When she gets back ten minutes later the same two lone people behind the counters are still the only people serving. But the screen now says that the numbers coming up next for counter service will be 284, 285 and 286.
Elisabeth presses the button on the machine and takes another ticket (365). She sits down on the circular communal seating unit in the middle of the room. Something inside it is broken, so that when she does this something clanks inside its structure and the person sitting along from her is jerked an inch into the air. Then that person shifts position, the seat clanks again and Elisabeth jolts an inch or so downwards.
Through the windows, there on the other side of the road, she can see the grand municipal building that used to be the town Post Office. It’s now a row of designer chainstores. Perfume. Clothes. Cosmetics. She looks round the room again. The people sitting on the communal seat are almost all exactly the same people who were here when she first came in. She opens the book in her hand. Brave New World. Chapter One. A squat grey building of only thirty-four storeys. Over the main entrance the words, CENTRAL LONDON HATCHERY AND CONDITIONING CENTRE, and, in a shield, the World State’s motto, COMMUNITY, IDENTITY, STABILITY. An hour and forty five minutes later, when she’s quite far through the book, most of the people round her are still those same people. They’re still staring into space. They occasionally clank the chair. Nobody talks to anyone else. Nobody has said a single word to her the whole time she’s been here. The only thing that changes is the queue snaking towards the self-service weighing machines. Occasionally someone crosses the room to look at the commemorative coins in the plastic display unit. There’s a set, she can see from here, for Shakespeare’s birthday or deathday anniversary. There’s a skull on one of the coins. Presumably deathday, then.
Elisabeth goes back to the book and by chance the page she’s on happens to be quoting Shakespeare. ‘O brave new world!’ Miranda was proclaiming the possibility of loveliness, the possibility of transforming even the nightmare into something fine and noble. ‘O brave new world!’ It was a challenge, a command. To look up from it and see the commemorative money at the very second when the book brings Shakespeare and itself properly together – that’s really something. She shifts in her seat and clanks the chair by mistake. The woman along from her jumps slightly in the air but gives no sign at all that she knows or cares that she has.
It’s funny to be sitting on such an uncommunal communal chair.
There’s no one Elisabeth can exchange a look with about that, though, let alone tell the thing she’s just thought about the book and the coins.
In any case, it’s one of those coincidences that on TV and in books might mean something but in real life mean nothing at all. What would they put on a commemorative coin to celebrate Shakespeare’s birthday? O brave new world. That’d be good. That’s a bit like what it’s like, presumably, to be born. If anyone could ever remember being born.
The board says 334.
Hello, Elisabeth says to the man behind the counter forty or so minutes later.
The number of days in the year, the man says.
I’m sorry? Elisabeth says.
Number 365, the man says.
I’ve read nearly a whole book while I’ve been waiting here this morning, Elisabeth says. And it struck me that maybe it’d be a good idea to have books available here so all the people who end up waiting could have a read too, if they’d like to. Have you ever thought of opening or installing a small library?
Funny you should say that, the man says. Most of those people aren’t here for Post Office services at all. Since the library closed this is where they come if it’s raining or intemperate.
Elisabeth looks back at where she was sitting. The seat she’s just left has been taken by a very young woman breastfeeding a baby.
Anyway, thank you for your query, and I hope we’ve answered it to your full satisfaction, the man is saying.
He is about to press the button next to him to call 366 to the counter.
No! Elisabeth says.
The man creases up. It seems he was joking; his shoulders go up and down but no sound comes out of him. It’s like laughter, but also like a parody of laughter, and simultaneously a bit like he’s having an asthma attack. Maybe you’re not allowed to laugh out loud behind the counter of the main Post Office.
I’m only here once a week, Elisabeth says. I’d have had to come back next week if you’d done that.
The man glances at her Check & Send form.
And you may well have to come back next week anyway, he says. It’s a nine times out of ten-er that something’s not going to be right with this.
Very funny, Elisabeth says.
I’m not joking, the man says. You can’t joke about passports.
The man empties all the papers out of her envelope on his side of the divide.
I just have to make it clear to you first up before we check anything, he says, that if I go ahead now and check your Check & Send form today it’ll cost you £9.75. I mean £9.75 today. And if by chance something isn’t correct in it today, it’ll still cost you £9.75 today, and you’ll need to pay me that money anyway even if we can’t send it off because of whatever incorrect thing.
Right, Elisabeth says.
But. Having said that, the man says. If something’s not correct and you pay the £9.75 today, which you have to do, and you correct the thing that’s not correct and bring it back here within one month, provided you can show your receipt, then you won’t be charged another £9.75. However. If you bring it back after one month, or without your receipt, you’ll be charged another £9.75 for another Check & Send service.
Got it, Elisabeth says.
Are you sure you still want to go ahead with today’s Check & Send? the man says.
Uh huh, Elisabeth says.
Could you say the word yes, rather than just make that vaguely affirmative sound you’re making, please, the man says.
Uh, Elisabeth says. Yes.
