Three Things You Need to Know About Rockets

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Three Things You Need to Know About Rockets Page 30

by Jessica Fox


  Chapter 48

  “…a tree began to grow, which got taller and taller till it reached the sky. It was a useful tree under which boys would drive their cattle in the heat of the day. One day two boys climbed up into the tree, calling to their companions that they were going to the world above. They never returned. The tree has since been called the story tree.” – TRADITIONAL AFRICAN FOLKTALE.

  Euan and I sat, hand in hand, in the office of our local representative. No one seemed to be able to help us, not family, not friends, not politicians. Three days were passing quickly and I was getting tired of offices.

  I had emerged from the immigration room at the airport to find Euan waiting at Arrivals. When he saw me he stood up and wrapped his arms around me. Shaking, I told him what had happened. Rage flashed across his usually serene, laid-back expression. They had interviewed him too but he hadn’t expected it to be this serious.

  “They’re not going to deport you,” he kept repeating. Following Euan’s emotions were like watching a tennis match, bouncing between anger and his desire to comfort me. “Those shits are not going to deport you. You’ll be fine, Jessy, I promise.”

  “I don’t think that’s something that you can promise at this point,” I said sullenly. “You did say I’d get deported in this dress.” My attempt to lighten the mood wasn’t working.

  “Fuck, we’ve been here an age.” Euan checked his watch. “I can’t believe they kept you in there for three hours.”

  “Three hours?” I had lost all sense of time.

  “I’m going to make them pay for our parking.”

  “No, please.” I squeezed his hand. I couldn’t take any more conflict. “I just want to go home.”

  Wigtown had never looked so welcoming than when Euan’s van pulled up in front of the Bookshop. I stepped out of the van to breathe in the familiar, cold, sweet air and looked at the central square with a deep sense of longing, knowing I would have to leave it soon. The romantic in me had tried to liken my situation to that of a heroine in a modern-day fairy tale – instead of the red van turning back into a pumpkin at midnight, in three days I would be deported from the ball.

  When I walked up the beautiful staircase and into the kitchen, I was surprised to find it full of flowers. Soon people started turning up with cakes and condolences. As always, news travelled fast in Wigtown. When I was interned at the airport, Euan had called the Bookshop to let Hannah know we were going to be late. Hannah in turn had gone to the post office and told them the news, and they in turn had told everyone else.

  Over the three days, all my Wigtown friends, and even some people I hadn’t met, came over with flowers, cakes and sympathy. The kettle was constantly on and the kitchen continuously filled. I couldn’t think of another time where I had felt so supported, but no matter how much the town wanted to help, the reality was that no one could erase the black stamp from my passport and no one could slow down time, let alone stop it altogether.

  It was my last day and we had driven all the way out to Dumfries to meet with yet another representative, only to be told that there was nothing he could do. As we walked out of his office, I fought back tears, feeling utterly defeated.

  “Aren’t we supposed to have a special relationship with Britain?” I said through gritted teeth. I was so angry. I was angry that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was angry that I had held a nonsense belief that being an American made travelling easier. I was angry that Euan couldn’t protect me. I was angry that this wasn’t logical – all I wanted to do was stay in Wigtown, build a life there and give something back to the place that I loved so much. Why was that not okay?

  “Don’t worry, Jessy, we’ll get you back.” Euan led me down the cobblestone alleys towards the van. I looked up to see tears streaming down his cheeks. I suddenly stopped walking. Seeing me in such distress and unable to do anything was killing him and his usual stolid self was overwhelmed.

  “Please don’t worry.” I had been selfish, drowning in my own misery and unaware how it was affecting him. I didn’t want to make him suffer. I felt myself squeezing his hand while wiping away my own tears. “You’re right,” I said, struggling to smile. “I will be back.”

  *

  The following day I walked through the sliding glass doors of Glasgow Airport dressed like a movie star. It had been Deirdre’s idea. “If they’re going to give you an armed escort,” she had said, her eyes twinkling in their usual playful way, “make the most of it, glamour girl.”

  I did. Dressed in black boots, tight jeans and a long white shirt loaded down with jewellery, I hid my eyes behind bug-sized black sunglasses. Euan held my hand and I could feel eyes on me as I headed to the airport check-in desk. I just smiled and remained calm for Euan’s sake. I would try to make this as easy and pleasant for him as possible.

  “Name and passport, please.” The young man on the desk hardly looked at me as he held out his hand.

  I shifted uncomfortably. “I think the immigration offices are holding it,” I said and watched as he glanced at me with a curious expression. He quickly disappeared and I turned to Euan, who wrapped me in a hug.

  There was a great cloud of confusion behind the ticket desk. The young man was able to find my passport, but not my reservation. Some immigration officers came out and added to the commotion. They had a warrant for my arrest, a notice to leave the country, my passport… but no return flight. The immigration officer who had initially interrogated me had failed to book one.

  The desk man smiled. “You’ll need to go and buy a ticket with the airline that you arrived on.”

  I dropped my bags. “No, thanks.”

  “I’m sorry about the confusion.” Another immigration officer appeared next to me. “But it’s required that you have a ticket to leave this country today.”

