Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery)

by Gregory House

  Finally the plane came in for what Peter assumed was a landing approach. They must be here. Lampie had a look of keen anticipation and kept on peering out of the right hand blister, towards a cluster of vessels anchored off a small beach. The engines’ roar decreased, as the Catalina dropped towards the waters of the channel and the wing floats began lowering from their recesses at the wing tips. Peter gave a short gulp and tried to relax, briefly closing his eyes as the belly of the plane began to skip along the low wave crests, transmitting the resistant shudders up his chair and hitting his tensed stomach with a dozen messages of imminent pain. The pitch of the twin engines dropped as the grip of the water slowed down the bumpy passage of the plane, while Peter kept his eyes clenched shut willing his rebellious gut into submission. Then to his surprise the shuddering and jolting stopped, replaced by an only slightly disconcerting swaying motion, as the Catalina settled onto the water like a swan.

  “We’re here!” Lampie had undone her seatbelt and leapt eagerly across to the observation blister, before spinning around pointing to the pair of vessels a hundred yards to the south. As if scenting the end of the journey, the Catalina turned toward them and with engines slowly pulsing, motored closer.

  “There she is, my little beauty. I hope Sid’s been looking after her!” Lampie sounded nervously excited, like a child when the house of a favourite aunt came into view. Peter could see she was fair champing to get over there, hands gripping the edges of blister with eager anticipation as she strained forward. Her stance, backgrounded by the lapping water, created a shot that for Peter in better circumstances, would have found deeply moving. As it was, parts beyond his treacherous gut stirred with the barest twinge of passion. Lampie really did look rather imposing, with her open generous smile, eager sparkle and a profile any modelling agency would pay gold for.

  Peter took a deep breath, unbuckled his seat belt and joined her. Curiosity won out over grumbling cramps. “I take it Lampie, one of those boats is yours?”

  That must have been the right question. She flashed him a brilliant smile, full of pride and love and pointed directly at the two masted vessel. “Yeah, it’s the white ketch moored next to Wally’s old barge, my sweet Bast.”

  Peter nodded with a slight sinking feeling. He was not exactly nautically inclined He’d done a few trips on canal barges, used the channel ferry, even ventured on a short cruise in a yacht from Portsmouth to Dover and once across the Channel. On all he had suffered from mal de mer, the curse of the sea, perhaps not as badly as Admiral Nelson who was famously frequently sick. Though for the hero of Copenhagen, the Nile and Trafalgar, such a minor flaw was ignored just like his affair with Lady Hamilton. Peter didn’t possess any such advantage. At the slightest swell he raced for the rail and puked over the side. What his escort Lampie thought of that was yet to be seen. He wasn’t exactly proud of his performance – getting off that damned plane he’d actually prided himself on his sheer physical restraint. Nine bloody painful hours he’d lasted and it was only that corkscrew landing that did him in. How long was this going to be, hours or days?

  “Ahh it’s a very attractive vessel, beautiful lines, the finest of her style I’ve ever seen.” He was going well today not a single blunder what a miracle. Lampie’s face fair glowed at the compliment. Peter returned a weak smile.

  “You think so? Thanks Peter, she’s beaut for getting around these islands and inlets along the Kimberleys. I can put her in just under six foot of water without grounding and she handles so well under sail, skims though the waves like a dolphin.”

  He gave a larger smile and hoped it didn’t look glazed. The waves and dolphin part reminded him too closely of his malady. Anyway it did look like an interesting boat and its sparkling white hull and masts gleamed in the afternoon sunlight with a vivid intensity that spoke of long hours of cleaning and painting. He remembered Fiona’s constant complaints on how much damned filthy work it took to keep the family yacht up to scratch down at Cowes on the Isle of Wight. So he’d some understanding of the constant maintenance required to keep a vessel at its best, even if only at second hand. The engines cut out with a low spluttering growl and the Catalina now bobbed sedately on the water. Rick Truscott the pilot, or Trussie as he preferred to be called, clambered back over the cargo to the passenger seats.

  “All right Lampie, how’z that landing Pete, sweeter than an angel’s fart. Told ye’ this old bird was a dream! How’z that sweep over the falls? Waz that close or what, bloody great ehh?”

