‘Mr Fauld, my name’s Franklyn. Fiona Franklyn. I’m sorry to appear so impatient but your secretary said you couldn’t see me for over a week. And I’m desperate for your help.’
‘What do you want, Mrs Franklyn?’
‘To adopt. You … were recommended.’
Already she was discovering that it was difficult both to jog and communicate in anything more than short bursts.
‘You’re not English.’
‘Canadian.’
‘Then try there. Your adoption regulations are much less restrictive than in Europe.’
‘Yes, but … there are complications.’
‘What sort of complications, Mrs …?’
‘Franklyn.’
They were forced to swerve in order to avoid the stubborn progress of an old derelict, a woman wearily pushing her way around the park behind a shopping trolley piled high with bulging plastic bags of rags.
‘What sort of complications, Mrs Franklyn?’ he repeated, slowing for the first time in order to look more directly at her.
‘I can’t adopt in Canada. It’s my husband – there’s no easy way to put this …’
‘If you don’t feel you can trust me, there’s not much point.’ He quickened his stride.
‘He’s serving a long prison sentence. He’ll be inside for many years. Fraud. And I’m already thirty-seven years old. I can’t wait, Mr Fauld. But no one’s going to allow me and my husband to adopt, not with his track record. So I’ve come to Europe. I want to be treated on my own merits, not those of my husband.’
The explanation was beginning to leave her winded, and conscious of her lack of fitness. Her breasts were feeling unpleasantly heavy.
‘It’s even more difficult to adopt in Europe,’ he responded, beginning his second circuit. ‘There are very few babies available nowadays, what with contraception and abortion. We’ve a declining population, the number of babies up for adoption is dropping sharply.’ Even he was beginning to breathe more heavily. ‘So the authorities can afford to be very selective. It means they normally rule out single parents. Or families with difficult social backgrounds, like you. And you’re getting very near the upper age limit for an adoptive parent.’
She was beginning to feel that her physical stamina was not what it once was.
‘I’m desperate, Mr Fauld.’
He stopped suddenly, looked directly at her as though reaching a judgement.
‘I don’t think I shall be able to help you,’ he said, and began stretching exercises.
‘But why? Are the rules so rigid?’
‘It’s not so much that. There are strict guidelines, inevitably, but within those guidelines every case is judged on its individual merits.’ He stretched towards his toes, obstructed by his stomach, several times before rising to face her. ‘To be frank there seem to be few merits in your case. And you a foreigner into the bargain.’
‘Are you telling me it’s impossible for a foreigner to adopt a child in Britain?’
‘No, there are always a few exceptions – highly individual cases, you understand. I make no apologies for being blunt, Mrs Franklyn. If you are that desperate for a child, there are many easier ways than adoption. Get a divorce. Get artificially inseminated. Get naturally inseminated by a man other than your husband. There are many women who come into my office who decide to do exactly that.’
‘But I can’t, Mr Fauld. My husband’s sentence is especially long because he refused to locate the money he’d embezzled. I’m a rich woman, so long as I remain married to him. So I must adopt. I can afford to give my child the best, the very best. Doesn’t that count for anything?’
He had stopped his stretching activities, his hot breath clouding in the cold winter air.
‘If money is no object …’
‘It isn’t.’
‘… then why not find a baby from one of the developing countries. Almost anywhere. Fifteen to twenty thousand dollars, including air flights. Join a queue, or pay to get to the front of it if that’s what you want.’
She shook her head repeatedly, her voice rising with emotion. ‘No, that is not what I want. Mr Fauld, I want a child I can call my own, not something plucked from the gutters of the Third World. I want a baby with two legs and two arms and without any mental disabilities who looks enough like me so that he doesn’t have people smirking for the rest of his life when I introduce him as my child. Is that too much to ask?’
‘Almost. There’s a pecking list in the adoption world; it’s supply and demand. At the bottom of that list are the children who are available but who no one wants. Black and brown, disabled, mentally handicapped, children who are above the age of five and already formed in their ways, often with deep social problems. Children who will never be your own. Even in your difficult circumstances you could probably arrange something along those lines.’
‘But I don’t want those lines, don’t you understand? I want a baby, and I want it white.’
‘Precisely. But so does everyone else. And it’s the white babies that aren’t available.’
‘How much money would it take?’
They had been standing still for some time in the chill.
‘Come and have a cup of coffee,’ he suggested, guiding her in the direction of the lakeside tea house. But it was crowded so, in spite of the conditions, they sat outside trying to catch the pale winter sun. His eyes passed over her, probing, calling her to account. He seemed very analytical, almost academic in his interest, reaching for a judgement as though in court. With an air of casualness she did not feel inside, she unzipped her tracksuit, not provocatively but enough to reveal the lycra-clad breasts beneath. The result was inevitable. Assailed first by the heat of extended exercise and now by the blast of winter air, the nipples exploded in protest. He noticed, and she knew he approved. His attentions were not confined to the academic.
