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  “I don’t care if she has. That’s what e-mails are for.”

  “I’ll stick to letters and phone calls thanks.”

  “Traditionalist.”

  “Happily.”

  Molly leaned her weight heavier onto Saz, “You, my little Luddite, are not going anywhere. I want you here with me. We want you here with me.”

  Saz nodded, aware of the seriousness under Molly’s light tone, “I know you do. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

  Saz was well aware that Molly had never been easy with her choice of career and worried for her safety. Worries which had good grounding in a basis of unpleasant past events.

  Molly smiled, a smile which quickly turned to a smirk, “Well, I don’t think you should consider yourself completely tied to me. Right now, for instance, you might just want to pop out and pick me up some ice cream.”

  “There’s some in the freezer.”

  “No. I finished it in the middle of the night.”

  Saz groaned, wrenched herself up from Molly’s side, “If I’d have known that being pregnant was going to become an excuse for you to turn yourself into a sitcom cliché, I’d never have agreed that you should carry the baby.”

  “Too late now, babe.”

  Saz tried another tack to get her out of having to leave the comfort zone, “You’ll get fat.”

  Molly stretched her long lean body in the sunshine on the floor, “That, my darling, is, I believe, the whole point of me being pregnant. No one would notice. Off you go.” She waved a regal hand, “A tub each of pistachio, coconut cream, coffee walnut and chocolate chip. And none of that low fat rubbish either.”

  “Hell no,” Saz muttered as she backed out of the door. “It’s hard enough that this kid’s going to have four queers for parents, we wouldn’t want it growing up to be anorexic as well.”

  FOUR

  Molly first met Chris four years ago at her hospital. Like her, he specialised in child medicine, like her he had often expressed the desire to be a parent, but unlike her he had never felt mature or settled down enough to take that desire seriously. Until he met Marc. Marc worked in the City, was out, was fairly well-off, and was incredibly normal. All the things Chris – mixed-race, adopted at birth into an extremely wealthy family, intensely gay-political from his early teens – was not. It was love at first argument. Two months later Chris moved in with Marc, eighteen months after that they suggested to Saz and Molly that perhaps it was time to start thinking about propagating the species. Not that this was a new thought for Molly and Saz. For some time now they had wanted to do the next thing – the baby making – that couples had done quite naturally and with no need for societal prompting since long before the bible writers got around to deciding God insisted they go forth and multiply. However, unlike the more fortunate women of the biblical myths, Saz and Molly were aware they needed an actual father. In body as well as in spirit – which made things slightly more difficult.

  Saz and Molly talked about the suggestion. Molly talked to Chris. Saz talked to Marc. All four talked endlessly about the obstacles, the problems, the difficulties. Put off making a decision until more information could be garnered. Thought long and hard about what they were planning to do until they’d thought it out so much it seemed an impossible leap. Too difficult, too complicated and just something they might have to turn away from – great idea, too bloody hard to enact. Until Saz’s cousin, still living in a hostel with their two year old, announced her second pregnancy at nineteen, and both Saz and Molly finally realized that if the kids could make babies with so little thought, then surely they could at least attempt the same with four adults, four incomes, two homes and, not to put too twee a point on it, a whole lot of love. They invited the boys over for dinner and spent the evening discussing how and when and who and, not least by any means, all the legal implications involved. Three months later everything had been agreed and the long technical process of creating life could begin.

  After all, as Chris so delicately put it, “Face it, girls, your eggs aren’t getting any younger.”

  Molly was to give birth to Saz’s baby. It was an expensive and invasive process, but by carrying Saz’s egg fertilized with Chris’s sperm, all three would be intimately involved in the process. Because of the extensive burn scarring Saz had suffered some years earlier, it would be safer and healthier for Molly to carry the baby anyway. Also, Molly, with a proper job in a real hospital, was able to claim great care from her own system and extensive maternity benefits. Saz had no such benefits in her self-employed status. With Molly carrying Saz’s baby, both women would to a degree be biological mothers, though only one had provided the necessary genes. Molly liaised through medical colleagues and eventually found a clinic willing to take them on – for an exorbitant fee, of course. Chris and Marc offered to pay but both Saz and Molly felt that was asking far too much, so the two women pooled all the resources they had ever had, came up with the necessary funds and prayed the treatment would work first time. Meanwhile they found a very cooperative lawyer and drew up an incredibly complicated contract. And, as they knew the contract would not be legally binding should either of the birth parents ever change their minds, all four of them signed their copies with copious promises to never fall out. And silent prayers that they were doing the right thing.

  Saz went through the difficult egg extraction process, Chris and Marc took care of the somewhat less difficult sperm extraction themselves, and the first fertilized embryo was implanted. All four held their breath in hope. Molly miscarried at five and a half weeks. Though it was such a short time and though they had been prepared for this possibility, there was still a feeling of great sadness, especially horrible for Molly and also strangely difficult for Saz who, though she was not experiencing the same hormonal changes as Molly, was nevertheless undergoing a very real vicarious process of becoming-mother. The second attempt also ended in disappointment.

