The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  Even though he had known them all his life, and his father even longer, there was still a bit of mystery about Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla. Evidently they were the last of a small lost tribe that originally lived in Central Australia, somewhere between Lake Eyre and a remote part of the Flinders Ranges. Whatever happened to this mysterious tribe no one was ever quite sure; the three never discussed it much. But it probably suffered from hostility from the other tribes or was more than likely wiped out by the sheer, stupid brutality of the early white settlers in the area. The three men moved up the channel country sometime in the late 1920s or early 1930s, buying the property at Binjiwunyawunya with money they’d made from the sale of a number of sapphires they’d brought with them from the Flinders Ranges. Old Joe Norton, Murray’s father, had got to know them during the Second World War when he was in the AIF, and they had remained firm friends ever since.

  When the money from the sapphires eventually ran out the boys, who were all excellent artists, made a fairly reasonable living selling paintings. It was mainly through the paintings that they managed to maintain the property in an amazing, almost oppulent style. But there was a bit more to Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla than being three simple Aboriginal bush artists.

  You would think having a nice big property way out in the middle of nowhere, it wouldn’t take long before the boys would be inundated with hangers on, which is often the case with the Aboriginal people; as soon as one of them kicks on he suddenly finds himself swamped with relatives. Cousins he or she has never heard of seem to turn up unexpectedly from all over Australia for a ride on the gravy train. But any natives who knew of Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla — especially the ones in that area, except for a few good-looking young lubras the boys often liked to take under their wings — were terrified of the blue-eyed tribesmen from Central Australia and gave the entire area a wide berth. For the boys from Binjiwunyawunya were also Nungari. Powerful black medicine men, possessors of secret knowledge and masters of black mysteries that go back thousands of years. Kurdaitcha men. Assassins. Aboriginal hit men. This was another way the boys from Binjiwunyawunya made quite a few dollars in their spare time; and there were none better throughout the length and breadth of Australia at doing what they did.

  The boys were genuinely glad to see Murray. He was the son of an old and valued friend, they’d known him and his brothers and sisters since childhood, so there was plenty of laughing and warm, firm handshakes all round, with quite a bit of pushing and shoving thrown in. The girls stayed in the background giggling musically while they patted Grungle, who sat on his backside panting happily at what was going on around him.

  ‘Well, Murray old fella,’ said Tjalkalieri, who generally did most of the talking. ‘It sure is good to see you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Murray. ‘And it sure is good to see you blokes again too.’ Murray let his gaze drift softly across the verandah over the beautiful gardens where a red-kneed dotterel had just speared a tiny green frog in the shallows of one of the ponds. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said shaking his head in admiration. ‘You’ve sure got the place lookin’ a treat.’ ‘Yeah. That’s the girls,’ agreed Yarrawulla, smiling over at Numidi and Nantjinin. ‘They sure do a good job. We might even have to give ’em a rise.’

  ‘You can afford it,’ said Murray. ‘You blokes have got heaps.’

  ‘Ah I don’t know so much,’ said Tjalkalieri, shaking his head. ‘The painting caper’s not as good as it used to be. Every Abo that can hold a brush seems to be getting in on the act lately. The buyers in the cities’ll take just about anything, too. Half the time they can’t tell the difference between good stuff and shit. And it doesn’t make it any easier to get your price.’

  ‘Well then,’ drawled Murray slowly. ‘It seems like I might’ve just come along at the right time.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Tjalkalieri smiled knowingly at the two others, then back at Murray. ‘And just what exactly did you have in mind Murray... old mate.’

  ‘I might have a nice little earn for you Chalky. That’s if you and the boys are interested. It’s one of your specialities, too.’

  ‘A little earn eh?’ said Yarrawulla. ‘That sounds all right.’

  ‘Yeah. And it’s an easy one. I reckon you’ll like it.’

  ‘Well, why don’t we go inside and talk about it over a couple of drinks,’ said Tjalkalieri.

  Murray took off his hat and banged the dust out against the leg of his moleskins. ‘Now you’re talkin’ my language. After twelve hours in that bloody Land Rover I’m fangin’ for a cold beer.’