Though you’ll have to pay even if the Check & Send isn’t successful today?
I’m beginning to hope it won’t be, Elisabeth says. There’s a few old classics I haven’t read yet.
Think you’re funny? the man says. Would you like me to fetch you a complaints form and you can fill it in while you wait? If you do, though, I have to advise you that you’ll need to leave the counter while I serve someone else and because I’m shortly due my lunch break you’ll lose your consecutive place and will have to take a new counter service ticket from the machine and wait your turn.
I’ve absolutely no wish to complain about anything, Elisabeth says.
The man is looking at her filled-in form.
Is your surname really Demand? he says.
Uh huh, Elisabeth says. I mean yes.
A name you live up to, he says. As we’ve already ascertained.
Uh, Elisabeth says.
Only joking, the man says.
His shoulders go up and down.
And you’re sure you’ve spelt your Christian name correctly? he says.
Yes, Elisabeth says.
That’s not the normal way of spelling it, the man says. The normal way of spelling it is with a z. As far as I’m aware.
Mine is with an s, Elisabeth says.
Fancy way, the man says.
It’s my name, Elisabeth says.
It’s people from other countries that spell it like that, generally, isn’t it? the man says.
He flicks through the outdated passport.
But this does say you’re UK, he says.
I am, Elisabeth says.
Same spelling in here, the s and all, he says.
Amazingly, Elisabeth says.
Don’t be sarky, the man says.
Now he’s comparing the photograph inside the old passport with the new sheet of booth shots Elisabeth has brought with her.
Recognizable, he says. Just. (Shoulders.) And that’s just the change from twenty two to thirty two. Wait till you see the
difference when you come back in here for a new passport in ten years’ time. (Shoulders.)
He checks the numbers she’s written on the form against the ones in the outdated passport.
Going travelling? he says.
Probably, Elisabeth says. Just in case.
Where you thinking of going? he says.
Lots of places, I expect, Elisabeth says. Who knows? World. Oyster.
Seriously allergic, the man says. Don’t even say the word. If I die this afternoon, I’ll know who to tell them to blame.
Shoulders. Up, down.
Then he puts the booth photographs down in front of him. He screws his mouth over to one side. He shakes his head.
What? Elisabeth says.
No, I think it’s all right, he says. The hair. It has to be completely clear of your eyes.
It is completely clear of my eyes, Elisabeth says. It’s nowhere near my eyes.
It also can’t be anywhere near your face, the man says.
It’s on my head, Elisabeth says. That’s where it grows. And my face is also attached to my head.
Witticism, the man says, will make not a jot of difference to the stipulations which mean you can, in the end, be issued a passport, which you will need before you are permitted to go anywhere not in this island realm. In other words. Will get you. Nowhere.
Right, Elisabeth says. Thanks.
I think it’s all right, the man says.
Good, Elisabeth says.
Wait, the man says. Wait a minute. Just a.
He gets up off his chair and ducks down behind the divide. He comes back up with a cardboard box. In it are various pairs of scissors, rubbers, a stapler, paperclips and a rolled-up measuring tape. He takes the tape in his hands and unrolls the first centimetres of it. He places the tape against one of the images of Elisabeth on the booth sheet.
Yes, he says.
Yes? Elisabeth says.
I thought so, he says. 24 millimetres. As I thought.
Good, Elisabeth says.
Not good, the man says. I’m afraid not good at all. Your face is the wrong size.
How can my face be a wrong size? Elisabeth says.
You didn’t follow the instructions about filling the facial frame, that’s if the photobooth you used is fitted with passport instructions, the man says. Of course, it’s possible the booth you used wasn’t passport-instruction-fitted. But that doesn’t help here either way I’m afraid.
What size is my face meant to be? Elisabeth says.
The correct size for a face in the photograph submitted, the man says, is between 29 millimetres and 34 millimetres. Yours falls short by 5 millimetres.
Why does my face need to be a certain size? Elisabeth says.
Because it’s what is stipulated, the man says.
Is it for facial recognition technology? Elisabeth says.
The man looks her full in the face for the first time.
Obviously I can’t process the form without the correct stipulation, he says.
He takes a piece of paper off a pile to the right of him.
You should go to Snappy Snaps, he says as he stamps a little circle on the piece of paper with a metal stamp. They’ll do it there for you to the correct specification. Where are you planning to travel to?
Well, nowhere, till I get the new passport, Elisabeth says.
He points to the unstamped circle next to the stamped one.
If you bring it back within a month of this date, provided everything’s correct, you won’t have to pay £9.75 for another Check & Send, he says. Where did you say you were thinking of going, again?
I didn’t, Elisabeth says.
Hope you won’t take it the wrong way if I write in this box that you’re wrong in the head, the man says.
His shoulders aren’t moving. He writes in a box next to the word Other: HEAD INCORRECT SIZE.
If this were a drama on TV, Elisabeth says, you know what would happen now?
It’s largely rubbish, TV, the man says. I prefer box sets.
