Fresh Flesh

by Stella Duffy

  “You’re very welcome. God bless you.”

  Saz turned to smile at the tired woman still clutching her bible to her chest. Sukie was looking out at the street, watching a fraught mother dodging buses and taxis as she tried to cross the noisy road with a couple of children, one in a pushchair and the other pulling against her tight grip, screaming for sweets or an ice cream, screaming for attention.

  Sukie frowned as she closed the door, speaking to herself as much as to Saz, “I would have done it, you know. Given him a baby, made a family for him. If he’d ever asked.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Sara left the hospital by the side door. This was not the way she came in. Sara was brought up the main front steps, she was brought in kicking and screaming. Because she was mad and so they had to bring her through the main door. Sara was a bad girl. She knew this from what she had been told, not from what she remembered. They have helped her inside. Made her better here. Sara is quiet now, and good. Sara does not make a fuss, has learnt how to behave. It wasn’t so hard, not really. She just had to adjust. And here they have helped her to adjust. There have been people here who would talk to her. Once she learnt what to say, how to speak nicely. Once she learnt how to be a good girl and do what was expected of her, then there were plenty of people to talk to.

  Sara was well enough to leave by the side door, the quiet door, the east exit. She could be trusted not to make a scene, trusted to be by herself. Sara was no longer a danger – not to others and, most important of all, not to herself. She would live quietly now. Sara would forget those darker days. She was easy now. It was a relief to everyone. They had done a good job. Sara had done a good job. It was well worth it.

  She walked by the sea, and the walk back home was slow. But then Sara was much slower too. They had slowed down the world that used to rush by so quickly. Sara was always running to catch up in her other life, speeding to make it, to get there, and not sure where it was she was heading for, but rushing headlong anyway, rushing before it was too late. She did not need to run any more. She walked slowly and simply, one foot after the other, with concentration, one step following another. Don’t let the mind wander away, wandering is dangerous, just keep the thoughts on the steps. And so she did. Sara was successful. She could walk all the way to her home. Her bag was not heavy, she didn’t own much. And even though she walked along the sea front, the waves were no longer rough. They were not taunting her. They simply went in and out, like breathing. That was all they did. They were just waves and Sara now knew that they were not powerful. Sara understood the nature of power better than most.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Saz went directly from Sukie’s flat to Brixton for her meeting with Luke. The bar wasn’t quite so salubrious in daylight. The silver and purple combination was too well lit in the afternoon sunshine and even the heavy cleaning job that went on every morning couldn’t quite disguise an underlay of inevitably sticky floors and a back-of-the-throat hit from the acid leftover scent of alcohol, poppers and grass. But the garden out the back, where a surprisingly genial host offered her a bowl of thick chips and a cold beer, was warm and shaded by juicy grape vines and a fig tree.

  “A fig tree? Fantastic.”

  “Fruit’s all right too. Not brilliantly succulent or anything but it’s bloody well sheltered out here and fairly sunny, so there is fruit, looks and tastes like figs.”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Yeah. The old lady who ran the pub before we took it over spent all her time out here. The pub itself was shite, but this garden – well, let’s just say she wasn’t stupid enough to let her punters get anywhere near it.”

  Saz looked round at the paved courtyard, stuffed full with pretty young things, eating and drinking and laughing far too loud.

  “You’re doing well out of it.”

  “My customers aren’t old blokes smoking roll-ups and making a single pint last half the afternoon. This lot think they’re incredibly fucking amazing because they even recognize a bloody fig.”

  A burst of raucous laughter from three barely-dressed babes in the corner underlined his sentiments and Saz diverted the conversation to Luke’s parentage before his irritation with his clientele slipped into bad mood.

  Basically their conversation simply confirmed what she remembered of the night before. Luke was willing to acknowledge that what he’d told Carrie was true, but he wasn’t especially interested in re-hashing it all for Saz’s benefit.

