Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  Thank you for calling the Identity and Passport Service …

  He groaned at the recorded voice. Flesh-and-blood people answering any call these days were as rare as unicorns.

  If your inquiry relates to the cost of a passport, please call our fees-information line …

  The question of a fee hadn’t even crossed his mind, although, in fact, the costs of this whole trip were increasing by the minute – not just the basic fare, but fuel surcharges and airport taxes, transport to and from both airports, travel insurance (exorbitant) and at least twenty grand for all the anti-fear courses obviously required before boarding any flight.

  If you wish to book an appointment for our one-week fast-track or one-day premium service, please press 2 …

  One week? One day? Part of him still desperately hoped that it was too late to get a passport – the perfect excuse not to have to make the trip. But that was shamefully selfish. He should be glad, for Erica’s sake, that the service was so quick.

  Palms sweaty, he pressed 2.

  Due to the high volume of calls, all our operators are busy. Please wait and we will answer your call as soon as possible …

  Mobile in hand, he paced around the flat, listening to the same frustrating message repeated over and over.

  Due to the high volume of calls …

  The whole world must be wanting passports, which only proved their folly. Each time he scanned the travel pages, he was astonished by the lunatics willing to sit coffined in a plane for up to thirty hours, and all for the dubious pleasure of seeing Ayers Rock or Alice Springs or whatever. Virtual travel was so much easier, not to mention safer. He could take a tour of Alice Springs without getting up from his chair, and the only thing that might crash would be his computer.

  Thank you for your patience. Please continue to hold …

  Patience? He was getting so worked up, he would start shrieking abuse at the disembodied voice, if he held on any longer.

  He grabbed his coat, his keys, his wallet, and braved the snow once more. Far better to go to the Passport Office, in person, and speak to someone real. Since it was only at Victoria, he could walk there in under thirty minutes. The roads were still too icy for cycling, and the tube was out of the question in his present frenzied state. Even the slightest risk of a breakdown or emergency might tip him over the edge.

  At least it was now light, and no new snow had fallen. Indeed, the day was reasonably bright, a fitful sun shining on the slush. Two other major blessings were that his bowels had settled down, at last, and Trevor had taken his ‘sick-call’ with no trace of either suspicion or annoyance. ‘Mm, that sounds really nasty, Eric, so don’t rush back to work until you’re feeling a hundred per cent.’

  A hundred per cent? Was he kidding?

  As he picked his way along Kennington Road, his mind kept switching between Erica and Mandy, torn between their opposing needs. All the treats he’d planned for Erica had now shrivelled into dust, of course: the theatre tickets, booked last week; the birthday party with her former friends; the boat trip down the Thames …

  He felt a deep affection for the Thames – below him now, as he made his way across Vauxhall Bridge. He could ask for nothing better than never having to move too far from London. Seattle would be alien – a soulless city full of skyscrapers, with no history or tradition. Just the thought of being somewhere strange filled him with foreboding; a legacy of the constant different placements in his childhood. Having never had a settled home, never known when he’d be moved again to some strange and scary place, with yet another set of strangers, he’d been left with a profound desire to stay put and put down roots.

  As he trudged along Vauxhall Bridge Road, he tried to think more positively. He wasn’t actually being torn up from his home-ground and transplanted to foreign soil – or at least only for three weeks. It was just a one-off visit and, before the end of April, he’d be back again, secure and safe.

  Don’t kid yourself, he thought, you’ve never felt secure and safe.

  He switched his mind deliberately to the problem of the kitten, simply as a distraction technique. He’d promised Mandy to look after it at his place until it was properly house-trained, but apparently it couldn’t leave its mother yet, so he’d be departing for Seattle just a fortnight after it arrived. Could you train a cat in a fortnight? Kittens, he reflected, were luckier than foundlings, in that they spent longer with their mothers; were fed with mother’s milk and cuddled up with them at night.