What I’m saying is, Elisabeth says, in the next shot you’d be dead of oyster poisoning and I’d be being arrested and blamed for something I didn’t do.
Power of suggestion, the man says.
Suggestion of power, Elisabeth says.
Oh, very clever, the man says.
And also, this notion that my head’s the wrong size in a photograph would mean I’ve probably done or am going to do something really wrong and illegal, Elisabeth says. And because I asked you about facial recognition technology, because I happen to know it exists and I asked you if the passport people use it, that makes me a suspect as well. And there’s the notion, too, in your particular take on our story so far, that I might be some kind of weirdo because there’s an s in my name instead of a z.
I’m sorry? the man says.
Like if a child cycles past in a drama or a film, Elisabeth says, like the way if you’re watching a film or a drama and there’s a child cycling away on a bicycle and you see the child going, getting further away, and especially if you watch this happen from a camera position behind that child, well, something terrible’s bound to be about to happen to that child, for sure it’ll be the last time you’ll see that child, that child still innocent, anyway. You can’t just be a child and cycle away because you’re off to the shops any more. Or if there’s a happy man or woman driving a car, just out driving, enjoying it, nothing else happening – and especially if this is edited into someone else’s waiting for that person to come home – then he or she is probably definitely about to crash and die. Or, if it’s a woman, to be abducted and come to a gruesome sex-crime end, or to disappear. Probably definitely he or she one way or another is driving to his or her doom.
The man folds the Check & Send receipt and tucks it into the envelope Elisabeth gave him with the form, the old passport and the unsuitable photographs. He hands it back to her across the divide. She sees terrible despondency in his eyes. He sees her see it. He hardens even more. He opens a drawer, takes a laminated sheet out of it and places it at the front of the divide.
Position Closed.
This isn’t fiction, the man says. This is the Post Office.
Elisabeth watches him go through the swing door at the back.
She pushes her way through the self-service queue and out of the non-fictional Post Office.
She crosses the green to the bus station.
She’s going to The Maltings Care Providers plc to see Daniel.
Daniel is still here.
The last three times Elisabeth’s been, he’s been asleep. He’ll be asleep this time too, when she gets there. She’ll sit on the chair next to the bed and get the book out of her bag.
Brave old world.
Daniel will be so asleep that he’ll look like he’s never going to wake up.
Hello Mr Gluck, she’ll say if he does. Sorry I’m late. I was having my face measured and rejected for being the wrong specification.
But there’s no point in thinking this. He won’t.
If he were to wake, the first thing he’d do is he’d tell her some fact from whichever fruitful place in his brain he’d been down deep in.
Oh a long queue of them, Daniel’d say, all the way up the mountain. A line of tramps from the foot to the peak of one of the Sacramento mountains.
Sounds serious, she’d say.
It was, he’d say. Nothing comic isn’t serious. And he was the greatest comedian of all. He hired them, hundreds and hundreds of them, and they were real, the real thing, real tramps to his movie star tramp, real loners, real lost and homeless men. He wanted it to look like the real gold rush. The local police said the tramps weren’t to be paid any money by the producers till they’d all been rounded up and taken back to Sacramento City. They didn’t want them going all over the district. And when he was a boy – the boy who ended life as one of the richest, the most famous men in the world – when he was a boy in the poorhouse for children, the orphanage, when his mother w
as taken to the asylum, he got given a bag of sweets and an orange at Christmas time, all the kids in the place got the same. But the difference, here’s the difference. He made that December bag of sweets last all the way to October.
He’d shake his head.
Genius, he’d say.
Then he’d squint at Elisabeth.
Oh, hello, he’d say.
He’d look at the book in her hands.
What you reading? he’d say.
Elisabeth would hold it up.
Brave New World, she’d say.
Oh, that old thing, he’d say.
It’s new to me, she’d say.
That moment of dialogue? Imagined.
Daniel is now in an increased sleep period. Whichever care assistant chances to be on duty always makes a point of explaining, when Elisabeth sits with him, that the increased sleep period happens when people are close to death.
He is beautiful.
He is so tiny in the bed. It is like he is just a head. He’s small and frail now, thin as the skeleton of a cartoon fish left by a cartoon cat, his body so near-nothing under the covers that it hardly makes any impression, just a head by itself on a pillow, a head with a cave in it and the cave is his mouth.
His eyes are closed and watery. There’s a long time between each breath in and out. In that long time there’s no breathing at all, so that every time he breathes out there’s the possibility that he might not breathe in again, it doesn’t seem quite possible that someone could be able not to breathe for so long and yet still be breathing and alive.
A good old age, he’s done very well, the care assistants say.
He’s had a good innings, the care assistants say, as if to say, it won’t be long now.
Oh really?
They don’t know Daniel.
Are you next of kin? Because we’ve been trying to contact Mr Gluck’s next of kin with no success, the receptionist said the first time Elisabeth came. Elisabeth lied without even pausing. She gave them her mobile number, her mother’s home number and her mother’s home address.
We’ll need further proof of identity, the receptionist said.