The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  ‘What sort of plane have you got?’ asked Les.

  ‘A Beechcraft Super King Air 200.’

  With nobody else around their voices seemed to echo slightly in the tinny atmosphere of the hangar.

  ‘Yeah. They any good?’

  ‘Perfect for this type of job. There it is over there. The white one with the green and gold markings.’

  As they stepped out of the hangar the noise increased noticeably from the prop and jet wash of the various planes taxiing around and taking off. Gusts of wind sweeping across the tarmac blew dirt and dust in their faces and swirled around their ears, making Kingsley take a firm grip on the peak of his cap. Les followed him across to a sleak aeroplane with twin propellers and a row of seven round windows along the fuselage. The door, with a set of steps built into it, was open. Norton followed Kingsley into the aeroplane and the pilot closed the door behind them and spun the seal.

  If the plane was sleek and narrow on the outside, the interior was even more so. There was nowhere near enough room to stand up properly and not enough for you to stretch your arms out on either side. Eight single seats, complete with adjustable lights and little fan nozzles above your head, were squashed up against the windows on the sides. Jesus, a man wouldn’t want to be suffering from claustrophobia, thought Les. But it was fairly clean with freshly vacuumed brown carpet stretching from the cabin to a small roped off luggage compartment at the rear.

  ‘Doesn’t seem like a bad sort of a bus,’ said Les, having a bit of a look around. ‘You own it, do you?’

  ‘Yep,’ smiled Kingsley. ‘This is the pride of the fleet, this one.’

  ‘You got others have you?’

  ‘No, just this one. But it’s the pride of the fleet.’

  The pilot sat down in the cockpit and placed a set of headphones over the top of his flying cap.

  ‘You want to sit up here?’ he said, motioning to the empty seat next to him.

  ‘No, this’ll do,’ replied Norton, sitting down in the one just behind and across from the pilot. ‘There’s a bit more room to stretch my legs.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Kingsley placed his briefcase on the empty seat next to him, adjusted his headphones and began to fiddle around amongst the myriad of dials, switches, handles and pressure and oil gauges, etc. in front of him. The next thing, the propellor on the left whined then sputtered and hummed into action; the one on the right did the same thing a second or two later. They throbbed and hummed in unison for a few minutes while he let them warm up, then very slowly the aircraft began to move forward. Expecting it to be quite noisy, Norton was somewhat surprised at the quietness inside the cabin and imagined it would be even quieter once they were airborne.

  ‘Sydney Control. This is India-Bravo-Charlie for Mt Isa. Request taxi. Over.’ Norton heard a faint crackle beneath the pilot’s headphones. ‘Five minutes. Roger Sydney Control. Will wait.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Norton, starting to take a bit of an interest in proceedings now that they were moving.

  ‘I have to get a clearance for take off. You know — which runway to use and all that.’

  ‘Yeah. And what’d they say?’

  ‘Wait five minutes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The minutes ticked by with the engines throbbing away steadily not far from Norton’s window. Kingsley had brought the aircraft to a halt in front of some others on the edge of the tarmac well away from the domestic and international terminals. There was another faint crackle beneath Kingsley’s headphones. ‘Roger, tower,’ replied the pilot and they began to move forward again.

  ‘We off this time are we?’ asked Les.

  ‘Like a bride’s nightie,’ replied Kingsley.

  They taxied around the perimeter of the airfield then stopped at the start of a long, empty airstrip. The headphones crackled again, Kingsley muttered ‘Roger’ or something into the microphone, and moved a lever something like the automatic gearstick on a car. Les was forced back in his seat and they began to gather speed along the runway. The roar from the engines increased dramatically, Les was forced further back into his seat, there was a slight, almost noiseless bump, the sound in the cabin changed and they were off. Kingsley muttered something else into his microphone as he banked the plane in a semi-circle and from out his window Norton could see the ocean disappearing behind them as they winged their way inland.

