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saw the woman coming out from her house. He got out of the car and walked over to his front door. He told me to go up the stairs to the flat and wait for him there. I don’t remember much about this flat just it seemed really strange to find a sweetshop-sized jar of toffees on one of the top stairs.’
As I spoke, Bess nodded her head in realisation that this was how he had planned it all. He knew exactly what he was doing when he took me there that day. As I watched Bess acknowledging what I had said, I started to wonder: ‘Was this the usual behaviour of a man like him, a paedophile?’
I sat up, changing my position in the chair, trying to find a way to feel protected from the bad memories. I moved and sat with my legs tucked under me, curling my body up on top of them, like a foetus safe in a mother’s womb. I started again, pulling the memories from deep within, remembering where I had left off:
‘Bill followed me up the stairs into his flat. He asked me to sit down while he went off to get something from another room. I sat waiting, looking around the room but the surroundings I don’t remember much about. I remember the sofa being an old fashioned type with a wooden frame and flowery covers, and a chair that didn’t match.
‘Bill came back into the room and sat beside me. He put his hand on my leg and started to rub it. I didn’t want him to touch me, it wasn’t right. I felt funny; I wanted to run away but I couldn’t, I didn’t know where I was. He offered me a handful of sweets from the jar. He opened his hand to show me the flavours he’d picked out. I refused them.
‘He pushed them into my hand anyway.
But…I didn’t like those flavours…
Bess started to speak now, asking me how I felt about all of this now and did I remember what I thought he was trying to do at that time? I believed then that he was just being a little too friendly. Now when I think about it, I feel angry, humiliated and disgraced. How could such an old, old man do the things he did to a child, young enough to be his granddaughter or even his great-granddaughter?
My visitor and confidante sat taking notes, but the memories she was stirring were painful, striking huge blows in my mind, ripping and tearing at all the available space; space I had reserved for my good memories. The wounds were deepened the further I went back, retracing the steps of my stolen childhood and youth. I struggled to talk about them, even though, after just two meetings, I trusted Bess as if she were a friend who had always been in my life. There was just something about her that drew you in. I felt I hadn’t said much, but in the time Bess was with me the hour had flown by. We arranged another session for the same time the week after. Bess asked me to continue looking at the books she had left. I wanted to get it all over and done with today but time had deserted me. Iwasn’t sure I wanted to see her again – the memories were too painful.
I didn’t want to start another session next week; I wanted a quick fix to my problem, even though realistically I knew there wasn’t one. Bess uttered words of reassurance in the same way as she had the previous week, asking me to phone her if I felt I needed to see her before next Monday. I nodded my understanding as she closed the door, saying a cheery goodbye behind her as she left.
Then I sat for a few minutes trying to think about how I felt.
Was all this talking having any effect?
Had I started to feel better about myself?
Or was it simply too soon to tell?
Did I feel as if I was winning the war, a war that had been banging on in my head for longer than I wished to remember, the good memories fighting the bad ones?
The bad ones always winning.
I looked at my watch and saw that it was twelve o’clock. I was glad Maria was picking up William from playgroup. At least I had a little while longer to try and work out what was really happening.
As my mind went into overdrive, I couldn’t comprehend or imagine