I took the card reluctantly. ‘Dr Scott, I really don’t feel we have anything to talk about.’
‘Fine, then don’t call. But put it in your purse. Go on, I want to see you do it.’
‘Okay, okay.’ I did as she said under her keen gaze. ‘There it is, tucked under my Leisurecard.’
Before I could get up, Thelma Scott leant across the table and took my hand. ‘Keep it there. This isn’t over, Jane,’ she said, with an urgency that surprised me. ‘Look after yourself.’
‘I always do,’ I said and left her without looking back.
Conference Room 3 was much smaller than the hall we had sat in earlier. It contained ten chairs arranged in a circle, and when I entered most of them were occupied, all by women. They looked curiously at me as I sat down. Should I introduce myself? Would it be rude if I read a magazine before the workshop got going? I opened my file as if I had some urgent preparations to make. I was aware of other people coming in and sitting down and then Melanie greeted me and I looked up. All the seats were occupied and two people were standing, Alex Dermot- Brown among them, so more chairs were brought in and we all scraped backwards to give them room.
‘Good afternoon,’ Melanie said, when everybody was settled. ‘Welcome to the “Listen to Us” section. I’ll try to follow the spirit of the title and say as little as possible. As you all know, this isn’t a normal meeting for our group. We have a couple of observers and a guest. I don’t want to be formal about this, and I’m only going to chair this in the loosest sense. I propose that we begin by identifying ourselves and explaining what we’re doing here. We’ll go clockwise, starting with me. I’m Melanie, and I have recovered the memory of being abused by my father and mother.’
And the introductions began, a catalogue of suffering that I could hardly bear.
‘I’m Christine and I’m here because I have recovered the memory of being abused by my stepfather.’
‘My name is Joan and I’m here because I have recovered the memory of being sexually abused by my father and my uncles.’
‘My name is Suzanne and I’m here because I have recovered the memory of being abused by my father.’
‘Hello, I’m Alex Dermot-Brown and I’m a doctor who wants to listen to the victims of abuse and to help them to help themselves.’
‘I’m called Christine.’ A rueful smile. ‘Another one. I recovered my memory of being sexually abused by my older brothers.’
‘I’m called Sylvia and I recovered my memory of being raped as a child by my stepfather and by another man.’
‘I’m called Lucy and I recovered my memory of abuse by my father and my mother.’
‘My name is Petra Simmons and I’m a solicitor.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m here to see what I can do. And to learn something, I hope.’
‘My name is Carla and I remembered being abused. I don’t know who they were, though. I was so young.’
My turn. My cheeks were burning.
‘My name is Jane,’ I said. ‘Look, I’m not really prepared for this. I didn’t know anything about it. I thought I was just going to be an observer, to see what it was like.’
‘It’s all right, Jane,’ said Sylvia, a robustly handsome middle-aged woman. ‘The first thing we have to learn is to find words for what happened to us. We’re so used to being disbelieved and undermined. That’s why we suppressed these traumas.’
‘Excuse me.’ It was the woman on my left. ‘Can I introduce myself before we start the discussion?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Melanie. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Hello, my name’s Sally,’ she said. ‘I remembered being abused by my father and a family friend. That’s all. Sorry for interrupting, Sylvia.’
There was a moment of awkwardness because Sylvia had actually finished her point. I leapt into the silence.
‘I’m sorry, I’m just not ready for this. You’re all brave women and the idea of what you must have been through is unbearable, but this is all too recent for me.’
‘You don’t need to feel sorry for us,’ said Carla, a young woman with beautiful hennaed hair wearing a long gorgeously patterned dress. She looked like a dream gypsy. ‘The terrible thing is being unable to talk about it. What we’ve done in this group is to liberate each other. Jane, I don’t know much about your circumstances but I would guess that what you are feeling at the moment is doubt about the memories you have recovered and guilt about the effect they have had. Abuse victims get abused all over again when they try to describe what has happened to them. Every person who questions the testimony of an abuse victim is also an abuser. The whole point of our group is to support and strengthen each other. We believe you, Jane, and we trust you.’
‘Thank you, I’m sure this group must be very emotionally helpful.’
A little laugh ran round the circle and looks were exchanged. Melanie tapped her pen on her folder and called for silence. Then she spoke:
‘This isn’t just about emotions. This is a political issue. If you join with us, and we truly hope you do, you’ll start to learn that there are networks of abuse, that there are abusers in positions of authority. This is what we’re up against.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ I protested.
‘What has been your own experience, Jane? You found a murderer and a rapist who had escaped justice for a quarter of a century. What happened? Is your testimony going to be used? Will your revelation be on the record?’
‘I gave a statement. Buthe confessed,’ I admitted. ‘He’s pleading guilty.’
‘How convenient,’ said Melanie. ‘Look, people can’t bear to admit that abuse is widespread, that it’s not just the evil maniac but the man next door – the man in the next room. It’s too terrible to contemplate. So we, the victims, are not supposed to remember – are
After the workshop, Alex had other people he wanted me to see but I told him I wanted to leave. I said I would catch a cab but he insisted on driving me and making sure I was all right. I was silent for several minutes as we moved slowly in the early rush-hour traffic.
‘What did you make of Melanie’s group?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know what to say. I find it difficult to be rational about so much suffering.’
‘Would you be interested in joining?’
‘God, I don’t know, Alex. I once had to run a bring-and-buy stall at the boys’ school fete. That experience put me off joining anything. I can’t really cope with crowds.’
There was another long silence. I had two difficult questions to ask.
‘Alex,’ I said finally, ‘you’re a recovered memory specialist and it turned out that I had a memory waiting to be recovered. Isn’t that strange?’
‘No, Jane, it isn’t. Don’t you remember our first meeting? I didn’t think I could do anything for you. You talked about having a black hole somewhere in the middle of your golden childhood. That interested me. I looked for a hidden memory because I was already sure that it was there.’
‘You couldn’t have been wrong?’
‘You found it, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did. I wish I felt happier about it.’
‘Remember what Melanie said to you. It’s natural to feel guilt about a recovered memory. Life seemed simpler before, didn’t it? But it wasn’t
‘Alex, you didn’t tell a journalist about me, did you?’
With startling suddenness, Alex turned the car and brought it to a sudden halt by the kerb. Somebody hooted and shouted something.
‘Jane, I’m your doctor. That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘It wasn’t exactly a secret at the conference.’
‘They’re a community of sufferers, Jane. They can help you, you can help them. You’re a strong and
