It was Thursday. Daisy’s day off. She fastened her maternity girdle. Dressed in her tobacco green shift dress, she hurried down the stairs.
Her friend Lisa was waiting in a cab outside.
‘Just a minute.’ Mrs Browne was standing at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You seem in a rush today, Daisy’.
‘It’s my day off.’
‘I need this hand washing done.’ Mrs Browne held out a handful of underwear.
‘I have an important appointment, Mrs Browne.’
‘My washing is equally important Daisy.’
Mrs Browne eyed Daisy’s outfit. ‘How can you afford a dress like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘The dress you’ve got on. You can’t afford a dress like that on the wages I pay you.’
Daisy grabbed the washing.
‘What appointment do you have?’
Daisy stormed down the stairs to the laundry in the basement. She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, plunked the hand washing in the clothes basket, and slipped out the side door.
*
‘You look chic. You hoping to charm the immigration officer?’ said Lisa.
‘That’s the idea.’ said Daisy.
‘Your bump is showing. If they notice you’re…’
‘I’ll keep my coat fastened.’
*
Daisy faced the Immigration officer. He had no neck. He regarded her through hooded eyes.
‘Where are you staying?’
Daisy gave Lisa’s address in Niagara Falls.
‘How much time are you applying for?’
‘Whatever time you give me, will be fine. The winter has come and slowed down my travels.’
‘How are you going to support yourself?’
‘I have enough funds.’
He gave her a piercing look.
‘Are you a nurse?’
‘No. Not every Jamaican who travels is a nurse.’
‘Most who come over are either on the Domestic Scheme or nurses. If you are not a nurse, what drew you to Canada?’
‘I’m just a tourist. Spending time with friends, seeing the country.’
‘We get a lot of Jamaicans tourists in Canada these days.’
‘We get a lot of Canadian tourists in Jamaica.’
A smile softened his stern demeanour. He leafed through her passport.
‘I see you’ve been to Israel. What were you doing there?’
‘I worked on a Kibbutz.’
‘My niece is with the Peace Corps. She’s in Nigeria teaching village kids.’
A hot flash erupted deep inside Daisy. Heat flushed into her neck and face. She unbuttoned her coat. The officer glanced up from her passport.
‘Are you hot?’
‘I’m not used to so much central heating.’
‘Hey’, he said, looking her up and down.
Daisy felt like she was about to faint. She maintained eye contact, prayed her legs appeared steadier than they felt.
‘My wife has a dress the same colour as the one you’re wearing. What shade of green would you call it?’
‘Tobacco Green,’ said Daisy.
‘That’s it,’ he said, and smiled.
He stamped her passport. ‘Six months should do it. Enjoy your stay.’
‘Thanks.’ said Daisy. ‘That’s exactly what I’ll do.’
Veronica Robinson is Jamaican/British. She started writing in Jamaica for the evening newspaper, producing stories, articles and an advice column. She contributed in two short films and a flash fiction story to City Lit magazine ‘Between The Lines’. For the past 10 years, she has been attending a writers’ group and focusing on writing short stories and flash fiction.
Photo by Vince Veras on Unsplash.