‘Why did you come to me, Mrs Franklyn? Who recommended you?’
‘I came because I was told you were someone who could help with problems like mine. That you were … imaginative. Resourceful. Not a narrow-minded interfering agony aunt like those I’ve had to deal with back home.’
‘And who told you this?’
‘A girl, young woman. Called Paulette. I met her in a pizza parlour, she seemed down on her luck, we got chatting. I got the impression she has worked in this field. Blonde hair. You know her?’
‘I think so. She … has been useful in the past. Been unwell recently.’
‘She said it would cost money, but I have money. This is the only chance I might have in my life to become a mother, Mr Fauld. You can’t deny me. I’ll do anything.’
He looked across the lake and into the tumbling water of the great ornamental fountain, seeking inspiration, calculating the odds. ‘I must explain something to you, Mrs Franklyn. I agree with you entirely about the interfering do-gooders. All too often they have no judgement, no imagination. There are vast numbers of would-be adoptive parents and a limitless supply of needy children, yet it seems beyond the authorities to bring the two together. They strangle everything in red tape and bureaucracy, terrified they might make a mistake. So, they do nothing. And as a result, couples are left bereft while children starve and are brutalized.’
A sparrow flew onto their table and hopped around in search of nourishment. Disappointed, he flew off in the direction of a squabble over crusts that was developing between two eider ducks, hoping to benefit from their distraction.
‘Do you know that in Romania, after the Communists were thrown out, they discovered tens of thousands of children in state institutions which were little better than concentration camps?’ he continued, his thin lips tightening, his tone betraying anger. ‘You must remember the television pictures, they touched the conscience of the world. But not the conscience of the authorities. Thousands of couples went to Romania to adopt these poor children and, amongst those thousands, there were a few problem cases. A handful of couples who changed their minds, who perhaps
should never have become adoptive parents. A few weeds amongst the harvest of happiness. So the outcry at the discovery of the children was followed by a fresh outcry about how unsuitable parents were buying these children without any safeguards. TV reports can be so wretchedly moralizing and distorting.’
She knew.
‘So what happened?’ he continued. ‘The authorities shut the whole adoption business down. For months. No …’ – one hand became an axe, chopping across the other palm – ‘not the Romanian authorities. The British authorities. Protecting their reputations. So afraid of criticism for what was going on they decided that nothing more should be done until they had set up a vast, cumbersome machinery to handle matters.’
‘What happened to the children while this was being done?’
‘They died, Mrs Franklyn. In their thousands. They couldn’t afford to wait for rule books and regulations. Sacrificed in order to save the reputations of a few cowardly bureaucrats from a little ill-informed criticism.’ He shook his head in despair and disbelief. ‘It seems to me an extraordinary way of protecting the best interests of children.’
‘But can you help me, Mr Fauld?’
‘I have connections with a charitable adoption agency. I’m a firm believer in the laws governing such concerns, Mrs Franklyn, but I also believe the overriding need is that of the children. It’s their concerns which should be paramount, not those of unimaginative social servants. So, under the law, my agency is afforded considerable flexibility in the way we operate within the rules and guidelines, and my interpretation emphasizes the welfare of the children. And above all else, children need parents who are committed to them. I believe you may display just the right sort of commitment.’
She smiled encouragingly while he wiped his glasses on his tracksuit.
‘Such matters are not inexpensive. There are many overheads we are forced to incur in order to make our judgements as individual and as reliable as possible. For every parent we are able to supply with a child, there may be a dozen or more who will not qualify, yet who nevertheless involve our operation in considerable cost.’
‘How much?’
‘A white baby is top of the range, Mrs Franklyn.’
‘How much?’
‘Twenty-five thousand pounds.’ He let the condensing words hang in the air. ‘That is not a price you understand, but a suggested contribution which includes, I might say, a sizeable donation to children’s charities.’
He was a master, she mused. Even if she had a tape of this conversation there would be nothing directly incriminating. Indeed, in black and white he might sound almost heroic.
‘However, I must say that your case would still be exceptionally difficult. I have to ask myself what the public reaction would be if it came to light that I had assisted someone with such a difficult background to adopt one of my children. I run a very discreet operation, Mrs Franklyn, for obvious reasons.’
‘Hey, I understand. The money is fine, no problem.’
He had replaced the glasses, refocused on her, probing once more, making up his mind. Trying to catch another glimpse of her breasts.
‘It’s not just money, however. I need to be sure that you are completely committed to the sort of operation I run. No doubts, no hesitations.’
‘I’d do anything, Mr Fauld.’
‘All too easily said …’
‘How can I prove it? You name it.’
He smiled again, and the eyes flickered. He thought he might have found what he was looking for. ‘Look, there’s still a long way to go before I can be sure it would be appropriate to help you. We need to get to know each other better. Much better. Informally. Person to person. I’d like to suggest we meet again elsewhere in more relaxed surroundings. Dinner, perhaps? I do need to know so very much more about you. You understand, don’t you?’
