Return of the Sun - 3. Chapter 3

He had never realized that it would become a quest. He hadn't thought that entering England on his American passport would make a difference, he hadn't had time to wait for his English one to be processed and a passport was a passport right?

He had quickly come to realize how wrong he was.

The line at the home office in Croydon was immense. The kind of line you would expect to see outside a rock concert if everyone tried to buy his or her tickets at the same time. There was easily a thousand people between him and the wicket. As it was he had been waiting eight hours and had only just entered the actual room with the wickets.

It was insane; he stood in line sandwiched between a Romanian family and a really nice elderly Chinese couple who kept offering him green tea from a thermos. At first he had politely refused their hospitality, but after hour two of standing there he had caved and accepted. The woman, who didn't speak a word of English pressed the cup into his hands and bowed repeatedly. He had blushed a little at the attention and thanked her in return.

He looked at the massive line that snaked back upon itself, separated by little lines of black nylon strung from little pillars that were just the right height to cause an injury to his grandchildren if he wasn't watching where he was going. It was hot; air-conditioning in public buildings wasn't considered a necessity and so no one had bothered to turn it on. So those throngs of humanity from across the globe sweltered in the heat of a British summer.

He had his jacket slung over his arm and a satchel filled full of his important papers sat on his shoulder, and he did the only thing he could do, move forward about a foot every time some one ahead of him made it to the wicket. It was a slow and painful process, all to get a stamp in his passport removed:

Leave to enter for six months: Employment

and recourse to public funds prohibited.

It didn't sound like much, but it was binding. It didn't matter that he had a national insurance number, or that he had a British birth certificate, or even that he could produce his elementary school report cards if he had to. All that mattered was that single ink marking that said he was a foreigner in his own country.

The little Chinese woman touched his arm and he turned to her with a warm smile, as she offered him a refill on the tea; that thermos had to be getting pretty close to empty and he didn't want to drain it. But without a water fountain, or any way to get a drink of water or use the restroom facilities without losing his place in line, he was tempted.

Seeing his hesitation, the elderly gentleman reached into his bag and produced a second thermos. This was apparently his third attempt to reach the wicket, and he had come prepared. Will grinned in open gratitude and accepted again, touched by the display of kindness to a complete stranger.

"American?" the gentleman asked, pointing to the American passport sticking out of Scott's top pocket.

Scott decided that trying to explain that he was actually English would take too long so he just nodded, "From Brooklyn, New York," he said, and strangely for the first time he noticed that he actually spoke with the accent. His entire time in the States people had commented on him sounding British, and he had grown accustomed to it. He hadn't noticed how pervasive the American way of speaking had been to him. He chose to blame Mrs. Rossini, the robust Italian-American woman from next door who always insisted on yelling from the fire escape at her five kids.

"Scott Walker," he stuck out his hand.

"Lu Kai Hui," he shook the hand with a grip like iron, "My wife Li Shang Hui."

The wizened old woman bobbed her head, and started to rattle off something to her husband in Mandarin. Lui nodded his head a few times before turning back to him, "She say you are pretty, make good husband one day."

Scott felt the heat rising into his cheeks as Li tittered at him; blushing like a mad man he lifted the thermos, "Tell her thank you, and thanks for the tea."

Lui turned to his wife and spoke at a rapid pace. She responded to him and Lui turned back again, "She say your most welcome."

The line progressed slowly but steadily; the over-worked civil servants struggling to keep up with the flood of humanity that washed up against their wickets. But after hour after endless hour, day after endless day, the stress of their job had eroded them into apathy. And Scott was next. He would have been at a wicket, but he had let the Huis go ahead of him; after all their kindness to him, it was the least he could do in return.

When he finally was beckoned forward, he was faced by a very bored and exhausted clerk who rolled his eyes, "Great, a Yank," he murmured, supposedly too low for Scott to hear him, but Scott had always had excellent hearing. However, calling the man on his comment wouldn't get him to help, so Scott bit his lip and slid his passport through the crack under the bulletproof plexi-glass.

"Hi there," he said, putting on his most charming smile and trying to be polite, "I was told I could get my passport re-stamped here."

The clerk flipped it open and squinted at the picture before squinting at Scott, "Well, Mister Walker, what proof do you have that you have the right to work in England?"

