A revised version of this paper will appear as a chapter in Making and Breaking Children's Lives, to be published later this year by PCCS Books. Full details here
This paper has its origins in a period around 10 years ago when I was
working during the day subediting psychology newsletters and studying for a
Masters degree in Victorian Studies in the evenings.
By day I was reading articles which shared a particular view of child
abuse. They believed that it had been discovered recently; they believed that
this discovery had been made by professionals*, whether doctors or
psychologists; and they believed that wider society was unwilling to accept the
truth of their discovery.
In the evenings I was uncovering a very different. Charles Dickens was
the most popular novelist of his day: people queued for periodicals containing
the next installment of his novels in just the way that a later audience tuned
in to see who had shot JR or who had been evicted from the Big Brother house,
and contemporary critics remarked on the way that his novels were popular right
across the social scale.
And, of course, the maltreatment of children is a central theme of
Dickens work child abuse. Not only that, but it is central to just those novels
of his – Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, Great Expectations –
that have most entered our culture and are most familiar to modern-day readers
or to those who know them through films or television adaptations.
Nor, incidentally, is this subject matter unique to Dickens or to
Britain. In The Brothers Karamazov, when Ivan is challenging Alyosha
religious faith, he chooses examples of cruelty to children as a way of
presenting his case as strongly as possible.
So this is the puzzle I was faced with. On the one hand, child abuse is a
frightening new discovery confined to the professional world and fighting for
acceptance in the wider world. On the other, is something which that wider world
has always known about and discussed.
The first thing to do, of course, was to see if this conflict of views
persists ten years on and a search of the Internet soon turns up an article
(Anonymous, 2004) suggesting that it is. offering guidance for social workers
working with adolescents who sexually abuse other children. Although the name of
the author is not apparent, he or she announces that this guidance is based on
knowledge gained from training provided by various named eminent people, backed
by extensive reading and casework practice.
The article begins by saying:
Public awareness of all forms of child abuse has
changed considerably in the last 30 years. Before the 1960's there was little or
no mention of it, either in publications or in the media.
And it continues:
Abuse
a New Discovery?
The author most often cited in support of this view is Lloyd deMause.
(1976) He writes as follows:
The history of childhood is a nightmare from which we
have only recently begun to awaken. The further back in history one goes, the
lower the level of child care, and the more likely children are to be killed,
abandoned, beaten, terrorized and sexually abused.
This view has certainly been influential, if one takes the number of
citations deMause’s work has received as evidence, but is it correct?
Evidence for the truth of a different view comes from Linda Pollock’s
(1983) Forgotten Children: Parent-Child Relations from 1500 to 1900.
While conducting the research for this book, Pollock found 85 cases of child
abuse reported in The Times between 1785 and 1860, including 19 cases of
incest. The defendants were found not guilty in only 7 per cent of the cases,
and in a further 24 per cent were sent for trial in a higher court, presumably
because more severe penalties were available.
There reports make it clear that the existence of child abuse was
recognised during this period. To give some examples: In a case in 1787 an
ill-treated child's appearance in court “drew tears from almost everybody”.
In 1809 “a case of the most unparalleled barbarity” was described. A girl's
parents said they had punished her for lying; “The magistrate, however …
expressed a becoming indignation at their brutal conduct”. And in 1810 a trial
“exhibited a picture truly shocking to every feeling of humanity”.
As Pollock says:
The fact that the majority of cases were … found
guilty meant that the law and society and condemned child abuse long before the
specific Prevention of Cruelty to Children Act appeared in 1889. Parents who
abused their offspring were generally considered “unnatural” and the cruelty
as “horrific” of “barbaric”.
And, one might add, on the strictest interpretation of the deMause thesis
even the passing of such an act in 1889 is inexplicable.
If people who believe that it is only recently that the wider public has
become aware of child abuse were asked to date that awareness, it is likely that
many would point to the death of Maria Colwell in 1973. Certainly, when
journalists report the death of a child through abuse and assemble a list of
previous, similar cases, this is generally the earliest previous example they
come up with.
How then to account for the opening words of the book A Place Called
Hope, by Tom O'Neill (1981) who, when it was published in 1981, had just
retired from his career as a residential social worker with Kent County Council?