  Pleasant host turned to bored and indifferent when Saz tried to get more from him. “And you didn’t want to follow this up yourself? Find out more about your birth parents?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have any curiosity at all?”

  Luke shook his head, finished his beer and nodded to the glass collector to bring him another one. He didn’t offer to get another for Saz, “Look. I only said I’d talk to you to set the record straight. If you want to poke around looking for stuff about your friend’s birth parents, go ahead. I’ve made my peace with my past. I’m honestly not interested.”

  “But the woman I saw today seems to think Richard Leyton was really quite dodgy and—”

  Luke interrupted her, “Who did you see?”

  “My client’s father’s old mistress. I just went to see if she knew anything about him being adopted.”

  “And did she?”

  “Not much. But she didn’t have many good things to say for either my client’s father or Richard Leyton.”

  “She actually made accusations against him?”

  “No, not at all, nothing like that. She just didn’t like him.”

  Saz wondered for a moment whether she ought to mention the concept of buying babies, but decided she didn’t want to risk alienating Luke further. Maybe his reconciliation with his adoptive father really had been so positive that he didn’t want to jeopardize their relationship by delving into the truth of his own past. And then again, there was something about the way he jumped on her story about Sukie that made Saz question just how much she wanted to tell him anyway.

  Luke grabbed the new beer brought out for him, polite thank yous obviously weren’t his strong point, “Well, I know my father never had any problem with Leyton. And some people would say helping others to adopt was a gift.”

  “Well, yes, of course. But when people do that these days, it’s all so open, acknowledged. No one’s lying about it.”

  “And so that’s OK?”

  “I’m not concerned about the morals of adoption, Luke, I’m concerned that people haven’t been told the truth.”

  “Well, not people, your client. I already know the truth about my family.”

  “OK, my client. But it looks like Leyton had a hand in his adoption, and in that of my other friend.”

  “So why doesn’t he or she ask their adoptive parents what happened?”

  “My friend doesn’t want to hurt his mother. His adoptive mother. He doesn’t want her to think he’s looking for more than her. He’s never been interested before.”

  “What’s changed his mind?”

  “He’s going to be a father himself.”

  Luke laughed, “Ah, the sadly predictable workings of the traditional mind.”

  Saz decided not to expound on the very untraditional circumstances that had prompted Chris’s new interest, “So you’re not willing to help me at all on this?”

  “I really don’t see that it’s any of my business. Or that I can help you anyway. I don’t know that much myself, I have a good working relationship with my father and I don’t want to fuck that up by asking him to tell me things he’d rather not divulge. And I’d prefer you didn’t either. You’re going to have to find some other avenue of information for your clients. There are some adopted people who aren’t compelled to search the ends of the earth for their blood relatives. I simply don’t have that desire. Anyway, look, I’ve had enough of this shit, it’s a gorgeous day, let’s not waste it talking about all this. I think a change of subject�
�s in order, don’t you?”

  Saz didn’t agree with him, but didn’t see how she could protest.

  Luke pointed to a new development on the other side of the back wall, “See those flats over there?”

  “Yes.”

  “The estate agent is a mate of mine, I’ve got a key. The show place is amazing – do you want to have a look?”

  “Why?”

  “No reason – well, I have invested a bit in the renovations. Wouldn’t mind if you liked the look of what you saw and mentioned it to a few friends?”

  “Ah – no. Thanks anyway. I’m not sure that any of my friends could afford designer places.”

  “Or that they’d want to?”

  Saz smiled, “No, I know one or two whose leanings tend that way. None with an awful lot of spare cash though. Sorry.”

