The Demise of Roland Ratso: Chapter sixty six

Alex led me astray last night and we had to go to the club and watch Irene playing bingo! The chemo effect is beginning to abate and my mouth is no longer as sore – I find that saline mouthwash clears it up fairly quickly but I do have a bit of a chemo brain! I was just thinking about the saga I had to get a British passport. I was born in Northern Rhodesia and was initially on my mother’s passport, then I was on a collective passport and finally used to go cross channelling on short trip passports. Then I got a one year temporary passport. The crux of the matter was that I needed a copy of my parent’s marriage certificate. I do not have a birth certificate either which also made things difficult. Alex found my parent’s original marriage certificate but before I could get it to the passport office we had the house fire the certificate was destroyed. We were then going to Spain on holiday so I went to the passport office to get an extension on my temporary one. Oh no! That would be too easy. The senior passport officer took great delight in emptying the little documentation that I had relating to my citizenship on to his desk and picking everything up by the corner like it was covered in something of which I have intimate knowledge. I asked him what I needed to do to get a passport. “Get a copy of your parent’s marriage certificate” was the response even though I had related the saga of trying to do exactly that already. “What if I can’t get a copy of the certificate?” I asked. “ Well then get an affadavit from two people who were at the marriage and were old enough to understand what the ceremony was about.” That was as likely as me going to the moon. They were married in Northern Rhodesia in 1953. The “senior” passport officer then told me to go to another window and pay £15. “What’s that for?” I asked. “A consultation" was the response. Absolutely marvellous. In the meantime Alex was on the case. He managed to telephone the Zambian embassy in America and made arrangements to send some Zambian Kwachas to enable a certificate to be sent from the Zambian birth’s, marriages and deaths. After several months and Alex phoning the BMD in Zambia and the deadline for my holiday was rapidly approaching, a package arrived with Two copies of the certificate. Alex immediately forwarded it to me and I sent my application off to the passport office. I had been in contact with them for a long period with another senior passport officer who was more sympathetic than the first one but who still had to follow "the rules". Alex phoned the passport office to inquire about my passport. They did not appear to have my application and neither did they seem to know anything about me. I knew exactly what was happening. I was now dealing with two senior passport officers. One had got half of my application and the other one had the other half. All I needed to do was get the two of them together. Simple, eh? The deadline loomed closer and closer and there was still no progress. I phoned Alex and asked him if he would send the other marriage certificate. “I was hoping that you wouldn’t ask for that.” “Why not? “ I asked. Well our grandfather’s name was Henry George White Wilkie although it appeared in the register as Harry George. The first certificate, which was now in the hands of god knows who, was spelt correctly but the second certificate had the name misspelt as HAPPY George. I was a most UNHAPPY Wilkie. The day before the holiday date loomed when there was a knock on the door and the postman gave me a package from the passport office. Result! My father’s father, Henry George White Wilkie left for South Africa seven days after my father was born. My brother had found him on the departure register but he can’t find any reference to his death anywhere. We think he was in the England in or around 1965 but he does not appear in any death register. We know his brother was in Bloomfontein in South Africa and it was likely that he went out there. Interestingly enough, Henry George had a nephew also called Henry George was the father of David Wilkie, the Olympic swimmer.I will be signing autographs later. My bother has tried contacing David Wilkie to see if he has any information about Henry George senior but he hasn't responded. ____________________________________________________