‘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 fête 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.’
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?’