Scott nodded and fished out his birth certificate and his NIN card, he pushed these through the slot. Trying to keep the smile on his face, "Well, sir, I was born and raised here."

The clerk examined the documents carefully, scrutinizing them as if looking for a mistake; disappointed that there was none, he pushed them back through. "Well, you're in the wrong office. This office only deals with foreign nationals emigrating to England; you're a citizen so you need to go to Liverpool."

Scott's jaw dropped open and the smile was gone; the clerk's face held a momentary flash of delight, as Scott looked back at the impossibly long line he had made it through. "Liverpool?" he asked in utter defeat.

"Move along, sir, I must serve the next person." The clerk dismissed him.

Scott collected his papers helplessly as he stumbled towards the door; there was nothing he could say to that. He just had to accept it and go to Liverpool. And he looked at all the bitter and resentful faces of the people still waiting in line. Jealous of the fact that he had actually been served and they still had to wait. Even though the clock was coming dangerously close to the end of the workday, and they might have to go through the process all over again.

* * *

"Liverpool?" Gran sounded incredulous as she put the bangers and mash down in front of him, "They made you wait in that awful line like an immigrant?" She shook her head, "You're a citizen, I was there when you were born. You have as much right to be here as anyone else."

"True, Gran," Scott replied, half-heartedly pushing a sausage around the plate. "But I don't have much choice, if I need money I have to get that stamp changed. I can't work, can't collect unemployment, nothing."

"Well we just have to find a way around it." She said resolutely, "What about getting your English passport?"

"Huh?" Scott looked up at his Gran in confusion.

She sat down at the table with her own dinner, "Well you need to prove that you are a British citizen, why don't you just apply for your British passport, you can do that at the post office in the high street. All you need is your birth certificate."

Scott shifted in his chair and looked at his gran in surprise at how simple she made it sound. He hadn't even considered that loophole. He was prepared to go to Liverpool, stand in another long line and probably find out he was really supposed to be in Glasgow.

"I-" he was genuinely shocked.

His gran gave a resolute nod, "Good then, we'll get that sorted out for you in the morning, now eat up before your dinner gets cold."

* * *

A much-aged Doctor Hanratti stared through his glasses, "You look like an American," he said flatly as he circled the examination table Scott was perched on the edge of.

"You still look like an East Indian," Scott fired back, mildly annoyed at the reaction he kept getting from the people who had known him before he left.

Hanratti looked surprised for a second at the observation, "My father was from Calcutta," he said with a note of amusement in his voice, "but no one's ever noticed before." He got out a scope and jammed it into Scott's ear a little too roughly, "Let's see if all that American TV really does rot your brain."

Scott winced a little at the rough treatment, but remembered that Doctor Hanratti just had a unique way of doing his trade. He had been Scott's GP for years before Scott left, and when you bring someone into the world, you have a tendency to act familiar around them.

There was little Hanratti didn't know about Scott, from the fact that he had no tonsils down to the mole on his... Scott blushed.

Hanratti leaned back, "What? I haven't even asked you to turn your head and cough yet."

Scott laughed, "It's just I came in here to get you to sign papers for me to get my passport."

"Yes," Hanratti said, returning to stare through his scope into the deep recesses of Scott's ears, "I think I can see light..." he murmured.

Scott's jaw hung open, "That's just plain mean!" he complained.

Hanratti snorted, "Empty-headed just like your father was at your age, filled with thoughts of girls and fast cars no doubt." He leaned back to jot exactly that down in the medical record.

Scott laughed, "It's a wonder you haven't been sued for malpractice by now."

"Hmm, chronic sarcasm," Hanratti noted that as well, "I could prescribe a laxative for that you know..."

Scott slumped his shoulders, "Great."

Hanratti chuckled as he brushed his white hair with his fingers and leaned back to his chart, "You may be complaining now, but when I find something wrong with you, you'll thank me for this."

Scott crossed his arms, "You know, most doctors I've been to aren't this thorough."

"Then they're idiots," Hanratti replied. "Now I have to ask you some questions, and if you're not honest with me on these I will have to send you for a full blood screening with the community nurse." He screwed up his nose, "Trust me, if you think I'm rough..."

