The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya Read online

  ‘I’m just going to duck down and make a quick phone call fellas.’ There was an almost imperceptible nodding of heads as the boys continued reading. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’ This time there was complete silence. ‘Yeah righto Les,’ said Norton out loud to himself. He checked his pockets for change and went out the door.

  Eddie answered the phone immediately.

  ‘Hello, is that you Eddie? It’s Les.’

  ‘G’day Les. How’s it goin’ mate?’ Eddie sounded quite pleased to hear Norton’s voice.

  ‘Ohh, not too bad.’

  ‘So what’s happening over there in beautiful downtown Redfern? Is Kilby still alive, or have you knocked him or what?’

  ‘No. He’s still alive,’ replied Les a little hesitantly.

  ‘Still hanging in is he? How did you go with that watchband caper? Did it work?’

  ‘Yeah. Like a charm. Thanks for that Eddie.’

  ‘That’s okay. Anytime you want any more dirty tricks just give me a call.’

  ‘Yeah, I will,’ laughed Les.

  ‘So,’ said Eddie. He paused for a moment but the chuckle was still in his voice. ‘What can I do for you this time? You wouldn’t be ringing me up on a shitty day like this unless you wanted something.’

  ‘Ohh no... not really.’ Norton wasn’t actually lying, but he wasn’t quite telling the truth either. ‘It’s just that I mightn’t get a chance to ring Price tonight and I wanted you to give him a message. That’s all.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Just tell him everything’s sweet and we still should have a result Tuesday. Wednesday at the most.’

  ‘Good as gold. I’ll be seeing him at the game tonight, so I’ll tell him then.’

  There was another short pause before Eddie spoke. ‘You sure there’s nothing else?’

  ‘Well,’ drawled Norton. ‘I did happen to notice in this morning’s paper, Dealer’s Choice is running in the seventh at Canterbury.’

  ‘And you want to know if it’s going?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Price was talking about it last night. It’s coming back from a spell. But they reckon each way it’s a fairly good thing.’

  ‘All right. Well look. I haven’t got the Brute’s phone number with me. Can you get something on “the Murray” for me?’

  ‘Sure. How much?’

  Norton hesitated for a second or two and screwed his face up as if he was in some sort of pain. ‘Two-fifty each way.’

  ‘Sweet as a nut. I’ll ring him as soon as you hang up.’

  ‘Good on you Eddie.’

  ‘Listen, before you go. You sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me? How about filling me in a bit on what you’re up to over there.’

  ‘Monday for sure, Eddie. Tell Price I’ll ring him Monday night and I’ll dead-set give you the drum then. Okay?’

  ‘All right Les. I’ll tell him you’re going to ring him Monday evening. And I’ll make sure I’m there when you do.’

  ‘Good on you Eddie. Thanks mate.’

  ‘Well I’ll hear from you Monday.’

  Yeah thought Norton after he’d hung up. I just hope to Christ I got something to tell you that makes sense by then. Oh well. He stared absently at the phone for a few moments, then returned to room 9.

  The maid, or whoever, had left fresh sheets and pillowcases outside the door and Norton bundled them up under his arm and took them in with him. A fresh pot of tea was sitting on the table so he poured himself a cup then stood in the middle of the room slowly sipping it while he looked at the others, who continued to read their papers in silence, treating him almost as if he wasn’t there.

  ‘So what’s doing anyway?’ said Norton after a minute or two.

  There was continuing silence till Tjalkalieri finally looked up from his newspaper. ‘Did you... say something Les?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.

  ‘Yeah. As a matter of fact I did Chalky. I asked what’s doing. I didn’t really mean anything by it. I was just... you know. Trying to make conversation.’

  There was silence again for a few moments. Then Mumbi spoke. ‘What’s doing, did you say Les?’ he said slowly. ‘Nothing’s doing Les. It’s a prick of a day outside and seeing as we’ve been working like dogs the last couple of days we’re going to take it easy. Sit around. Read. Listen to the radio. And in a few minutes I might even turn the TV on. Okay?’

  ‘I told you that yesterday Les,’ said Tjalkalieri. ‘Fair dinkum. What do we have to do to get something through to you, Norton? Write it on a message stick and shove it in your arse?’