  “If you wanted me to buy my own ticket, then you could have told me three days ago when I would have been able to find something I could afford.” I crossed my arms. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Euan shift nervously. “I’m not going to pay to be deported. I’d rather you arrest me. I’ve had enough.”

  The immigration officer looked flabbergasted. I sat on top of my suitcase to make my point. “I’m not paying. I don’t have the money, anyway, since I can’t work in this country.”

  “But we need to get you out of the country today, or we’ll have to issue the warrant for your arrest.” The immigration officer looked from me to Euan and back again at me. It was as if I were short-circuiting his brain.

  “Fine then. At least if you arrest me, I could stay.”

  I glanced at Euan, expecting to see an expression of torment on his face. He was smiling.

  The manager of the airport appeared, explaining that the airline I had arrived on was required by law to also take me out of the country in a case of refusal of entry. However, they were required only to get me out of the country, not back to my home. The airline would only pay to take me half the way, to Iceland.

  I didn’t budge. “That’s okay,” I said indignantly. “I’ll have to live at Reykjavik Airport. It’s nice there. I have a camera on my computer. I’ll blog about what it’s like living at Terminal 3 because I literally don’t have the money to get myself home.” An immigration officer walked up to me, scowling. “Look, if you wanted me to return to Boston, I had already bought a ticket for two months’ time. But that wasn’t good enough for you. If you want me to go now, you have to pay for it.”

  Finally it was agreed that I would be able to go all the way back to Boston. There would be no armed escort, just an apologetic-looking young immigration officer who took my bags.

  “I’m sorry this is happening,” she whispered to me. “I would have let you in. It just depends on who you get behind that immigration desk.” I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse. She started to lead me down a long hall, but stopped, looking at Euan. “He’ll have to say goodbye here, I’m afraid.”

  I turned to Euan, unsure of what to say. I felt as
if I were dreaming – that I would wake up to see I was still in the air, flying over the Atlantic, into Glasgow. “I’ll see you again, very soon.”

  “I know, Fox. I’ll try to come back out in a week or two.” He kissed me and I walked away, wheeling my luggage behind me. I didn’t want to look back. Like Orpheus, I imagined that if I did, I would never see him again. As I turned the corner, despite my superstition, I glanced behind me and I was glad I did. Euan was standing there, tall, mouthing “I love you”.

  Chapter 49

  “Probability, noun; the extent to which something is likely to happen or be the case…” OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY: Across from staircase, top shelf, next to the green side door.

  Picture this. A group of strangers, plucked from the routine of their daily existence, are dropped in a large, Tardis-like room, windowless and filled with plastic seats that are perfectly set in long rows. Everyone wears the same bewildered expression, unsure of what to do or where to go until the lights dim and a TV slides into the room, resting on a trolley with squeaky wheels. Everyone sits, and all attention turns to the glowing screen. The scene could easily have been mistaken for an episode of Doctor Who. In truth, I had just arrived for jury duty, in a court near Boston.

  The film that flickered on the small screen offered instruction in courtroom etiquette and the actor, playing the male courtroom officer, was for some reason wearing heavy lipstick, a wig and blusher – he was either a prime example of an incompetent make-up job or a thinly disguised transvestite. I was relieved to notice that I was not the only one who found the video funny. A young college student to my right was chuckling silently into her jacket.

  The smile on my face felt strained and I realised the muscles hadn’t been used in a while. I had been home a month when the notice for jury duty came. The month had been filled with constant trips to a visa “expeditor”, who had promised to get anyone a UK visa in three days guaranteed. I’d quickly discovered, however, that visa expediting was a questionable business and the guarantee was not for obtaining it in three days, but for the service of submitting the papers on your behalf in that time. Two failed visas later the company was still “expediting” my applications.

  My first application, for a simple visitor’s six-month visa, had failed, despite the Glasgow immigration officer’s assurance that it wouldn’t. I was disappointed, but not surprised. They claimed I had been in the country too often to be considered a visitor.

  My second application, for an extended-stay visitor’s visa, also failed because of the evil-looking black stamp that the immigration officer had placed in my passport. Apparently it was worse than the mark of Cain, like the black sheep of passport stamps. No one would let me into their country now without a hassle, even countries outside the UK. This stamp, I found out, would last as long as my passport – another seven years. I could drop it, damage it, lose it, but the stamp would still be there; it bled beyond the passport, into the ink of their computer system. They had my fingerprints, my picture. I had a file. I was on their radar.

  When I got the second rejection I had sat in the office of the visa expeditors, my head buried in my hands. My choices now were more complicated. Every time I applied for a new visa, it cost me a small fortune in fees that I did not get back even if my application was rejected. The nest egg that I had built up so carefully in Los Angeles was disappearing at a worrying rate.

  “So what’s next?” I had asked, hugging the folder of rejected applications to my chest.

  The woman behind the desk sighed. “I’m not sure. You could apply for a partnership visa, but you’re months behind the requirement. I’m not sure you’ll get it.”

