There were two months to go; time to renew the passport. That’s what he told people, but it wasn’t quite the case. The passport life expectancy ran to November or December 2007, and it was now February. What the passport had run out of was not time, but space. This was because of the innumerable stamps from the Immigration Department. These were needed in order to escape the bother of getting out of the country every two or three months, in order to get a new stamp for a further two or three new months, and then the same rigmarole was gone through again. This might sound boring, but the reality of the situation was that the long-term stamps from the local Immigration Office were much bigger than the stamps handed out to anyone at the airport. In fact, he had calculated, in a moment of bored excitement, you could put eight airport immigration stamps on one of the local immigration stamps. That might be why you paid a couple of hundred for a big one, but the airport ones were free. But that was necessary if one wished to steer clear of unwanted travel and expense. It also meant one’s passport filled up rather more rapidly than most. It was time to call the consulate, except here it was a High Commission, a strange legacy of colonialism and now the Commonwealth. As one former premier of a Commonwealth nation had put it rather well, most members of the Commonwealth have little in common, and the majority have little or no wealth.
He spent some time looking at the website. It listed their work: art exhibitions, marriage registration, visas for higher education at some of the less well-known universities, appointing an Honorary Consul in some obscure place unknown to the British taxpayer; unknown to most of Parliament, too; arranging meetings between local government employees in the two countries. This latter activity he had always found perplexing. He wondered about the benefits, if any, of this type of meeting. They were in the same class as Town Twinning. How many of the local council in Brent knew anything about Rawang, or anyone in the place, and the opposite. It seemed a waste of money, not to mention time; a futile kind of activity. You ask anyone in Brecon where Saline is, and they can tell you it’s in the USA. But that’s because it says so on the sign. You ask them where and guess the response.
He found the number, jotted it down, and rang the High Commission. An Indian answered. At least, she sounded Indian. No reason why not an Indian couldn’t work there; it was a bit silly to even think of it, in fact. But he enjoyed thinking about things, even things that other people might think uninteresting or time wasting. Why mention that she was an Indian? He wasn’t even sure. She sounded like one, yes, but maybe she was another local who had lots of Indian pals, and had subconsciously adopted the accent. There were Indians working for BBC World. But they had quite British accents. But again, what was a British accent? They had neutral British accents. In fact, they spoke more clearly than some of the ones with a ‘British’ accent.
‘I would like to renew my passport; please would you send me the necessary forms.’
‘Sure. May I have your name and address, please?’
He gave them.
‘Right, we’ll get those off to you now.’
‘Oh, one other thing, could you send a couple of extra forms in case I make a mess of one of them?’
‘No problem.’
‘That’s good. Many thanks.’ He hung up.
A few days later, the forms, with attendant explanatory notes, came. The postman’s ageing motorcycle announced the incoming mail. He glanced through the papers, then took a pen and began to fill out the application form. He was surprised how quick it was. Being born in the UK meant that, among other things, most of the form didn’t apply, like mother’s maiden name, father’s birthplace, naturalization number and date, other nationality, etc.
He finished in no time at all. Pleased with himself, he leaned back and stretched. He began to think.
‘Why am I pleased with myself? I have only filled in a form. I haven’t really done anything to feel pleased about. But…I don’t care. I’m pleased about it. Who cares?’
‘Idiot,’ he said to himself, ‘you’re not right in the head. Too long in the tropics, old chap.’
He thought about the photographs; there had to be two, one countersigned by a British national - fat chance of finding one here. The nearest was some 30 kilometres down the road. That was no help anyway, as he didn’t know them, and that was a fundamental requirement. The signer must know you for at least two years. That was a problem. Ah, he read the guidance note re the photographs again. A citizen of a Commonwealth country would be acceptable. Goodness, he thought, they’re letting the natives vouch for you. That wouldn’t have happened in the old days. If the chaps in Whitehall or wherever, knew you were letting 'one of them’ sign your
photographs, even if ‘one of them’ were an engineer, or teacher, or doctor, well, they’d probably throw you out of the club.