  ‘I don’t know about a cold beer.’ Mumbi winked at his two mates. ‘But we might have a flagon of brown muscat we can pass around.’

  Murray threw back his head and roared laughing. ‘That’d be the bloody day,’ he chortled. He swatted Mumbi across the head with his hat and followed the laughing Aborigines into the house.

  The place had hardly changed since the last time Murray was out there, except for a few more paintings hung in the teak-lined corridor that ran past the bedrooms into the lounge. The three owners moved into the lounge towards a monstrous black leather ottoman which faced a colonial brick fireplace. A beaten-copper funnel was built into the fireplace and above the hearth a gun rack, holding a number of military and sporting rifles and several pistols, was built into the wall. More paintings and indoor plants were spread around the lounge room while a remote-control stereo TV with a VCR on top and an almost state-of-the-art Marantz stereo system took up nearly an entire wall.

  ‘Oh Murray,’ said Tjalkalieri, as he motioned him towards one of matching padded-leather lounge chairs, ‘that’s Mammanduru and Koodja.’

  Murray turned to the spacious kitchen across from the lounge, where another two beautiful Aboriginal girls, about twenty, wearing tight T-shirts and skimpy running shorts were fussing around the sink and some copper pots of food cooking on the large porta-gas range. Zephyrs billowed the curtains in the bay window above the sink while behind the girls the huge cedar table was set with correctly placed plates and cutlery and crisp red table napkins in shiny silver napkin rings. An exquisite flower arrangement was positioned in the middle of the table and it was obvious the table had been set for some time.

  ‘Hello girls,’ smiled Murray. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  The girls smiled shyly back, then giggled at each other and continued with what they were doing where they were soon joined by the other two girls.

  Murray noticed the table had already been set for eight people. ‘Hey?’ he said curiously. ‘You’ve... ah... already set the table for eight.’

  Tjalkalieri smiled and the Aboriginal men had a bit of a chuckle amongst themselves. ‘We knew you were coming about four hours ago. Good thing you didn’t shoot that old black dingo, he’s a mate of ours.’ Tjalkalieri ignored the look on Murray’s face. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Grab a seat.’

  Murray sat down opposite the others and next thing Numidi placed a tray of icy cold beers down on the coffee table. Fourex for Murray and three bottles of Stag Lager for the others.

  ‘Cheers anyway, fellas,’ said Murray, raising his bottle.

  ‘Yeah. Cheers Murray. Good to see you again.’

  They all took a healthy pull on their bottles and started talking amicably amongst themselves while the girls fussed around in the kitchen to a Warumpi Band tape playing softly on a large ghetto blaster.

  About a dozen or so beers between them later, the light, fairly breezy conversation began to drift off and there was a noticeable silence; within a few seconds Murray could feel three pairs of electric-blue eyes studying him closely. Tjalkalieri shifted his gaze to the kitchen and the girls turned the cassette off and disappeared into another room, leaving the food simmering. Murray looked down the neck of his beer bottle, and as the eyes continued to stare at him intently he sucked in a deep breath and stared back at them for a moment before speaking.

  ‘Well,’ he said, easing back a little further into his chair. �
��These beers are okay, but I suppose it’s about time we got down to business.’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Yarrawulla. ‘Why don’t we?’

  ‘Yes Murray. Tell us why you’ve travelled all this way out here — almost surprising us. And what this little earn is you may have for us.’ Tjalkalieri settled back a little further on the lounge next to Mumbi who still didn’t say anything.

  ‘I was nearly gonna ring you up before I left,’ chuckled Murray, ‘but I half-pie tipped you’d know I was coming.’ He paused and studied his bottle of beer absently once more. ‘Anyway, I’ll try and get straight to the point. It’s Les’s idea. He rang me about it yesterday morning.’

  ‘Ahh bloody Les,’ laughed Mumbi. ‘And how’s he going, down in Sydney?’

  ‘He’s goin’ all right.’

  ‘That’s good. Give him our regards next time you hear from him.’

  Murray shrugged and smiled. ‘You might be seeing him yourselves before long — with a bit of luck.’