  While they were taking off Norton couldn’t help but notice the excited, happy look on the pilot’s face and the almost dramatic flourishes of his hands as they moved across the dials and switches and eased the joystick backwards and forwards. It was obvious Kingsley really dug his flying and the leather cap and scarf even seemed to add more effect to the show; plus a pair of copper rimmed, aviator dip-style sunglasses he’d casually slipped on. If Kingsley had screamed ‘Messcherschmitts eleven o’clock high’ into the mike and let go a burst of machine-gun fire it would not have surprised Les in the least.

  ‘You don’t mind this piloting rort, do you, Kingsley old chap,’ chuckled Norton.

  ‘Mate, there’s nothing like it,’ replied the grinning pilot with a quick shake of his head. ‘You’re up here on your own. No cunt to annoy you. It’s the grouse, George.’

  ‘Is that how you met Eddie? When you were flying in Vietnam?’

  ‘Yeah. Actually I met him the second time he was over there.’

  ‘Yeah. Eddie backed up a second time didn’t he? With the Yanks or something?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What was the shifty little bludger doing the second time round when he was over there?’

  ‘Didn’t Eddie ever tell you?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Well if Eddie didn’t — I don’t suppose I should.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ smiled Les.

  They continued in silence for a few minutes with Norton gazing out the window at the ground below, watching it change from smoky brown to olive green. Every now and again it would be interspersed with mountain ranges and tiny ribbons and mirrors of silver that were rivers and lakes. Eventually the incessant humming and the rise and fall of the propellers had Norton yawning and feeling quite drowsy.

  ‘Well, if it’s all the same to you, Kingsley,’ he said, stretching his arms out by his sides. ‘I might just close my eyes for five minutes.’

  ‘Go for your life. I’ll wake you when we get there.’

  Norton eased his head back a little further into the seat behind him, stretched his legs out in front of him as far as he could and yawned once. In no time he was dead to the world.

  ‘Righto George, wake up mate. We’re almost there.’

  ‘Huh. What was that?’ Norton blinked his eyes open groggily to find the pilot shaking his leg.

  ‘We’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Jesus you can sleep George.’

  Norton looked blankly at the grinning pilot and checked his watch. He’d been asleep almost three hours. He looked out the window and noticed the landscape had changed sharply from a pleasant brown and green to a harsh, reddish amber, broken now and again by low, cerulean mountain ranges and the flash of the odd bore-water tank or earthen dam. Even from high up you could see the heat shimmering off the plains in the clear blue distance.

  ‘Shit, it sure looks dry down there,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Kingsley. ‘It’s hard to imagine it flooding every year, eh?’

  ‘You got a shithouse in this thing?’

  ‘Just down the back.’

  Norton had a leak in the cramped toilet and returned to his seat.

  ‘Listen,’ said Kingsley. ‘I won’t be able to stick around too long when I touch down. There’s a storm front moving across between Townsville and Mackay and I want to make sure I beat it back to Sydney. So we’ll just have time to pick up your friends and zap straight out again. Okay?’

  ‘Yeah righto,’ replied Les, a little disappointed. He was hoping to be able to talk to his brother for a while.
r />   ‘Anyway, there it is. Just as the Yanks left it.’

  Norton glanced out the window at the deserted airstrip as the Beechcraft began to bank and descend. Murray’s Land Rover and the group of people clustered around it waving up at them brought a huge grin to his face.

  ‘Here they are now,’ said Murray, his hand over his eyes as he squinted up into the clear blue sky.

  ‘Just on a quarter to eleven,’ nodded Tjalkalieri. ‘Your brother wasn’t far out.’

  They got their bags out of the car and watched intently as the plane circled the airstrip a couple of times before it landed in a great cloud of dust, twirling leaves and twigs. It taxied towards them, turned, then stopped with the propellers still ticking over about 100 metres away. The door swung down and a grinning Les came jogging over through the swirling red dust and noise from the prop wash. Kingsley appeared at the bottom of the steps where he waited, watching them while he stretched his legs.

  ‘Hey Muzz. What’s doing mate,’ yelled Les, grabbing his brother and pumping his hand vigorously.

  ‘G’day bloodnut. How are you goin?’ Jesus it’s good to see you again.’