‘That wouldn’t bother me,’ he thought, ‘I don’t belong to a club.’
Ah, the doctor, he would ask the doctor. He got on well with the doctor, not that he saw him all that often. He thought the doctor had a good sense of humour. A year of so ago, he had gone to the clinic with something like a cross between a boil and a blister on the back of the heel. It hurt a bit when walking with shoes. He told this to the doctor.
‘It hurts when I walk into town to do the shopping.’
The doctor looked at him for a second or two.
‘Take the bus.’
'Yes, I’ll ask the doctor to sign the photographs.'
The next day he went with his wife to the film studio, called Hollywood. The name didn’t match its appearance. The whole building, in a row of wooden Chinese shop-houses, looked as if a gale might knock it down. In fact, the whole row appeared to be in the same condition. He went in, adjusting his tie in the heat, and checking his hair in the glass of the window. Boy, it was hot; it always was, just after the monsoon.
The proprietor was there with his wife. They greeted him. He had known them for a number of years; had used them on many an occasion. They were a nice oldish couple, always appearing to be quite happy. They were, he thought, the kind of people who are content with what they have, even though it might not be much, and the ramshackle wooden shop-house fitted the bill to a tee, it seemed to him. If you leaned too hard against the walls, you might imagine the whole place collapsing. But the added a certain ‘ethnic colour and charm’ to the town, and whilst the buildings could do with several sessions of rubbing down and repainting, they did make a nice change from the boring and monotonous new buildings that seemed to spring up everywhere. These, when painted in some garish bright pink or orange or even worse, pale purple, looked horrendous.
They were like sickness in concrete.
‘Passport photo,’ he said to the man, holding the tie as if in explanation.
‘You want passport photo?’ said the man.
He thought about a reply, but just nodded. ‘I can’t be bothered to think up a suitable answer,’ he thought.
He was used to being asked what he considered inane questions: ‘Can you eat rice? Can eat rice with your fingers? European can eat with finger?’ A favourite comment, rather than a question, was the weather. A sigh, or a ‘phew’, then ‘Hot,’ followed by a nodding in self-agreement and another sigh. This was of particular inanity, he thought. Four degrees north of the equator, and they made comments like this. If it’s too hot, migrate; but that was a non-starter. What country would take people with this intelligence?
Britain would, in all probability. You could imagine the Immigration Official at Heathrow.
‘Why do you want to come to Britain?’
‘I like to make stupid questions and comments.’
‘Oh, that’s interesting. Er, what type of question?’
‘I ask people if they eat with their fingers, or tell them it’s hot on the equator, ha, ha, ha.’
‘Oh, ha, ha, ha, that is wonderful. You could get work as a cultural affairs inspector with any number of borough councils, they like people like you.’
He went into the studio proper. The photographer followed, adjusted the camera on its rail, then looked up.
‘Passport, yes?’
He waited, patience beginning to disappear. He nodded to the man. The photographer bent forward again, adjusted the camera again.
‘Okay?’
‘Yup’.
The photographer leaned forward again, then straightened up, walked a couple of metres to the umbrella lamps, and switched them on. He went back to the camera, and peered in. Then he got up again and turned the umbrella part of the lamp this way and that. At last, he went back to the camera.
‘One, two, three.’
The temperature in the meantime has shot up a numbers of degrees. That, together with the absence of any fan, was making him feel less than charitable towards Mr Hollywood. He forced a grimace. It seemed enough, because the camera clicked, and that was that.
‘One again.’
Oh, goodness, he thought. He resumed the artificial expression, gritting his teeth, and thought for a moment of kung-fu brutality.
‘Okay.’
‘Thank you.’
‘When you want?
‘Tomorrow okay?’
‘Okay. Tomorrow. You want this afternoon?’
‘Okay, this afternoon.’
‘You come back this afternoon?’
‘Maybe, or maybe my wife will come.’
‘Or you want one hour? You come in one hour.’