  Murray began to tell the boys what Les had told him over the phone about Percy Kilby and the trouble he was causing Price Galese. He stressed that Kilby was a bit of a no-good egg and getting rid of him would be absolutely no skin off anybody’s nose. He then explained Les’s plan and emphasised that if they were interested they would have to be prepared to leave early Thursday as there was a time factor involved. He didn’t say how much Les was offering them through his boss, wanting to see if they were interested first. When he’d finished the boys were still staring at him but the intense, probing looks had now turned to one of gradually increasing amusement... almost laughter.

  ‘So,’ said Tjalkalieri, a chuckle rippling through his body. ‘You want us to go down to Sydney and sing this Kilby fella a bit of a song, eh?’

  ‘Yep, that’s right. Les wants you to go down and sing him to death. Point the old bone at him. You’ve done it plenty of times up here. Do you reckon you could do it in a big city?’

  ‘Can a duck quack?’ asked Yarrawulla.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘I hate to sound mercenary,’ said Tjalkalieri. ‘But we do have to eat. How much is Les prepared to pay us to do this? If we should all agree.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Yarrawulla. ‘Your brother’s a good bloke and all that. But when it comes to parting with a bit of gilt, Les wouldn’t give you frostbite if he owned Antarctica.’

  ‘I’ve got to agree with you there,’ laughed Murray, ‘but he said whatever you want. Thirty, forty grand.’ Murray gave his shoulders a bit of a shrug. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Forty grand. Shit!’ Tjalkalieri smiled at the others. ‘This Price Galese must want this Kilby bloke out of the way badly.’

  ‘He does. But like I said, if you’re interested you’ve got to be ready to go on Thursday.’ Murray drained his bottle of Fourex. ‘Anyway, why don’t you talk it over amongst yourselves. I’ll go and get another beer.’

  Murray went to the double fridge in the kitchen, got himself a Fourex and sat back down while Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla rattled away between them in their native tongue. Murray could speak quite a few native dialects but he knew absolutely nothing about this one. So he sat there sipping his beer in silence while the others earnestly discussed his offer. After a few minutes the discussion ceased and once more the three pairs of piercing blue eyes were studying him closely.

  ‘Well. What do you reckon?’ asked Murray, returning their stares.

  Tjalkalieri nodded his head slowly for a moment before answering. ‘Yeah, we’ve thought it over. We’ll do it. Mind you, it sounds like this one could be quite a bit of mucking around — and we’re not real keen on having to go all the way down to Sydney. But we’ll do it. Fifty grand though, Murray. We feel this Price Galese fellow can afford it.’

  ‘Fair enough. Fifty grand it is.’

  Tjalkalieri raised his bottle and the others did the same. ‘Well. Here’s to Sydney,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. And Percy Kilby,’ said Murray, raising his Fourex also.

  ‘It’ll be the late Percy Kilby around this time next week,’ added Mumbi, with a bit of a sinister smile. Murray smiled back and they finished their beers.

  As if on cue, the girls reappeared and resumed whatever they were doing amongst the pots and pans. Koodja took away the empties on the coffee table and replaced them with four fresh beers, giving Murray an odd but sweet smile as she put his Fourex down in front of him.

  ‘Brascoe still in the same place?’ asked Murray, getting to his feet a couple of seconds after she went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Yeah. Down the corridor, second on your left,’ replied Yarrawulla.

  Murray clomped down the corridor, used the toilet, then sat back down in the lounge room and continued drinking.

  ‘So what’s Les got in mind about us getting down to Sydney?’ asked Tjalkalieri. ‘I suppose we’ll have to drive up to Mt Isa and catch a plane.’

  ‘No. He mentioned something about that old airstrip the Yanks built out near Boulia. I think he’s going to charter a plane and fly out there and pick you up.’

  ‘Jesus. This is very Frederick Forsyth, isn’t it?’ said Mumbi.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Muzz.’

  ‘Do you want to ring Les now and tell him we’ve agreed?’ Tjalkalieri nodded towards the phone on an old desk out in the corridor.

  Murray took a quick glance at his watch. ‘No, it’s a bit early yet. He’s probably down having a few beers. I’ll wait till after tea.’