  After another awful night of tears and disillusionment, Molly and Saz agreed they would try only two more times. It meant they were half way through the possible. At one month it looked like everything was fine, but it would take until the third month, first place of safety for any pregnancy, but so much more so for this one, until they would begin to speak of the foetus as a baby and Molly’s obstetrician would allow them to hope in earnest.

  Meanwhile Chris asked to speak to Saz.

  “It’s about business. About my mother.”

  “She’s making a fuss about the baby?”

  “Hell no, she couldn’t be happier. Like us, she’s just waiting until we all know it’s OK. No, I meant my birth mother, I think I’d like to try and find her.”

  Chris had always known he was adopted, growing up mixed-race with white parents, he could hardly have missed it, and anyway, his parents had always been very open about the fact they’d adopted him when the youngest of their own children was ten and they missed having a small person about the house. Chris, though, had always maintained a complete lack of interest in his blood parentage, so Saz was stunned to hear he’d changed his mind.

  “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

  “I didn’t. And now I do. Maybe it’s thinking about being a father myself. Or just that we’ve been talking about all the implications of parenting for so bloody long that it’s sparked my interest. I can’t really say. I just know I feel different now.”

  “I don’t know if I’m the best person to do this for you, it’s not something I know much about – and I am sort of personally involved. Shouldn’t you contact an agency or something?”

  Chris shook his head. “I’ve thought about that. But I don’t want my real mum – I mean my adoptive mother – to know I’m looking. Much as she’s always been really honest with me, I still think it might hurt her if I told her I was starting to look. And I suppose an agency might want to contact her, find out what she remembers, what my dad knew.”

  “They couldn’t if you told them not to.”

 
“Maybe, but it’s also I’d just rather it was you. Because you’re personally involved. You and Molly have become our best friends. I trust you. I never cared about my birth parents before and now this wanting to know has kind of thrown me. I guess I think you’ll be more delicate, more careful.”

  Saz laughed, “I’ll try, but I wouldn’t go round saying how delicate I am in front of Molly, that’s about the last thing she thinks of me as.”

  Six weeks later Molly came home alone from the hospital and announced the great news and Saz realized that, like Chris, she too had become a little interested in the genetic history of her baby. It was time she launched herself into more direct action on the birth-parent front.

  FIVE

  Chris’s father had died three years previously and his mother, wanting to be nearer to Chris and Marc with whom she got on brilliantly, and slightly further away from her oldest daughter Anna, with whom she had a somewhat less enviable relationship, had sold their massive family home in Surrey and relocated to a more manageable house in Wimbledon. Saz took the opportunity of Mrs Marquand’s annual summer holiday with her middle son in Edinburgh to spend a day going through the family archives. According to Chris, his mother was the tidiest woman in England and the move from country to town had simply enabled her to be even more so.

  “I love the woman dearly, Saz, but she’s an order fanatic. I grew up in a nine bedroom house and we never once had a cleaner. God knows, they could have afforded half a dozen, but she never wanted one. My mother actually likes all that dusting and polishing stuff. More than that though, she likes filing things away. Absolutely fucking loves it.”

  Chris wasn’t wrong. The entire attic of the Wimbledon house, originally converted into a spacious study by the previous owners, was now the repository of four six-drawer filing cabinets, one each for Chris and his three older siblings. Each drawer was stuffed with files, every one of them labelled by both date and category. It took Saz less than five minutes to locate all thirteen of Chris’s school reports.

  “God, this is amazing. A bit bloody weird, but it’s fantastic as well. And she’s always been like this?”

  “Yeah, it was bloody useful when I was little. Other kids had to tidy their own rooms and their mothers were always yelling at them to pick up their toys, that sort of thing.”

  “Not you?”

  “Nope. Mummy did it. She said it made her happy.”

  “Spoilt little brat. I hope you learnt to look after yourself eventually.”

  Chris grinned, “I think I have. Mind you, I’m not sure Marc agrees.”

  Saz pointed to a pile of boxes stacked against the far wall, “What’s that lot?”

  “My dad’s things. She hasn’t sorted his stuff yet. I’m not sure she wants to, it would be too much like admitting he was gone.”

  “How long were they married?”

  “Forty-eight years.”

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Yeah, and every single one of them happy.”

  “Really?”

  “Afraid so. Perfect marriage.”

  “No such thing.”

  Chris shrugged, “Whatever. They always looked pretty bloody happy to me. Anyway, everything was kept in boxes at the old house and she used to get so pissed off whenever we came round and wanted something, left it in a mess or whatever, that she devised this new filing system when she moved everything to London.”

  “Didn’t any of you want to keep your own stuff?”

  “And deprive our mother of hours of pleasurable activity? You are a hard hearted bitch at times, Saz.”

  Saz ignored him and carried on, “And the filing cabinets work better than boxes?”

  “They certainly stop Anna tipping everything upside down to get at her baby photos and then just throwing it all back in any old how.”

  “Maybe she does it to keep your mother busy. Perhaps she thinks she’s being nice.”

  “Not Anna. She does actually do things to piss Mum off.”