  Grungle recognised Les and jumped up all over him. Les grabbed him, rolled him over and gave the happily panting dog a couple of hefty whacks in the ribs. ‘Hello Grungle. You ugly little bludger. Chalky, Mumbles, Yarra. How are you goin’ fellas?’ With the grin still plastered across his face, Les shook hands and hugged the three black men in their dark-blue tracksuits who acknowledged his greeting and quickly introduced him to the four young girls smiling fit to burst as they clustered round the Land Rover.

  ‘You’re not gonna bloody believe this, Muzz,’ said Les, ‘but we gotta piss straight off again. Evidently there’s a storm front coming and we can’t stick around. That’s why he’s left the propellers still going.’

  ‘Ah, what a bastard,’ cursed Murray. ‘I wanted to have a bit of a yarn to you.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Les turned to the three men. ‘If you blokes want to toss your gear on the plane and say goodbye to the girls we’ll get going.’

  ‘Righto Les,’ said Tjalkalieri.

  Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla took the three girls in a tender embrace, and from underneath the plane Kingsley watched as the girls kissed their men goodbye so passionately you would have thought they were all leaving to go and join the French Foreign Legion for twenty years.

  ‘Pity I’m not going too,’ grinned Murray at Koodja, who was wearing a pair of pink Spank running shorts even briefer than the other girls’. ‘Then you could kiss me goodbye as well.’

  ‘How about I just kiss you for staying.’ Koodja grinned back, threw her arms around Murray’s neck and planted a huge, moist kiss fair on his mouth.

  ‘No wonder you didn’t mind staying the last couple of nights — you rotten low bastard,’ Les glared at his brother.

  ‘Turn it up mate. And not a word to you know who,’ Murray added with a wag of his index finger.

  Les couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Anyway, here’s a present for you.’ He pulled a small plastic bag out from under his shirt and tossed it to his brother. ‘Easiest ten grand you ever earned.’

  Murray half closed his eyes and shook his head over the sexy young Koodja’s. ‘Ohh I don’t know about that,’ he said.

  ‘Anyway, come over and meet the pilot. He’s not a bad bloke. He’s a mate of Eddie’s.’

  The boys said a last goodbye to their women, then picked up their overnight bags, plus a larger, black canvas one which Mumbi and Yarrawulla carried between them, and walked across to the aircraft. They gave the pilot a friendly smile and climbed on board.

  ‘Kingsley. This is my brother Murray.’

  ‘G’day Kingsley,’ smiled Murray, almost pulverising the pilot’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ winced Kingsley. ‘You too Murray.’

  ‘Anyway mate,’ said Les. ‘I suppose we’d better get cracking.’

  ‘Okay Les.’ Murray shook hands with his brother once more. ‘Bad luck we couldn’t have had a bit of a yarn, eh?’

  ‘Yeah. It sure is. But I’ll give you a ring over the weekend and tell you how everything’s going.’

  ‘Okay Les. See you then mate.’

  ‘See you Muzz. Don’t forget to say hello to Elaine and the kids for me.’ Norton climbed the steps and disappeared into the aircraft.

  The pilot looked up at the doorway for a moment, then back at Murray, ‘Les eh? That’s funny. I thought his name was George.’ He shook his head at the blank look on Murray’s face. ‘This is all very Frederick bloody Forsyth isn’t it?’ He shook his head again before he too climbed up the steps. ‘I’ll see you again Murray.’

  ‘Yeah righto Kingsley. See you mate.’

  Murray jogged back to the four girls and they all stood there waving as the Beechcraft taxied back to the other end of the runway, turned and idled for a moment before it sped back along the tarmac and roared off into the shimmering outback sky. The girls kept waving till it disappeared from sight, then they all bundled into the Land Rover and drove off.

  About two or three minutes later, as they were bouncing along the almost non existent dirt road back to Binjiwunyawunya, Murray turned to Koodja sitting alongside him.

  ‘Hey, Koodja.’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled.

  ‘Who’s bloody Frederick Forsyth?’

  Koodja looked at him blankly and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Isn’t that the bloke that owns the hardware store out at Winton,’ chimed in Mammanduru from the back seat.

  ‘No. You’re thinking of old Fred Foster the butcher,’ said Numidi.

  ‘Oh well. Buggered if I know,’ said Mammanduru.

  They continued on in silence.