The book begins:
On 9 January 1945 my brother, Dennis O'Neill was beaten
to death by his foster-father in a lonely farmhouse in Shropshire. Twenty-eight
years later, on 6 January 1973, Maria Colwell was beaten to death by her
step-father in a council house in Brighton, Both deaths resulted in a public
outcry about the standards of official supervision of the children.
Studying The Times from 1945 one finds that the trial of Dennis
O'Neill's foster-father for manslaughter received prominent coverage – so
prominent that it took precedence over reports of the progress of the War. Not
only that: on a strangely contemporary note, there was an outcry about lenient
sentencing when Dennis O'Neill's foster-father was convicted. And, following the
trial there was an inquiry, presided over by Sir Walter Monckton who was a
senior figure in official circles and must have been taken away from important
war work to conduct it.
In short, there is nothing in these two cases to say that people were any
less concerned about child abuse in 1945 than they were in 1973. The evidence
for a step-change in awareness some time in the 1960s is simply not there.
I do not want to go on piling up counter-examples indefinitely, but there
is one further aspect of the theory that child abuse is a recent discovery that
needs to be commented upon. For this theory asserts that there is one exception.
In the words of the Internet article I quoted earlier (Anonymous, 2004):
Of course, Freud had "discovered" the
existence of child sexual abuse many years earlier. However, in response to peer
pressure at that time he completely repudiated his theory, claiming reports of
abuse were merely incestuous fantasies.
This idea stems, of course, from Jeffrey Masson's (1985) book The
Assault on Truth. Yet reading Masson, one is struck his insistence that the
sexual abuse of children was already well known when Freud was training as a
doctor. Indeed, Masson goes to some lengths to establish that works by
nineteenth-century French doctors who wrote about it – Brouardel, Bernard,
Tardieu – were in Freud's personal library.
Whatever the rights and wrongs of Masson's claim that Freud's reasons for
abandoning his seduction theory were ignoble, it is clear from a reading of
Masson himself that the popular account of Freud that it has given rise to is
simply wrong. The sexual abuse of children was already known before Freud;
indeed, Masson seems just as indignant that Freud ignored it for so long, as he
is that he later changed his views to talk about fantasies
Nor will this idea come as any surprise to a student of French history.
One of the charges against Marie Antoinette at her trial was that she had
sexually abused her own young son. Again sexual abuse is seen, not as something
unimaginable, but something that just as today might be produced as a charge at
a revolutionary show trial.
Robespierre's response to this charge, incidentally was to say of his
fellow revolutionary Hebert: “It’s not enough that [Marie-]Antoinette should
be a Messalina. That idiot must make her an Agrippina.”
Agrippina, of course, was Nero's mother, which reminds us that incest was
known in classical times and, more importantly, its existence was known to
anyone in recent centuries who has studied the classics. Again, what we have
been told is unimaginable turns out to have been widely known and widely talked
about.
Professionals
the ones who care?
Now I shall turn to the second aspect of the claim that abuse is a recent
discovery. This is the idea that, while the public has generally proved
resistant to the idea, professionals have taken a more enlightened view.
The accounts of the various trials I have just discussed show, I believe,
that there is ample evidence that the public was aware of abuse and as outraged
by it as any professional. So I shall devote this section of the paper to
looking at some of the radical ideas of the 1970s, which do not fit easily with
the idea of professionals as a sort of enlightened vanguard.
This discussion begins with another book. Philippe Aries (1973)
published
his Centuries of Childhood in 1960. It's thesis was not that child abuse
is a recent discovery but something altogether more radical. He argued that
childhood itself is a recent concept; as he would have put it, not a recent
discovery but a recent invention.
To summarise his views briefly, he held that the concept of childhood did
not exist at all in the Medieval period, arose among the upper classes in the
16th and 17th centuries, became fully established in the 18th century upper
classes, and did not become common to all social classes until the 20th century.
He based this work on a study of art history, arguing that medieval
artists depicted children as miniature adults not because they lacked technical
skill but because they saw them as miniature adults. They lacked the
concept of childhood. He also studied a range of texts from earlier periods,
making a great deal, for instance, of an account of the infancy of the future
Louis XIII.
Whether right or wrong, Aries's views were extremely influential for some
years. Before going on to look at that influence, I shall argue briefly that he
was wrong.
To do so, I shall return to Linda Pollock's (1983)
book
Forgotten Children which I used earlier to show that deMause's claim that
child abuse is a recent concern. That book was in fact conceived as an answer to
Aries, not to deMause, and I shall use in that spirit here.
