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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
/>
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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‘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
67
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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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