  Saz finished her beer and left Luke. Though their conversation had ended pleasantly enough – albeit on his terms and not hers – she felt bad about the difficult patch in the middle. She was aware she hadn’t really thought through the question of how adopted children might feel, that perhaps she had been insensitive to expect him to want to know as much about his birth parents as Patrick and Chris did. In fact, she was troubled to realize that as Luke had proved himself completely uninterested in helping her, it seemed much more likely that he had only agreed to meet her today to find out how much she knew. And, if that was the case, she’d better tell Carrie to keep her mouth shut in future. Just after she’d told herself. She decided to hold back on discussing the babies-for-money question with Chris until she knew a bit more. And until she knew something more about Richard Leyton’s involvement. A return trip to Georgina Leyton’s offices was looking more and more necessary. Unfortunately.

  Then it was home, dinner, ordinary conversations about Molly’s day at work, how Luke had tried to interest her in a new flat, thoughts about the baby, medical matters, arranging dates to dine with friends and family. All perfectly normal with just a hint of panic beneath the surface. Saz was beginning to find the pressing urgency, the five and a half months’ distance from parenthood a terrifying prospect. After all the time of talking about the possibility and then planning for it to happen, the actual reality was much more terrifying than she could ever have expected. She hid her fears from her girlfriend though. Saz didn’t think Molly really needed to hear her worries about what was now their inevitable future. Instead she drank her way through most of a bottle of wine, chatted about everything and nothing, steered clear of the confusing adoption talk and shrugged off her future fears in the warmth of their mutual ease. Molly managed almost half a glass herself before she gave in to media-hype terrors and settled for foetus-friendly mineral water.

  They sat together while night settled across the Heath outside. The balcony doors were open and even so, the room was still warm with the day’s lingering heat.

  Molly pulled at Saz’s hair, “Take your clothes off.”

  “Why?”

  “Aren’t you hot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So take your clothes off. It’ll be cooler. And I can stroke your body. I want to see you naked.”

  Saz complied with her lover’s request. But she did so uncertainly. After the miscarriage and then the first three months of this pregnancy, feeling obliged to tread so carefully around Molly while they waited to know if the foetus would make it, she was still learning how to be with Molly’s body again, how to be just flesh and no thought. But it wasn’t a concept Molly had forgotten.

  “Saz, honestly, you don’t have to touch me as if I might break any minute. I am pretty strong, you know. I’m only pregnant. It is perfectly normal. The world is full of pregnant women shagging like rabbits.”

  “I know that.” Saz frowned, stretched herself full length along her lover, her weight evenly distributed across Molly’s much taller body, “I mean my head knows it, I know how fit you are, know you’re taking care of yourself. But I can’t help it, I try to just look at you as only Molly and I can’t seem to. I look at you and I see that you’re pregnant.”

  “Are you having a go about my tummy?”

  Saz burst out laughing, “What tummy? God, Moll, most of the women we know would kill to have a body like yours.”

  “That’s all right then.”

  “You know I think you’re gorgeous.”

  “So you haven’t gone off me?”

  “Of course not, I’m just scared I might hurt you. Hurt the baby.”

  “Saz, you won’t. Why should I be any different to every other woman in the world?”

  “Because you’re mine.”

  Molly nodded and then added uncertainly, “And because this baby’s yours?”

  “Ours.”

  Molly shrugged, adjusted herself beneath Saz, “Yeah, but yours really. Technically. Genetically.”

  “Well, that’s debatable, but if so, then yeah, it is even more scary. I feel extra protective of both of you. I look at you and think how much I want to look after you.”

  Molly smiled. “So look after me. I know what my body can take, and it can take a hell of a lot more than just this soft kissing and cuddling shit. I’m sure it’s not good for me to be so frustrated.”

  “No, I don’t suppose unrequited wanting is terribly good for your blood pressure.”

  Molly bent her knees up, tightened them around Saz’s waist, “No good at all. Trust me, Saz, I’m a doctor.”

