Lonely Gully: Chapter 16
Poor Herbie Bongmire disappears into the distance, ready for a life under a new puppet master, but this time outside of Guyra. Claire Harvey takes up our story.
This is “summer reading” like nothing you’ve read before: a diverse field of writers united by their connection to Australia’s national newspaper, collaborating on a novel that will captivate you through summer.
Each author had just three days to write their chapter, with complete freedom over story and style; it’s fast, fun and very funny. Tune in over the summer to see how the story unfolds.
Today, Claire Harvey takes up our story.
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“Take him to Guyra International Airport. Departures,” Tammy hisses through the driver’s side window to Deadeye Dick, who rests one arm over the steering wheel and twists to look back at Herbie Bongmire, slumped in the back seat clad in Y-fronts, a leg bandage and a sheen of sweat.
Tammy goes on. “He’s on China Southern – the 3.30 flight, via Guangzhou. Just take him up to the check-in desk and say you’ve got The Asset. They’ll know what to do.”
Deadeye looks doubtful, but presses the keyless engine-starter button and releases the park brake with his pinky finger. “Does China Southern fly out of Guyra airstrip, Tam?” he says. “Wouldn’t Armidale Airport be … ”
“Shut it, Blinky Bill,” Tammy snaps. “Just drive.”
From the back seat, Herbie begins to protest through the sock that’s been restuffed in his mouth.
“Mmmf-mmfff-fuggin-nnggggg!” he roars.
Tick Tock leans her head further in. “You don’t need your fuggin’ pants, my boy, not where you’re going.”
Herbie kicks and wriggles, caterpillaring himself across the back seat with his roped hands behind his back, trying to reach the door release latch.
“Go!” Tick Tock screams, and Deadeye nudges the gearshift to R and whips backward, then forwards and down the driveway, leaving a swirl of dust behind him.
“Tammy,” says Mary California in a shaky voice, “where are you sending that kid?”
“Wuhan,” Tammy replies, squinting at the dust cloud following Dick and Herbie’s wheels towards the New England Highway. “The wet market, specifically.”
“What?” stammers Mary. “Wuhan? But isn’t that the market where …”
“Oh, Mary, please. Try to keep up. Nothing happened at the market. Everyone knows that. Anyway, nothing has happened at the market since they closed it up. So now they need a rebrand. And ABC boy’s all part of the Politburo Standing Committee’s plan.”
“Plan? What – they want him to do a TV story about the wet market?”
“No, no. Gorsake Mary, are you drunk?”
“What? Why would you say that?” says Mary, stuffing her pale pink refillable water bottle in her handbag. Tammy eyes her suspiciously.
“Anyway. China doesn’t want him for his journalism. They successfully got rid of all the Australian correspondents. They don’t want them back. No. What my friends in Wuhan have arranged is something much more fitting for young Mr Bongjockey. They want him to just … be himself. An innocent abroad. An open-minded young Westerner, eager to learn about the wonderful culture and unique natural beauty of Hubei Province, to learn local dances and music, and turn them into TikToks.”
Mary gazes at the disappearing tail-lights of Dick’s car. “They want him to be an influencer?”
“Finally, she gets it,” Tammy mutters to herself. “Yes. He’s going to be China’s newest ambassador. Not a wolf-warrior kind of ambassador, though. That’s not trending with the right demographics. No, young Bongwater’s going to be a friend of the brand, as they say in social media. He’ll be doing TikTok dances in under-appreciated tourism hotspots of the future. First is the wet market. Then those lovely new islands they’ve created in the South China Sea. The Potala Palace in Tibet. Some cotton farms in Xinjiang. Our technology means he can dance like nobody’s watching – and they particularly like the fact he’s been recruited straight from the ABC. He’s rejecting the crushing political correctness of the bourgeois American satellite-state broadcaster so he can talk to the people of the world unfiltered. Let them know the truth about China.”
Mary California peeks inside her handbag to make sure the water bottle’s still there.
The car has finally disappeared behind the distant hills, but Tammy’s still gazing after it.
Mary sneaks a glance at her face. She can’t tell if Tick Tock is an evil genius or a delusional old bat. She wonders what’ll happen when Deadeye and Herbie reach Guyra’s Paradise Airstrip, or Armidale Airport if they make it that far, and find out the nearest departing flight to Wuhan is out of Sydney, and that they needed to get a PCR test 17 days ago to have any hope of getting a negative result in time for boarding.
“Anyway Tammy, now it’s just you and me, and we can have a little chat. As I was trying to say before, I’m here on behalf of a good friend in Sydney, Sawyer Matilda – she’s a literary agent – and she’s keen on a book on everything you’re doing here. A summer read, a page-turner, she thinks it would be – lots of action, not too much character development. I’m authorised to offer a very generous advance and I …”
Tammy cuts her off with a snort. “A book?” She laughs, in an unnecessarily condescending way, Mary thinks. “Nobody reads books anymore, Mary. They’re all listening to podcasts. True crime and shit. Someone gets murdered, the cops bugger it all up, the listeners solve the crime. Anyway, I’m not interested. I’m a very busy woman, Mary. I have time for two things; Lonely Gully and cooking. So what I am interested in is you helping me win the Guyra Lamb and Potato Festival culinary gold medal. The Medaille D’Or, they call it. I know you’re a judge. I seen the brochure fall out when you dropped your bag. And you said – you promised – if I showed you round, you’d help me win.”
Mary unscrews the cap on her water bottle and chugs the contents. “Yes, well, we can talk about that, Tammy, but I’m not the only judge, you know – and there is such a thing as professional integrity here, it’s not like I can just declare you the winner on my own, there’s other people I’d need to convince.”
Tammy turns and begins walking towards the homestead.
“I’ve already thought of that,” she says, patting the Glock on her hip, tucked tightly under her leather belt. “Besides. Once they taste my recipe, they won’t need any additional persuasion.”
“Oh, well, that’s good, but …” Mary mutters.
“Lamb, Mary,” says Tammy. “Grass-fed, single-source, locally processed, high-welfare lamb. I don’t do anything fancy with it – no foams or soils or plumes of smoke or spheres. I just pan-fry it and serve it up.”
Mary is trotting alongside Tammy, whose purposeful stride has brought them to the veranda. In a leap she’s up the three wooden steps to the homestead, long arm reaching for the handle of the flyscreen door, when she pauses and turns back to look at Mary.
“The thing about my lamb, Mary, is that it’s completely boneless. Cutlets, shoulders, loins – any cut you can think of. No bones. In fact, no death. No sheep has to suffer to create Lonely Gully lamb. We don’t spill a drop of adorable baby lamby blood. It’s just like plant-based meat, except without the plants. Or the self-righteousness.”
Bewildered, Mary tries to formulate a question. “But … but …” Tammy’s stopped listening. Her eyes are back on the road below.
A fresh cloud of dust is approaching from the valley, along with the unmistakable rumble of a Kenworth truck. Lizard Blair is at the wheel, and Anita and Deb stand on the flatbed, gripping the top of the cab.
“Here they come,” Tammy says. “Get inside.”
Claire Harvey is editorial director at The Australian. She started her career in journalism as a copygirl in The Australian's Canberra bureau in 1994 and has worked as a reporter, foreign correspondent, deputy editor and columnist at The Australian, The Sunday Telegraph and The New Zealand Herald.
COMING UP: Nikki Gemmell continues the story on Thursday, followed by Stan Grant’s big finale on Saturday.
Read every chapter in the paper, on The Australian’s app and at lonelygully.com.au
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