  ‘Yeah. It should be ready soon. Hey Numidi. How long before tea’s ready?’

  ‘About fifteen minutes,’ came a voice from the kitchen.

  ‘Lovely,’ smiled Tjalkalieri. ‘Time for another one.’

  They finished another beer and Numidi called them into the kitchen where they spread themselves around the old cedar table, with Murray in the guest spot at the end facing Tjalkalieri.

  ‘What’re we havin’ anyway?’ asked Murray, undoing his napkin.

  ‘Ohh, I shot a few fruit bats the other night,’ said Mumbi. ‘We’ve stewed them up with some witchetty grubs and yams and a few wild berries. Got a big jar of sugar ants there for dessert too.’

  ‘Sounds nice.’

  ‘Yeah Murray,’ smiled Yarrawulla. ‘Like the bloke said in that movie. You can live on it — but it tastes like shit. Try some of this instead.’

  Yarrawulla had no sooner spoken when one of the girls placed a steaming bowl of potato, leek and smoked-salmon chowder down in front of him. Another girl brought in a huge wooden bowl brimming with crisp caesar salad which went in the middle of the table, and another brought in two chilled bottles of Clarendon Estate 1979 Beeren Auslese which went on one side of the salad, and a bottle of Wolf Blass 1974 Shiraz which went on the other.

  ‘Hey this soup isn’t half bad,’ said Murray, taking a liberal slurp from his bowl.

  ‘Yeah, it’s tasty,’ smiled Mumbi, reaching over and filling Murray’s glass with the Beeren Auslese.

  Murray took another couple of slurps of soup and a large mouthful of wine. ‘Shit this wine’s sweet. Bloody nice though.’ ‘Yeah,’ said Tjalkalieri. ‘Generally Victorian wines aren’t that sweet. Actually, it’d be better as a dessert wine. But you know what us ignorant dumb savages are like. We go for all that sweet sticky shit.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Murray, taking another mouthful. ‘Still, I suppose this stuff 11 do when you run out of sweet sherry.’

  Murray finished his soup just in time for Mammanduru to place his entree in front of him. Tiny freshwater lobsters, barbecued to perfection in chilli and garlic, on a bed of fluffy rice and chopped, fresh coriander. The meat literally fell off the shells and melted in your mouth.

  ‘Jesus, these bloody yabbies are all right,’ said Murray, chewing away with delight. ‘I’ll have to get the recipe off you and give it to Elaine.’

  ‘How is Elaine these days?’ asked Yarrawulla. ‘Still cooking up those ferocious meals like she does?’

/>   ‘Yeah, that’s her all right. You’d think we had a team of sumo wrestlers livin’ in the house. My two young blokes’ll end up lookin’ like Arnold Schwarzenegger by the time they leave school.’

  Next came the main course. Fresh barramundi cutlets, stuffed with caviar and anchovies, in a saffron, cream and pernod sauce accompanied by more rice and crispy stir-fried vegetables. Once again, cooked to perfection. The girls had joined them at the table now with Koodja sitting next to Murray where she didn’t say much but just smiled and made sure he had enough on his plate.

  ‘Jesus, where did you girls learn to cook like this?’ asked Murray, smiling back at her as he wolfed down some more barramundi.

  Nantjinin answered for Koodja who was smiling shyly into her food. ‘Tjalkalieri taught us,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, I might have known. Well keep up tfc good work Chalky.’

  ‘Glad to see you’re enjoying it, Murray. Though I suppose I should apologise offering you red wine with seafood.’

  ‘Yeah. Well I wasn’t going to say anything. But seeing you’ve brought the subject up. It is a little galling having to drive over a thousand Ks through the wilderness then get served red wine with seafood. Still...’ Murray took a mouthful of the Wolf Blass, ‘it’s not a bad drop of the old claret all the same.’

  ‘Yes. It’s not a bad... claret. Is it?’ Tjalkalieri shook his head and smiled at the others.

  It didn’t take them all that long to polish off the fish — with Murray eating almost the equivalent of a whole barramundi on his own — and then the girls brought out dessert, which wasn’t anything special. Wine trifle with homemade rockmelon ice-cream and banana, raspberry and paw-paw custard.