Motherlove by Thorne Moore Page B

They were, to her, rather sad. Studying the well-stocked contents of the shops, reading the police notices seeking witnesses to a murder outside the Crown and Anchor, and chatting with the sellers of The Big Issue , she thought that, all things considered, fate had dealt kindly with her by taking her from here.
    She asked in one shop for directions to the hospital and was sent to WHSmith’s for a street map, but as that seemed a waste of money she returned to the car park where she had left the Corsa and tried the Sat Nav. So easy. Just follow the fly-over, then take the Stapledon link road past the football ground.
    Lyford and Stapledon General Hospital. 1960s panelling in an ocean of tarmac. Busy, busy, busy. The sort of place where everyone was so rushed, the workload so heavy that surely mistakes could happen. Labels could accidentally be switched.
    Kelly walked in through the glass sliding doors into the foyer milling with elderly hobblers, pregnant women looking hopefully for vacant seats, wan-faced children kicking concrete pillars, legs in plaster protruding from wheelchairs like battering rams, reluctant visitors buying flowers and magazines.
    A man and two women staffed the reception desk, directing, snapping, pointing, furiously entering data into keyboards like a champion team at an advanced level of Space Invaders. Kelly mingled with others waiting for attention – there was no queue, just a mêlée of anxiety and irritation. She let others squeeze in before her. She had no urgent illness. Finally, she was face-to-face with one of the women at the desk, with sharp, pinched lips, determined not to give an inch to the barbarians. Her badge said Julie. She didn’t look like a Julie. A Cynthia or a Selina maybe. Something serpentine.
    â€˜Any chance you can help me? I was born here, in 1990, and I want to speak to someone about it. Do you keep the records? Is there someone I can talk to?’
    Julie stared at her as if she could see the bulge of a suicide belt under Kelly’s jacket. ‘What do you mean, records? You want your birth certificate?’
    â€˜No, I’ve got that.’ Whatever paperwork Roz had started with had long ago been lost, but there had been some reason, later, why she had had to apply for a copy. After leaving Luke; one of Roz’s first steps alone into the world of adult responsibility. Kelly could still remember her mother opening the envelope, expecting some sort of official reprimand, and then laughing with relief as the certificate emerged. Date, name, mother’s name. No father’s name, but that had never been an issue. Place: Lyford and Stapledon Hospital.
    â€˜There were problems when I was born,’ she continued, watching Julie’s eyes skirt past her towards the crowd behind.
    â€˜I don’t understand. What do you mean by problems?’
    â€˜Stuff, you know. Do you keep records that far back? I just want to ask someone what happened exactly.’
    A slight ripple of relief. This was outside reception business; a problem Julie could legitimately pass on to someone else. She spun round in her swivel chair and picked up a phone. ‘I have someone here wanting to speak…’ Her voice sank to a discreet whisper, drowned out by the crowds. Kelly could hear, ‘Birth… problems… issues.’
    Julie swivelled round again, picked up a pen and wrote quickly on a pad. ‘Down the corridor, take the lifts to the second floor, first left and ask at the desk for Mr. Manderville. Thank you.’ She brushed Kelly aside.
    Kelly looked at the paper in her hand. Manderville. Right. That was a start.
    Mr Manderville was an administrator. Jowly and unsmiling. He wore a suit, an aura of impatience, and an expression of extreme wariness. ‘Miss Sheldon, is it? Yes. You have a query, I gather, about old records? I’m not sure that we can be of any help to you. Records are, of course highly confidential, although if