When the Music's Over by Peter Robinson

background,and we never expected much from the ruling classes. I mean, I couldn’t have articulated it that way back then, but that’s what it amounted to. Money and privilege ruled. Still do, for that matter, whatever the clever southerners try to tell you. I’m sorry, there’s me on one of my hobbyhorses again.”
    â€œNo matter,” said Banks. “Did anyone ever pursue the matter beyond that?”
    â€œNot that I know of. There seemed no point. We’d had our shot, and we missed. What were we to do? Start a campaign? My parents . . . you have to understand, something like that, it wasn’t something they could talk about. They’d both had strict upbringings. Sex wasn’t something we discussed in our house. My father in particular. Which was why we never told him. If he ever thought anything was wrong, he probably just wrote it off as some sort of ‘female’ problem. Time of the month. If he noticed at all. I suppose he would have found out if anything had come of it, but it didn’t. And he died two months ago. Maybe that’s another reason I feel I can talk now. Need to talk now. He can never know.”
    â€œWhat about your mother?”
    â€œMy mother was ashamed. She tried not to show it, but I could tell. I’m not saying she blamed me, but when she looked at me, I could tell she wished I’d never brought such unpleasantness into our house. She wanted rid of it, so we swept it under the carpet.” Linda seemed uncertain whether to go on, then she said, “I’m not even sure she believed me. I think she realized there was something wrong with me, but the visit to the police was more like a visit to the doctor’s with a troublesome pain or an unexplained lump. When the investigation went nowhere, it was rather like getting a clean bill of health. You know, it’s not cancer, after all, it’s not polio. More relief than anger. Mother died a few years ago, and by the end I think she had even convinced herself to forget it had ever happened. Neither of us mentioned it to anyone else, or even to each other again. We simply got on with our lives.”
    â€œNo crime in that.”
    â€œKeep calm and carry on. I know.”
    â€œI mean . . .”
    â€œI know what you mean.” She sat forward suddenly, linking her hands on her lap. “It’s what lots of people did, their generation especially. My father was part of the D-Day landings, but he never spoke about it. I once saw a big puckered scar on his side when we were on a beach somewhere, and I asked him about it. He just brushed it off as nothing, but I recognized it from pictures I’d seen in books. It was a bayonet wound. He’d got close enough to the enemy for hand-to-hand combat in the war, for crying out loud, but he never talked about it. He probably killed the man who wounded him, and that was why he was still alive. I just felt guilt, that’s all. I tried. We tried the best we could, the best my mother and I could. We got nowhere. Now I’m different. I don’t mind talking about it. I don’t even really care if everyone finds out. Maybe I secretly want them to. I want to know why nobody did anything. And I want them to do something now, if they can. Is that so strange?”
    â€œNo,” said Banks. “Not at all. That’s what we’re here for.” In a way, Banks knew, she was probably right about her mother. In many cases, the parents didn’t believe their children’s stories, which made it far worse for the children, who felt alone, humiliated and ashamed enough to start with. No wonder so many ended up blaming themselves.
    â€œWhat do you need to know?” Linda asked. “Ms. MacDonald didn’t ask me very much on the phone.”
    â€œShe just wanted to get a general outline of the complaint, the basics. I’m afraid I need a lot more.” Banks glanced at Winsome, who had her notebook and