The Memory Game Part 25

For the rest of the journey I stared out of the window. Alex drove into the bas.e.m.e.nt car-park of the Clongowes Hotel on Kingsway. We went up in the lift and walked across the lobby to a conference room with a sign outside saying 'Recovered Memory: Survivors and Accusers'. Alex signed us both in at the reception and I received a badge bearing my name, written in ballpoint pen. I was apparently not expected. In the hall were rows of desks, as if an exam were about to be taken. Most of them were occupied and Alex steered me to a seat at the back.

'Stay here,' he said. 'I'll be with you again in twenty minutes or so. There are one or two people I would like you to meet.'

He winked at me, then walked down the aisle towards the front. His progress was slow because he greeted almost everybody he pa.s.sed, shaking hands, hugging, patting backs. A beautiful woman, dark, with olive skin, clattered towards him and gave him a hug, one high heel c.o.c.ked up behind her thigh. I felt a twinge of jealousy and caught myself. I had had months of Alex to myself and it was something of a shock to see him in public. It was like seeing Dad at the office, and realising with a pang that he had a life outside his relations.h.i.+p with me. I made myself think of something else. On the desk in front of me was a white ballpoint pen and a small lined pad of paper, both bearing the inscription 'Mindset'. There was a folder bearing the t.i.tle of the conference and inside was an a.s.sembly of doc.u.ments. One contained a list of delegates, about a hundred of them. Against each name was the person's qualification. There were doctors, psychiatrists, social workers, representatives of voluntary organisations and a number of people, all women, labelled simply as 'survivors'. I supposed that I too was a survivor, and an accuser as well, for that matter.

At the front of the hall was a table with a jug of water and four gla.s.ses. Beside it was a lectern. Displaying the charming diffidence with which I was already familiar, Alex shook hands with a final delegate and made his way to the lectern. He gave the microphone a little tap which echoed round the hall.

'It's twelve fifteen, so I suppose we'd better get underway. I'd like to welcome you all to the 1995 Recovered Memory conference, organised by Mindset, and I'm glad to see so many familiar faces here. This is your your conference, and, like last year, it's been designed to maximise the delegates' partic.i.p.ation, so I'll try to stem my natural eloquence, or at least that's what I call it. I'm aware of being in an audience with many distinguished fellow a.n.a.lysts.' There was a dutiful ripple of laughter. Alex coughed nervously, sipped from a gla.s.s of water (I was shocked to see his hand trembling) and continued. conference, and, like last year, it's been designed to maximise the delegates' partic.i.p.ation, so I'll try to stem my natural eloquence, or at least that's what I call it. I'm aware of being in an audience with many distinguished fellow a.n.a.lysts.' There was a dutiful ripple of laughter. Alex coughed nervously, sipped from a gla.s.s of water (I was shocked to see his hand trembling) and continued.

'I'm just going to give a brief introductory talk, setting out some of our agenda. Then Dr Kit Hennessey will be giving an outline of some recent research. Then we break for lunch, which I'm told you'll find outside and to the right. Just hand in the token that you'll find in your folder. After lunch we split up for a series of workshops. Those are in different conference rooms all on this floor. You'll find the details also in your folder. I think that's about all.

'Now for my brief contribution.'

Alex opened the slim doc.u.ment folder he was carrying and removed some papers. This was a different Alex from the easygoing, enabling, ironic listener with whom I had spent so much of the last few months. He was pa.s.sionate, unambiguous, polemical, from his opening statement: 'Recovered memory is one of the greatest hidden scandals of our time.' He spoke of how generations of people, especially women, had been compelled to hide traumas they had suffered in their early lives. When they had spoken of them they had been disbelieved, vilified, marginalised, diagnosed, lobotomised. He admitted with regret that the very medical authorities best qualified to expose the horror, the psychiatrists and a.n.a.lysts, and the criminal authorities, the police and lawyers, had become collaborators in its suppression.

'Law and science,' he said, 'have been misused against these victims just as in the past they have been misused against other groups wherever it has suited the interests of authority to deny the rights of victimised minorities. So-called scientific objectivity, so-called burdens of proof have themselves been used as instruments of oppression. We owe it to these victims of abuse, who have shown the courage to remember, to say, "We believe you, we support you".'

I knew now why Alex had brought me here. I had felt mad and strange and an outcast, trapped in my own private sufferings. This was part of what Alex meant by going public: the discovery that I was not alone, that other people had experienced what I had experienced. With a pang that almost made me cry as I sat there at the back of the hall doodling on the s.h.i.+ny dossier cover, I was reminded that this was what I had loved about Natalie: she had validated me by feeling the things I had felt. Had I, too, been buried when she had been buried?

