Our last day in the USA was in New York City. We had tickets for the boat trip out to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. Pat had really wanted to do that, and it seemed a fitting thing to do as we left. Our flight was in the evening, so we packed up our massive amount of luggage, got a cab and headed out to JFK to check it in before heading out for our trip. Now we knew traffic was notoriously bad there, but until you are actually there it is hard to fathom how bad it is. We crawled out to the airport, watching the clock, as we had timed tickets for the boat trip. Finally we arrived, only to discover we couldn’t check in and drop off our bags early. The left luggage was a bit of a trek from where we were, so we took the decision that Pat and the boys should go and I would stay and sort things out at the airport. Of course you can’t leave your luggage unattended, and we had so much that I couldn’t load it all on to one trolley, so I was sort of stuck. I was going to ask someone if they could get me a cup of coffee, but there wasn’t a coffee shop in sight, and if I drink coffee the result is, of course, that I have to go to the toilet, which I couldn’t do either. So I ended up playing a puzzle for seven hours, just waiting. The trains in New York are clearly just as painful as the traffic and the boys all got back to the airport just an hour before the plane was due to leave. We checked in, grabbed some food and coffee (went to the toilet, phew) and boarded the plane. That’s got to be the worst day I’ll have all year, I thought, but hey, the real adventure begins tomorrow as we arrive back in the UK and see our family.
We arrived at Heathrow. Pat went through non-citizens line, and I took the boys through the citizens line (if at least two of you are citizens, they are okay with a couple of non-citizens going through with you). They pulled us aside and said that as we were settling here, and the two oldest were on visitors visas, they couldn’t allow them in. I told them we had taken advice from the British Embassy, but they said, no, that advice was incorrect. Pat was already through immigration and looking puzzled, so the Border Force officer went over to talk to him. I don’t know exactly what happened in their conversation, but at some point Pat mentioned that the older two boys were adopted. The officer said that was a problem, and if they weren’t adopted she would let us in, even saying at one point “are you sure they’re adopted?” The clear implication to us was that if we said no, they would be okay with it. When a child is adopted they get a totally new birth certificate with the adoptive parents names on, so there is absolutely no way to tell that it is an adoption, but we’re not going to lie.
Bear in mind this is all happening after a trans-Atlantic flight when you’re never at your best and the brain is not working well. It was at this point I looked at the badge on the officer’s chest and misread it, thinking it said “Border Farce”, which has become my name for them since that time.
Time was ticking along, and Pat had to get up to Birmingham to get the keys to our rental house before 5pm, so he and Philip left. That left me with the other two boys in a detention room. Let me say that the Border Force people were very nice personally, they bought us tea and sandwiches and were very polite. I said I needed to get in contact with my sister who was expecting to meet us in Birmingham. They put a call through to her mobile and I had to explain what was going on, that I didn’t know where Pat was at this point, but that he was heading to New Street Station, and they would just have to wait for him there. I asked the Border Force agents if I could go through passport control, buy a mobile phone and come back, so that at least I could communicate with family. They said no, if I went through I could not come back in, which seems ridiculous. After all I was free to enter the country, and they could easily have sent an agent with me if they were worried about anything (I don’t know what they would be worried about????).
The discussion centred around the fact that they had the wrong visa, and despite my protestations that I had taken advice from the British Embassy helpline, it didn’t matter. They advised us that even if we contacted a lawyer they would tell us the same, so there was no point doing that. We asked if they could at least stay for a couple of weeks, as we were going to a family reunion for my mum’s 80th birthday, and with half the family not there is would be a bit of a damp squib – of course even with their imminent departure it would be a bit of a damp squib. But no, they would not be prevailed upon. This was Wednesday morning, they had to leave Saturday evening. They took photographs of the boys, fingerprinted them, retained their passports, gave us letters with their rationale and finally released us. Luckily the boys slept through nearly all of this process.
Once through immigration I bought a phone, got the bus up to Birmingham and phoned my sister. They had spotted Pat at New Street Station and were on their way to get the key to our house. This was crucial, and why Pat had left without us. The estate agents closed at 5pm, wouldn’t release the key to anyone else, and our moving lorry was arriving at 9am the next morning.
We all arrived at the house at about the same time in the end: me with the older boys, Pat with the youngest one, my mum, dad and sister. Instead of the balloons and celebrations we all sat around, cried and felt lousy. Then it started snowing. Of course. On the plus side we liked the house, which my sister and brother-in-law had sorted out for us before we moved.
That night we all slept (or tried to sleep!) on the floor, but at least we had a roof over our heads and, temporarily, were all together. I mulled over what had happened, and in particular the agent saying not to bother calling a lawyer. I realized that I must not take her word for it. After all, I’m British, my husband has a visa to work for the government, surely a lawyer will just be able to tell us how to fix this fairly easily.
Thus ends the first day in the UK.
And a bit of TONIC:
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Gillian's Immigration Nightmare (GIN) 