‘No, my wife, maybe, afternoon, tomorrow.’
He went out of the shop quickly, nodding at the woman, only to find his wife had disappeared. He saw the car. It was parked at a ninety-degree angle to the road, in a lane; that would be alright if the main body of the car was in the lane itself. It wasn’t. Fifty percent of the vehicle was sticking its rear into the road, already artificially narrowed by reason of chaos and parking playing with each other. The door was locked. He stood briefly in the sun, and then found his wife, not by looking for her like most men, but by listening. Ah, there she was. A moment later, she appeared from a hardware shop. He sighed, and took off the tie. She got out the car keys, and got into the car. She leaned across and unlocked the door. He opened it, and got in.
‘Miss Hiew.’
Just that. Apropos of nothing. Just Miss Hiew.
‘Miss Hiew,’ he repeated, unaware of what the woman was talking about.
‘Miss Hiew.’ She started the engine.
‘Yes, I know Miss Hiew.’
She was a student of his, a pretty girl.
‘Miss Hiew shop.’
He cottoned on. She had just come from the shop of Miss Hiew. He asked her. Yes, that was right.
‘It’s not her shop. She doesn’t have a shop. She is fourteen years old, and is in school most of the time. It’s her father’s shop.’
That was what she had meant. She began to reverse the car, Italian style, without checking the back.
‘Wait.’
He turned around to see a Malay man in a car. He had an anxious expression.
‘Go.’
She went back slowly.
‘Watch it.’
Another Malay, this one on a bicycle, wobbled by to the right. At last, they were out. In front, there was a long lorry that had stopped parallel to the line of parked cars. On the other side of the road, there was another line of cars, meaning the width now was just a matter of a few metres. An oncoming jeep had just negotiated its way through the gap. It was their turn. She edged forward, peering in anxious way. Hardly surprising, he thought, bearing in mind the affair of minute or two ago. She went on.
He looked over his shoulder at the lorry, now a mere few centimetres away from the car. She urged the car along, and then stopped by the cab, and leaned across, lowering the window with the electric switch.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I want to fire the man.’
He pressed the switch quickly. The window went back up.
‘You’re not firing anyone. Go.’
There was some muttering. They went past the Bomba place, the mini-stadium, and towards the other end of the town. For a working day, there seemed to be an awful lot of people in cars, on bikes, and just lounging around, or window-shopping. Well, it would be window-shopping if the shops had any windows. Nearly all were open-front shop-houses, except Pizza Hut (‘Teacher, I like Pisa.’) and KFC. That was another one that brought back memories of dubious interest. About ten years ago, he was working as a teacher in another town, or near the town, to be precise. One day, the Head of English had come into their branch of the teachers’ room in excitement. Oh, had we heard, to sounds of glee, had we heard the news? What? KFC were opening an outlet in the town. He, in dampening misery, had asked why this was so important. A strict expression came over her. Wasn’t he aware that this was the only state capital with no KFC? No, he wasn’t. The glee returned. They could go into town for KFC in KFC.
He came back to reality.
‘Pull over here.’
‘You want to see the doctor?’
As they had stopped by the clinic, that was good, logical thinking. He got out and went into the reception. It was about 11 now, and getting pretty hot. The purple-clad nymphs looked up. He had always thought it a strange colour for workers in a clinic. Most places they wore white, or blue, or green. Pale purple was unusual, not that they looked bad in it, far from it; they - the three of them - were clean and smart. Maybe Doctor just liked that colour; maybe it was on cheap offer in a sale somewhere.
‘Doctor?’
‘Rehat. Minum.’
Oh, that was a nuisance, he thought. A break here could be anything up to an hour.
‘Bila dia balik?’
‘Lima minit.’
In his experience, ‘lima minit’ meant just about anything.
‘Doctor minum sana.’
She indicated with her arm just up the road. Ah, the doctor was taking an open-air break.
‘Terima kasih, Cik.’