  “Anything else?” I had become an expert in visa applications because each time you applied, every inch of the submission had to be redone. I knew where to go to get my passport copied, my bank statements certified, my birth certificate duplicated, the cheapest, most secure postage and my biometrics taken. The second time I had gone to get my eyes scanned, I found myself surrounded by refugees from the earthquake in Haiti. They had been homeless and seeking shelter. As I waited for my number to be called, it had put things in humbling perspective.

  “There’s nothing else that you’ll qualify for,” the woman’s voice trailed off, “unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “You want to get married.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, focusing on the lint caught in the carpet fibres on the floor.

  *

  In the jury waiting room someone switched off the video and flicked the fluorescent lights back on. The sea of fellow duty servers blinked and shifted in their seats. An elderly judge in robes appeared from a side door and everyone stood. I quickly followed suit. I had been doing so much sitting down that my legs craved activity.

  I had sat in lobbies, in government buildings and in the waiting rooms of the UK embassy. I had become used to waiting. When I had made my first visit to the British embassy in Boston, I had decided there and then to come back day after day until someone agreed to see me. That had turned out not to be necessary. A tall, beautiful blonde woman had greeted me warmly, looking inquisitively as I explained I had no appointment and wasn’t there to see anyone in particular.

  “I just need to speak to someone, anyone who will listen,” I said, trying to sound less desperate than I felt. Desperation was not something that elicited sympathy; rather the opposite. I had observed during my interactions with various organisations that my despair, its sense of urgency and intensity, pushed people away. So now, I tried to sound stoic, confident.

  The woman had smiled warmly. “Can you tell me what it’s pertaining to?” Her posh British accent soothed my homesickness for Euan and Wigtown.

  I quickly related to her the story of how I had met Euan, our relationship and the trouble we now found ourselves in.

  “Well now. I’m glad you’ve come. Please, follow me.”

  I stood in the hallway, filled with glass furniture and fake plants, dumbstruck. Did she really just invite me to follow her? Or was it the optimistic babblefish in my head translating the usual “I can’t help you” response into something more pleasing? I had been pushed to the edge of reason, I thought, and become completely deluded.

  “Oh, perhaps would you rather come back another time?” The woman had turned and noticed I hadn’t moved. “Do you have something you need to get to?”

  “No, no,” I said, my feet quickly moving to follow her. “Now is perfect.”

  She ushered me down a corridor into a nondescript meeting room and indicated a seat across the table from her. She was long-legged, smooth-skinned, and had a mature attitude that suggested she was in her late thirties, perhaps early forties. Her blonde hair was pinned back in a neat, elegant French braid.

  “I just want to say I’m so sorry you’ve had this kind of trouble,” she began, leaning forward and clasping her hands together on the table. “I’m not sure how much I can do, but I will try to help.”

  I felt my shoulders, which must have been pinned up somewhere near my ears, slide down my back, finally relaxing. “I don’t know how I can thank you. Even if you decide there is nothing you can do, it means so much to me to find someone who will listen.”

  “I was actually in your position once. When my husband and I wanted to come to America. He had studied here…” She waved her hand in the air, suggesting that this was long in the past. “I couldn’t get in and because his diploma was from America, he couldn’t get a job in Britain. We were stuck between countries. It was horrible.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Got married.”

  I turned red and shook my head. “It’s not fair, is it?”

  “No,” she said, taking a pen from the table. “You said you owned a film company?”

  I nodded.

  “We could try to get you a small business visa, if you felt like expanding the company to the UK.”

  “Yes!” I nearly jumped out of my chair. This could be the p
erfect solution.

  Two weeks later, despite great efforts on the part of the woman from the embassy, we ran into a snag. I was a sole trader, and by expanding to the UK, it would not be expanding the company, but moving the company. This was a big difference. I was required to raise £200,000 of seed capital to qualify as a small business. When I argued that the sum was perhaps appropriate for London, but outrageous for anyone starting a business in the Scottish outback, the woman sadly agreed with me. But rules were rules. There was nothing else she could do.

  In the end, Euan and I had decided to try and go for the partner visa, an option that allowed people who had been living together for two years to be granted a work visa without getting married. Although we were far shy of the requirement, we now at least had a recommendation from the woman at the UK embassy. It was the last option available to us.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, rousing me from my thoughts. I was waiting for important news, news that was supposed to come that day. My stomach churned nervously.

  “And thank you for coming today and serving jury duty, one of the most democratic of American institutions,” the judge concluded.

  With a billow of black robes, and her short speech done, the judge left as quickly as she had come, through a side door. A courtroom officer, unlike the made up one in the video, stood with a grizzly stare, asking us to look at our numbers. I felt as if I was in a deli, being called to make an order at the front counter. This was the opposite of a lottery. If our number wasn’t called, we would get to go home. If it was, I could potentially be stuck in a court case that would last days, weeks or maybe even months.

  I desperately wanted to reach for my phone, to listen to my message. My hand fumbled around my pocket until I found it. I glanced down. The number that had called was unlisted. My stomach churned again.

  “102, 687, 202, 206, 29, 8, 36…” the officer intoned grimly.

 

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