The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya by Robert G. Barrett Page A

called that they’d alredy given him a forequarter of lamb from the fridge and a litre of milk. Murray finished his Drambuie, got another Fourex, then sat back down in the lounge while the boys tried to figure out what they were going to do that evening. Get stoned and listen to some music, watch TV or throw a video on. Murray said it didn’t worry him what they did as he’d been up since four, and after the long drive, the drinks and all that grouse food he was just about buggered. The boys, not really used to drinking and eating so much early in the week themselves, said that if he was going to have an early night they couldn’t see themselves being too far behind him.
    The girls had joined them by now, drinking Bacardis and Coke. Someone dropped a movie in the VCR and they all sat there talking and half watching the film. It was a real lemon. Some Australian show called
Bullamakanka
. The only thing remotely amusing in it was some boofheaded-looking bloke running around in a beret chasing after a pig called Matilda.
    â€˜Fair dinkum,’ said Tajlkalieri, disgust all over his face. ‘There ought to be law in this country to stop them from making movies like that. It’s lower than the Pakistani basic wage.’
    The girls had paired themselves off with the owners of the homestead by now, with Koodja sitting on a cushion on the floor near Murray’s feet and looking him up and down every now and again with what seemed a bit more on her mind than whether he’d enjoyed tonight’s meal and how his car went on the trip out. Eventually Murray stretched his arms out and let go with a cavernous yawn.
    â€˜Well,’ he said, rubbing his hands across his face. ‘You can stick this movie in your arse. I think I might hit the sack. I’m buggered.’
    â€˜Yeah, I don’t blame you,’ said Yarrawulla. ‘This movie’d turn you off a baked dinner.’
    â€˜I put your overnight bag in the guest room,’ said Numidi. ‘Do you want to have a shower or anything first?’
    â€˜Yeah. I wouldn’t mind to tell you the truth. I’ve got red bulldust in my hair, my ears, up my bum. And my armpits smell like grandpa’s socks.’
    â€˜I’ll show you how to work the shower,’ smiled Koodja.
    â€˜Thanks.’
    She led him down the corridor to the well-appointed guest room, with its neatly made double bed, brown Aboriginal motif decor and large curtained window overlooking the gardens. She waited while he got a clean T-shirt and a pair of Stubbies out of his overnight bag, then led him back down the corridor to the spacious, tiled bathroom.
    â€˜Do you want to have a bath or a shower?’ she asked.
    â€˜I’ll settle for a shower thanks Koodja,’ replied Murray. And I wouldn’t mind you running the loofah over my back, he thought as he watched her in her almost non-existent shorts reach through the sliding smoked-glass windows of the cubicle and turn the taps on.
    â€˜There you go,’ she said, running her hands through the steaming jets of water. ‘If you need anything — just give me a call,’ she added with a sly smile.
    â€˜I think I’ll be all right thanks,’ replied Murray, returning her smile. He watched her as she closed the bathroom door quietly behind her, then dropped his clothes and got under the shower.
    There was something about showering in hot mineral water that Murray couldn’t quite explain. Even though the water was a little hard it seemed to bubble as it left the nozzle and caress his body like velvet, vitalising his skin and soothing away any aches or bruises from the long, dusty drive. Maybe this is why the boys always look so young, he mused, remembering his wife telling him something about women in the city paying a fortune for tiny atomizers of perfumed spawater to spray on their faces. He dried off with one of the fluffy white towels folded in a rack, wrapped another