  Sighing, he cut through Warwick Way to Belgrave Road and continued on to Eccleston Square. The Passport Office was at number 89, although there was no sign of it, either there or anywhere. In fact, all the buildings in the square were gracious porticoed houses, very similar to Mandy’s. Thank God she’d accepted the story of his ‘illness’; even offered to come roun and nurse him – an offer he had speedily declined. He hated lying to her, but the alternative was losing her – infinitely worse.

  He traversed the square again, in case the numbers weren’t in sequence, but still couldn’t find any sort of building resembling a Passport Office. Just then, however, he saw a woman emerging from her flat and dashed up to ask for directions.

  ‘Oh, everyone gets lost! It’s actually in Belgrave Road.’

  ‘But the address is given as Eccleston Square. See, it’s written here.’

  ‘I know – it’s crazy. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve had to redirect.’

  Cursing, he retraced his steps and found it within minutes; an ugly modern structure made of concrete and green glass. The warm fug inside was welcome, but he was immediately accosted by a big, burly bloke, wearing a black uniform, who barred his way as if he were a terrorist armed with a clutch of bombs.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ he barked.

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘We only see people with appointments.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to make one – now, please.’

  ‘You can’t make appointments here.’

  ‘Well, where do I make one, then?’

  ‘It’s not my job to give out information.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. That’s helpful!’

  ‘If you have enquiries,’ the fellow said, ignoring Eric’s sarcasm, ‘you can speak to the receptionist.’ He pointed to the far side of the foyer. ‘Over there,’ he snapped.

  There was a queue to see the receptionist – not the female he’d expected, but a balding guy with a nose-stud and a tattoo.

  ‘Are you applying for a first-time passport or the renewal of an existing one?’

  ‘First-time.’

  ‘In that case, you’ll need an interview.’

  The very word was alarming, with its overtones of job-applications and memories from decades back of case-conferences and case-reviews: loads of bossy grownups using words he couldn’t understand, and only asking his opinion when it was too late to change decisions already made about his life. ‘When?’ he asked. ‘And where? What sort of interview?’

  ‘They need to confirm your identity. You can choose the office you go to, but there’s only one in London – Hannibal House, Elephant and Castle.’

  ‘OK. Can I arrange it right away?’

  ‘Hold on! First you have to apply by post, to Peterborough. You’ll need this form.’ The man handed over a sizeable white envelope. ‘All the instructions are in there, too – how you fill it in; what documents you need to send; the type of photos deemed acceptable. Once they receive your completed form, they’ll write back within two or three weeks and—’

  ‘Two or three weeks?’ he interrupted. ‘So how long does the whole thing take?’

  ‘You’ll need to allow six weeks.’

  ‘I don’t have six weeks. This is urgent.’

  ‘Well, it can be speeded up if it’s a matter of life and death – and I mean that literally.’

  ‘No, not quite life and death. But I have to fly exactly five weeks from today.’

  The man shook his head. ‘That’s cutting
it extremely fine. I can’t guarantee you’ll get it in time.’

  ‘But I thought there was a fast-track service?’

  ‘Only for renewals, not for first-time passports. All I can suggest is that you use the “Check and Send” service offered by the post office. They’ll go through your application, line by line, and send it by Special Delivery. At least it’ll get there quicker then, and won’t be returned because you’ve made mistakes, so you’ll save time, overall. If you want more information, the nearest post office is in Eccleston Place, just up from here, on the right.’

  The queue in the post office was twice as long as that in the Passport Office. Eric stood, fuming with impatience, as various doddery pensioners conducted their maddeningly slow business at the counters, or, in one case, dropped the entire contents of a handbag on the floor. He darted over to lend a hand, retrieving various objects, including two half-eaten chocolate bars, a sheaf of lottery tickets, a box of indigestion tablets and a packet of cat-de-fleaing powder. The old crone thanked him profusely, although it did little to lessen his frustration at losing his place in the queue.

  Cashier number four, please….

  Cashier number two, please….

