Dear Anne*,

WHAT on earth happened to you that day? I know something terrible did, but not exactly what. I came to work in a big finance company — I remember my first impressions of bustle, in a large openplan office, green plants, the slightly intimidating reception area with the polished receptionist — desks were scattered around and at each were one man and his secretary; to one side inside a screened area sat the boss and his secretary; this was where the salesmen came, suits full of confidence, smooth hair and eyes. Then they came over to socialise, eyes raking over the girls, smirks, bawdy comments when they were sure the boss wasn’t around.

Crude but harmless, you might say. You, like myself, were one of the secretaries, the minions who dealt with the letters which came to our section. The ‘messing’ was ongoing — the jokes were lewd, the men were constantly touching the girls, on at least one occasion I saw one run a hand right up under the skirt of one of them. Skirts were short, sometimes very short. The married salesmen breezed in and out of the office like kings. I had a sharp tongue and they stayed away from me, but also, the young man I worked for was what we called in those days ‘a gentleman’. There were to my memory two in the whole office. Also my particular friends stayed out of the games, one was secretary to the other gentleman, and besides was married. The other was engaged to a high-up staff member in another department.

The tricking and touching went on, and some of the girls seemed to encourage the lewd behaviour of the mainly married salesmen. Then that day! All I know is that you were sent to the basement for some papers, and down there something dreadful happened. My friends whispered about it, and it seemed that you had been assaulted, maybe even raped, by this group of salesmen — you were a crying bundle of distress, your glamour dissolved in the weeping; there was a fuss but it was all hush-hush, the boss and the men all in a huddle — and then, we heard you were fired! Gone, just like that, your desk cleared out... there was no ‘goodbye’ drinks party... I left shortly afterwards myself. Some months later, two things happened: the finance company had moved to a new building — I had arranged to meet my two friends and another girl and go for a drink... the new building had big glass doors opening onto the street; as I reached them, I saw one of the girls on the ground in the entrance, and on top of her, one of the salesmen, making a good imitation of copulating .... when they realised I was there he got up at his leisure and without a blush walked away — the girl was flustered, untidy, upset. She didn’t want to talk about it — I was an outsider now.

Shortly afterwards, I saw you, I remember it was near Grafton Street, there were Christmas lights, the shops aglitter... I called your name — you walked towards me, unseeing. Then I saw your eyes — you were like the walking dead, a zombie, your eyes unseeing — so black you may even have been on some type of medication. You walked by me, in your own world. I wish I had found your address, written to you, made contact somehow.

Very recently, and after years, I met the woman who had been engaged to the staff member, now his wife and an elderly mother with several adult children. We were in a waiting area, and exchanged news of what had happened in our lives over all those years. We said we would phone each other; and then I mentioned you, asked her if she had ever heard about you, what happened that day? In front of my eyes, she became chilly, withdrawn. I realised I had entered a forbidden area. We never did make those phone calls...

Anne, there is so much in the news about all this kind of thing, there must be others from that office and those days who think of you and of that day.

I didn’t need reminding, Anne. I’ve never forgotten you. Anne, what on earth happened to you on that day in the early 1970s?

Margaret Newcastle, Co Wicklow. *The name has been changed to protect identities