Serenade for a Small Family Read online

  was talking to us. Like it was okay . . . like it was normal . . .’

  ‘They don’t all sniff petrol,’ said Karlie. ‘Just some of

  them. They must have broken into that house. It was a bad

  first impression for you.’

  ‘And they were saying, “Whitefella! Whitefella!” They

  were warning each other that we were coming. What do

  they think of us? Why were they saying that?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Why is there rubbish in the streets? Why doesn’t anyone

  pick it up?’ We were a long way from home and I was

  already homesick. I felt out of my depth.

  ‘It’s not as simple as you think . . .’

  ‘Why not?’

  Karlie didn’t have any easy answers.

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  The following morning two kids with bright smiling

  faces and hair sticking out in all directions rapped on our

  screen door.

  ‘What your name?’ The girl had a lump of tobacco

  wedged into her lower lip.

  ‘Ingrid. What’s yours?’

  ‘Briana.’

  ‘Hi, Briana.’ A dog yapped in the street, where other kids

  loitered. One of them caught my eye and quickly looked

  down, kicking up dust with the ball of his foot.

  ‘What you doin’ ’ere?’ asked Briana.

  I leant against the doorframe. ‘Music. You want to play

  some music?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The small boy standing beside Briana piped up: ‘Play

  geedah.’ His bare round belly protruded over faded shorts

  that came down over his shins, and his feet were bare. He

  had very brown eyes and long dark eyelashes.

  ‘Guitar? Cool. We’ve got drums too. What’s your name?’

  ‘Adam.’ He took Briana’s hand and stuck the index finger

  of his free hand into his mouth.

  ‘Hi, Adam.’

  ‘What ’ er name?’ asked Briana, indicating Karlie with a

  backward flick of her head.

  ‘Karlie,’ I said.

  ‘ Kaa-lee,’ said Briana.

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  ‘Yeah.’

  Karlie came over, drying her hands on a tea towel.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hey, let’s go to the hall, play some music,’ I said. ‘Do

  you want to take the gear and I’ll meet you there, Kaa-lee?’

  ‘Okay.’

  The kids hung around while I put on a hat and pulled

  up the collar of my shirt against the sun, then tagged along

  as I walked to meet Karlie, who had driven on ahead to the

  hall with our troopy full of instruments. I carried a stick

  to scare off the dogs.

  For two weeks we lapped the dirt streets in the troopy

  each morning, collecting kids and squeezing them into the

  back. We got to know their names and they got to know

  ours, and I stopped noticing the rubbish so much. We’d pile

  into the hall, and Karlie and I would hand out bells, drum

  sticks, hand drums and shakers made from drink bottles

  filled with rice. We taught rhythms and songs, and some

  girls made up a song in Pitjantjatjara, which translated as:

  Come to Amara

  We like playing softbal

  It’s a good place

  Come to Amara

  I stood with my arms folded on the sideline of a softball

  game and envied the kids’ easy sense of place. When Karlie

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  pulled out a camera, I was flocked by kids, arms landing

  around my neck and waist, wide grins appearing under

  big brown eyes in time for the camera’s click. We heaved

  the cover off the pool and supervised them for a couple

  of hours each day as they went crazy, jumping in and out

  of the water. ‘Over ’ere!’ A small boy ducked under, then

  peered up at me from below the water’s surface with one

  brown hand sticking out a thumbs-up.

  We went on a women-only bush trip, and teenage girls

  held charred, sticky fly-covered ’roo tails in their fists like

  sticks of fairy floss. A tall girl in a bright yellow Yankees

  hoody picked up one of the club-like tails from the chalky

  coals and held it out to me. ‘Ah . . . No thanks, not really

  hungry,’ I said, with a hand on my stomach. Older women

  sat cross-legged and barefoot in the sandy riverbed, weaving

  baskets from hand-picked plants while I watched, tempted

  to wave the flies from their lips.

  On our last night in the community we had a ‘disco’ in

  the hall, and some older fellas, with caps pulled low over

  their faces and their chins to their chests, played reggae

  tunes on the drums, guitar and bass we had brought. Groups

  of women sat in loose circles against the wall while their

  toddlers clambered over them, and kids with cheeky bold

  expressions on their faces took turns to run into the middle

  and roll their hips to the music before running back out

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  to the side. Karlie and I sat against the wall with our arms

  around our knees.

  ‘I’m not ready to go home yet,’ I said. ‘I like the pace

  here.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Karlie.

  Alice is a small town, and I was a big fish there. A couple

  of months later, I was given the job of coordinating a

  Territory-wide Youth Film Festival, based at an Aboriginal

  youth centre. I stuck my hair into plaits, packed my lunch

  and, excited by my new challenge, headed off to work each

  morning at the same time as Benny. I worked enthusiastically,

  with an unnerving riot of wild and woolly youth outside

  my office.

