Australia

Mr Wendell Wilkins woke up with the sudden urge to see Australia.

'Australia, Australia,' he murmured. 'That's where my heart belongs.'

Mrs Monica Wilkins on the bed beside him opened her eyes to be greeted by a new day and her husband's self-made song. Her head ached; in her nightmares she was a dentist.

'The tickets,' she said blankly. 'Where did I put them yesterday?'

'In your purse?' he suggested absentmindedly.

His thoughts were far away: some trouble was growing on the periphery of his consciousness, as if he had forgotten something very important; something so vital that the life itself was not worth it; something so essential that his mind was refusing to follow him in this everyday routine; when he had to get up, to wash himself, to eat, to get dressed, and then move for another day outside, a day just like the many others in this endless sequence –

'Are you packed?' Mrs Wilkins asked. 'I can't find my sunglasses. Have you seen them?'

– sequence of things lost. He looked at his travel bag: a solid black trunk made from leather. Of course it couldn't be that he'd forgotten anything. He wouldn't even check: a man should never connive to his irrationality.

'And also to make a call,' Mrs Wilkins was saying, stretching her hand to take a small notebook lying near the phone. She opened it with the resolution that usually marked all her movements; she flipped through the pages; she thought of the letter H:

a b c d e f g - i j k l

As the last ones were turned, Mrs Wilkins closed the notebook and spent some moments looking at it with a sort of expectation. Then she blinked and put it back.

'What could be better? To spend a month together in that wonderful place,' she said to her reflection in the mirror. 'Only you and me. No work, no queues, no teeth, no fuss, no worries about our d–

Blink.

Australia.

'What for are you unpacking your things?' she asked her husband.

He was fighting with irrationality. He took up one thing after the other, and he knew that there was something below, in the depth, at the heart of it all; something that he was looking for.

'They used to believe that people in Australia were walking upside down,' Mr Wilkins said. 'Imagine.'

'I used to believe in Santa Claus once. And in Peter Pan. In Peter Pan most notably. I was pretending to be Wendy,' said Mrs Wilkins, finishing her make-up. 'I wished to fly away.'

'And now, you shall,' nodded Mr Wilkins.

He was putting the things back into the trunk: a process much more enjoyable for him, as was any rational activity aimed at restoring the order. What he was looking for was not there; but then it must not have been really important. Nothing they wouldn't be able to buy when they, at last, arrived There.

Australia; the only one was worthy to think about. Australia, Australia. Oh, what was taking her so long, that Wendy-would-be?

'You need not your evening dress, dear,' he said, slightly irritated. 'I left my dinner jacket behind, too.'

She closed the wardrobe. Now, all her fears were hidden inside.

She sighed.

She turned the lights off.

She checked the water in the kitchen.

She checked the iron.

She checked upstairs – no need to go upstairs, there's nothing of interest there.

Nothing should be forgotten.

'At last,' they whispered simultaneously. And then thought, also simultaneously, 'Australia.'

They went outside. The taxi was waiting. It was raining; what else that London's autumn could bring them but rains, and smog, and loneliness? While in Australia, they would have a blue sky, a warm sun, a fresh air, and… and…

A neighbour was doing something to his unnaturally green lawn. Mr Wilkins nodded. The neighbour opened his mouth and spoke, but the lawn-mower suddenly began to make so much noise that Mr Wilkins was able to hear only separate sounds.

'Pardon?' he said.

The neighbour produced these sounds again, this time with a hint of the most unexpected frown.

E – I – O – E

e-i-o-e, Mr Wilkins thought, displeased. What did this freak want from them? With that e-i-o-e, e-i-o-e.

Could it be…

thEy spY On mE?

'Ouch,' Mrs Wilkins exclaimed in pressed undertone. 'Why are you squeezing my hand?'

'Don't look at him,' he breathed out. 'He is spying on us. Don't look.'

The man in dark cloak across the road was also looking very suspicious.

'What?' Mrs Wilkins whispered, her eyes focused somewhere in the distance. 'Who are they?'

They were to prevent us from going there, Mr Wilkins thought. All our life, they were doing the same: watching, waiting, spying. But all that is hidden will be revealed at last. All that is hidden will come to light. Because now the reason of it all has been opened for him.

Australia. From darkness, lead me to the light.

They got into the taxi. They were watching the malicious neighbour in the side mirror, trying to suppress their anxiousness, till he disappeared.

In the airport, Mr Wilkins spotted several other suspicious characters; all of them, no doubt, were plotting something against him and his wife; all of them were trying to prevent them from going to Australia, from seeing the light. He did not tell Mrs Wilkins about it, though. He was a gentleman, after all.

On the plane, Mr Wilkins took out his laptop and turned it on. He had to do some work; he was already lingering for so long that he had almost forgotten what his job was. Inappropriate irrationality.

His wife was reading some book she had bought in the airport. About Australia, of course. An excellent choice. A very practical one.

As was Mrs Wilkins herself.

He cast a sidelong look at the book. It was entitled: The Stolen Generation.

'What is that book, darling?'

She hesitated before answering. She blinked several times; as if not sure herself what she was reading.

'It's about the Aboriginal children. They were taken from their families. Separated from their parents and given new names,' she said calmly.

'Why?' Mr Wilkins asked.

'They said it was needed to protect their interests,' she said. 'The entire matter has received significant attention later.'

'So they do it no more?' he ascertained, trying to concentrate on the numbers in the laptop.

'It's all a history now, dear,' she said and put the book aside. 'I'm going to have some sleep. And you?'

'There's something important,' he began, and stopped in the middle of the phrase. Important for what? For his work? For his wife? For those children who were lost long ago and never came back home? Children never come back? He had never had children of his own. What's the point, if they would never come back. What a –

'– pity,' the single word broke from him; so meaningless, so irrational.

Mrs Wilkins was already asleep. She was already in Australia, Mr Wilkins thought. Maybe it was a good idea, to sleep. It would make the time run faster; it would bring the light closer.

He closed his eyes.

And woke up in Australia.

Australia, Australia. The peace his heart was longing for. The light his soul demanded for so long. The order to all things, so much anticipated by his rational mind.

Blue sky.

Warm sun.

Fresh air.

And the light, the omnipresent white light. No things could be lost in it. Nothing could be forgotten. They do not separate the child from the parents anymore.

It is all a history.