Australia, Land of Tomorrow
Sunlight streamed in through the dusty window above the girl’s head. She couldn’t be more than 20 years old, at a guess, blonde hair pinned up neatly, her gaze locked on the papers laying before her. An oscillating fan was perched on the corner of the battered desk, ruffling the papers slightly, but doing little to move the sweltering air and even less to displace the ever-present flies buzzing about the stifling old barracks.
The blonde seemed not to notice any of it. Not the flies, not the heat, not me.
I followed her gaze to the papers. There were two piles, each with a rock keeping them from scattering in the fan’s weak breeze. The first was a neat stack of clean, official documents all printed with the same header. The words ‘Bathurst Migrant Camp’ stuck out in a large, bold font with the phrase ‘Migrant Reception and Training Centre for European Refugees and Displaced Persons’ in neat print just below.
The second pile was far less tidy. These papers were grubby, well-worn and mismatched.
I closed my eyes and leaned back in the hard chair. Beads of sweat trickled down my cheeks. I listened to the shuffling of papers and the whirr of the fan and thought of the poster that had started this whole journey. That splash of pastel rainbow pasted on the grimy, broken wall. ‘Australia’ it read ‘land of tomorrow.’
A fly buzzed across my nose and I swatted at it madly, jerking back upright in the chair.
‘Bloody pests!’ I muttered.
‘They’re always bad mid-summer,’ the blonde said matter-of-factly. She glanced up at me for the second time since I’d sat down in front of her. ‘The flies, I mean.’
‘What, always?’ I asked in disbelief.
She cleared her throat softly and reached for the ID card I’d laid on the desk when I first sat down. ‘Right then. I need all your details confirmed before I can send this on,’ her tone had a no-nonsense coldness about it that seemed too old for her. ‘Please say your answer to each question and I’ll cross-check the papers, understood?’
I nodded and sat up straighter in my chair.
‘Okay. Your name?’
‘Jack Elliss.’
‘Single?’
‘Very.’
Her lips moved into a tiny smirk at this, which made me glad I’d dared.
‘Age?’
‘21.’
She looked up at me, quizzically.
‘Er, 19, I mean. Just turned! But I was 18 when I registered with the Migration Office back in Birmingham,’ I stammered quickly.
‘Which is how you qualified for full fare assistance, I assume?’ she quipped back.
I opened my mouth but couldn’t think of what to say. I’d been so careful for months. Was one sharp-tongue in a pretty face going to be my undoing after all this?
She must have noticed my distress because her tone was softer as she said ‘listen, what you said to get here doesn’t bother me. I just need to know how old you are, really, so I can get the registration correct.’
‘21. My birthday’s February 12th 1927.’
‘Was that so hard?’
‘A bit, yeah. I’ve been saying a different story for ages. And I’m rubbish at maths. Had to keep doing the sums to work out what year I was meant to be born in!’
She laughed. Such a warm sound. The kindest I’d heard in months.
She turned back to the papers, two pages of which she offered me.
‘I’ve put you in B block, bunk info’s on the sheet. Shouldn’t be for too long. Usually we can get placements sorted quite quickly for refugees, er, I mean, migrants,’ she blushed and continued, ‘but, well, there’s housing shortages everywhere right now. I’m sure I’ll have details for something for you soon, though. Single male, under 25? And already speaks English! Mostly we get Italians and Greeks, did you know?’
‘Guess I hadn’t thought about it,’ I answered honestly.
‘It’s true. Between you and me,’ she confided, leaning in a bit. ‘It’s really nice to have someone I can have a proper conversation with for a change.’
Before I could respond, another fly buzzed across my face, making me jump.
‘I told you,’ the girl giggled. ‘The flies are always bad in summer.’
‘And is it also always this hot?’ I asked, giving her my best attempt at a dashing smile.
‘Actually, it’s been rather cool so far this year,’ she said with a wink. ‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘it never really gets that hot until after Christmas.’
‘Christmas…’ the word fell out of my lips with a stumble, as though it was too heavy and oddly shaped to be said properly. ‘I… I’d forgotten… it is though, isn’t it? It’s nearly…’ my voice faded into a horse whisper in the back of my throat.
The girl shifted uncomfortably. ‘I… forgive me,’ she said after a moment. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you… Oh, no, please don’t cry!’
The tears must have been welling up as she spoke. I hadn’t even noticed. Embarrassed, I quickly brushed them away.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered looking away, down at the dirt floor. ‘I just… it hadn’t really hit me I guess.’ I took in a ragged breath. ‘I’ll be here for Christmas. On my own.’ I took in another breath, smoother this time, and let it out with a sigh.
The silence hung in the air between us a moment, filled only by the hum of the fan and the flies.
‘Thank you,’ I finally said, standing up, papers in hand. ‘For your help. And the proper conversation.’
‘You know,’ chimed the girl, looking up at me, suddenly shy. ‘They’re opening a school here just after the New Year. To teach English. I could, if you want I mean, I could put your name in for it.’ She smiled at me and I felt my heart melt.
‘That might suit me well,’ I replied. ‘But, first, I need to ask you a few questions. To start with… single?’
Contest details:
Contest: NYC Midnight Flash Fiction 2015, Round 1, Challenge 2
Genre: Historical Fiction
Location: A refugee camp
Object: An oscillating fan
Score: 12 points