  “Thought you said you were a perfect family?”

  “No. I said my parents were the perfect couple. Not quite the same thing. Actually, I don’t think Anna’s ever forgiven them for getting me.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Mmm. When I came along, it meant she wasn’t the baby any more.”

  “So doesn’t she get on with you either?”

  “Hell no, Anna adores me, she’s ten years older than I am, it was like having her own personal doll. No, it’s my mother Anna has the problem with. Anna didn’t mind getting me as a toy, she just also wanted to be the most special at the same time. Always has.”

  Saz shrugged, thinking that perhaps the ten-year-old Anna probably had a point. She then made a beeline for the as yet un-filed boxes. Not only was a conversation on best child-rearing practices not going to shed any new light on Chris’s parentage, but it also left her feeling woefully unprepared as a mother-to-be. She resolved to buy some parenting books as soon as possible. That or watch The Waltons more often. Chris left her alone in the attic while he returned to the hospital and Saz worked on through the long, hot afternoon.

  When Chris returned to pick her up several hours later, Saz had a selection of papers to go through with him. They went downstairs to the wide south-facing garden and over a couple of very strong gin and tonics, Saz explained her findings to Chris.

  “OK, there’s half a dozen letters from your father’s solicitor – Richard Leyton. Do you know him?”

  “Why?”

  Saz put the letter to one side, “I’m not sure. But you were born in ’63, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, March.”

  “Right, well it’s not as if there were loads of lawyer stuff but, given that I only found about twelve letters from Leyton in total, and of that lot four of them were dated early ’63, and they are the most circuitous, non-specific legal-speak letters I’ve ever come across—”

  “You think he might have helped arrange the adoption?”

  “Yeah, maybe. He was your father’s solicitor, no reason for him not to, I guess. And obviously, it’s not a lot to go on, but in two of these letters he makes references to ‘the acquisition’, and in one of the others he refers to ‘the arrangement’. Could be you, it’s not as if they were pretending you were theirs in the first place.”

  “Christ, it sounds like a bloody purchase.”

  “That’s just the terms they use. Of course, it could just be crap legal speak, but given they’ve got the right date, I think it’s worth looking into. Do you think I could get to speak to him?”

  Chris shook his head, “Dead and buried, I’m afraid. His daughter took over the practice a couple of years ago.”

  “OK. Well, maybe I’ll check her out. Leyton must have kept some record of what he did for your father and she can’t have been completely ignorant about his business if she knew enough to take it over. Maybe she’ll be able to tell us something.”

  “You’ll be pushing it to get any secrets.”

  “Yeah, but we’re a damn sight more likely to get something out of a younger woman than an old bloke.”

  “Fair enough. You’re welcome to try. I think I’ve got a number for her somewhere. So what else did you find?”

  “Not a whole lot really. Some letters from your dad to your mum, which certainly refer to the new baby – you, that is – but they don’t give anything away about the birth parents.”

  “They may not have known anything.”

  Saz nodded, started to speak, briefly thought better of it, and then opened her mouth anyway, “You could ask her, you know, Chris.”

  Chris looked away, “No, I couldn’t.”

  “Yes, but it would really help even if we only find out that your mother knows nothing. At least we’ll know where we’re starting from.”

  Chris kept his gaze firmly on the blackbird digging worms from the lawn, “No, Saz.”

  Saz waited a moment, realized she wasn’t going to get any further just yet and then carried on, �
�Whatever you want. There’s a letter to Leyton about changing your father’s will to accommodate you as well. And there’s this. Do you know who the people are?”

  Saz handed Chris an old black and white ten by eight.

  He looked at the photo and smiled, “This is my christening.”

  “Is that your mother holding you?”

  “Yeah. My dad behind her. These three on his left are the other kids. That’s Anna, glaring at my mum for hogging me. My father’s brother and his wife, my mother’s mother. Oh, and this must be a young Richard Leyton. Well, fairly young. I only ever met him a couple of times in my teens and he always seemed old as fuck, very serious. And that’s it. I’ve got no idea who these two are, or the other kid.”

  Chris was pointing at a couple on the far right of the group, a small boy of maybe three or four hanging on to the woman’s arm.

  “Not relatives?”

  “Not ones I recognize.”

  “Good. All we need to do is find out who they are then.”

  “Ah, Saz, I hate to say this. But I don’t think either of them are going to turn out to be birth mummy or daddy.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “They’re white, Saz.”

  “Yes, Chris, I noticed. And white people fuck black people and make black babies. Or brown babies. Not white babies anyway. It’s why the neo-Nazi fuckwits are not only complete morons, but they’re also shit out of luck. That’s just the way the world’s going anyway.”

  “Good point.”

  “But I wasn’t actually thinking either of them might be your parents. It would have taken a great deal of enlightenment to invite your birth parents to your christening and I doubt if even your mum and dad were that groovy. But as these people were there, and you can’t have been more than a couple of months old, maybe they know something. They certainly would have known you were adopted.”

  “So how do we find them?”

  “I don’t know. Tell your mum I was getting broody and wanted to see some old family photos.”