How I made a million from my first novel – part two

It was November when my wife and I, along with our first child, arrived in England on a one-way flight from New Zealand. It’s a long flight with a new-born baby, trust me. We had left home in the spring, exchanging the approach of an Antipodean summer for that of a northern hemisphere winter. Instead of barbecues and weekends at the beach we were prepared for snow and cosy fires as the nights drew in. It was raining the day we arrived. or maybe it wasn’t, I can’t remember to tell the truth. The year was 1996. It doesn’t seem that long ago, but it was a different world then. Most people had never heard of the internet or email. I hadn’t been back to England for about ten years and I was looking forward to the time we would spend there. Dale and I had never travelled together before, other than to Fiji for a holiday. We had both seen the world when we were younger, before we met, so we were excited about doing this together. We were starting a new chapter in our lives. A new baby, no income, a new country and nowhere to live. None of that mattered though. I was going to reconnect with the country where I had grown up, and I was going to write a novel. I wasn’t quite sure what it would be about, but I was sure something would occur to me.

There was a slight hitch at immigration. I had a UK passport, as did our baby, but Dale was traveling on her NZ passport. We’d contacted the British embassy before we left and they told us that Dale would need a visa, which was going to cost quite a bit of money. Since money was a commodity in short supply, I persuaded Dale that she wouldn’t really need the visa. After all, we were married and I was British, so how could there be a problem? Dale was dubious but I was insistent.

As it happened, I was wrong, which Dale often tells me is not uncommon. We were held up for about three hours while unsympathetic immigration people listened stony-faced as I explained that we were married, enunciating slowly so they would understand. I dislike officialdom. Actually what I dislike is inflexible people who apply the rules with an iron hand because they like making other people’s lives difficult.

The immigration people insisted that without a visa, Dale could not enter the country, though they agreed that she did meet the criteria to obtain a visa. Fine, I said. Give her one now then. No, they said. She would have to apply in New Zealand before she left. I pointed out that she had in fact already left, and therefore it would be difficult to comply, a response that was met with more and even stonier silence. Eventually a senior officer was summoned, who asked why we hadn’t enquired about the regulations prior to leaving. I sensed that it might not go in our favour if I admitted that we had, but that I objected to paying the exorbitant fees the embassy had demanded and decided to wing it instead. So, sensibly, I lied and claimed that I simply hadn’t thought it would be necessary given the fact that Dale and I were married and had a baby and I was English and… I was probably going to add some final reasoning, laden with sarcasm, but Dale, who is very good with people, quickly intervened. She said nice things and pleaded, looking completely knackered as she tried to soothe the fractious infant in her arms. Her approach worked and in the end, they let us in.

On the way to the car-rental place I couldn’t resist claiming victory, though Dale didn’t exactly see it that way. Try arguing with immigration officials for three hours with a three-week old baby in your arms just after you’ve stepped off a twenty-six hour flight in economy and you’ll probably see her point. Dale still reminds me of this episode to this day. She can bear a grudge. Perhaps the worst part of this story is that about three years later I did the same thing again, sort of, and that time we did get kicked out. So I suppose I can see her point too.

Anyway, getting back to Heathrow. After we picked up the keys to a car we loaded our bags in the boot, attached the baby seat, and finally we were ready. Next stop Northamptonshire, the county where I was born and where an uncle and aunt lived, who had generously offered to put us up for a week or so while we sorted out what to do next. I think it was then that it really hit home to both of us that the adventure, if that was what it would turn out to be, was really beginning. Until then it had all felt a bit like a holiday. Something temporary and not quite real. As we set off towards the motorway I looked in the rear-view mirror and I saw our lives as we had known them disappearing behind us, and in front was unchartered territory. I thought about the money we had and wondered how long it would last. I thought a year, maybe two if we were very careful. After that we would be flat broke. My excitement curdled a bit and a bitter taste rose to my mouth. I think it was terror.