The bus jolted forward with a metallic groan, its tyres crunching over gravel as it wound toward Point Nepean’s quarantine station. The air inside was thick with the scent of sweat and sea salt — the smell that clung to clothes long after a journey ended.
Jimmy and Suraj sat in nervous silence.
Through the grimy windows they saw police officers stationed along the perimeter fence — a symbol of what the station was designed to do: keep some out and the rest locked away. The bus hissed to a stop. The door opened, and they stepped into warm, humid air.
The station loomed like a prison, its whitewashed walls and barred windows evoking the orphanage back home. Jimmy’s heart pounded.
“Just a quick poke and a prod, then we’re off, eh Suraj?”
Suraj said nothing, clutching his worn suitcase. His gaze fixed on the imposing brick structure. For him, the station was more than a hurdle — it was a barrier between the life he hoped to build and the one he had left. He had promised his mother he would make something of himself in Australia. Now doubt gnawed at the edges of that promise.
Medical officers in crisp white coats lined the entryway, faces masked, movements precise. Belongings were tagged and fumigated.
A sign at the entrance declared:
QUARANTINE STATION — ALL NEW ARRIVALS MUST REPORT
Suraj’s gaze lingered. He thought of the White Australia Policy. He felt safer with his British passport — but was it enough?
Inside, the main hall was stark and unwelcoming. A nurse in a bright white uniform barked orders as the new arrivals filed in. Faded multilingual signs — English, Italian, Greek — clung to the walls, remnants of those who had passed before them.
“Stand there. Shoes off!”
Jimmy fumbled with his laces, glancing at Suraj.
What are they looking for? he wondered. Are we diseased? Contaminated? Or just unwelcome?
A flicker of defiance sparked within him. This is ridiculous.
The examinations were invasive and humiliating — thermometers jammed under tongues, needles pricking arms, cold stethoscopes pressed against bare skin.
“Cough.”
Jimmy endured in silence, thinking of Elani. Of home. Of Mr Olsen’s words:
In Australia, lad, you gotta take the rough with the smooth — like the bloody kangaroo and the emu. Neither can walk backwards.
“What do you reckon they’re lookin’ for?” Jimmy asked quietly.
“Sickness,” Suraj replied. “Anything that makes us a burden to them. Especially tuberculosis.” He paused. “It’ll be harder for me because of my tan.”
Jimmy chuckled, unsure whether to laugh.
They were taken to a long dormitory lined with iron-framed beds. The smell of disinfectant caught at the back of the throat.
Reminds me of the orphanage, Jimmy thought.
Days blurred into monotony.
A bell each morning. Bread and weak tea on metal trays. Health checks. Waiting. Always waiting.
Children played outside, their laughter briefly lifting the weight that hung over the adults.
One evening Jimmy sat tracing the thin mattress.
“It’s all so… cold. Like they don’t want us to feel human.”
“It’s a test,” Suraj said. “They want to see who can endure.”
Fourteen days passed.
When the gates finally opened, Jimmy felt changed. It was not just a prison — it was a crucible.
They boarded a bus bound for Eastbridge Immigration Hostel in Nunawading.
Melbourne flashed past: clattering trams, crowded streets, hurried passersby. So different from Yorkshire.
Eastbridge appeared soon after — rows of corrugated iron huts, functional but unwelcoming.
“How long will we be here?” Jimmy asked.
“How long’s a bit of string?” came the reply. “Could be a week. Could be a year.”
Inside, metal-framed beds stretched in rows. Privacy consisted of hospital curtains. Men argued quietly over bunks.
A voice cut through the tension.
“Pommie, I assume?”
“Jimmy. Yorkshire.”
“Liverpool,” the man said, grinning. “Name’s Tom. Don’t worry. This is just the beginning. The real adventure’s out in the bush.”
Jimmy wanted to believe him.
That night, beneath whining ceiling fans, he lay awake. The day replayed in his mind.
The Land shapes you. Don’t fight it.
Morning brought porridge and announcements.
“Jimmy,” Mr Thompson called, handing him a slip of paper. “Traralgon. Sheep station. Remote Victoria. You leave tomorrow.”
Tom slapped his back. “Lucky bugger.”
Jimmy forced a smile.
As the sun set, he sat with Suraj and Tom, speaking quietly of dreams and uncertainty.
Suraj handed him a folded note. “Write to me.”
“I’ll miss you,” Jimmy said.
Suraj nodded, jaw clenched. Words failed him.
At the hostel gates, Jimmy boarded the bus alone.
Suraj stood watching as it pulled away.
He looks so alone, Suraj thought. Please God, let him make something of this.
Jimmy kept his eyes on him until he became a speck in the distance.
What will it take to belong here — in a place that welcomes, then insults and challenges?
The answer, he suspected, waited for him at the sheep farm.
And it might cost more than he was ready to give.