She understood perfectly.
‘I’m free tomorrow evening. Let’s start then, shall we? Where are you staying?’
She told him.
‘Then let’s say eight o’clock. The Wilton Towers? It’s very convenient for you. I’ll meet you in the reception area.’
She had offered the bait, he was nibbling. It was time to strike.
‘This is the most important thing to me in the whole world. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find a way.’
Her mouth had run dry, bile burning the back of her throat. ‘I want to find some way of saying thank you to Paulette, too. She opened your door for me, I’d like to offer some token of how much I appreciate it all. Where might I find her?’ She tried to make the enquiry sound casual but the taste of bile had made her suddenly hoarse, the words squeezed past dried lips.
‘I’m sure that’s not necessary,’ he said slowly.
‘Oh, but I’d like to. I’d like to help her in some little way, show my appreciation. Some money, perhaps. I got the impression she might need it.’
‘That’s incredibly thoughtful, Fiona – I may call you Fiona, may I? – but … really, she’s fine. Moving about at the moment. I’m not quite sure where she is, to tell the truth.’
Don’t push it, she screamed at herself. Don’t blow it all away by showing unnatural curiosity.
She was trembling, knowing she was so close to touching Paulette, knowing the information would not come free. She knew she must take her time, be unhurried, and willing to pay whatever price was asked.
‘I see. I rather got the impression she worked for you.’
‘Oh, she does, has done. She’s taking a little time off at present. Tell you what, leave her a note. I’ll make sure she gets it.’
So he does know where she is. But already Fauld was inspecting his watch, rising, waving his arms to restore his circulation, preparing to return to his office. And snatching one last look beneath her tracksuit top.
‘I am looking forward to tomorrow night, Fiona.’
The eyes opened stiffly, laden with sleep and pain. The light blinded, confused her, and it was minutes before any form of coherence began to creep past the shutters of her mind. The sun burned angrily in the sky, beating down on her, slicing her lids apart, forcing the dreams from her head until she woke to find it was no more than a street lamp shining through the winter drizzle, and the earth beneath nothing but another stinking doorway. The street cleaners had swept through the Portobello market hours earlier, taking all the detritus of another market day with them, save her. They had passed by on the other side, leaving her in the doorway with her eiderdown of discarded vegetable leaves and rotten tomatoes.
She had tried to make it home, and failed. It had been beyond her, she’d been too impatient, too much in pain. Again. And now the pain was already returning, twisting at her as though being sliced by a blunt knife – no, worse than physical pain, for this was not isolated, could not be cauterized. If she could have, she would long ago have grabbed the iron and burned it out herself.
Her head slumped forward, seeking shelter from the light burning into her brain and the breeze of dank decay that brushed her cheek, too disorientated yet to move from beneath the street lamp, even to identify the noxious fluid which dampened the doorstep around her. She tried to climb back inside herself, hiding from the terror of the world outside yet knowing she would be betrayed once more by the horrors she found within.
Emaciated fingers covered her face. She’d lost a lot of weight this time, more than the times before. Her periods had stopped; a relief. She was having to turn an ever larger number of tricks – no, not tricks, tricks were for whores and she was no whore. She only did what she had to, and even if that meant fucking an ever larger number of punters to find the money she needed, getting pregnant was not part of the plan. Or wouldn’t be, if she had a plan.
And it was getting worse. A squall of December rain hit her and she started shaking again; she knew it was coming back, the battle she couldn’t win. It tore at her, the guilt and the pain ripping her in different directions. She could never work
out which tormented her more, but while she couldn’t cure the guilt, she could always submerge the physical pain. So the guilt could wait. Until tomorrow. Just one more time.
She swallowed with difficulty, the back of her throat felt like cooked liver. She would need to find another man quickly, several men, perhaps. No point in trying to steal from stores any more, they spotted her as soon as she walked through the door. Perhaps she would try going back to her father, but she’d already done that and even he seemed reluctant to give in to her any more, now that he had found out. It would have to be men, and even that was getting more difficult as she trembled and stank and found that they would screw her, any part of her, abuse her and beat her, then leave her in a doorway without paying.
Like this.
It was why she was being forced to take the risk, buying on the street, stuff of unknown quality from people she didn’t know, suffering if it did not work, suffering even more if it worked too well. Like the last fix, when she couldn’t make it back to her own bed.
The last fix. The very last fix …
It would be better …
She would get herself home, clean herself up, find better punters, just once more, grab the strength to get herself back into shape, confront the guilt, give it all up. Just this one last time, she pleaded.
But it would pursue her, as it had done before, like a hawk. Every breath of wind would be as the beat of the hunter’s wing, every shaft of sunlight the glint of stretching talons, every burst of children’s laughter the screech of triumph from a gorged craw, every dawn bringing anew the agony of being torn alive. Only in darkness, in the corners and crevices of the world, in dark stinking holes and doorways, did she seem to find respite from her fears, where she could bury herself in a different world.
The Touch of Innocents Page 22
