by Lucy Walker
Home at Sundown
Lucy Walker
Copyright © The Estate of Lucy Walker 2020
This edition first published 2020 by Wyndham Books
(Wyndham Media Ltd)
27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX
First published 1968
www.wyndhambooks.com/lucy-walker
The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Cover artwork images © Roman Samborskyi / Edward Haylan (Shutterstock)
Cover artwork design © Wyndham Media Ltd
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Books by Lucy Walker
from Wyndham Books
The Call of the Pines
Reaching for the Stars
The River is Down
Girl Alone
The One Who Kisses
The Ranger in the Hills
Come Home, Dear
Love in a Cloud
Home at Sundown
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Books by Lucy Walker
Chapter One
Kimberley Jessica Wentworth tucked a stray wisp of hair under her ribbon band. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then marshalled into order the pile of books she carried under her arm. She was called ‘Kim’ for short, and this suited her appearance better than the cumbersome name wished down on her by her parents.
‘Hullo! I mean ‒ Excuse me!’ Her voice was polite ‒ barely ‒ for after all, this was the third time of speaking. The man had ignored her two previous efforts.
He was bending over a nest of small plants, pressing down the earth on the newly set roots. In spite of the delicacy and urgency of this exercise he allowed his head to turn ‒ just that much.
He saw the shoes first. They were white with blue heels and straps: obviously new. The girl was pleased with this attention to what she wore on her feet, for these shoes were the very latest thing and the only high fashion note about her whole appearance ‒ except, perhaps, the very short skirt. But then everyone wore those!
The man’s eyes ‒ very penetrating ‒ moved up from the shoes, took in the smooth tanned skin of a nice pair of legs, knees that weren’t knobbly, and a plain cream-coloured skirt. Then they came upwards to a pixyish, puzzled face. This face was lit by a pair of wide-set grey eyes, and crowned with a sweep of dark hair held in place by a wide ribbon band.
Any other man but this would have thought she was a sweetie.
He, however, was busy with more important things. At least his expression implied this without any doubt.
He appeared not to see any charm in the candour of the grey eyes, nor in their quite unique expression of youthful wonder.
The pupils of his own eyes were pin-point because as he looked over his shoulder at the girl he was looking into morning sunshine in more senses than one.
‘Did you speak to me?’ he asked coldly.
‘I did say "Good morning” the first time,’ Kim explained patiently. ‘The second time I said “Hullo”. And the third time I said ‒ well, what I just said a minute ago ‒ “Excuse me”. Or something like that!’
She changed the books to her left arm and her weight back to her right foot.
‘If you are looking for the Botanical section ‒ which on certain days is open to the public ‒’ he continued coldly, ‘it is four hundred yards across the track to your right. You did not read the notice board?’
‘I’ve been to that section. I was looking for Dr Andrews. He’s a botanist attached to this Institute at the Mount. They said he was somewhere around. Probably down here.’ She sighed.
‘You’re the only person in sight,’ she added. ‘So please could you tell me where I will find him?’
‘Dr Andrews is not available to members of the public at anybody’s whim.’ He was very aloof. ‘I advise you to go away, and come back on the Public’s Open Day.’
Kim moved her head fractionally to one side and asked, too gently ‒
‘Are you his guardian? I mean, I thought you were the plant man, or the head gardener, or something.’
He dusted the earth from his hands, then stood up, straightening himself. He was so tall he towered over Kim. So she looked down instead of up. She noticed his work boots were very dusty. They hadn’t been cleaned for a long, long time.
‘What is wrong with being a gardener?’ he asked.
She looked up at him again. There was still that look of built-in wonder in her eyes. Someone, other than this man, might have scented danger. At least, persistence.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Did you think there was? The gardener has the best job. He works with the wild-flowers in this special section, doesn’t he?’
‘I think you’d better state your business young lady or you’ll have someone coming down from the office to run you out. This section is “Private”. There is a notice board behind you saying so.’
Kim ignored this last, and went straight to her point again.
‘I want to see Dr Andrews,’ she explained, extra patiently. ‘There was an advertisement by C.O.C.R. in the week-end paper. They want an Assistant to the Botanist at the Mount. That’s here, isn’t it? It said “Typing qualifications necessary, some botanical experience advisable but not so necessary. Immediate appointment to suitable applicant for a twelve-week Expedition for plant collecting in the Outback. Apply to the Director of the Mount, or Dr Andrews, immediately”.’ She had just enough breath to finish the last word.
‘You seem to have it off very pat?’
‘I do. I know someone interested in the job.’
