‘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 accusations. We don’t yet face the problem of having to 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 assertions 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 coarse in texture, almost like the strands in a horse’s tail. She wore granny glasses 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 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?’