First Day in Sydney

Lucia had been dreaming about this day for nearly two years. Back in Rosario, she had worked as a nurse in a children's hospital, but she had always wanted to work abroad. Getting to Sydney had taken months of English exams, medical checks and forms that seemed to ask the same questions in slightly different ways. When her registration finally came through, she had cried in the middle of the supermarket.

Her first shift on the surgical ward started at seven in the morning. By ten past seven, things had already started to go wrong. Her new swipe card didn't open the staff room, so she had to wait outside until a cleaner let her in. Then, during the handover, the night nurse spoke so fast, and used so many abbreviations, that Lucia understood about half of what she said. She wrote everything down and nodded a lot.

The morning got worse. She couldn't find the right drawer for anything. The computer system was completely different from the one she used to use at home, and it logged her out every time she walked away from the screen. A patient asked her for a "cuppa" and she had no idea what he meant until another nurse laughed and pointed at the tea trolley. When a doctor called her "love", she was not sure whether to be offended or not. By lunchtime, she was hiding in the toilets, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake.

After lunch, she was sent to Bed 14. The patient was a tiny old man called Mr. Doyle, who was recovering from a hip operation and had a reputation, according to the other nurses, for being difficult. He had refused his physiotherapy twice that week. Lucia introduced herself and explained, rather nervously, that she needed to check his blood pressure.

Mr. Doyle looked at her name badge. "Lucia," he said slowly. "Where are you from?" When she told him, his face changed completely. "Rosario! I know Rosario. I used to be a sailor, you know. In the sixties, I worked on cargo ships between here and Buenos Aires." And then, to her complete astonishment, he started speaking Spanish. It was old-fashioned and heavily accented, but it was perfectly clear.

For the next twenty minutes, while she checked his blood pressure and changed his dressing, Mr. Doyle told her stories. His ship would stay in Buenos Aires for a week at a time, he said, and he and his friends would take the train up the river to Rosario to watch football. He used to eat so many alfajores that the cook on the ship called him "the biscuit man". He had even tried to learn the tango, without much success.

"I haven't spoken Spanish for forty years," he said, sounding surprised at himself. "I didn't think I remembered any." Then he looked at the physiotherapist, who had just appeared at the door with a walking frame, and sighed. "All right," he said. "If the nurse from Rosario comes with me, I'll do it."

So Lucia walked slowly down the corridor beside him while he told her about a cafe near the river in Rosario that he used to visit every evening. It was, she realized, the same cafe where her parents had gone on their first date. By the time they got back to Bed 14, the physiotherapist was smiling and the senior nurse was looking at Lucia with new respect.

That evening, on the ferry back to her flat in Manly, Lucia watched the lights of the Opera House and thought about the day. She still didn't know where anything was kept, and she still wasn't sure about being called "love". But she had a feeling that she was going to be all right.