  Inside the plane, Les gave the pilot a quick introduction to the boys, telling them briefly his name was Kingsley. He didn’t bother to introduce them individually, figuring he’d never remember their proper Aboriginal names and their nicknames were just a personal thing between them and the Nortons; to introduce them to an outsider as Chalky, Mumbles and Yarra would only be demeaning. Although he was smiling and acting quite blase about it all, Kingsley was none the less quite mystified as to what was going on around him. It wasn’t every day he flew out to the middle of nowhere to pick up three of the strangest looking Aborigines he’d ever seen in his life, especially with those almost hypnotic electric-blue eyes. Even now he could still feel the way they seemed to bore into him as he walked past them to get to the cockpit. And what about those four young spunks standing next to that Murray bloke’s car? They were gorgeous. They looked like their daughters, but the way they kissed them goodbye there was no way they could have been. Then George, or Les, or whatever the big red-headed bloke’s name was, was recommended to him by Eddie Salita. That was enough to set the alarm bells ringing in itself. But nothing illegal seemed to be going on and the money was there all right, in cash. It was just a bit odd, that was all. But they could have anything in that big, black canvas bag. Kingsley smiled to himself, kept his thoughts the same way, and flew on.

  ‘What’s in the bag anyway?’ asked Les, motioning towards the compartment at the rear with his thumb.

  ‘We’ll show you in Sydney,’ replied Tjalkalieri, shifting his bright blue eyes towards the pilot.

  ‘Fair enough,’ nodded Norton.

  ‘Anyway bloodnut,’ grinned Yarrawulla, giving Les a slap on the thigh. ‘How have you been the last few years? You’re certainly looking well. How’s Sydney been treating you? We’ve heard a few stories.’

  ‘Ohh shit!’ Norton tossed back his head and laughed. ‘Where do I bloody-well start?’

  The rest of the return journey was spent swapping yarns and reminiscing, going right back to when Les was just a snotty-nosed schoolboy going to Dirranbandi Public School... and beyond that to when they first met Les’s father before he got married. They were so engrossed in laughter and conversation, with that and a Nor
thwest tailwind they were circling Mascot aerodrome before they knew it. Less than four hours after they’d taken off they were on the ground walking towards the hangar and Kingsley’s office.

  ‘Just wait here for a sec,’ said Les, when they were in the hangar. ‘I’m just going to duck up and settle with the pilot.’

  Kingsley smiled a goodbye to the boys, adding he was pleased to have met them, and Les followed him up to his office.

  ‘There you are Biggies. There’s another two grand.’ Norton handed Kingsley another wad of money. ‘The boys’ll give you the rest when they get off the plane next week. All right?’

  ‘No worries mate,’ smiled Kingsley, ‘You’re welcome to do business with me again any time you want. When do you reckon they’ll be wanting to go back?’

  ‘Probably next Thursday. Maybe Wednesday.’

  ‘Good as gold. I’ll be here.’

  ‘Okay. Well I’ll probably see you then Kingsley.’

  ‘Righto. See you then... George. Or whatever it is.’

  Norton paused by the door and smiled evenly at the pilot. ‘George’ll do. I like it. It’s a good honest-sounding name, don’t you think?’

  ‘Call me what you like but don’t call me late for breakfast eh?’

  ‘Yeah. Something like that.’

  ‘Righto boys,’ said Norton, back down in the hangar. ‘Let’s hit the toe for Redfern?’

  He carefully picked up the black canvas bag and they strolled out to where he’d left his old Ford. The next thing they’d joined the afternoon traffic along South Dowling Street and were heading for the Thames Tavern.

  Ross Bailey wasn’t around when Les and the boys walked into the foyer, so they went straight up the stairs. Les opened the door to number 9 and showed it to the boys who were already starting to exchange very disdainful looks amongst themselves.

  ‘Jesus, what a fuckin’ dump,’ said Tjalkalieri, gazing scornfully around the main room after Les had closed the door behind them. ‘Is this where we’re staying? It looks more like the shithouse in a Turkish prison.’

  ‘I don’t reckon it’s that bad,’ replied Les, walking towards the verandah. ‘You’ve got a top view.’