  Peter gave what he hoped was a happy grin, lacking the maniacal edge he felt and shook the pilot’s hand. “Thanks Trussie, that was a real experience. I wouldn’t have swapped it for anything!”

  Strangely his polite phrases matched his true feelings. It was an incredible trip, and chronic air sickness or not, he wouldn’t have missed it. Pleasantries done, he gave a hand to shifting the cargo towards the side hatch, as one of the ubiquitous metal hulled dinghy’s puttered over from the collection of boats. Back at Derby, Lampie had called them ‘tinnies’. He supposed that was as good a description as any and the name had a certain Aussie ring to it.

  “Hi Lampie, welcome back! G’day Trussie. Did you pick up my stuff from Broome? Have a good trip? Need a hand to unload? Where’s me boxes?” This set of greetings and questions came from the pilot of the tinnie, a solidly built gentleman in a tee shirt and shorts. He had an eagerly inquisitive air that was enhanced by the fringing crest of white hair encircling his gleaming skull, as he bobbed up and down trying to peer past the figure of Trussie in the hatchway.

  “Hiya Wall. Yeah I might have got some of your orders – don’t panic mate!” Trussie waved both hands and laughed, while Lampie leant past him and grabbed the tinnie, pulling it closer.

  “Hi Wally good to see you. Where’s Sid an’ the rest of them?”

  “They got a bit doolally sitting around so they all decided to go fishing this morning. They took the spare launch and headed off around Raft Point to the beach.”

  Peter watched this exchange. He could see that Lampie was upset by the lack of Sid and the rest of her party. She frowned and looked really pissed off for an instance, then shook her head. “Well screw Sid. He can miss out on the fresh gelato I brought. Can you give us a hand Wally to get all this unloaded?”

  Even with Peter’s limited assistance the procedure flowed well. Several boxes and a few sacks of provisions were loaded each trip. Lampie then helped Wally unload over at his barge, while Peter and Trussie arranged the next shipment. It took less than twenty minutes to transfer everything, including a couple of really heavy sealed cases. The last load was Peter and his few bags and before he left the Catalina, Trussie gave him a hefty slap on the shoulder along with an invite to fly with him any time Peter was in the Kimberleys. Nice offer – he hoped it’d be a while before he took it up. As they puttered back to the barge, Peter watched the twin engines cough into life, then their powerful blades slowly spun into a rapid blur and the Catalina swung away, building up speed. The engines roar increased in pitch and volume as the old girl sped off down the channel, and then skipping the little waves, surged up into the air in one leap. My God, it was a magnificent sight as the one hundred foot wingspan soared up into the bright blue of the sky. Well he’d been one with the birds, now all he had to do was ensure he didn’t become one with the fishes.

  Chapter 8 The First Kimberlians

  As the Catalina disappeared into the distance, Peter had a sudden feeling of loss and regret. He was now well and truly away from Skaze University. At the same time it struck him that he was also severed from all his links to Britain and right now that separation really hurt. He’d thrown himself at this wild offer from Sid, travelled all the way across the country and of course Sid wasn’t here. Understandably he was a trifle miffed. Memories of past associations chimed warning bells. Peter shrugged them off Sid might have changed, turned over that proverbial new leaf. After all time could change a person and there was the added benefit of meeting Lam
pie. Given the choice, he’d much rather spend time with her than his old ‘friend’ Sidney, past history aside. That finished the unloading, but rather than pull in to Lampie’s vessel, they bumped into the older and larger barge by the boarding ladder.

  “Hey Peter, would you mind parkin’ with Wally for a little while? I’ve just got to check a few things on Bast and see where those idiots have got to. I reckon y’ should find Wally and his crew really interesting. Tell the girls I’ll catch them later.”

  Well what to say? Lampie didn’t look impressed by the lack of her fellow crew members and he wasn’t going to hang around while problems got sorted. That tended to be really embarrassing for both audience and participants.

  “Right ho Lampie!” So Peter gave a simple nod, and slung his pack over a shoulder. Clambered up the ladder on to Wally’s barge, he got as much of a surprise as when he beheld the Catalina.

