There were six inmates, most of whom I recognized from the dining-room. Unfortunately the young good-looking man who was in for drugs wasn’t among their number. There was Mike, Misty the writer, Clarence, Chaquie, my room-mate, and Vincent, Mr Angry. My stomach went into a little knot when I saw Vincent because he positively bristled with aggression. I was afraid he might pick on me, not realizing I wasn’t one of them. The sixth person was an old man whom I didn’t remember seeing in the dining-room, but, at the same time, I was certain he wasn’t from the pop-star wing. Either the pop stars had their own group, which seemed most likely, or they were in with Barry Grant or the Sour Kraut.

‘It’s nice to have another woman,’ Chaquie said. ‘It evens things up.’

I realized she was talking about me. Yes, it did even things up, in theory but, as I wouldn’t be participating, it didn’t really even things up at all.

Josephine arrived. I checked her out with great interest. But I couldn’t see what they were so scared of, she was harmless. She was a nun, but a modern hip one, or so she liked to think. I see nothing hip whatsoever in wearing a grey flannel skirt which ends below the knees and having short, unstyled, grey hair with a brown clip stuck in the side. But she looked nice; sweet, actually. With her round, bright blue eyes she was just like Mickey Rooney.

As soon as she sat down, everyone stared at their feet in silence. All traces of the laughter and the conversation of lunch had disappeared. The silence stretched on and on and on. I looked from one face to another in amusement. Why so anxious, everyone?

Eventually she said ‘Gosh, you’re all very uncomfortable with silence. OK, John Joe, maybe you’d like to read your life story’ There was a collective sigh of relief.

John Joe was the old man. In fact, he was ancient, with huge eyebrows and a black suit that was shiny with age. I later discovered that this was the suit he wore on special occasions. Weddings, funerals, unusually profitable bullock sales or being incarcerated by his niece in rehabilitation centres.

‘Er, right, I will,’ said John Joe.

When would the shouting and recriminations start? I wondered. I had thought that group therapy would be a lot more dynamic and nasty than this.

John Joe’s life story lasted about five seconds. He was brought up on a farm, had never married and now lived on the same farm with his brother. He had it written on what seemed to be a torn page of a child’s copy book. He read slowly and quietly. It wasn’t very interesting.

Then he said ‘That’s it,’ gave a shy smile and went back to looking at his big black boots.

Another silence followed.

Eventually Mike said ‘Er, you didn’t go into much detail.’

John Joe peeped out from under his eyebrows, kind of shrugged and gave a gentle smile.

‘Yes,’ said Chaquie. ‘You didn’t even mention your drinking.’

John Joe shrugged and smiled again. More peeping. He was the kind of man who might hide in a bush when a car passed him on the road. A mountainy man. A man of the land. A bog maggot.

‘Er, maybe you’d like to elaborate a bit,’ Clarence nervously suggested.

Eventually, Josephine spoke. She sounded a lot more scary than her harmless exterior would lead you to expect.

‘So that’s your life story, is it, John Joe?’

A little nod from Himself.

‘And no mention of the two bottles of brandy that you’ve drunk every day for the past ten years? No mention of the cattle you sold without telling your brother? No mention of the second mortgage you took out on the land?’

Did he really? I wondered in excitement. Who would have thought it? A harmless old lad like him?

John Joe didn’t react. He sat as still as a statue, so I gathered it must be true. Surely, if it wasn’t, he’d have been on his feet, passionately defending himself?

‘And what about the lot of you?’ She swept her glance around the room. ‘Didn’t any of you have anything to say except’ – at this juncture she affected a singsongy, childish voice – “ ‘It’s a bit short, John Joe”?’

Everyone cringed under her glare. Even me for a moment.

‘Right, John Joe, we’ll try again. Tell the group about your drinking. We’ll start with why you wanted to drink.’

John Joe was unfazed. I would have been raging. In fact I was raging. After all, the poor man had done his best. I considered telling Josephine to lay off him, but I thought I’d better wait until I’d been there a couple of days before showing them how things should be done.

‘Well,’ John Joe shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Actually, no, John Joe, I don’t,’ said Josephine, coolly. ‘I’m not the one in a treatment centre for chronic alcoholism, don’t forget.’

God, she was vicious!

‘Er, well, you know,’ attempted John Joe gamely. ‘Of an evening, you’d be lonesome and you’d have a drink…’

‘Who?’ snapped Josephine.

John Joe just smiled that benign smile again.

‘Who would have a drink?’ Josephine pushed.

‘I would,’ said John Joe. He seemed to find it hard to talk. By the look of things there hadn’t been much call for it in his life until now.

‘I can’t hear you, John Joe,’ said Josephine. ‘Louder. Tell me who had a drink.’

‘I had.’

‘Louder.’

‘I had.’

‘Louder.’

‘I HAD.’

John Joe was distressed and was shaking at the exertion of having used his vocal chords so much.

‘Own your actions, John Joe,’ barked Josephine. ‘You did them, so say you did them.’

Watch how she tries to break them down, I thought with interest. How cruel. I had to admit that I’d underestimated Josephine. She was not so much Micky Rooney as Dennis Hopper.

Although you wouldn’t catch her getting the better of me. I wouldn’t react to whatever she said to me, I’d just stay calm. Anyway she had nothing on me. I didn’t drink two bottles of brandy a day and I never sold cattle without telling my brother.

Josephine pressed John Joe hard, firing questions at him about his childhood, about his relationship with his mother, all the usual stuff, I would imagine. But trying to get information out of him was like trying to get blood out of a turnip. He was all shrugs and ‘Yerra’s and not too many hard facts.