Alex had finished. He asked if there were any questions and several hands went up. One man, a deputy director of social services, thanked Alex for his speech but said that the one omission from his survey was the political dimension. Legislation was needed. Why was there no MP among the delegates, or even a local councillor? Alex shrugged and smiled. He agreed with the delegate, he said. From personal connections, he knew a number of politicians who were sympathetic to their cause, but the implications of findings about repressed memory were so great, and the entrenched medical and legal authorities so powerful, that they were extremely unwilling to go public with any form of commitment.

'We have to push the issue another way,' he said. 'We need some high-profile legal cases to demonstrate that this phenomenon cannot be ignored. When that happens, and public awareness has increased, it will seem less dangerous. Perhaps when the bandwagon is rolling the politicians will jump on it.'

There was a round of applause. As it faded, a woman stood up. She was strikingly short, dowdily dressed, in her late forties. I expected a personal testimony of remembering abuse but she identified herself as Thelma Scott, a consultant psychiatrist at St Andrew's in central London. Alex gave her a wry nod of recognition.

'I think we all know who you are, Dr Scott.'

'I've been looking at your list of events, Dr Dermot-Brown,' she said, holding the conference folder. '"Believing and Enabling", "Listen to Us", "Legal Obstacles", "The Doctor's Dilemma", "Protecting the Patient".'

She paused.

'Yes?' said Alex, with just a hint of exasperation.

'Is this a forum for discussion and inquiry? I don't see any discussions planned here about the problems of diagnosis, the possible unreliability of recovered memory, the protection for families against false accusations.'

'That's not necessary, Dr Scott,' Alex said. 'The whole history of this subject is about protection for families against true true accusations. We don't yet face the problem of having to accusations. We don't yet face the problem of having to discourage discourage people from making accusations of abuse. The pressures against authentic sufferers are so great that it is almost impossible for them even to face up to their recovered memories, let alone make public a.s.sertions as to their legal rights.' people from making accusations of abuse. The pressures against authentic sufferers are so great that it is almost impossible for them even to face up to their recovered memories, let alone make public a.s.sertions as to their legal rights.'

'And I notice another absence from the delegates,' Dr Scott said.

'Yes?'

'There is not a single neurologist here. Wouldn't it be interesting to have a contribution about the mechanics of memory?'

Alex gave an exasperated sigh. 'We don't know about the mechanics of tumour development. That doesn't prevent us from knowing that cigarette-smoking increases the risk of cancer. I'm fascinated by current neurological research, Thelma, and I share your concern. I wish we had a scientific model for the workings of memory and its suppression in the brain but the limitations of our knowledge are not going to prevent me doing my job as a doctor and helping patients in need. Now, are there any more questions?'

The proceedings petered out and, after introducing Dr Hennessey, a tall, slim man with an epically large file of papers under his arm, Alex slipped off the platform. Nodding at one or two people, he tiptoed along the side of the hall and sat down beside me. I smiled at him.

'So you haven't persuaded everybody?'

He grimaced. 'Don't mind her,' he murmured. 'I suppose that Galileo had people like Dr Scott pursuing him, except that they had instruments of torture at their disposal. There's a great myth that you can persuade people by reason alone. It's been said that the only way that a radical new scientific idea gets accepted is when all the old scientists who were committed to the old idea die off. Now, let's sneak out. There's somebody I want you to meet.'

As we tiptoed towards the door, Alex beckoned to a woman leaning against the wall and she followed us out. The ante-room outside was deserted.

'I wanted two of my stars to meet each other,' said Alex. 'Jane, this is Melanie Foster; Mel, this is Jane Martello. Why don't you two pop into the next room and grab some lunch before the mob arrives?'

Melanie was wearing a crisp, grey business suit that made me feel shabby. I guessed that she was five years older than me, but her face had many fine wrinkles, like a crushed newspaper that had been straightened out. Her hair was cut short, grey and coa.r.s.e in texture, almost like the strands in a horse's tail. She wore granny gla.s.ses and had a slightly insecure smile. I took to her at once. We looked at each other, nodded and headed for the food.

A buffet was laid out and servants in white jackets were chatting in groups, waiting for the rush. I was going to take nothing but a piece of cheese and bread but Melanie loaded a large spoonful of spicy pasta onto my plate and I gave in with a giggle.

'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 you know Alex.' 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 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 a.n.a.lysis, 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, s.e.xual images. As I focused on them, developed them, I realised they were memories of s.e.xual a.s.sault 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 rea.s.surance, 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?'

'G.o.d, 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. myself.'

'G.o.d, 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. 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.

'h.e.l.lo, I'm Thelma Scott.'

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

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

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 sc.r.a.ped 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 t.i.tle 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.'