  Back home when you mentioned the word ‘barge’, the first image that sprung to mind was the quaint canal barges that puttered along the British canals and rivers or perhaps their larger cousins across the channel, the Dutch or Flemish barges, round fronted vessels low in the water and great to convert for a riverside pad on the Thames. That was if you had the private fortune or business expense account to pay for the mooring fees. This vessel was in a different league altogether. At a guess it was around twenty five metres in length and six metres odd in width, pretty large compared to Lampie’s ketch, taller and wider. However the real difference was its design and function. From the back it looked like the marriage of an old assault landing craft of the type that hit the beaches of Normandy, while the front was a modern two deck motor cruiser. By his sainted aunt, how novel and comfortable. If this was his accommodation maybe he could get used to life in the Kimberleys!

  Serving its first function, the open barge section was packed with a small off-road vehicle and several tarp covered pallets, some on trailers. Yes definitely the invasion style barge. At a guess this vessel could pull in to less than a metre of water. How novel! From the flight Peter recalled something Trussie said – no roads. If it wasn’t by water then it had to be by air. This would have to be the perfect transport in the Kimberleys. He was impressed he was able to think again. Maybe he was recovering from airsickness.

  His host Wally stuck his head over the railing and pointed to the stairway on his left. “Hoy, ahh Peter is it? Come down, this way into the galley!”

  He didn’t need a second invitation and followed the directions, passing through a covered deck into the large galley space beyond. By his sainted aunt, they called this a barge? He’d seen three bedroom flats smaller. The so called galley was a rectangular space filling the entire indoor cabin. On one side, the port side he thought it was called, was a wall-mounted plasma screen and on the opposite side, a long kitchen galley set past an island bench. Filling up the middle were a pair of six seater table and chair sets and a long bunk style couch under the forward windows. Simple spacious and spotless, Peter had seen four star restaurants less spic and span.

  Over by the bench was his host Wally, who once more beckoned him closer. “G’day Peter, pull up a pew and have a drink. I’ll do the welcome bit later. The girls are busy right now and I’ll catch it if I don’t look after a friend of Lampie’s.”

  Peter gratefully took the indicated low backed stool and relaxed with only a slightly strained expression. The unloading and the plane trips were beginning to catch up with him. “Thank you ahh Wally, but I feel my stomach is still a trifle unsettled.”

  His host raised a pair of grey bushy eyebrows and rasped a callused hand over his stubble. “Tummy a bit up set? Can’t have that mate, I’ll get you something.” With surprising agility for such a thickset body, Wally ducked around to one of the large stainless steel wall fridges and pulled out a small bottle, cracked it with deceptive ease and poured its bubbling contents into a chilled glass. “Here mate, have this. Always good for whatever ails ya!”

  Peter picked up the glass and eyed its slowly fizzing contents. He didn’t wish to be rude, but he knew Aussies had some pretty strange ideas about pick me ups. Two shots of Bundi OP rum in dark lager was one of the more innocuous that came to mind. Giving his watchful host a weak grin, he raised the glass and took a cautious sniff and then a quick slurp. “By my sainted aunt, it’s ginger beer…Wow!”

  Peter took a more leisurely and longer draught, allowing the strong ginger tang to cleanse his mouth and clear away the last bitter aftertaste of blue bucket residue. When he’d finished half the glass, another significant factor jumped up and down waving for attention. “I say this ginger beer, its…its ginger beer! I mean proper ginger beer, like my Great Aunt Dymphna used to brew, though this one is probably a tad less on the popskullness factor, if you know what I mean. Damn tasty ahh, Wally. Thank you, you’re a life saver!”

  Wally gave a broad smile and topped up his glass. “Yeah it’s pretty good. I get a few cases of it at a time from really a good local brewery down at Broome, Matsos. They brew all their range right there on the spot and if you ever want a killer Indian curry, or a fine lager for summer they’re it.”

