Neither-Nor: A Young Australian’s Experience with Deafness

24. England

24 England The Eurostar train left Gare du Nord for London’s Waterloo Station on the morning of the January 31, 1998. We reached a blistering 200 kilometers per hour, and the French countryside passed by like a thousand postcards before we disappeared underground, under the English Channel . After twenty minutes of darkness, I saw England for the first time. It was strange seeing the land of my ancestors. For a split second, I thought, “Gee, this looks like England,” only to remind myself that it was England ! The farmland looked similar to land around coastal Warrnambool where my grandparents lived. I thought of Grandpa when he said, “Make sure you go to England one day. Complete the circle.” I looked at the veins in my wrist, the same threads of blood I had contemplated cutting for Bella one year ago in the lonely expanses of Glebe Park, and whispered, “I’m here.” Passing through customs at Waterloo Station was an ordeal. The customs officer appeared formidable in his suit with a gleaming badge. He checked my passport and asked, “How long do you plan to stay in England , Mr. Jacobs?” He spoke the most exquisite Queen’s English. I could hear his crisp voice, but his mannerisms were totally alien. “Ah,” I drew on years of speechreading experience and hazarded a guess, “I’m not sure at this point.” “Are you in England for a holiday or are you working?” he asked. I’d guessed right and drew strength from this. But I struggled to keep my composure, my end of the conversation going, “I’m sort of working.” “Sort of working?” The conversation was running smoother. My answers were more natural , “I’m earning my keep at a Deaf school in Devon.” “Devon, did you say?” 164 “Yes, it’s sort of voluntary work.” I tried not to let my panic register. “Have you got a visa?” “No. I was told that I didn’t need one unless I was working here.” “I’m sorry but you are going to have to wait,” he said, gesturing me aside as he checked other passports. All the passengers streamed through the gates like saintly beings. Soon the terminal was empty save for two security guards who avoided eye contact. Having to return to Australia seemed a real possibility. The customs officer asked me a few more questions. I confessed to having trouble understanding his accent, which softened his approach. This was a good speechreading tactic. I also told him that my mother was English. “Do you know her date of birth?” he asked. I told him, but wondered if it was correct. e n g l a n d 165 My passport photograph at age 23 He told me to wait again and disappeared to a nearby room with my passport. Was the date right? Am I going straight home? After I waited fifteen minutes contemplating what to say to my relatives in Derby, the customs officer appeared and gave me the good news that I could stay in England for six months. I walked through the gates alone, relieved and walking taller with a new stamp in my passport. I hailed a black cab, entered with my bags, and soon passed over the Thames to St. Pancras Station en route to Derby. I smoked a cigarette and played it cool in case the taxi driver was thinking of ripping me off. I also studied the London map in case he was literally taking me for a ride. People have attempted to exploit my deafness in the past, and I have heard many stories of deaf people being overcharged or cajoled into doing things that would disadvantage them. Life had taught me the importance of being street smart. Map in hand, I was pleased he’d taken the shortest route to my destination. ❖ I met Mum’s cousin Marcia and her husband George at Derby Station . Her stocky build, mannerisms, and dress sense were those of a traditional mother in posttraditional times. At their home, I enjoyed my first cup of tea in that famous tea-drinking country and was surprised to find that in one household all family members had different accents. The easiest to understand was George, whose dialect was strangely familiar. “That’s because I’m from Tibshelf, the same town as your grandfather,” he said. My second cousins were ideal hosts and also insisted...