Pollock argues, a little fiercely, that the sources Aries and his
followers use to support their view that childhood is a recent invention are
"suspect and are certainly not a secure enough base to warrant the dramatic
generalisations derived from them".
In response, she offers her own study which draws, not only upon the newspaper reports I discussed earlier, but also upon 496 published diaries and autobiographies from Britain and America. Of the diaries, 98 were written by children or were started when the diarists were children.
Her conclusion from this wider range of sources is that there were:
very few changes in parental care and child life from
the 16th to the 19th century in the home, apart from social changes and
technological improvements. Nearly all children were wanted, such developmental
stages as weaning and teething aroused interest and concern and parents revealed
anxiety and distress at the illness or death of a child, Parents, although they
may have found their offspring troublesome at times, did seem to enjoy the
company of their children.
And she lists some examples of this enjoyment:
Clifford (1590-1676) and Wallington (1598-1658) enjoyed
talking with their young children and Jefferay (1591-1675) described the long
forest rambles he and his children took; Blundell (1669-1737) made toys for his
daughters and helped them to make a garden.
If Aries were right, it is hard to see how these mundane examples of
happy childhood experience could exist.
Pollock's case is not that nothing ever changes. She suggests, for
instance, that there was an intensification of adult demands for obedience and
conformity, particularly in schools, in the early 19th century, which had been
relaxed by the end of that century. But her work, with its close attention to
contemporary sources, is a valuable corrective to Aries's theories quite as much
as it is too deMause's.
Right or wrong, for a while Aries's theory was very influential. If one
looks at Changing Childhood, (Hoyles, 1979)
a
self-consciously radical collection of short articles, one sees his influence
everywhere. The art historian Peter Fuller talks about artists' "denial of
childhood, but for most writers in the collection Aries's central idea is a
liberation.
For this is an era in which books with titles like Escape from
Childhood (1975) were written. John Holt's work contains chapters on,
among other subjects, "The right to vote", "The right to
work" and "The right to drive". Reading him today it hard to
resist the idea that Holt was not so much calling for a change in our attitude
towards children as calling for the abolition of the very concept of childhood.
See for evidence his rather stern chapter on "How children exploit
cuteness".
The chapter that reads most strangely today is the one entitled "The
law, the young, and sex". One would not, I think, come across a passage
like the following in any book published today.
Some people have voiced to me the fear that if it were
legal for an adult to have sex with a consenting child, many young people would
be exploited by unscrupulous older ones. The image here is of the innocent young
girl and the dirty old man; few worry about the young boy having sex with an
older woman. Here, too, we are caught with the remains of old myths – in this
case, that only men were sexual, that women were pure and above it – from
which it follows that any young girl having sex with an older man must
necessarily be his victim.
This is not a simplistic call for the "sexual liberation" of
children; if anything, it is an anguished examination of Holt's own internal
conflicts. But such ideas were in the air in the 1970s. Indeed, when I worked in
Birmingham, which dates it as late as 1981 or 1982, pamphlets from the
Paedophile Information Exchange could still be found among a tableful of
literature from other municipally approved good causes in the Central Library.
There is some coverage of this period in Christian Wolmar's (2000)
book
on childcare scandals, Forgotten Children, but he treats it largely as a
plot by a few paedophiles to infiltrate more respectable movements. And this
tends to underestimate the extent to which educated opinion was prepared at
least to entertain the idea of the ‘sexual liberation’ of children.
And if this fact does not fit the picture of professionals discovering
child sexual abuse and then informing an unwilling public about, what are we to
make of the following?
In her book The Best Kept Secret, Florence Rush (1980)
describes
an international conference held at Swansea University in 1977, and sponsored by
the University and the British Psychological Society. She quotes a report from
the Guardian's women page written – even then – by Polly Toynbee:
When paedophiles at the Swansea conference advocated
the legalisation of sex between children and adults and the reduction of the age
of consent to four, the cooks, porters and caretakers of the University of
Swansea threatened to strike.
It seems that those cooks, porters and caretakers were in the vanguard of
what we would today regard as enlightened thinking, not the professionals. And
those paedophiles were also offering a reductio ad absurdam
of Aries’ view. For, if there is no such thing as childhood, it follows that
there can be no such thing as child abuse.