  Would it ever be his turn? Perhaps he should get a prescription for Valium – or something twice as strong – not just to calm him on the flight, but for all these stressful pre-flight chores. No. If he was heavily sedated when the plane crashed, he wouldn’t make it to the emergency exit or be alert enough to propel himself down a chute. Besides, if he arrived in Seattle doped up to the eyeballs, Christine would write him off as a completely unsuitable father.

  Cashier number five, please….

  He rushed over to the counter, but within minutes he was totally confused, since the clerk informed him categorically that he didn’t need an interview and didn’t have to go to Hannibal House. All he had to do was apply by post, to Peterborough, and he should receive his passport within two weeks.

  ‘But they told me at the Passport Office I wouldn’t get it within five weeks.’

  ‘Hey, Adrian!’ The clerk shouted at the guy sitting at the adjoining counter. ‘Know anything about Hannibal House – having to go there for an interview?’

  ‘Yeah, I think it’s some new thing. But there may be certain exemptions. I suggest your customer returns to the Passport Office and asks them for more info.’

  Groaning, Eric walked back the way he’d come, only to take his place in yet another queue. The balding bloke had vanished; replaced now by a younger man, with bedraggled, greasy hair.

  ‘The post office don’t know what they’re talking about. They’re not trained in this line of work. And, in any case, if you use their “Check and Send” service, they’ll charge you an extra £6.85, on top of the standard fee.’

  ‘What is the fee?’

  ‘£72.’

  Eric did more calculations in his head. Any hopes he might have had of saving for the baby, or saving for an engagement ring, were disappearing at the speed of light.

  ‘Whereas we can check your form for nothing here.’

  ‘So why didn’t someone tell me that, before I traipsed off to the post office?’

  ‘No idea.’ A shrug.

  ‘But are you absolutely sure I need to have an interview?’

  The man screwed up his face, as if pondering the question. ‘Probably,’ he said, at last.

  Eric suppressed a scream. There were no certainties in life, of course, but one might reasonably expect them in a government department.

  ‘Anyway, I suggest you get the form off and wait and see what happens.’

  It was snowing again as he left the building, so he dived into the nearest café; cold, confused and absolutely ravenous. Not that he could eat. Anxiety affected his stomach, as well as just his bowels. But a shot or two of caffeine would help him concentrate. The instruction-booklet for filling out the form ran to twenty-four pages of fine print.

  Every year, 250,000 postal applications are rejected or delayed because of simple mistakes….

  He could just imagine Christine’s scorn if he cocked up the procedure. He was already deeply anxious about getting the passport in time, since the booklet stated clearly that new applicants should allow six weeks. And his case might take longer, on account of his being a foundling, with an unusual birth certificate. If Dwight and Christine were forced to postpone their wedding, he would be blamed in perpetuity and never live down the disgrace. The booklet also warned that if he missed his interview for any reason including illness, he might have to re-apply; fill in another form and send new photographs. The mere thought sent further spasms shuddering through his gut.

  Only the section headed ‘Your Particular Needs at the Interview Office’, gave him any relief, since at least he didn’t need wheelchair access, a hearing-loop, a carer to be present, or a private room in which to remove his niqab. However, there were further problems in that his form needed counter-signing by a professional person who had known him at least two years. Trevor would probably be classed as a professional, but he could hardly go and beg his help when he was meant to be lying in a darkened room, too ill to move a muscle. Besides, he was loath to reveal to anyone the shaming fact that he hadn’t had a passport up till now. The alternative was to make an appointment with a doctor or solicitor, but speed was of the essence – in fact, he ought to post the completed form today.

  ‘Yeah? What can I get you?’ The waitress had slouched over to his table: a skinny girl, with a mane of hair twice as long as her mini-skirt. Could he bribe her to sign the form; pretend she was his lawyer or physician? No, then he’d be done for fraud, which would delay the process longer still while he languished in Wandsworth gaol.