  I called for short films from all over the Territory, as

  far and wide as my budget would allow; then I organised

  a panel of judges, some sculptures for trophies, and a local

  artist to paint banners and hang them from the hall ceiling.

  Posters were stuck up all over town, encouraging people to

  enter, and ads played on local TV and radio.

  But by the closing date, I had only received a small

  number of entries. I anxiously asked the pale, plump

  receptionist if she had any mail for me. Her baby’s fat

  gurgling face filled her computer screen. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But

  when I went to the post office the other day there was a

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  bag of stuff, too big to carry. It’s still at the post office. I

  forgot to tell you.’

  ‘You are joking . . .’ I leapt into my car and fanged it to

  the post office, where I was thrilled and relieved to find a

  big sack of parcels—film recordings—addressed to me. A

  record sixty-four entries.

  On screening night, a motley stream of people strolled

  through the gates and stood around outside, chatting and

  eating plates of steaming ’roo curry to the sound of plinking

  guitars. They filed into the hall and filled the seats, and

  a selection of great films was screened without a hitch.

  Winners were announced and trophies handed out, while

  kids from the youth centre sat cross-legged up the front and
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  tried hard not to giggle.

  Benny and I were in Apartment 19, picking olives, rockmelon

  and grapes off Benny’s latest snack platter, when my mobile

  interrupted the chiming bells from the nearby cathedral.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Ingrid, this is Annie speaking. I’m ringing to let

  you know that Jordan’s eyes have opened.’

  ‘Aaa! I’m coming over!’ I snapped the phone shut and

  stuck three grapes into my mouth in quick succession.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Benny, irritated, holding a

  shaving of ham in mid-air.

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  I N G R I D L A G U N A

  ‘Jordy’s eyes have opened!’ I lunged for the door,

  knocking Ben’s fork off the table. ‘Shit, sorry.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to finish your lunch?’

  ‘Nup. Later.’

  ‘Can we at least put this stuff in the kitchen before we

  go? I’m coming over.’

  ‘Oof! Okay.’

  After a quick hand-washing session, Benny and I rumbled

  each other at the NICU doorway, elbowing and jostling to

  be the first into Jordan’s line of vision.

  Jordan’s eyes were dark brown and his eyelashes were

  long and dark. My throat knotted: ‘Oh, he’s beautiful! He

  has beautiful eyes!’

  ‘They’re shaped like his mum’s, but with his dad’s eye

  colour!’ said Benny.

  ‘Hello, Jordy . . . I’m your mamma!’ I said, tapping my

  chest. ‘Oh, wow.’

  Benny pushed me aside with his shoulder. ‘I’m your dad,

  Jordy! It’s me! Your dadda!’

  From: BEN

  Sent: Friday, 23 December 2005

  Subject: ‘Jordan Laguna Purcell & Leo Laguna Purcell

  make bold entry to big wide world!’

  On thursday the 8th of december, two very little fel as made

  a giant leap forward by being born. In that single impatient

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  manoeuvre they formed a new Laguna Purcell clan. While

  these fel as are little in size, they have demonstrated a bigness

  in battling on in this new world. While they are now 15

  days old, it has only been since yesterday that they have

  physically opened their little eyes to take a peek at their

  proud, strung out, exhausted, excited and unbelievably happy

  mum and dad. Dad—yeah everybody, that’s me!—thinks

  Jordy has those beautiful big Laguna lips and the distinctive

  spunky face structure of his mum. He’s also looking fair,

  just like his mum. Leo on the other hand is dark and

  maybe showing more the Italian heritage of his dad! He’s

  also a little wriggler that’s bound to give us all some cheek

  in years to come.

  They’re both being assisted in battle by great nurses

  and doctors in an amazing little sub world cal ed neonatal

  intensive care that mum and dad had no idea even existed

  til now. The boys have passed some mammoth early hurdles,

  but have a few months of battles ahead that we hope will

  get easier as they get bigger and stronger. We are incredibly

  humbled by al you mob that have shown such incredible

  support for us over the last few weeks—our heartfelt thanks

  to al . Have a great xmas and new year. And when you

  think of Jordy and Leo, think big and think strong!

  Signing off for now, with love from Ben

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  5

  Benny set himself up to do his Alice job remotely from our

  Adelaide dining room table and we got into a routine of

  sorts. Most mornings I woke early and staggered nude to

  the phone in the kitchen to ring NICU, waking my voice

  on the way: ‘Hello . . . (cough) . . . hello.’

  I dialled the number. ‘Hi, there. It’s Ingrid Laguna

  here—Jordan and Leo’s mum . . .’ I squeezed my eyes

  shut and pinched the bridge of my nose, nerves building

  in my stomach. ‘Could I please speak to whoever looked

  after them last night?’ (After a while I only had to say, ‘It’s

  Ingrid here’, and they knew whose mum it was. And down

  the track they just answered that early morning call with:

  ‘Good morning, Ingrid!’)

