by Stella Duffy
The parents buried their daughter and each mourned alone, blaming themselves, blaming the other. They did not find each other again in their grief.
Lees read the covering letter and felt himself vindicated in his decision to send the child to a better home – clearly Sara had been unstable after all – and then he took the letter meant for the father and filed it safely away. There was no need to send it on to the man, he had not known anything about the baby in the first place, it would only upset him. But, of course it should be kept, because Lees was a scientist; full and complete records were of the utmost necessity.
And Chris grew up to enjoy his family and never thought to question his beginnings. Until he was beginning a child of his own.
FORTY-FOUR
Chris was incredibly calm and Saz didn’t know what else to say. They sat in silence in Chris and Marc’s kitchen. She’d called before going over to their house and spoken to Marc. Chris would be home within the hour and Marc had offered to give the bad news himself. Saz wanted to jump at the chance, would have given anything not to have to tell Chris they’d found his mother but it was too late. Except that she knew it was her job and so Marc let her into the house and she waited for Chris. The minute he saw her there he knew something was wrong, thinking at first that perhaps it was the baby. Saz reassured him that both Molly and baby were OK, and then explained it was another mother and child coupling she’d come about.
Chris listened very carefully, then spoke incredibly quietly, “And you’re sure she was my mother?”
“No, not absolutely sure, there may have been another Sara Fisher – though Gary couldn’t find one, not around the same time and age. And this one was in the same hospital as Lillian – who did remember her, remembered a Sara.”
“Who was having a black baby?”
“Her actual phrase was ‘a poor wee coloured mite’ – but yes. And Sara Fisher’s name is also on the adoption certificate I found in Georgina’s office.”
“But nothing about the father?”
“Not that I’ve found, not that anyone’s mentioned.”
“Right then.”
Chris sat silently for a few minutes and then added, “Still, at least we know my parents didn’t buy me. I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies.”
“I’m so sorry, Chris.”
“Why? That we live in a fucked up world? That Leyton couldn’t manage to sell me because they’re all a bunch of racist bastards?”
“Mmm, that.”
“Well, puts a rather nice inverse spin on the old slave shit, anyway.”
“Yeah, but I am sorry, ’cos it is shit.”
“OK, I’ll agree with that. I’m a very hard done by little boy.” Chris shook his head, “Christ, Saz, let’s not get too fucking PC about all this. The world’s full of arseholes, it’s not like that’s news. Not to either of us. There’s no antidiscrimination laws for dykes, remember. Not that antidiscrimination laws seem to be all that successful, mind you.”
“Yeah, I know, but you’re black and gay. And adopted.”
“And my birth mother committed suicide.”
“All of the above.”
“Fuck, guess I win then, huh?”
“Yeah, sweetie, you win.”
They sat together for half an hour, Chris staring into the middle distance, Saz waiting beside him. The most sensible thing to say was on the tip of her tongue but she didn’t know how he would take it. Eventually she could contain herself no longer, “Chris, look, I really think—”
“I should speak to my mother?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. I will. Soon. As soon as I feel sane about this anyway.”
“Good.”
“And maybe there’s some organization too, right? Traces fathers?”
“Yeah. Probably. There’s bound to be. I’ll find out. OK?”
“Yeah. That’d be good. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, I feel like shit about this.”
Chris looked up, confused, “Why?”
“Well, I started out looking for your mum and found Patrick’s instead. You got nothing.”
Chris shook his head, “Nah. Not nothing. You did find her. There was never any guarantee she’d be alive, I knew that. It’s not that she’s dead, not really. It’s the circumstances of her death, the fact that she was driven to it. And that’s why I need to speak to my mother too. I really fucking hope that she didn’t know what went on to get the babies.”
“Well, you did say your parents always offered to tell you what they knew about the adoption. They can’t have known all of what was going on if that was the case.”
“That’s what I’m hoping too.”
There was another silence and then Chris asked, “Did your friend Gary know where she’d been buried?”
“I found out before I came over. She’s in Cornwall. I’ve got the address of the cemetery.”
“Good. Thanks. We’ll go down for the weekend. We could stay with Lillian, I suppose.” Then Chris looked around as if he’d just woken up to the room, “Where’s Marc?”
“Out in the garden being sensitive.”
“Sweet.”
“Very.”
Saz left half an hour later. They decided to wait until Chris had spoken to his mother before they did anything else about attempting to find his father or any of his birth mother’s family. Chris wasn’t really sure that he needed to go that far distant anyway – it was the father he was more interested in.
Chris kissed Saz goodbye at the door.
“I am sorry, Chris.”
“I know. Me too. But I do have a family; I probably should have spoken to my mother in the first place.”
“You were looking after her, that’s OK.”
“And I have my new family too, right?”
Saz nodded, “Hell yeah, babe. We’re the brand new holy family, the four of us. Jesus, Mary and Mary and Joseph and Joseph.”
“I’ll settle for two wise men.”
“Is that all? You boys are slowing down in your old age.”
