‘Then there’s no question that you spent some hours in coma. You’re not diabetic – we tested. And presumably the Hinton tested you for drugs and found nothing. So we’re back to this accident as the explanation.’ He perched on the edge of his desk and rubbed his chin. The few known facts of her case seemed to perplex him. Finally he sighed heavily and told her, ‘Miss X, I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m the chap to help you.’
‘Why not?’ she said, feeling cheated. She’d pinned strong hopes on this man.
‘I’d better explain about memory loss. For our purposes, there are two sorts. The kind we’re used to dealing with in this place is known as retrograde amnesia. It’s caused by an injury to the brain. The patient is unable to remember the events leading up to the injury. It’s a permanent loss of a small section of memory – and that may well have happened to you. But it shouldn’t have blocked out your long-term memory. It doesn’t behave like that.’
She listened apprehensively. She didn’t want to be a problem case. She wanted a simple solution.
‘The amnesia you’re displaying at this stage – the virtual loss of identity, the blocking out of all your personal memories – has to be different in origin. It’s the other sort, and I have to say I’m doubtful if it came as the result of the accident.’
Rose was frowning. ‘What is the “other sort”?’
He didn’t answer directly. ‘The good news for you is that the memories can be recovered.’
‘How soon?’
‘Hold on a minute. The point about your condition – if I’m right in my opinion – is that it has nothing to do with an injury to the brain. The cause is psychological.’
She stared, repeating the last word in her head.
‘For some reason, your memory is suppressed. It isn’t lost. Something deeply upsetting must have happened to you, some emotional shock that you couldn’t cope with. You blot out everything, denying even your own existence. You won’t recover your long-term memory until you’re capable of dealing with the situation that faced you.’
‘How will I do that?’ Rose said blankly. This fresh theory had poleaxed her.
‘Psychotherapy. Investigation.’
‘Doctor, let me get this clear. You’re telling me my loss of memory wasn’t caused by the accident. Is that right?’
‘Not completely. You may well have suffered some retrograde amnesia as well, but that isn’t the problem you have right now.’
‘That’s a mental problem?’
‘Yes, but don’t look so alarmed. You’re not losing your marbles. The cause must have been external, some event that happened in your life.’
‘Recently?’
‘We can assume so. You’re sure you don’t recall anything prior to waking up in the hospital?’
‘Positive.’
‘Then I reckon it happened the same day. Would you like to see a psychotherapist? We can arrange it.’
She came out of the hospital with an appointment card in her back pocket and a totally different diagnosis from the one she’d expected.
What could have caused a shock so momentous in her life? A break-up with a man? People were ending relationships all the time. They didn’t lose their memories because of it. No, it had to be more traumatic, some terrible thing she had discovered about herself. A life-threatening illness, perhaps. Would that be enough to make one deny one’s existence? She thought not. And she felt well in herself. Even the sore ribs had improved. Then was it a matter of conscience? Some deeply shaming act. Even a crime. Was that what she wanted to remove herself from?
Tea was brought to the table. She left the pot standing a long time. While people at other tables chatted blithely about their grandchildren and last night’s television, Rose constructed a theory, a bleak, demeaning scenario. Far from being the victim of an accident, she was responsible for it. She pictured herself driving too fast along a country road, running over and killing a pedestrian. A child, perhaps, or an old person. Unable to cope with the shock and the upsurge of guilt, she suppressed it. Injured, but not seriously, she climbed out of the car and wandered the lanes in a state of amnesia. Eventually she blacked out and was found by the couple with the fish mascot on their car. They drove her to the Hinton Clinic. Because they didn’t want questions asked about themselves (they were having an affair) they left her in the car park confident that she would soon be found and taken inside.
She poured some lukewarm tea and sipped it.
There were flaws. If there was an accident victim lying dead beside an abandoned car, why hadn’t the police been alerted? They knew about her. They’d visited the Hinton Clinic the night she was brought in. They would surely have suspected a connection with the accident.
The tea was now too cold to drink. She left it, paid, and walked the short distance to Imogen’s office.
The first person she saw was Ada. Ada was the first person you would see anywhere. She was in the general office wagging a finger at Imogen. She swung around.
‘There you are at last, petal. We’ve waited the best part of two hours. Imogen’s had it up to here with me.’
Imogen didn’t deny this.
Rose said she didn’t know she’d kept anyone waiting.
Imogen asked, ‘How did you get on?’
‘They want me to see a psychotherapist.’
‘A nut doctor?’ said Ada in alarm. ‘Don’t go, blossom. They’ll have you in the funny farm as soon as look at you.’
Imogen rebuked her with, ‘Ada, that isn’t helpful.’
‘You haven’t been on the receiving end, ducky,’ said Ada. ‘I have, more times than I care to remember. “Remanded for a further month, pending psychiatric reports.” I’ve seen them all. The ones with bow-ties are the worst. And the women. Grey hair in buns and half-glasses. They’re all alike. Stay clear.’
‘The cranial injuries unit can’t help me,’ said Rose. She did her best to explain the distinction between the two sorts of amnesia.
‘Any trouble a woman gets, if you’re not actually missing a limb, you can bet they’ll tell you it’s psychological,’ said Ada. ‘And if you cave in and see the shrink, he’ll send you barking mad anyway.’
Imogen disagreed. She urged Rose to keep the appointment.
‘It’s three weeks away,’ said Rose. ‘Three weeks – I hope I’m right before then.’
Ada remained unimpressed. ‘We can get you right ourselves. Speaking of which, I have hotshit news for you, buttercup. Percy has struck gold. Well, silver, to be accurate. There’s a bloke in Westbury with a silver fish on his car. I’ve got a name and address.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ said Rose, transformed. ‘Westbury -where’s that?’
‘No distance at all. We can get the train from here. There’s still time.’
‘I’m short of money.’
‘Get it off Imogen. This is going to save them a bomb.’
‘And I don’t have anywhere to sleep tonight.’
Imogen solved both problems. She handed over thirty pounds from the contingency fund and she phoned a bed and breakfast place on Wellsway that took some of Avon’s homeless. Ada said she would help Rose with the move.
Imogen told Ada firmly that she wasn’t to go prospecting for better lodgings.
‘What do you think I am, always out for the main chance?’
Ada protested.
‘And don’t you dare walk out with anything belonging to the house,’ Imogen warned her, unmoved.