  Which reminded him – he was due at the prison book club in just under a month, for an event he’d arranged himself: a talk by the crime-writer, Simon Brett, about his life and work. In fact, he’d promised to ring Simon before ten o’clock this morning, to give him further details, yet had totally forgotten. And since Simon had mentioned an early dental appointment, he’d be in the dentist’s chair by now and would think him rude and offhand, especially as he was doing the talk as a favour and had agreed to waive his usual fee.

  The waitress was still waiting for him to answer and gave an exaggerated sigh.

  ‘Er, sorry. A double espresso. Oh, and is there any chance you could you lend me a Biro?’

  She gave him the pen from her order-pad – a blue fibre-tip – which put paid to his filling out the form. Fibre-tips, felt-tips, fountain pens and blue ink were all forbidden; a black ballpoint being the only thing allowed. Instead, he studied the instructions for the photographs, and ‘studied’ was the operative word, since there were seventeen separate headings, mostly prohibitions. Glare, shadows, red-eye, sun-specs – all would invalidate the photo, as would grins, frowns, raised eyebrows or hair across one’s eyes. Well, at least grinning wasn’t a problem. He doubted if he would ever grin again.

  Once the waitress brought his espresso, he put the form away. If even a creased photo rendered it null and void (heading number eight), then a coffee-stained form was bound to be destroyed. He should have brought Simon Brett’s book with him – the one the book club were reading this month, in preparation for the author’s visit. At least it would have distracted him, and he could have jotted down some points of interest, so he could take part in the discussion that would follow Simon’s talk. But, lacking a book of any kind, he reached out for the newspapers abandoned on the adjoining table.

  NATIONAL DEBT REACHES £2-TRILLION …

  TERRORISTS INTENT ON MURDER STILL AT LARGE IN BRITAIN …

  NEW FLU PANDEMIC THREAT ….

  Every headline seemed to prophesy disaster and, even when he rifled through the Sports section, he found it impossible to concentrate on Tiger Woods’ knee injury, or the traumatic finale of the Third Test in the West Indies. So, when a glossy brochure fell out of the Arts Review -‘Magellan’s Travel Supplies’ – he picked it up,
with a certain curiosity. Flicking through it, however, only increased his angst, since, according to Magellan’s, anyone contemplating air-travel required a whole cabin-load of specialist supplies: crease-free clothing; a folding foot-rest; every type of cushion – for necks, backs, bums, shoulders, tailbones; a moulded sleep-mask; tamper-proof and leak-proof bottles; an individual air-supply (a mere £119), and a travel-case for medicines and vitamins (a snip at £20). Several items were described as ‘travel must-haves’ – for instance, the Slash-Proof, Snatch-Proof Security Bag, complete with Pickpocket-Proof Security Wallet. New fears were being added to all his existing ones: fear of knives, thieves, smash-and-grab, deep-vein thrombosis (Magellan’s special socks the only remedy); travel sickness (ditto Magellan’s acupressure bands) infections caught en route (deadly, or even terminal, unless prevented with Magellan’s Anti-Virus Flight Spray, Carbon-Filter Masks and Push-Pen Water-Sterilizers). Well, if he sent away for that little lot, it would add several thousand pounds to his fast-escalating flight-costs.

  Suddenly decisive, he slammed the brochure down, gulped his tepid coffee, flung some coins on the table and hared off to Victoria Station to find a photo-machine.

  It was already occupied by two teenage girls, who were sitting on each other’s laps, making silly faces in the mirror, applying blusher and eye-gloss and generally larking about. It was obvious that they weren’t actually taking photographs, and, in any case, they had left the curtain undrawn. However, he hadn’t the heart to hurry them up, since they were little older than Erica and a fond reminder of his daughter. Besides, like her, they might have problems. According to statistics, many adolescents in both England and America were stressed, unhappy or even secretly self-harming, so why deprive this particular pair of a bit of innocent fun?

  In fact, as he stood waiting by the booth, listening to their little shrieks and giggles, he suddenly knew he had to go to Seattle, however great his fears. He hadn’t seen Erica for almost fourteen months, which reflected on him badly as a father. He owed it to her to make the trip and, even if he arrived more dead than alive, make it he damned well would.