She said to Zed, “I’m off.”
He said, “Quarter of an hour and I’m ringing you on your mobile.”
She said, “You can do that, of course. But do consider you’re my ride back to Milnthorpe so I’m hardly likely to jeopardise that.”
Zed grumbled a bit. He said at the least he was getting out of the bloody car and having a stretch because two hours of waiting in, virtually, a doubled-up position had taken their toll. Deborah said this was fine with her, it was a good idea, she’d be in contact with him should he wander far while she was inside the soldiers’ home.
“Oh, don’t,” Zed said, “worry your head on that score. I’ll be close by.”
Deborah had little doubt about that. He’d lurk in the bushes if he could do so, one ear pressed to a convenient window. But she knew this was as close as she was going to get to a compromise with the man, so she said she’d be as quick as she could, and she crossed the street.
Inside the Kent-Howath Foundation for Disabled Veterans, she decided on a direct approach, having very little other choice in the matter as she didn’t possess police identification. She approached a reception desk and worked upon her most pleasant smile. She said to the receptionist— an antique soldier himself, by the look of him— that she’d just seen a woman come into the building: “rather tall, brown hair tied back, long skirt, boots…?” She was certain this woman was a schoolmate of her own elder sister, and she would very much like to have a moment to speak with her. She knew this was a silly request. After all, the woman might turn out to be a total stranger. On the other hand, if she was who Deborah thought she was …
“You mean Lucy, I expect,” the elderly man said. He was wearing a military uniform. It hung upon him like a bride to her husband on her wedding night. His neck rose from its collar, corrugated with flesh. “She’s our social lady. Games and exercises and groups and the like. Going to the pageant at Christmas. That sort of thing.”
“Lucy, yes. That was her name indeed,” Deborah said. “Is there any chance …” She cast a hopeful look at him.
“Always a chance for a pretty gel,” he said. “Where’d you get all that lovely hair, eh?”
“Grandmother on my father’s side,” Deborah told him.
“Lucky you. Always had an eye for the ginger, me.” He reached for a phone and punched in a number. He said, “Gorgeous woman out here asking for you, darling,” and then he listened for a moment and added, “No. Someone new this is. How’d you get so popular, eh?” He chuckled at something she apparently said, rang off, and told Deborah that she’d be right out.
Deborah said confidentially, “This is terrible of me, but I can’t exactly recall her surname.”
“Keverne,” he said. “Lucy Keverne. That’d be what she was then and what she is now as she’s not married. Doesn’t even have a boyfriend. I keep trying, but she says I’m too young for her, she does.”
Deborah pooh-poohed this idea as was expected of her and went to wait on a wooden bench across from the receptionist’s desk. She gave scattered thoughts to what on earth she was going to say to Lucy Keverne, but she had little time to consider her approach. It wasn’t a minute later that the woman she’d seen with Alatea Fairclough came out into reception. She looked, understandably, a little puzzled, as she no doubt would be. Deborah reckoned that entertaining sudden visitors at her place of employment wasn’t a regular feature of her job.
Up close to her, Deborah could see that she was younger than she’d previously thought when viewing her from a distance. Her hair had grey strands wound through it, but these were premature, for her face was of a woman in her twenties. She wore fashionable glasses that complemented her pleasant features.
She cocked her head at Deborah and said, “How may I help you?” as she extended her hand. “Lucy Keverne.”
“Is there a place we can talk?” Deborah asked. “It’s rather a private matter.”
Lucy Keverne frowned. “A private matter? If you’re here to discuss the placement of a relative, I’m not the person you should speak to.”
“No, it’s not that. This rather relates to Lancaster University,” Deborah said. It was a stab in the semi-darkness, the George Childress Centre into which she and Alatea had gone providing the only bit of light.
It turned out to be a good stab. “Who are you?” Lucy sounded a bit alarmed. “Who sent you?”
“Is there somewhere we can go?” Deborah said. “Have you an office?”
Lucy Keverne glanced at the receptionist as she considered the various options. She finally said to Deborah, “Come with me, then,” and she took her towards the rear of the building where a sunroom looked out into a garden, which was unexpectedly large. They didn’t take seats in the sunroom, however. It was already occupied. Several elderly gents were nodding over newspapers and two others were playing cribbage in a corner.
Lucy took her through the glass doors and out into the garden. She said, “Who gave you my name?”
“Is that important?” Deborah asked her. “I’m looking for some help. I thought you might be it.”
“You’re going to need to be more specific.”
“Of course,” Deborah said. “Reproduction would be what I’m talking about. I’ve been trying to conceive a baby for years now. It turns out I have a condition that prevents gestation.”
“I’m sorry. That must be very difficult for you. But why would you think I could help you?”
“Because you went into the George Childress Centre with another woman, and I was there. I followed you here once you left the campus, hoping to speak to you.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed as she evaluated this. She would have to consider the potential for danger. They were speaking in a form of code, all of which was perfectly legal at the moment. A few steps in the wrong direction, however, and they could be walking on the other side of the law of the land.
“There were two of us,” Lucy said, not unwisely. “Why follow me? Why not follow her?”
“I took a chance.”
“And? Did I look more fertile to you?”
“More at ease. Far less desperate. After a few years one gets to know the look. There’s a hunger. It transmits from one woman to another, like a form of biological code. I don’t know how else to explain it. If you haven’t experienced it, you wouldn’t recognise it. I have, so I do.”
“All right. I can see that’s possible, but I don’t know what you want from me.”
The truth was what she wanted. But Deborah wasn’t quite sure how to get at it. She opted again for a form of her own truth. “I’m looking for a surrogate,” she said. “I think you can help me find one.”
“What sort of surrogate?”
“Are there different sorts?”
Lucy considered Deborah. They’d been walking on one of the garden paths, heading towards a large urn that marked one end of the garden, but now Lucy faced Deborah and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. She said, “You’ve not done much homework in this area, have you?”
“Clearly not.”
“Well, I suggest you do so. There are egg donors, sperm donors, surrogacy involving the gestational mother’s egg and donor sperm, surrogacy involving gestational mother’s egg and the natural father’s sperm, surrogacy with the biological mother’s egg and donor sperm, surrogacy with the biological mother’s egg and the natural father’s sperm. If you’re going to go down this route in one form or another, you have to begin with an understanding of how it all works. And,” she added, “all of the legalities relating to it.”
Deborah nodded, hoping she looked thoughtful. “Are you… Do you… I mean, I’m not sure how to ask this, but which route do you generally take?”