  ‘All right you team of cunts,’ said Norton. ‘I was only bloody asking. Christ, you’ve got to be the greatest lot of narks I ever come across in my life.’ He moved over to the balcony and peered sourly out through the glass door at the thin sheets of rain the southerly was wafting in from the street.

  ‘If you’re looking for something to do,’ said Yarrawulla, ‘instead of standing around like a stale bottle of piss, why don’t you go out and get us some lunch.’

  ‘Yeah, my oath,’ chimed in Yarrawulla. ‘It’s after bloody twelve and I’m starving. In fact we shouldn’t even have to bloody ask you. It should be here on the table.’

  Norton turned from the balcony and gave them a smile that had about as much warmth in it as a mile under the polar ice-cap. ‘And anything in particular you’d like for lunch...boys?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Tjalkalieri brightly. ‘Some more of those steak sandwiches, Les. Those last ones were spot on.’

  ‘Spot on were they? Oh I’m so pleased.’ Norton went into the bedroom, put his tracksuit top on and got some more money. ‘And anything else you might like while I’m out?’ he asked with exaggerated politeness.

  ‘Yeah. A bit more fruit,’ said Yarrawulla.

  ‘And another carton of milk,’ added Mumbi. ‘For the tea.’

  ‘Oh yes of course. We mustn’t forget our bloody tea, must we?’ Norton glared at each of them as they ignored him and continued to read their papers. He zipped up his track-suit top and left the room, trying his best not to rip the door off its hinges as he went.

  Fair dinkum, he thought, those three skinny little pricks are going to drive me round the bend before this is all over. Get us this. Get us that. Cups of tea. Fruit. Muesli bloody bars. Pizzas. But inside he couldn’t help but chuckle a little. He knew the boys’ nature, and that most of the time they were just trying to goad him and if he blew his stack he’d only be playing into their hands. Then they’d shove it up him worse than ever. You can’t help but like the cheeky little bastards though, he thought. He jammed his hands a bit further into the pockets of his track-suit top as he strode on into the light rain. Still, he’d be more than glad when this Kilby caper was over and done with. The thought of being stuck in that room for another three days didn’t appeal. Already it felt like he’d been there a month.

  Norton was turning out to be a pretty good customer by now, so the Greek in the hamburger shop gave him a big, oily smile when he walked in. He whipped up the steak sandwiches with plenty of extra onions while Norton got a large bag of fruit and some magazines from a shop across the road.

  By the time he arrived back at room 9 the boys had switched the TV on and were laughing like drains at an old Marx Brothers movie, Duck Soup.

  ‘Hey grab a seat, Les, and have a look at this,’ roared Tjalkalieri as Norton placed the food on the table. ‘It’s the funniest thing you’ve ever seen in your life.’

  ‘Yeah,’ giggled Mumbi. ‘There’s a big, boofheaded heavy running around trying to get Groucho — and he looks just like you.’

  The rest of the afternoon was spent eating, drinking tea and watching a special run of Marx Brothers movies on Channel 10. Despite himself and the rotten day Norton found himself laughing like a hyena along with the others. Maybe because it was such a miserable bastard of a day outside it made the movies seem funnier than ever.

  At ten past four Les turned the TV down just a lit
tle and switched the radio on, telling the boys it would only be for a minute or two as it was the second leg of the double and he’d backed one of Price’s horses. By the time they’d swung round the turn and Dealer’s Choice was fourth on the rail heading into the straight, Norton had the $250 each way at 8–1 counted, folded and in the bank.

  The sky had blackened noticeably as the southerly picked up, and so had Norton’s face when Dealer’s Choice got beaten in a photo finish for third. He switched the radio off, almost snapping the knob from the dial, and resumed his seat. Somehow the Marx Brothers seemed to have lost a lot of their humour. Medicine men or not, Tjalkalieri and the others didn’t have to be mind-readers to know what had just happened. Norton’s face was showing about as much mirth as the public executioner in Tehran, not that this was going to stop them from a stir.

  ‘What’s up, Les?’ asked Yarrawulla, with mock innocence. ‘Don’t you like the Marx Brothers?’

  ‘No Yarra,’ hissed Norton. ‘They’re my fuckin’ favourites.’