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  ‘Have they put on weight?’ I asked.

  ‘Let’s see . . . Jordan’s put on sixty grams and Leo’s lost

  twenty.’

  ‘Oh . . . right. Well that’s great about Jordan, and not

  great about Leo.’

  ‘It’s normal for the weight to fluctuate . . . You know you

  should really only look at their weight on a weekly basis.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, I know. What about oxygen?’ I ran my

  fingers through my hair.

  ‘Jordan’s still in quite of a lot of oxygen. Let’s see . . .

  ninety per cent. And Leo has come down a little.’

  ‘Right . . . right . . . Shit.’

  ‘But Jordan’s going to be getting a little more milk . . .

  We think his stomach can cope. So that’s really positive.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘You know you need to focus on the positive.’

  The familiar sound of NICU beeps and dings in the

  background was making me anxious. ‘Yeah . . . that’s what

  everyone keeps telling me,’ I said, annoyed, flicking on the

  kettle with my free hand. ‘Do you know who’s looking

  after them this morning?’

  ‘Let me see . . . Vera’s on this morning.’

  I liked Vera. ‘Oh great— that’s great. Tell her I’ll be in

  after a shower and brekky. Actually, I won’t worry about

  a shower, and I’ll eat a piece of toast on the way over. I’ll

  be right there.’ The prospect of walking into NICU and

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  I N G R I D L A G U N A

  seeing Jordan and Leo each morning was always a volatile

  mix of excitement and worry, joy and fear.

  ‘Okay, Ingrid, I’ll pass it on. But don’t forget the toast.’

  While I hunted around for clothes, Ben put on his

  t-shirt, runners and shorts, which were once black but

  were now a light beige. ‘How long do you think I’ve had

  these shorts for?’

  ‘Probably since you were four,’ I said, pulling a t-shirt

  over my head.

  ‘Since before Numbulwar.’ Ben had spent three and a

  half years working on a remote community in Arnhem

  Land, and had been back in Melbourne for years since then.

  ‘Not as long as you’ve had that blue backpack.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the backpack . . . or the

  shorts! People just throw things away so easily. There’s

  so much waste, it’s terrible. I’ve fixed the zipper on that

  backpack three times now. It does the job.’

  ‘I know. You’re right, you’re right.’

  ‘What was that? I’m . . . ?’ Benny cupped his hand behind

  his ear and squinted.

  ‘You’re a pain in the arse! Go for your run or I’ll throw

  you in for a new one!’

  Ben looked at the time, kissed me and headed out for a

  run along the river. After a shower and breakfast, he would

  make his way over to NICU to spend time with Jordan

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<
br />   and Leo for an hour or so before starting work back in

  Apartment 19.

  Ben’s humour is dry and he is hilarious. He also dances badly

  with a strange chooky head movement, and sings loud opera

  surprisingly well. But he’s mostly a serious guy—about his

  politics, his work, his relationships and sticking to his plans.

  He stays on course and finishes what he starts on every level.

  He’s ultra-reliable and trustworthy. He’s also thorough to an

  extreme, so he gets impatient with less thorough colleagues

  and his slapdash wife. He can be hard on himself and hard

  on whoever crosses his path, and when he’s like that he’s

  scary, and it’s a drag.

  His favourite music is that of melancholic moody male

  poet singers like Tom Waits, Beck and Nick Cave, and he

  cranks it up when I’m not home. He likes Australian movies

  first, then thrillers, and he doesn’t avert his eyes for the

  violent bits. (I know because I’m looking at him through

  my fingers and cringing and crying out: ‘Turn the volume

  down! I can’t stand this!’) And he’s a bush-and-nature guy.

  On our very first date I said to him, with enthusiasm and

  a wide sweep of my arms: ‘So, if you could be anywhere

  in the whole wide world right now, where would you be?’

  He barely looked up to answer: ‘Flinders Ranges . . . Easy.’

  And I was gobsmacked.

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  I knew Benny and I were good together, and it wasn’t

  hard to imagine him as a dad. The idea of having a family

  with him had excited me from our earliest days together.

  The picture was rounded.

  We were heading home down a dirt lane on a typically

  bright Alice morning when I suggested, for the third time,

  that we start trying. I prepared myself for his usual silent I’ll-

  think-about-it thing, and we walked on without speaking,

  with small clouds of dust rising at our heels. Then, out of

  the blue, he said, ‘Okay.’

  My eyebrows shot up and I stopped still. ‘Woohoo!’

  I stopped taking the pill, but weeks later my period came

  and my heart sank like a stone. The same thing happened

  the following month. Then again, and again. We went to

  a doctor, and tests were done.

  Dr Mason wore shorts and a t-shirt, and sat facing us

  with her legs crossed. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good,’ she said. Her

  pale face was scattered with freckles and she looked younger