Why
is this faulty view held?
If child abuse is not a new discovery, and if the professional world has
not always taken an unhesitatingly condemnatory view of it, why do so many
professionals believer that it is and that they have?
One answer, I would argue, is the way that the history of the professions
is written. We have all been raised to recognise the foolishness of the Whig
view of history – the idea, common in nineteenth-century writing, that the
whole of history England was a logical and inevitable progress towards the
perfect constitution that Englishmen the enjoyed.
The same idea was current at the start of the twentieth century. The poet
Stephen Spender (1951) describes his own boyhood in a politically active
Liberal family thus:
Through the books we read at school, through the
Liberal views of my family, it seemed that I had been born on to a fortunate
promontory of time towards which all other times led.
And he went on to say:
History seemed to have been fulfilled and finished by
the static respectability, idealism and material prosperity of the end of the
nineteenth century. This highly satisfactory, if banal, conclusion was largely
due to the Liberal Party having found the correct answer to most of the problems
which troubled our ancestors.
Today probably laugh at such a view, but something very like this view
often holds sway in the professions and social sciences. Here is David Philips
(1983) writing about the way the history of crime and law is written in Britain:
It was assumed that events moved towards their 'proper'
modern end: the historians' task was simply to supply the narrative and explain
why there were so many culpable delays and hesitations in the coming of this
inevitable and desirable state of affairs.
And a trawl of shelves of long-unborrowed books on childcare in a
university library is likely to yield plenty of volumes that treat the founding
of a particular experimental school or a particular piece of legislation as the
end to which all history has been working.
DeMause (1976) strikes us at first as a bold, radical figure, far away
from such timid Whig thinkers, yet he has much in common with them. Indeed, it
is hard to see how one could go further to privilege the present over the past
than to write:
The history of childhood is a nightmare from which we
have only recently begun to awaken. The further back in history one goes, the
lower the level of child care, and the more likely children are to be killed,
abandoned, beaten, terrorized and sexually abused.
And not only that deMause offers a "periodisation" of modes of
parent-child relations. It begins with the Infanticide Mode (Antiquity to Fourth
Century A.D.), and then runs through the Abandonment Mode (Fourth to Thirteenth
Centuries A.D.), the Ambivalent Mode (Fourteenth to Seventeenth Centuries), the
Intrusive Mode (Eighteenth Century), the Socialisation Mode (Nineteenth to
Mid-Twentieth Centuries) to the Helping Mode, which began in the Mid-Twentieth
Century and is still presumably still going on today.
Given the unrelenting emphasis on abuse in deMause's work, we are not
standing on sunlit uplands or on Spender's "fortunate promontory of
time", so much as standing on a low hillock above a foul swamp. But there
is no doubt that, for deMause, the more recent, the better. It is not surprising
that professionals find it hard to learn from the past when they are encouraged
to take such a bleak view of it.
This Whig view of history reinforces a pronounced stress on novelty in
the professions. I recall, again in my role as a subeditor, coming across a
review of a book on psychology and some aspect of public policy that complained
that some of the references given were five years old. This struck me at the
time as odd. One would not find such a complaint made about a book on the arts,
nor even in a book about the physical sciences if the only grounds for it was
that the material quoted was five years old. This emphasis on recency again
makes it hard to learn from history.
A good example of this comes from the blurb of yet another book (Humphreys,
1996):
In 1986 the author, an ordinary Nottingham social
worker and mother of two received a letter from a woman asking for help to trace
her parents. She claimed that at the age of four she had been put on a boat to
Australia by the British Government. Margaret Humphreys replied that she must be
mistaken, yet curiosity drove her to investigate the case.
And eventually she wrote Empty Cradles, an excellent and moving
book which, when it first appeared in 1994, won such reviews as “The secrets
of the lost children of Britain may never have been revealed if it had not been
for Margaret Humphreys” from the Sunday Times. The Independent
said it was “a story that defies belief”.
Yet this was not new knowledge at all. For a little
research, or even a moderately good memory, reveals that same story had been
told in Philip Bean and Joy Melville’s (1989) Lost Children of the Empire,
published in 1989 , and Gillian Wagner’s (1982) Children of the Empire
from 1982.