‘Then you should tell your “someone” to apply by letter, or in person, to the main office. Now, if you’ll excuse me ‒’
He turned back to his work, crouching down with bent knees as he did so. He began to remove a young plant from a seedling box.
‘In the Botany Department down at Crawley they don’t pack plants tightly like that,�
�� Kim advised him leaning over his shoulder to watch him work.
This time he was not only exasperated, he was angry. He stood up again, turned round and stared at her with dark blue eyes that sparkled ice.
‘Are you a University student?’ he demanded. ‘I would have thought you were too young. A school girl?’
‘I’m not a University student, but I do know the department at Crawley ‒’ Kim began.
‘Oh yes. They have open day for the senior schools once a year! I’m aware of that. How old are you? Sixteen?’
‘Nineteen,’ Kim corrected him politely. She suspected he didn’t believe her, but then no one ever did.
This matter of looking too young was a day-to-day problem for Kim. Everyone thought she was young ‒ because by a mistake on nature’s part, she looked it. She was tired of her mother, father, two older sisters ‒ and sometimes her brother Jeff ‒ treating her as if she was a child; a mere school girl. Now this man too!
She wanted to go away from them all. Right away. Preferably where there were plants to be looked after. She liked that part of her job in the glasshouses at Crawley Botany Department. Actually she had been appointed as a typist. Then it was discovered she could tag the plants accurately and that her penmanship was as remarkable as it was fine and delicate. Ralph Sinclair, one of the younger research men, had put her on to flower-drawings, and discovered her real value. She now spent more than half her time with a drawing-pen in her hand.
It had been wonderful in a way, except she had been overloaded. She was too soft-hearted to say ‘no’ every time someone wanted drawings done. Specially Ralph Sinclair. He monopolised her time, praised her drawings, gave her more and more work to do, but never once looked at her, except by accident. He was so dedicated to his doctorate thesis that he saw in Kim only a steady hand and a deep love of wild plants and flowers.
He took her, as a person, for granted. So Kim wanted to get away from him too!
This job being advertised by C.O.C.R. ‒ short for the hefty title Council for Organic Chemical Research ‒ would be just the berries. Twelve weeks on an expedition into the outback as Technical Assistant to the Botanist! A plant-search! What heaven! Besides, if her drawings were as good as she thought them herself, C.O.C.R. might end up taking her on for keeps as a Technical Assistant: even send her to work at the State Gardens or to be seconded to the Mount permanently. Well, why not dream?
Kim had never wanted anything more badly in her life than she wanted this job.
‘The advertisement said ‒ “Apply to Dr Andrews”,’ she said again.
‘Then you tell your friend to do just that. By letter for preference. You are aware Dr Andrews does not care to take girls on expeditions?’
The way he said ‘girls’ nettled Kim, though she took care to hide it.
She shook her head soberly. ‘If it hadn’t been for a girl you wouldn’t be here ‒’ she remarked, ever so gently.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your mother must have been a girl once.’
She was pleased with that one!
He’d be more than thirty, she guessed. He’d be very good looking if his hair weren’t ruffled, and he didn’t have streaks of earth on his square impressive forehead. He was really very impressive altogether, but she didn’t care to admit that just now.
‘Would you mind leaving these gardens at once. They are not for the Public,’ he commanded. ‘I happen to be busy.’ He swung round, bent down over his work again and began to dust soil from the roots of a specimen he had just taken from a box. His back said she no longer existed.
‘Leschenaultia!’ Kim remarked, identifying the plant in his hand. ‘It won’t survive more than two seasons there, you know. Too many minerals in the soil on this side of the Mount.’
He stopped shaking the roots, and slowly turned round again.
‘We have a three-foot depth of Darling Range soil top dressing this particular area,’ he said flatly ‒ talking at a small girl again. ‘Would you mind letting me go about my legitimate business? And you go about yours?’
‘Every plant-man ought to know that you might dig in fresh earth but you won’t stop the rain seeping down from the back slopes, picking up minerals as it comes.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘It’s the seepage that does it. Your Lescbenaultia could die. That is unless you have magic in your fingers. Some do, you know ‒’
He did not answer her.
She transferred her books from one arm to the other again, and turned her back on him.
‘I shall find Dr Andrews for myself ‒’ was her parting remark, not admitting defeat. Anyway ‒ if she sought out the Mount’s Director he’d only send her back to the Botanist. She’d skip that step!
Kim shook back her hair and began climbing the steep slope to the track. Beyond this track was a green sward of grass and beyond the grass was a stand of trees hiding the Botanist’s herbarium from the rude stare of the Public’s gaze.