  Saz trusted Molly. In the move from talk to skin they ignored the insistent ringing of the telephone. Twice. The first time Saz simply waited for the answerphone to pick up, the second she left Molly’s skin long enough to turn off the ringer on both phones. Saz was believing in the doctor, not the messages piling up on her machine. Trusted Molly enough to leave her back aching from the hard floor, her calf muscles taut with slow-released tension. An hour or so later Saz had proved her trust enough to really upset their upstairs neighbour. For the past couple of months he’d been more than a little relieved that the “noisy shaggers downstairs” had finally decided to shut up and fuck quietly like normal people. The poor guy had been single for the past year. Fourteen months too long.

  Once Saz had put Molly to sleep in their bed, rubbing her back until she heard the familiar sound of her sleeping breath, slow and regular, she went to listen to the messages.

  The first was from Sukie, a small voice, slightly concerned, “Miss Martin, I’m just a little worried … maybe I shouldn’t have said so much about Gerald. Or Richard Leyton. Perhaps he’s made his peace now anyway, Gerald. Well, both of them, maybe. I think … I’d rather you didn’t … I don’t really want to be involved … perhaps you’ll call me back?”

  The second call was also from Sukie, a hang-up this time. It was now well after one in the morning: according to the well-spoken BT lady, Sukie’s second call had been at 22:15 hours. Saz decided to ring her in the morning. While the night might belong to the devil, she was fairly certain Sukie would rise early in the fresh-broken morning to get on with another full day of praise.

  She went back to bed and lay against Molly’s warm body, wondering for awhile about Sukie. What could have happened to turn such a groovy chick so far from her original course? Saz wasn’t completely sure she believed the idea that Jesus had simply found her, all the people she’d ever known who had taken up any extremity of faith – from born-again Christianity to born-again lesbian separatism – had done so after a life crisis of some sort. Sometimes a wonderful crisis like falling in love, but a major turning point all the same. She was still wondering what had prompted Sukie’s conversion when the past two nights’ lack of sleep and the energetic return to fucking form finally caught up with her.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  By a quarter to ten the next morning Saz had been for her run, showered, dressed, washed and put away their dinner dishes from the night before, made Molly’s breakfast, joined her in the shower to demonstrate yet again her trust of Molly’s medical knowledge, walked with her to the tube and was impati
ently waiting for ten, by which time Gary would be at work and she could ask him what he’d found out.

  Pre-pregnancy, Saz had been used to extremely early rising to run, followed by a morning asleep and then working all afternoon and most of the evening. Now, though, she was trying to adjust her patterns to a more usual timetable – initially to suit Molly and get her through the worrying first months – and now because the growing baby reality meant that she was really pushing to get on with Chris’s truth as soon as she could. And Patrick’s. And Luke’s for that matter. The fact that she looked longingly at their bed any time between nine a.m. and midday didn’t stop her using the time as profitably as possible. It just made her bloody irritable when others appeared a little less urgent than she would have hoped. She tried calling Sukie a couple of times but there was no reply, nor an answer machine. Obviously steering clear of all the technological works of the devil.

  Gary may have kept lax office hours, but he didn’t disappoint. “Now promise me you’re going to be careful with this?”

  “You’ve found her? The mother?”

  “I’ve found a Lillian Hope. In Cornwall, near St Ives – which is where your doctor was writing from, yes? She’s probably the right age, possibly the woman you’re after. Then again, your Lillian Hope may have left Cornwall the minute she gave up her baby and this might just be one who happened to be there at the same time.”

  Saz was excited, “Yeah, sure, all possible, just give me the story, Gary.”

  “Well, I can’t find any record that this woman registered a baby around the time of Patrick Freeman’s birth.”

  “Maybe she didn’t. Maybe his adoptive parents did.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Anyway, assuming it’s the same Lillian Hope – and as this one has only moved house twice since 1963, I’d say it was close to likely – I think I might have found your lady. There are only four other Lillian Hopes registered in Cornwall at the moment. Two got the name by marriage anyway, one died last year at the age of ninety-seven – so I don’t imagine she’s Patrick Freeman’s mother – and the other one is a transsexual who changed her name ten years ago. She too seems something of an unlikely bet.”