  ‘That’s good,’ chuckled Mumbi. ‘Cause you’re gonna love the next one.’

  ‘Yeah Mumbles. And why’s fuckin’ that?’

  ‘It’s called A Day At The Races.’

  If looks could have killed, Numidi, Natjinin and Mammanduru would have been waiting a long time for their men to come back to Binjiwunyawunya.

  It certainly wasn’t the best day in Les Norton’s life. It was raining, cold and miserable, he was stuck in a room in a grotty hotel in Redfern, and now he was $500 down the gurgler as well. The only two things Norton could find to give him any sort of cheer were: one, he didn’t come across a TAB when he went out to get lunch or he probably would have put more on Dealer’s Choice; and two, when the boys sent him out for more pizzas he lied and told them the shop was closed so he’d have to get Chinese food again instead, which he knew the boys hated. Especially the prawn chow mein, of which he got four extra serves. Norton wasn’t real keen on the local version of Chinese food himself, but even though it was a bit like cutting his nose off to spite his face it was worth it just to hear the whingeing and see the looks on the faces of the boys as they forced themselves to eat it.

  But despite an annoying day and a boring night watching TV, Norton managed to sleep well enough. In fact he was almost nodding off in his seat by the time John Wayne finally got Maureen O’Hara’s pants off in The Quiet Man.

  Sunday was almost a repetition of Saturday. The rain had eased up slightly, but Norton noticed it was definitely colder as soon as he stepped out of the hotel to get the boys their steak sandwiches and the Sunday papers. The only variation after that was every now and again one of the boys would get up to make a fresh pot of tea.

  By lunchtime Norton had read every paper twice. He had steak sandwiches coming out of his ears and he swore that if he never had another cup of tea again as long as he lived it would still be too soon. The others, however, kept pouring it down their throats like they owned Ceylon. All Norton could think of was his comfortable home in Bondi, his nice big double bed and how every Sunday Warren used to grate a big heap of potatoes and onions and they’d have a late breakfast of hash browns and ham and eggs. With percolated American-style coffee that strong you almost needed a whip, a chair and a gun to keep it down in the cup.

  Meanwhile the weather added to Norton’s blues. You couldn’t open the door to let in a bit of air because the wind blew the rain in on the carpet. Besides which all the extra onion on the steak sandwiches was beginning to work and every two or three minutes one of the boys would let go a fart that would’ve won an Olympic gold medal. Norton did his best to fight back but with three on to one it was no contest. During one particular volley if anyone had walked past the room they would have thought there was a Salvation Army band in there, tuning up. And if the noise was bad enough the smell would stop a wildebeest. Mumbi let go one particular scorcher that stung Norton’s eyes and he swore that if Mumbi had let it go out in the hallway it would have set off every sprinkler in the hotel.

  Raining or not, Norton ran to the balcony door, tore it open and shoved his head outside, only to be hit with a violent chorus of ‘Close the bloody door, you stupid big prick. It’s freezing.’

  ‘Right. That’s it,’ Les said, closing the door behind him and wiping rainwater from his face and hands. ‘Those bloody steak sandwiches are definitely off the menu.’

  ‘Yeah. Pig’s arse they are’ replied Tjalkalieri. ‘They’re about the only things around here worth eating.’

  ‘In fact to tell you the truth,’ chimed in Yarrawulla, ‘we were just thinking of sending you up to get some more. It’s after lunchtime you know.’

  ‘Yeah? Well too bloody bad.’ Les resumed his seat and began flicking through the Sunday paper once more. ‘You want more steak sandwiches. You can go up and get ’em your bloody selves.’

  ‘Fair enough’ replied Tjalkalieri casually. He folded his paper, stretched his legs out in front of him and clasped his hands behind his head then smiled over at Les. ‘But no steak sandwiches. No chant tomorrow morning.’

  Norton glared at the smiling Tjalkalieri, then at all three of them. ‘Fair bloody dinkum,’ he cursed. ‘You three have got to be the most obnoxious little turds I’ve ever come across in my life.’ He rose to his feet and once more zipped up his tracksuit top. ‘No bloody wonder old Bjelke won’t have a bar of you.’