Saz left them then, still more angry with Samuel Lees, unsure where to move next, but certain she wasn’t heading straight home.
Out on the street she made two phone calls. The first was to enquire about Sukie – and the helpful nurse she’d met a few days before and spoken to every day since explained in very gentle tones that Sukie had died early that morning. She’d been trying to call Saz but hadn’t wanted to leave a message with bad news.
The second call was to her home. She left a brief, exhausted message for Molly, “Moll, I told Chris about his mother, he’s sort of OK, he’s got Marc with him, but you might want to give them a call later. And, babe, I’ve just heard that Sukie died this morning. I can’t fucking believe it. So you’ll be delighted to know I’ve had enough. I’m going to speak to Helen or Jude tonight, see what they say and then go to the cops in the morning, tell them the lot. I’d rather run the risk of a burglary conviction than let it go on any longer. I can’t tell you how much I’m hating all this. Telling Chris about his mother was the most fucking horrible thing I’ve ever had to do. I’ll call you later. I love you.”
Saz climbed into the first taxi she saw. It cost her less than ten pounds to get to Lees’ house.
FORTY-FIVE
Saz rang the doorbell, assured herself that Lees wasn’t there and then waited outside his mews house for fifteen minutes before making her move. It was late afternoon, the small courtyard with just six houses was quiet and warm. The short, squat houses were wide for mews buildings, each one painted a different pastel shade and loaded down with window boxes and hanging baskets which matched the colour of the house. An easy earner for the job-lot gardener, and no doubt a good five hundred quid per house on the service-charge accounts sent out by the freeholder. Very pretty though. And very private. The house diagonally opposite Lees’ place was clearly empty for the summer. Early evening sunshine was pouring into the courtyard and yet all the front-faci
ng curtains were tightly closed; either the occupants owned the most delicate furniture in the world or they thought that keeping their curtains closed for a couple of weeks might deter burglars. Saz discounted the possibility they might be vampires, and settled herself in the sunny far corner of their doorstep, partly hidden from the entrance to the mews by a watering trough full of purple geraniums. There she waited, open newspaper on her knee just in case anyone noticed her. Ten minutes later a young woman, her sharp suit only gently creased by the hot tube journey, came home from work swinging an evidently empty briefcase and let herself into the house next door to Lees’. Saz heard her call out as she closed the door behind her. There was no audible reply. Five minutes later the male version arrived, equally sharp-suited, matching briefcase in slightly larger boys’ version. He too called out when he entered the house, this time to her welcoming yell. Three quarters of an hour later Saz was still watching as they left hand in hand, City suits and briefcases discarded, both dressed down for the evening. She heard dozens of silver bangles tinkling on both the woman’s wrists, coins and keys jangling in his pocket. What she did not hear, either when the woman first arrived home, or when they left the house together, was the high pitched whine of an alarm system setting into action.
She waited another ten minutes just in case either of them realized they had forgotten something and then sprang into action. The mews houses had been recently renovated. And while the old windows were now new, the replacements were wooden sashes, not incongruous aluminium. Wooden window surrounds are far more attractive and authentic than the modern offerings – more expensive too. And less safe. Saz attached herself to the sitting room window, placed her good shoulder beneath the lower one and pushed upwards with all her strength. She watched as the bolted catch slid up, caught on its other half and held firmly in place. She pushed again and noted with satisfaction that she was marginally stronger than the pine frame as the bolt began to pull away from the wood. She then squeezed her fingertips into the tiny space between the top window and the frame. This time she hung off the window, bounced up and down a few times and let her full weight pull the bolt downwards. Four more attempts up, another three down, two broken fingernails, and the bolted catch came away from the upper window, hanging onto its lower half by one bent copper screw.
Saz lifted the window and threw herself inside, slamming it down behind her just as a taxi pulled into the mews courtyard. Standing back from the muslin-curtained windows, she watched it stop outside Lees’ house and felt a rush of bitter disappointment as an old man eased himself out of the cab with some difficulty and paid the driver. The taxi drove off and, after an age of fumbling with keys, Saz heard through the adjoining wall the ritual of door open, alarm call, door slam and alarm switched off. She’d been right to assume Lees might feel the need for more careful security than his neighbours. She’d also obviously arrived an hour too late.
She took the next five minutes to rush through the young couple’s house checking out the layout, assuming Lees’ place would be its mirror image. Even now he was home there was a chance she might be able to get in somehow, possibly do so without him noticing, and although creeping around someone’s house with them actually in it wasn’t her favourite pastime, at least she wouldn’t have to deal with the burglar alarm. Saz still wasn’t even clear what she was hoping to find in Lees’ house, what difference getting in might make. She also knew that with Sukie now dead, she was no longer prepared to wait. Not a lot had gone right that day but the view from the neighbours’ back bedroom filled her with joy. Lees in his garden, throwing out crusts for birds. Lees reentering his house through what looked like French windows into the kitchen, exactly the same as his young neighbours. Lees leaving the doors open to let the soft evening light and air into his house. To let Saz into his house.
