Half the World Away - страница 31

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.

Our flight is from Manchester to Chengdu with a change at Schiphol, Amsterdam. We leave at 17.40 and I’ve caved in to the boys’ pleas to be allowed to come and see me off. Of course they were less than happy when we told them I’d be going. They begged to come as well, and then Isaac, who had been kicking the chair leg harder and harder as we talked, finally kicked me on the shin and told me I was a horrible pig and added, ‘I hate you,’ as Nick jumped up to remonstrate.

Since then Isaac has stuck to me like a burr. Gazing up at me with a solemn sometimes sullen face while I sort the laundry, holding my hand too tightly when we take Benji out, hovering on the landing while I’m in the shower. I’ve tried to reassure him, tried to snatch extra time to sit with him while he draws, to watch the latest episode of