Wind had battered Darwin for seven hours. It cut a line across the city, missing nothing, destroying everything. And, as is the way with these things, those awful hours were followed by a series of insults. With an earthquake, it’s aftershocks; with a tropical cyclone, it’s fear of typhoid and an infestation of mosquitoes and flies. All of this I learned from the ABC.

Mark, Geoff, a cameraman and a sound guy flew up in a Hercules late yesterday, hours after the reports started coming through. Tonight, we’ll see the first images of Darwin on the news.

At a quarter to six, Lou and I usher our kids into the living room. The cyclone will be the first story and I want everyone to be settled when the news comes on. I’ve made Dad a pot of tea, put it on the table near the armchair. Charlie has kicked off his stinky sandals, plopped down onto the floor, and is nursing a can of beer. The kids bump one another like dodgems before finally agreeing on a seating arrangement where no one is touching anyone and no heads are in the way. Lou and I take the couch, each holding a glass of moselle.

‘This year,’ she says. ‘What a debacle. Starts with a flood, ends with a cyclone.’ She doesn’t mention Skye but yes, this year . . .

We hear Mark before we see him. ‘We arrived in Darwin last night and what we’ve seen since then defies belief.’ My heart lifts at the sound of his voice, so measured and authoritative.

‘What’s the population up there, do you think? Before this,’ Charlie asks.

‘I heard 47,000, and they’re expecting to evacuate almost all of them,’ Dad replies.

‘To where?’ Charlie asks.

Dad rattles off the list of potential towns people could be taken to.

‘Look,’ I say and nod at the TV.

We watch as the camera pans across the devastated streets of Darwin. Mark’s team has filmed from a helicopter, and what’s left of the town beneath them looks like a sprawling rubbish dump. Over the sound of chopper blades, we see collapsed, dishevelled skeletons of homes. They sit along the edge of streets strewn with wooden boards, metal sheeting, upturned cars, and telephone poles pointing every which way, wires draping despondently between them. We see footage of life on the ground, too. Men, some slim, some with pregnancy-sized bellies, wearing shorts and work boots, haul great hunks of whatever they can carry into garbage trucks. An elderly Aboriginal woman in a faded sundress watches.

The footage cuts to Mark, handsome and composed as always, standing alone on ground covered with detritus. He’s wearing tan slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt, and has one hand on his hip. He points to a snaking line behind him.

‘There’s Daddy!’ Sarah points at the screen.

‘Daddy!’ Petey stands up.

‘These men and women, mums and dads and grandparents, teachers and bus drivers, are queuing for ice,’ Mark says. ‘It’s about thirty-nine degrees in Darwin today, and the water is running out.’