  Peter didn’t have to fane surprise. The Kimberleys region was awash in hidden treasures, first the Catalina, then Wally’s barge and now a Real Ale brewery so close. The lads back home wouldn’t believe him! He took one more long cool tingly sip. Actually it was better than Great Aunt Dymphna’s. She was a dab hand at the carrot whisky or celery wine. However she tended to have one failing. If you were still able to get up after two glasses, she considered the batch weak-kneed and lacking in moral fibre. The lesson in visiting her house in Buckinghamshire was to approach any new brew with extreme caution. This little number from the Kimberleys, well Peter could already see himself sitting back on a verandah, knocking back a few chilled ginger beers, while watching the migrating herds of kangaroos bound through the open plains of the ‘Outback’. Hmmm yumm, and maybe if he wanted to be adventurous a generous splash of gin could spice it up a treat.

  Having quelled his troubled tum, Peter returned his attention back to his host. Wally was still leaning on the bench smiling affably. Most of his fellow countrymen back home had some very strange ideas about Aussies. They thought them brash and forward. That may be so for some. Perhaps it was their instinctive reaction to sudden cosmopolitanness of Europe or maybe a deliberate carry over from their forefathers who served through the horrors of the Western Front. No matter, except for a fair number of the denizens of Skaze, and they had to be considered an exception to the rule, he found the Aussie regard for manners endearing. For instance, Wally was patiently waiting to ask all sorts of questions, but wouldn’t even think of it before his guest had quenched his thirst. “Once more thank you Wally. That was delightfully refreshing.”

  His host gave a dismissive shrug as if that was nothing out of the ordinary. “How do ya like the Kimberleys?”

  Peter was expecting that kind of question. He’d got it quite a lot back on the east coast and was never really sure whether Aussies were displaying pride in their surroundings or seeking reassurance that their country was up to scratch.

  “From what I saw with Lampie and Trussie, you have a very beautiful country here. The colours of the rocks, well Turner would be hard put to match the reality on canvas.” He considered that a safe response. Apart from the miles of rugged broken country, the colour here was so vivid it was something he’d never forget.

  “So yer here to help out Lampie and Sid? Mate, that’s a long way to travel to help out a friend.”

  How do you answer that one? Peter sipped at his ginger beer for a moment while he organised a reply. “I was working over in Queensland and Sid called up, asking if I could give him a hand. This was a part of Australia I’d never seen so I jumped at the chance.” There a nice safe answer, simple and uncomplicated.

  Wally gave a nod and a slightly puzzled grin. “Y’know, ya must be pretty good cos I’ve been in these parts for five years now, I have, and in all tha
t time, I’ve never heard Sid say anything decent about blokes from the east.”

  Now was that a probing question or a statement or was it a touch of parochialism? It was like how Londoners treated anyone with a rich Yorkshire burr. Peter once again played safe – better to be thought a pom than to become embroiled in the Aussies’ east coast west coast rivalry. The one between New South Wales and Queensland was quite enough. “I’m only out here on secondment. To me all Aussies are a tad different, must come from living upside down.”

  That must have been the right answer. Wally gave him a hearty thump on the shoulder. “Jeez, a Pom with a sense of humor. You’ll get on all right! How’d ya know Sid?”

  “We spent a year together at the Australian Central University in Canberra. By the end I think both of us were desperately keen to get out of there.” Peter thought that was an excellent reply – honest, direct and as evasive as possible, though the last part about being eager to leave, well some more than others.

  It was pretty obvious Wally was being friendly but he was also probing, looking to find out what this foreigner was doing here, nothing malicious. Peter was pretty sure Wally was walking around the edge of a direct question, using the social niceties to work out boundaries. “Yeah I reckon, ya right, bloody unis are a waste of time! Mostly fill kids head full of meaningless crap for degrees that’ll get them nowhere.”

  Peter forbore mentioning anything and just gave a polite nod. Looked like they’d hit a dangerous point in the conversation. Wally continued with his complaint. “Yeah, I taught engineering and metal fabrication at the TAFE in Perth for decades, and every year they’d send us a swag of students to play at learning metal work for a couple of weeks, then whisk ‘em away before they got their hands dirty. Most left as ignorant as they arrived. Pity really, a decent number of them had real skill.”