Nicci French - The Memory Game

‘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?’

‘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.