"Okay," Scott held up his hands defensively, "Whatever, just ask, then sign..."

Hanratti beamed at his patients co-operation, "Ok, are you sexually active?"

Scott glanced over at the Doctor, "I'm nineteen, what do you think..."

"One round of blood tests coming up," he scrawled on his pad, "Would you like me to add a prostate exam to that?"

Scott winced, "Yes, yes I am."

"That's my boy." Hanratti replied satisfied with the co-operation, "You use protection? Remember to answer this one carefully, because the wrong answer will have you in the community sexual health course so fast...."

Scott sighed, "Yes, Doctor."

"Are you gay?"

The question hung between them for a moment, and Scott balked. "Wha-?"

Hanratti sighed and tapped his pen, "Legitimate question; I need to know so I can set you up with my daughter... or my nephew Billy if you are so inclined." He said it with such a deadpan expression that had Scott not known Hanratti; he could have assumed he was serious.

"I'm gay," Scott replied with a sigh. He'd known ever since he was sixteen, but his first year of college and a guy called Brian had confirmed it. But did that mean he wanted flyers printed up and distributed around Halisham? Not particularly.

"This is all covered by the doctor-patient privilege," Hanratti responded as if reading his thoughts, "I ask all the young men that same question when they come in for their yearly physical; I like to be prepared for any eventuality." He grew serious;"I am scheduling you for testing every six months, the standard block, and you might as well get used to them now rather than have to be skittish and nervous later."

He picked up the passport forms and signed them, handing them over to Scott, "Alright then Scott, I have taken the liberty of re-adding you to my patient list; it's either me or the young pup up the hall, and I think you'd enjoy that too much." He offered a wry grin, "Now get out of here while I am still feeling generous, I think we have vaccinations this afternoon and I could always..."

"No... No... that's fine." Scott said hopping down from the table and all but running to the door of the examination room. He flashed a relieved smile when he actually made it back out to the waiting room where his gran was sitting doing some knitting.

"That took a long time," she said looking over her glasses.

"Doctor Hanratti wanted to give me a checkup," Scott responded, pulling on his jacket. "Something about Yankee doctors, mint juleps, and leaches...." He shrugged.

Gran smiled at him, "Well that's good, did he sign the papers?"

Scott held them up for her inspection and the old woman nodded in relief;"We'll have that off this afternoon then." She started to leave when she stopped to let a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair go through the door ahead of her.

"Rita?" the dark haired woman asked, peering up at Gran.

"Jan, dear," Rita said, beaming at her, "let me give you a hand." She pushed the door Jan was struggling with open a little wider, and the woman rolled through it onto the ramp.

"Thank you," Jan replied with a smile, nodding to Scott, "I was starting to wonder if I'd be trapped in there with Hanratti all day."

Scott chuckled at the battery of tests anyone unlucky enough to be trapped inside the mad doctors office would be subjected to. He could just see old Hanratti, rubbing his hands and cackling maniacally about which lever to pull next.

"That's all right dear," Gran was saying as they navigated to the street. "Have you met my Grandson Scott?"

Jan turned in her chair, "One of the boys that went to America?" She smiled, "Nice to meet you."

Scott smiled and bobbed his head, "Same here."

"Yes Scott, Jan's son Luke was in your year at Grovelands," Gran said knowledgeably.

Scott shuddered at the memory; he remembered Luke all right, the strange bitter kid who had pulled the girls' hair and had generally gotten into all the mischief he could. Scott instinctively rubbed his hand where Luke had stabbed him with a pencil when he was little.

"Oh Rita, Joel will be over to do your garden on Saturday, Dickie passed on your message," Jan was saying as Gran took to pushing the chair, the two instinctively in agreement that they were heading into town. "Thank you."

Gran smiled down at her, "That's okay, it saves me having to get down on creaky knees to pull weeds, plus if it gives him a couple of pounds to buy himself something, so much the better."

"It's kind of you to give him a job like that." Jan continued, sounding genuinely pleased at the arrangement.

"Well, when Luke and Dickie were his age, I let them tend the garden, I'll do the same for Jasper when he is old enough." Gran glanced over at Scott, who was watching her with a little understanding. This was her way of helping Jan out, and from the sounds of it, Jan had her hands full with four boys.