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The Drive Home
Chapter One of the Hobart homestay story · ホームステイ物語サンプル
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I didn't want to come to Australia.
I want to say that first, because it's true. For three weeks before the trip, I told my mother I didn't want to go. She didn't listen. "It is only nine days, Hina," she said. "You'll be fine."
Nine days. Nine days in a country I'd never seen, with a family I'd never met, speaking a language I wasn't good at.
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The plane landed in Hobart at night. It was winter in Australia — cold, dark, and the wind went straight through my coat. I was tired. I was scared. I wanted to go home, and I'd only just arrived.
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Then I saw them.
A woman was holding a small sign with my name on it: HINA OBA. She was smiling. Next to her stood a man and a girl about my age.
"Hina?" the woman said. "Hi! I'm Megan. Welcome to Tasmania!"
I had practised this part. I had practised it many times in the mirror at home.
"Hi, I'm Hina," I said. "Nice to meet you."
"This is Pete, my husband," Megan said. "And this is our daughter, Lily."
"Hi," Lily said.
"Hi," I said.
That was all I could say. My English ran out, like water from a cup.
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We walked to the car. It was cold and the car park was almost empty. Pete put my big suitcase in the back. "You must be knackered," he said.
I didn't know that word. I felt my face go hot.
"Sorry, could you say that again?" I said. It was another sentence I had practised.
"Knackered," Pete said, slower this time. "It means very tired. Sorry — that's an Australian word."
I nodded. I was learning English, and now I had to learn Australian English too. Nine days felt very long.
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Then I got into the back seat of the car, and I met the dog.
He was old. His face was grey around the muzzle, and he moved slowly, like an old man. He was a kelpie — a kind of Australian working dog. He looked at me with calm brown eyes.
"That's Banjo," Lily said. "He's ancient. He won't bother you."
But Banjo did bother me — in the nicest way. The car started to move, and the old dog shuffled across the seat. He put his head down on my lap, gave one long sigh, and went to sleep.
Nobody said anything. It was just a normal thing, the thing the dog always did.
I sat very still. Outside the window, Australia was dark and strange. I could see the black shape of a mountain above the city. Everything was new and a little frightening.
But the dog's head was warm and heavy on my lap. And for the first time since I left Japan, I wasn't afraid.
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The Bennetts' house was small and warm. Megan made tea. Pete carried my suitcase upstairs.
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I remembered my omiyage — the gift my mother had bought. In Japan, you always bring a gift. I took the box out of my bag. It was beautiful, wrapped in pretty paper, with green tea sweets inside.
"This is for you," I said. "It's from Japan."
"Oh, lovely," Megan said. "Thank you, Hina."
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She took the box, smiled, and put it on a shelf. Then she went back to making the tea.
That was all. The gift sat on the shelf. Nobody opened it.
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In Japan, a gift is important. It says: please be kind to me, please be my family for these nine days. But here, it was just a box on a shelf. I felt like an outsider again.
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Dinner was quiet and polite. I said "thank you so much" and "it's delicious" — sentences from my notebook. Lily looked at her phone. I didn't know what else to say, so I said nothing.
After dinner I went up to my room. I put on my pyjamas. I lay in the strange bed in the strange house and I thought: eight more days. I closed my eyes.
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Then the door creaked.
I opened my eyes. The room was dark. Something pushed the door open and walked in, slow and quiet.
It was Banjo.
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The old dog crossed the room. He sat down next to my bed and looked at me. And then — I swear to you, this is what happened — the dog spoke.
"Big day, hey?" he said. "You were quiet as a mouse in that car."
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I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
"Don't look so worried," Banjo said. "I'm not gonna bite you. I haven't got the teeth for it." He made a sound like a laugh. "I'm too old for dramas."
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"You… you can talk," I whispered.
"Reckon I can," said the dog. "And here's a funny thing — you can understand me. Not everyone can." He rested his grey head on the bed. "So. Tell me. At dinner tonight — what did you want to say, but didn't?"
I stared at him.
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I thought about dinner. I thought about all the words that had stayed inside me, all evening, like fish in a net.
"A lot of things," I said quietly.
"Yeah," said Banjo. "I reckon you did." He yawned. "Well. We've got eight days to let those fish out. No dramas. Get some sleep, kid."
I wanted to ask him a hundred questions. But I was so tired, and the room was so warm, and the old dog's voice was so calm…
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In the morning, I woke up alone. The door was closed. Banjo was downstairs, asleep by the heater — an ordinary old dog.
Maybe I dreamed it. A long flight, a strange bed; people have strange dreams.
But I didn't think it was a dream. And eight days is a long time. I was sure I would hear from Banjo again.