Not only that. Another search study of those long-unborrowed books will
reveal that the sending of children to the Empire was not a secret at all. It
was an aspect of public policy like any other, and was discussed in government
reports. And it was a controversial policy. Horatio Bottomley, the publisher,
politician and fraudster, who had himself grown up in the workhouse, campaigned
against the policy and, aided by a succession of murders and suicides in Canada,
kept the subject in the headlines both there and in Britain (Middleton, 1971).**
If professionals do not have the time or the inclination to read history,
the same might be said of literature. Take, instance the question of the abuse
of children in institutions. Last year, Margaret Hodge's appointment as Minister
for Children proved controversial because of her handling of allegations of
abuse in children's homes in Islington when she led the council there in 1992.
Defending her, one of her colleagues (Hall,
2003) said that we should not judge her too harshly because we all knew
little about such abuse in those days.
This did not seem a convincing argument when it
was made, if only because there had been a high-profile abuse trial in
Leicestershire in 1991 (D'Arcy & Gosling, (1998). And one of my favourite Edwardian Liberals, Charles Masterman, was asked
to investigate an alleged scandal on a training ship as long ago as 1909.
Incidentally, Horatio Bottomley, the defender of the orphan children sent to
Canada, regarded Masterman's report as a whitewash and hounded him for the rest
of his career Materman, 1968).
But what interests me here is that we have
never had any trouble in believing in institutional abuse in literature. And not
just in novels like Oliver Twist or Jane Eyre: whenever we read of
an orphanage in children's literature it is, almost invariably, a place of
horror – a place to run away from. Not only do we have no difficulty in
entertaining the idea of institutional abuse: we positively expect it. The
rather alarming conclusion here seems to be that professionals find it harder to
accept the reality of professional abuse than the rest of us.
Finally, there is the exalted educational and
social status of the professional. It may be that it is there lack of contact
with the general public on equal terms makes it hard to tap into the knowledge
of abuse that has always existed in wider society. This
was brought home to me in a conversation with my mother, when I mentioned the
subject of this paper. She told me that her own mother – a village girl from
Essex who had gone into service – had talked about the problem of incest that
often existed in large families living in cramped conditions.
Other
histories
It seems that the history of childhood, like the history of much else, is
more contingent than the theorists allow. Take, for instance, the genesis of the
1948 Children's Act. If you read the Barnardo's (2004) website, you are told:
Evacuation bought 'charity children' and 'ordinary'
middle and upper class families into contact with each other and they gained a
greater understanding of their circumstances. The disruption of war also
improved understanding of the impact of family break ups and effects on children
brought up away from home.
No doubt these factors did play a part, but the history of the act is
more complex than that and two often-neglected actors were involved.
On 15 July 1944 The Times published a letter from Marjory Allen – Lady
Allen of Hurtwood – calling for an inquiry into the condition of children
living in state and charity homes. She wrote (Allen & Nicholson, 1975) that
"many thousands of these children are being brought up under repressive
conditions that are generations out of date and are unworthy of our traditional
care for children".
Marjory Allen worried that her timing was wrong – "Our armies were
fighting their way through France; London was enduring bombardment by a new
missile, the sinister low-flying buzz-bomb; and 30,000 children had been
evacuated from London the previous day" – yet her letter met with an
extraordinary response.
Sir William Haley, in the 1958 Haldane Memorial Lecture on the
development of public opinion described it as follows (Allen & Nicholson,
1975):
Day after day and week after week the letters poured
in. Many came from leaders in social work and others who had also first-hand
experience. Even after the normal correspondence had been closed, The Times had
to publish no fewer than six round-ups of further letters.
Not everyone agreed. The Secretary-Superintendent of the Southern Railway
Servants' Orphanage wrote to say that large orphanages were just like public
schools and asked why the orphan should be treated differently from the child of
the rich man (Allen & Nicholson, 1975).
When I first thought of writing this paper I had in mind a polemical
piece with Marjory Allen as a heroine of common-sense standing up against
professional vested interests. And certainly, when you read the comments of the
Secretary Superintendent, there was an element of that. In the pre-War period
Yet the picture was not that simple. Marjory Allen was not Lady
Bountiful: when she wrote her letter: she was chairman of the Nursery School
Association and well connected in the professional world. And in her memoirs
(Allen & Nicholson, 1975) she takes issue with those who read her letter as
a simple plea for less professionalism. She complains that Nancy Astor
"seemed to think that training actually destroyed what she valued most.
