Half the World Away

CHAPTER TWENTY

I have the address of the visa office. Tom and I walk up and down Mosley Street among the office buildings trying to find it. I check the street number again and we retrace our steps. The only sign that this building is the right one is the scrap of paper stuck next to the intercom button with Chinese Visa scribbled on it. When Tom presses the buzzer, a voice tells us to come to the first floor.

Through the double doors a receptionist is poised at a high desk. She asks our business, then gives us a ticket and tells us to wait our turn. All the twenty or so seats are full, and more people stand around the edges of the room. At the far end there is a row of booths behind glass screens. The room is stuffy, smells of too many people, and I feel queasy as we find a place to stand.

It’s a functional space: grey carpeting and chairs, white walls, flashes of red from the large Chinese good-luck charms of knotted string suspended by the booths.

After half an hour we get seats. Tom occupies himself with his phone, answering emails, but I can’t shake off the sense of unreality: any minute now I’ll get a text from Lori – So sorry Mum, just bin havin the most awesome time w no internet Lxxx

Conversation from the brief interviews up at the front washes over me. Two-thirds of the people waiting are European, mostly English. There’s a man whose passport has been lost in the post and he’s panicking about getting the visa in time to start his job in Beijing, then a young couple, who are sent away because they’ve not brought proof of their return flights. There’s an old woman, who is going to visit her newborn grandson, and a student, who has a place on a master’s degree course in Shanghai.

Penny messages me. Anything I can do? When u go? Thinking of u. Px I know she means well but I hate that last phrase. Trotted out for bereavement and terminal illness, whenever it’s hard to know what to say. It makes Lori’s absence and our plans feel more sinister.

Go Thurs, I text back. Will keep in touch x.

Our number flashes up on the kiosk at the end to the left. I hand over the visa forms, the letter of invitation from the British consulate, the hotel confirmation, the flight details – all arranged by Edward at Missing Overseas – and our passports. A small sign in the corner of the screen shows the prices for the visa service. Three rates. Rush, Express, Standard. We are Rush, next day pick-up, the fastest possible way to get the documentation. The highest fee. The clerk reads carefully through Tom’s application and checks his passport. Then she picks up mine. My mind is dancing about. I need to buy hand wipes and medicines to take, organize after-school club for the boys for the next three weeks, get some Chinese currency.

The clerk looks at my passport and the form, then says, ‘The photo here on passport is more than six month old and you have same on visa application. You need more recent one. Less than six month.’

Oh, God. I’d hoped to save time using the spare photo left over from last time I renewed my passport. The whole edifice of plans teeters. The office shuts at three for applications. Coming back tomorrow will mean…

‘You can do one here.’ She points. At the back of the room is a photo booth. Tom has change. I sit in the booth and follow the instructions on screen. No smiling, no hair over the face, no glasses obscuring your eyes. How about crying? I am past caring and choose the first image, even though I look like a serial killer.

The clerk cuts one of the pictures off and places it on my application, giving me the old one. She hands Tom a receipt and clips everything together.

Outside, the wind funnels down the street, sharp and cold, making my eyes water. I zip my jacket up, stick my hands in the pockets.

‘I’ll see you Thursday,’ Tom says.

‘You need to be here before four o’clock tomorrow to collect the visas,’ I say.

‘Sure.’

‘Let me know if there’s a problem,’ I say.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he says, an edge to his voice. ‘See you.’ He walks off, the breeze blowing his hair, his coat flying out.

I make for the tram stop and, as I turn the corner, see one pulling in ahead. Running as fast as I can, I dodge shoppers and people in office clothes, the buskers and hawkers who fringe the square. Breathless, a pain behind my breastbone, I reach the platform just as the tram gives a mournful hoot and moves off.

‘Shit!’ I attract glances from other passengers.

It shouldn’t matter that I missed it, there’ll be another before long, but it feels like everything is stacking up against me. I stand there, fed up, sweaty and shivery at the same time, and tense with frustration.