Ali Smith: Autumn

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 birth day? 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.