She waited in the neighbours’ carefully tended garden for what felt like an age but was in reality only half an hour. First Lees pottered in the kitchen for a bit, put the kettle on, fished some biscuits from a tin. Then Saz watched as he took his tea and turned into the front room from the hall. He came back for the biscuits. Five minutes later he returned, evidently having forgotten that he took milk, carried the pint of milk from the fridge to the front room and back again, leaving it on the kitchen table, the fridge door standing wide open. Every step with the slow deliberation of age. Saz thought he was taking absent-minded professor a bit too far. Eventually there was quiet. No TV, no radio, no clinking of cup against saucer, no rustle of the evening paper. Saz assumed that now he worked from home, Lees must have an office in his house, more likely upstairs than down. She figured she would be able to get past the sitting room door and up the carpeted stairs silently enough, but she had to hope that Lees’ favourite chair wasn’t placed directly opposite the door. It wasn’t.
She skated past the sitting room door, which was half shut anyway, holding her breath and praying that the renovations had eliminated any squeaky stairs. Unfortunately Saz’s perfect silence went unrewarded; the top floor was a major disappointment. Two bedrooms completely empty but for a single bed and dressing table in each. Evidently Lees didn’t keep his place ready for guests at all times. Nor did he either work or sleep upstairs. Saz was furious with herself for not guessing the stairs might be a little much at his age and painfully slowly went downstairs again. She waited for a moment outside the sitting room. There was still no sound. Almost no sound. Nothing but the regular rise and fall of faint, rasping breath. Samuel Lees was taking a nap.
After a minute or two Saz pushed the door open. The room was bright with evening sun, net-curtained windows facing the main courtyard. It might have been a lovely space, carefully furnished and newly decorated in muted tones, but for the fact that this room was obviously both Lees’ office and his bedroom. Filing cabinets lined every wall, piles of papers were scattered across the floor and an array of medical equipment took up what room remained. Sunlight filtered through the plastic veins of three different drips and an oxygen tank and fell in a tangled shadow on the sleeping old man.
Lees sat slumped in a smooth wooden chair, the incongruity of his wizened frame marked against the sleek lines of the modern furniture and the fat brightly-covered cushions. He had covered himself with a blanket which had slipped off to reveal thin legs encased in old cord trousers. He had fallen asleep, cold cup of tea on the table beside him and a narrow thread of dribble running from the corner of his mouth down an unshaven chin, three-day-old grey whiskers catching his spit. Saz was shocked to see how old Lees seemed. Though he’d had difficulty getting out of the cab, she hadn’t seen his face clearly, and realized that she’d somehow not yet matched his face with the body. She had expected the strong middle-aged man Lillian described, or perhaps the Marcus Welby reported by Molly – someone more youthful and daring than his age might suggest. And perhaps that had been Lees until recently. Molly’s last article on him had been published a few years ago. Saz remembered the awful speed with which age finally took hold of her grandmother; it had seemed that she stayed stuck at sixty forever until the day she suddenly turned eighty-five and that was that. This man had been working full time up until five years ago and he was already seventy-four then. Maybe the late nights and weekends of research had finally caught up with him. The problem was that Saz could feel the beginnings of sympathy for the man – which wouldn’t be very useful at all.
She began to move around the room, quietly looking at papers, opening cabinet drawers. Although he moved a couple of times, even muttered something once, causing Saz’s heart to jump and then collapse back on itself in a major adrenalin rush, he never actually woke up. For the next hour Saz went from one pile to another, becoming increasingly disappointed. Not only were most of the papers irrelevant to her case, dealing with government research grants, textbook infertility cases, breakthroughs in embryo research, but they were also in a worse state than Patrick’s father’s office had been when she first walked in. Papers from 1978 were shuffled into doctorate fil
es from 1953. Memos Lees had hand-scrawled and dated only last week were in a file marked “Confidential – 1959”. While she found a couple of letters from Georgina’s office, they were merely form references to accounts and matters outstanding, nothing with any juice. After a while the fruitlessness of her search became apparent and Saz became correspondingly less careful. Placing another useless file back on top of one of the cabinets, she turned just in time to watch it slide from the top of the pile, see gravity take it in one of those slow-motion moments from the filing cabinet to the floor, via the full cup of cold tea at Lees’ sleeping side. The crash of splintering crockery and splashing liquid echoed through Saz’s head for a ten-second eternity as the old man in front of her finally woke up.
“What on earth? What? What do you want?”
She didn’t quite know where to start, “Ah – you must be Doctor Lees.” The old man glared at her, his right hand held tight to the handle of a lethal-looking wooden stick. But he didn’t speak.
Saz tried again, “Doctor Lees?”
This time he shook his head, frowned, glazed eyes slowly coming into focus. Once Lees had assured himself that he really didn’t recognize her, realized that a stranger was in his room, he shifted himself with some difficulty, sat up straighter in his chair and, as forcefully as he could manage, asked her name.
“Saz Martin.”