He turned to go out, noticing the line of white teeth in the dusky office. There was a giggle. He found the doctor just finishing his tea. He explained the reason for the visit, and said he could he drop the photographs off later. There was no problem; the doctor was happy to oblige.
He went back to the car, and got in. His wife in the meantime had not wasted a minute in going to another photo studio to chat with the woman. She raised her hand in a casual wave. He returned the exchange. They went back home. He got out, thanked her, and went in the house. The car went away. She was off on her rounds, wherever they might be. She worked for herself, meaning she had a working lifestyle the envy of those who worked regular hours in the bank, or office, or factory. She worked in sales, trying to sell anything marketable. She had the gift of the gab, and that helped too. What she needed was a car, a phone and fax, and many contacts. There were days went she did business around the town, others when she might go and hour or two away. That would be around 100 kilometres, meaning she would get back almost mid-evening. A couple of times a year, she went off on a course organised by one of the companies with which she did business; she would be off for a long weekend or sometimes a full week, maybe to the capital, or on a number of occasions, to a neighbouring country. These meant she had a five star hotel, all expenses paid, good food, and learned something new from the course. Then, she would come back exhausted, and spend the next day resting, meaning that any potential extra earnings didn’t materialise. There was also, of course, the loss of income when she was away. He came back to the present. The photographs were being done, the countersigning arranged, the form completed. Right, now all we do it wait. He felt the sun, the heat. He began to doze off in the warm air.
He waited and waited. He began to laugh.
‘Where are the photographs? Where are they?’
He lay down on the blanket, and closed his eyes. A warm, running dream came. There was knock on the door. He opened it. In walked a photograph, then another, and another. There were about twenty of them. They began to laugh. Tears ran down, tears of happiness.
‘We’re here, we’re here,’ they sang.
He looked into their eyes, and began to laugh himself.
‘I knew you’d make it. I knew it.’
The door closed behind him, and the doctor turned the key. He was a Sikh, a quiet man, his height seeming even bigger with his turban. He looked at the man and woman in the corridor.
‘He’s sleeping now. He’s peaceful, too. Unlike many here, he doesn’t get agitated. He keeps to himself, and spends the time reading and writing. That’s until the relapse begins again.’
‘Thank you, Dr Singh,’ said the man. ‘We really appreciate you taking care of him.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ said the woman. ‘He will have to remain in here for the foreseeable future, is that correct?’
The doctor nodded.
‘I think so. There is a chance he might get better, but I have yet to see a case. The good thing is that, for the most part, he’s quiet, as I said. That makes a difference, not just to him of course, but I think to the family. You contrast his situation with some of the others here.’
The woman nodded, and bit her lip. The man cleared his throat. He seemed on the brink of crying.
‘Yes, at least he seems quite content. It’s just upsetting he can’t recognise us.’
‘Yes, that’s the hardest part,’ said the woman.
The three of them turned to go. The doctor gently took her arm.
‘I know, but there is the chance that one day he might…’
He broke off for a moment.
‘We must be off,’ said the man. ‘Thank you once again, doctor.’
They shook hands.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said the woman.
The doctor nodded, and went off up the corridor, the file under his arm. The couple looked through the window of the room for a last time.
‘Take care,’ the man whispered. ‘We’ll be back sometime.’
‘Yes,’ said the woman, her eyes wet.
The man in the room slept on, unaware. The photographs had gone to sleep next to him. He breathed out, and groaned a little. His arm fell over the edge of the bed, and something fell out of his hand. It was the passport.
They turned and walked up the corridor, and out into the brisk autumn air. The man wrapped his overcoat around him, and the woman pulled the scarf around her neck. She began to tremble.
‘Bloody cold for this early in October, isn’t it?’
Her brother nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is.’
They walked over to their cars. The man looked at his sister.
‘I’ll give you a ring in a couple of days.’
‘Right, take care,’ she answered.
The roar of an aircraft taking off split the quiet. The landscape after the harvest was brown and bare and the sun was shining in a clear sky. At any other time, one might have thought it pretty. They exchanged a brief kiss in the cold, late morning air.