  As he opened the door to step outside Mumbi called out to him. ‘Hey Les.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  The grinning little Aborigine lifted one cheek of his backside off the lounge and let go with a fart that made the others sound like the tinkling of a wind chime.

  ‘Don’t forget the extra onions — will you,’ Mumbi added.

  Norton knew he was a beaten man as he trudged off into the rain once more. And it was further emphasised when he returned and wanted to watch the Wide World of Sport. He was ruthlessly vetoed in favour of an absolutely diabolical Elvis Presley movie. The girls in it all had those horrible beehive hairdos and wore bikinis about a metre wide on the sides. Elvis mumbled his way through several inane songs and carried on like some pimply faced adolescent you’d expect to see hanging around a pinball parlour near a Western Suburbs railway station. And if that Elvis movie wasn’t bad enough there was another one, an even worse one, on straight after it. And the boys insisted on watching that also.

  It was obvious it was going to be Annoy Les Norton Afternoon. All they did was fart, eat, watch Elvis and do everything they could think of to goad Les into blowing his stack. But Norton persevered and did his best to ignore them. The climax came, however, after Les had gone up and got their pizzas for tea and they were all settled back watching the news on Channel 2.

  As they sat there, stuffing themselves with tea and pizzas, the news flashed onto an anti-apartheid demonstration outside the South African Embassy in Canberra. A small crowd of beefy-looking, crewcutted women dressed mainly in overalls were screaming their lungs out, burning flags and making horrible noisy arseholes of themselves while they did everything possible to provoke a number of cold, frustrated young policemen into arresting them. The young cops having to take all the abuse and grit their teeth looked like they would have liked nothing better than to take their caps and badges off and thump the stuffing out of the lot of them. Norton thought this might be as good a time as any to have a go back at the boys, who were watching the demonstration with looks more of contempt than anything else.

  ‘Fair dinkum’ said Les sarcastically. ‘Fancy those silly sheilas sticking up for you Aborigines. You’d think they’d have more bloody sense.’

  ‘What was that?’ said Tjalkalieri.

  ‘I said those sheilas sticking up for you Aborigines. They’re wasting their bloody time.’

  Tjalkalieri looked at Norton in both disgust and amazement. ‘Do you really think those... those so-called women are sticking up for us?’

  ‘Yeah. Well of course they are,’ replied Les. The tone of Tjalkalieri’s voice h
ad taken him back slightly. ‘Anti-apartheid. South Africa. Aborigines. Same bloody thing isn’t it?’

  ‘Have another look at them, Les.’

  Norton studied the demonstrators for a few moments. One of them — a particularly sour Slavic-faced blonde in a Levi jacket — had just flung red paint on one of the police and was now on her back, kicking and screaming as she was getting dragged off by the arms to a waiting paddy-wagon. ‘Paula. Paula,’ she was screaming out to one of her equally sourfaced girlfriends as if she was in mortal agony. ‘Help me. Help me.’ She wasn’t in all that much pain and it was obvious she was putting an act on for the cameras.

  ‘Notice anything about them?’ asked Tjalkalieri.

  ‘They all look like they could do with a good wash,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Yeah,’ snorted Tjalkalieri. ‘And they’re all bloody lesbians too.’

  From his observations around the Cross Les had to agree. ‘Yeah, they’re all dykes. That’s fairly obvious. So what?’

  ‘And you think those dykes are sticking up for us do you?’

  ‘Well... I...’ Norton was beginning to wish he hadn’t said anything now.

  ‘Now have a look at the cops. They’re nearly all young blokes. Right?’

  Norton kept his eye on the screen. ‘Well... yeah.’

  ‘Well that’s how the dykes get their rocks off, you dopey big clown.’ Norton could sense the bitterness increasing in Tjalkalieri’s voice and the others weren’t looking too happy either. ‘Those man-hating dykes couldn’t give a stuff about Australian Aborigines. Demonstrating against South Africa is just an excuse to pick a fight with those young cops and look like heroes at the same time. They love it.’ Tjalkalieri turned from Les back to the TV. ‘Have a look at that thing they’re dragging into the wagon. She’s just about blowing in her pants. Once she gets in the back of the wagon she’ll start fingering herself.’