'love for children and a sense of vocation'." And though she enjoys the
comments of George Bernard Shaw
who contrasted the terrifying effects of the hygenic
Kaiserin Augsuta's House in Berlin, where all the children "died like
flies", with the beautiful results of slapdash methods in the west of
Ireland where, he asserted, all the children survived happily, nurtured by
"maternal massage".
she remarks that:
I am all in favour of maternal massage, but I like the
masseuses to have some training as well. Shaw, too, recommended a combination of
both the systems he described.
Though Lady Allen does mention a later meeting John Bowlby, the name of
Winnicott is missing from the index to her memoirs. Yet Marjory Allen's actions
in questioning the institutional childcare practices of her day, if not inspired
by these two professionals, were very much in line with their insights. Here
there is no conflict between advanced professional thinking and what one might
call a familial, maternal or common-sense approach.
Indeed this approach held sway in institutional care for a good two
decades after the War. Christian Wolmar (2000) comments that:
As late as 1967, the service was very female dominated
and the staff largely lived in the homes. The Williams Committee, reporting on
the staffing of residential homes that year, noted “two thirds of people at
present employed in residential homes are single women and one third of all
staff are over 50 years of age”. All but 7 per cent of workers in the survey
lived on the premises, which provided an important but hardly noticed safeguard
for the children.
Wolmar links the influx of male staff into the childcare system with the
later scandals that arose in children's homes. It might be more accurate to see
the problem as an influx of new theory as the problem.
Breakdown of family view
I also want to say that though Aries' claim that childhood is a recent
invention is wrong, he did in many ways have a positive influence. Certainly,
the talk of liberation was in the air in the 1970s reflected an insight that
traditional concepts of childhood could be cloying and should not be immune from
examination.
The idea that childhood is not a given but a human invention is a
liberation and opens up all sorts of interesting questions about, say, the ways
that school have traditionally been organised.
Equally, if the concept of childhood had a beginning then it can also
have an end; and many have been written along these lines. Most have been
expressions of horror at modern trends in the media – whether the video
nasties of the 1980s or imported American horror comics in the 1950s Sringhall,
J. (1994). But there have been important works too. Neil Postman's (1985) The
Disappearance of Childhood, with its subtitle 'How TV is Changing
Children's Lives' and, in my edition at least, approving quote on the cover from
Malcolm Muggeridge, sounds like just one more of them.
In fact, it is a more interesting work than that. Postman sees the
invention of literacy as the key to the invention of childhood. A child,
pre-eminently was someone who could not read and write, and it was this
difference, and the educational institutions which grew up around it, that
formed the modern concept of the child. Now, Postman argues, convincingly or
not, as literacy is declining in importance in the face of the expansion of
other media, our concept of childhood is bound to change with it.
Conclusion
It seems that the simple answer to the conflict of views that led me to
write this paper is that the modern, professional view that child abuse is a new
discovery is simply wrong. While there is ample material for constructing an
argument whereby professionals have been unwilling to recognise the existence of
child abuse, or have been willing to make a case for it when the wider public
has always been revolted by it, that too would be inaccurate.
The mundane truth seems to be that child abuse has always been known
about and talked about, and that the willingness amongst public and
professionals to do something about it has waxed and waned through the years.
Today, while there is much to admire in the current sensitivity to child
abuse, it is also possible to regret that the current emphasis upon it is
leading to a reduction of the opportunities open to children for independent
experience and development. So , while the abolition of corporal punishment in
schools is to be welcomed, it is harder to fit the widespread prescription of
Ritalin into a narrative of progress. The conclusion has to be the usual one
amongst psychologists: it is all more complicated than we thought.
* I am aware that I use words like “professions” and
“professionals” throughout to denote a loose association of practitioners
and academics whose views I am generally taking issue with. No doubt this is
unfair, but I could not think of better terms. One could follow Foucault and
talk about “the Academy”, “the Clinic” or perhaps “ the
Academy/Clinic”, which would look more impressive but not add anything in
terms of clarity.
** Middleton's book offers a rich store of material for anyone seeking to write a history of public child care that does not employ the professional perspective.
This paper was given to a meeting of the British
Psychological Society's Psychotherapy Section held at the Tavistock Clinic,
Hampstead, on Saturday 5 June 2004.
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