2022

A wet Saturday afternoon driving along the interminably endless straight roads of Melbourne’s Eastern suburbs. Where is this damned house, I am sure I will never get there. Look at the street numbers– 1782 1784, 1786. I have to find the house. I have to find her. What a huge falling out over such a little thing. Her dad is not a moron, I didn’t mean it that way, he’s all right, just a bit thick. But she took offence, said she never wanted to see me again, said I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself. I haven’t seen her now for a month. 1864 1866. Goodness, where is this confounded house. Traffic lights, look out. Stop.

Now we are closer, 2018, 2020, this is it. Ooh, a big house. Posh. What is Linda doing here, not her style? Anyway, she should be ready for me, got my letter, I’m not too nervous, hope she forgives me.

Knock on the front door. Nothing. Knock again. Shuffling, I can hear shuffling. Odd, Linda doesn’t shuffle. The door opens. Nobody there. Then a little head peeps around the door. An old lady.

‘We don’t need the lawns mowed today,’ she says.

‘No, I’m not the lawn mower man.’

‘I have no more rooms for rent. They are all rented.’

‘I don’t want a room. I’m looking a girl.’

‘This is not that kind of place. Try the Whitehorse Hotel.’

‘No, she’s a good girl. She has short blond hair, often tied back.’

‘Oh, yes Linda, such a sweet girl. It’s a pity she left,’ says the old lady.

‘She’s left?’ My heart flutters. I’ve missed her. I can’t bear it. ‘When did she leave?’

‘Last week.

‘Then she would have got my letter,’ I am relieved, but think again. ‘Hang on, she left anyway.’ I groan. ‘She wants to avoid me.’

The old lady sees my heartbreak. ‘She was so clever a girl, always got an A for her essays. But she will keep on at Blackburn High.’

‘Essay, Blackburn High? But Linda is 25 years old.’

‘Oh no, she is only 15.’

I am exasperated. ‘This is not my Linda,’ I say. ‘I’m talking about the big one. She’s from New Zealand. Talks with a funny accent. I have to find her, I love her. We had a silly tiff. I have written to her to say I’m sorry, I want to make up, I’ll not do it again, all that sort of thing. My life hangs on it.’

‘I have some Indian girls staying here if they are any good.’

‘No, I want to find my Linda.’

I am completely demolished: my dreams shattered. I turn to plod off down the drive, head hanging low.

‘You said you sent a letter,’ she calls from the door.

‘Yes, I did.’

The old lady hobbles back inside, then reappears clutching a letter, my letter, and– it’s unopened.

It happens quite a lot,’ says the sweet old dear. ‘They forget the dash. The street address should be unit 20, number 22, not 2022. She hands the letter to me. ‘Try again, good luck.’