By the time she had reached the trees she changed her mind about looking for Dr Andrews just now. If he didn’t care to take girls he had better not know she was a girl till he had given her the job. Then she could sue him ‒ or something ‒ if he tried to take it away from her when he found out. Sex discrimination wasn’t allowed in the Government’s C.O.C.R. institutions.
She didn’t have a name like Kimberley Jessica Wentworth for nothing. Wentworths were worth where they went. That was a family tradition. Her grandfather Kimberley had been a strong character. Very persistent.
Her name was always cut short to Kim and more than once when she had sent a postcard for drawing materials, the answer had come back addressed to Mr Kim Wentworth. That ‘Mr Kim’ might be of help now!
Deep in thought, she went home instead of going in further search of the elusive Dr Andrews. There, in her box of a room ‒ part of the sleep-out ‒ she drafted a ‘brilliant’ application for the job of Temporary Technical Assistant to the Chief Botanist, C.O.C.R. Expedition. In perfect writing too. She signed the application Kim Wentworth. That might make that ‘Mister’ pay dividends for once. She added a loose page of the pen and ink plant-drawings which she had done for Ralph Sinclair at Crawley. She had accurately labelled, in tiny print, each and every part of the plants in the drawings.
An hour later ‒ after three cups of tea for extra courage ‒ she went down to the University, waited till Ralph Sinclair was at his most absent-minded and busiest, then asked him to dictate a reference for her.
‘Do it yourself, dear girl. You can see I’m up to my microscopic eyes in Knuzea pulchella ‒’
This was exactly the answer Kim hoped for: indeed half-expected. She wrote herself the best reference ever. It would have stunned even Ralph, if he had had time to read it. He signed it absently. Then suddenly realised that all this rot Kim had been talking really meant she was likely to leave the Department.
‘What will I do if you go?’ He all but wrung his hands. If they’d been free of the lovely grey and scarlet pulchella flower he would have done just that. ‘Who’s going to do the drawings?’
‘You’ll have to do them yourself, I expect,’ Kim said regretfully. ‘On the other hand, there’s Myree Bolton. She already has her first degree. With a mass of distinctions too. She can draw, but I don’t know about typing ‒’
‘Myree Bolton? You mean the girl doing Honours? The one with the pile of curls on top of her head? The campus beauty? Of course, of course! Do go and find her at once Kim, my love. She must begin work immediately ‒’
The ‘my love’ hurt Kim more than ever, specially as Ralph was already putting his eye to the microscope again. He was enchanted at the prospect of having the campus beauty working with him, was he? He had already forgotten that Kim was actually likely to part from him.
She decided he could go find Myree Bolton for himself.
She reached the door and looked back. A shadow of young, fleeting sorrow passed over her face. She had worked so hard for him; been the smallest bit in love with him ‒
and now, at her going, he thought only of the pulchella flower and Myree Bolton’s pile of golden curls!
‘Ah well! Such is my life!’
She thought it all very sad.
In the typist’s room she borrowed an envelope from the cupboard. She now folded her application, together with her brilliant testimonial, into the envelope; stamped and addressed this, then posted it in the Department’s outward mail-box. After all, a University out-stamp on the envelope could do the application more good than not. If Dr Andrews was at all observant he would see that this letter came from higher realms before he even opened it. Kim felt a little smug at her own perspicacity. She was going to get that job with whatever ammunition she found at hand.
Half an hour later she swung open the wire gate of her home. It was after midday by this time. She looked at the flowering apple hibiscus on her right, then the budding boronia growing in a wild patch on the left by the picket fence.
How she had had to stand over that patch to prevent would-be waterers in her family from letting the mineral-weighted tap-water touch the tiny plants in the long dry summer!
She walked round the back of the house and looked at the water-tank her brother Jeff had obligingly erected to store the earlier winter rain-water as it flowed generously down the iron roof of the garage.
Her boronia had survived, when no one else’s had! She had used rain-water only.
‘All that trouble for plants that size,’ Celia, her sister, had said caustically. ‘Boronia only flowers for one month in the year anyway! Meantime we have to put up with that hideous tank in the back yard.’
Thinking of this remark, Kim opened the door of the garage. The van was there. Her van. Not that anyone else in the family conceded it was her van at all. They had long forgotten its history. Specially Celia, whose memory was always choosily short.
Kimberley Jessica Wentworth came from a family of foresters. Her father worked with the Forestry Department south of the river. Her brother Jeff was forestry adviser in the karri forest down south. Celia and Diane worked as experts in the Botanical Gardens. There hadn’t been any money left in the family to give Kim a professional training. So she had become a typist.