioned my father but he denied everything and there were never any charges.’

‘What did your brother and sister say?’

‘They took my parents’ side completely.’

‘So what happened with your family?’

‘I never see them. How could I ever have any dealings with people who have ruined my life?’

‘God, I’m so sorry. So what did you do? How did your husband react?’

I was appalled, but Melanie seemed detached, almost amused, when describing the wreckage of her life.

‘He couldn’t cope with it at all, but then for a year or two I collapsed utterly. I became terribly ill, I couldn’t work, I couldn’t function, I couldn’t do anything. I moved away from home, I gave up my job. I lost almost a decade of my life. I always wanted children, you know. I began to see Alex when I was in my mid-thirties. I’m forty-six now. I’ll never have children. It’s still all I can do to look after myself.’

‘God, Melanie, was it worth it?’

Her curious half-smile vanished. ‘Worth it? My father sodomised me when I was five years old. My mother knew about it but chose to ignore it. That’s what they did to me, that’s what I’ve got to deal with.’

I felt sick, the food dry and heavy in my mouth. I forced myself to swallow.

‘Have they never apologised to you for what they did?’

‘Apologise? They’ve never even admitted that they did anything.’

‘So what are you doing now?’

It seemed a mad question. I just didn’t know what to say.

‘A couple of years ago I formed a self-help group for people like me who have recovered memories of abuse. In fact, that’s why Alex suggested we should meet. We’re doing a workshop this afternoon and we wondered if you’d like to sit in.’

‘I don’t know, Melanie.’

‘They’re a remarkable collection of women, Jane, I think you’d like them. Give us a try. I think we might be able to help you.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go ahead now. But we meet at two. It’s along the corridor in CR3. Will you be there?’

I nodded. That gnarled, damaged woman stood and hoisted the strap of her bag over one shoulder, picked up a pile of files and picked her way through the crowd, nodding at people here and there. I felt she could have been at a fete or a WI meeting, but she was off to chair a seminar for the psychically damaged.

I needed a cigarette and I needed a coffee. I got in line but when I reached the piles of cups and began to pour, my hand was trembling so violently that the coffee went everywhere but in my cup.

‘Here, let me do that for you,’ said a woman beside me and she poured a cup for me and one for herself. Then she led me to the nearest empty table and sat down with me. I recognised her. I thanked her and she held out her hand to me.

‘Hello, I’m Thelma Scott.’

‘Yes, I know. I heard your contribution to the debate earlier on.’

‘And I know who you are,’ she replied drily. ‘You’re Jane Martello, Alex Dermot- Brown’s latest and best specimen.’

‘Everybody I meet here seems to know me already.’

‘You’re a valuable property, Ms Martello.’

It was more than I could bear.

‘Dr Scott, I’m grateful for your help but I don’t really know what I’m doing here and I certainly don’t want to get involved in any controversy.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? Your father-in-law is about to go to prison for the rest of his life and you put him there.’

‘He confessed to the crime, Dr Scott. He’s going to plead guilty.’

‘Yes, I know,’ she said with an obvious lack of concern. ‘What did you make of Melanie Foster?’

‘I think she’s an unbearably tragic case.’

‘Yes, I agree.’

I drained my coffee cup. ‘I’ve gotto go,’ I said, preparing to get up.

‘Off to Melanie’s workshop?’

‘Yes.’

‘For some sisterly reassurance? To be told that you’ve done the right thing?’

‘That’s not what I want.’

Thelma Scott raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Really? That’s good,’ she said and began to open her purse.

‘I’ll pay,’ I said.

‘There’s nothing to pay,’ she said. ‘Our coffee is courtesy of Mindset. I want to give you this.’

She extracted a card, wrote on the reverse and offered it to me. ‘This is my card, Jane. On the back, I’ve written my home phone number and my address. If you ever feel that you’d like to talk to me, just give me a ring. Any time at all. And I can guarantee confidentiality, which is more than some other people in this field of inquiry.’