by Lucy Walker
John Andrews, though seeming most of the time to be one of them, kept that little social distance that was necessary between the Leader and the Rest. He didn’t splash or be splashed but he swam as strongly and freely as the others, then clambered on to a large red rock to smoke a cigarette and look on.
Kim, too imaginative for her own safety, could suddenly see how he blended with that rugged outcrop behind him. She hadn’t thought of him that way before.
She was swimming on her back, her head lifted in order to see better.
He looked like a man carved in stone. His profile of straight lines was part of the rock line too. He was alone, liking it that way ‒ as the last man left by the last tribe must have learned to be long ago.
A ‘coo-ee’ came from Kim’s left and she rolled over in the water to see what went on.
Myree was standing on a flat rock on the far side of the pool. The fading glow in the sky caught and silhouetted her figure. She stood, one arm lifted high to attract attention, her head thrown back and all the smooth slim curves of her figure beautifully outlined.
‘John!’ Myree called across the pool. ‘Dare I dive? Is it deep enough here?’
He signalled with his hand that it would be safe. Myree dived superbly. She didn’t come up for a long time. Then Kim saw that she was swimming underwater to the rock where John sat.
Her wet head emerged below him and one shining arm came out of the water asking to be caught so she could be hauled up on to the rock beside him.
‘I could have climbed up without help,’ Kim thought. ‘I guess I must have had practice climbing that king karri down in the forest. Maybe I’ll teach Myree some day!’
She swam forward in the water, one arm after the other, paddle-kicking her feet, till she reached the camp side of the pool. She clambered out, shook herself like a shaggy dog, then made for the canvas shelter stretched over her van and which made a shade veranda around it.
‘Hey, Kim!’ Stephen Cole called. ‘Your turn to help the cook serve. You’d better scramble. I’ll give a hand too.’
This was the first night in sleeping bags under the stars.
In the small hours of the morning the east wind came whispering out of the desert and Kim sat up to pull an extra cover over her feet. That wind could be heard talking to itself as it came nearer and nearer, blowing over a thousand miles of desert and bush and scrub, bringing with it the scent of the shrubs and rare flowers the party had yet to find. About midday to-morrow it would turn into a hot and searing wind. For the present it simply told Kim she needed a cover.
Over on the far side of the deadening coals of the campfire she saw a figure sitting up, one arm wrapped around his knees, the other lifting the glowing tip of a cigarette from time to time. He was alone. It was John Andrews.
Kim lay back, her arm under her head so she could see across the faint glow of the camp fire. She supposed a leader’s job must be worrying. Perhaps he had to stay awake at night to do his thinking and his planning ‒
A little finger of compunction touched her heart. She felt inclined once more to forgive him for having been so ungallant when she first had met him. She might even forgive him for turning out to be Dr Andrews himself.
After all, he can’t help being himself. Now can he? She felt sad, and did not know why.
Kim turned her head into her arm. Then, listening to the wind, she fell asleep.
Thereafter the time passed in a daze of activity.
The Expedition had, within a few days, reached its major base ‒ far into the outback. Each evening as the plant-searchers returned to camp with their finds, George Crossman came out of his caravan-laboratory specially to meet Kim. In his half-amused, half-affectionate way he managed to prise her free of Stephen Cole’s company, for some of the time.
The joys and discoveries and exclamations of surprise ‒ sometimes of disappointment when a specimen was rejected ‒ constituted the only topics of conversation round the evening camp-fire.
The Expedition was so far inland now that the seas of pink and white everlastings had been left many miles behind. So were the violet covered poverty-bushes, many of the hakeas. Long gone were the sprawls of heavenly blue leschenaultia Kim had seen all the way up to the Greenough River on her way to Manutarra.
Now, in place of those more luscious glories, were the semi-desert flowers. The crimson sturt pea lay here and there like splashes of red paint on the ground. Flame coloured grevillea bushes showed their brilliant flowers round the corners of rocky outcrops. The illyarrie tree sprouted its amazing variety of flower and nut from twisted tree trunks. The rose-pink of the spiked feather flower peeked in unexpected places where even the prickle-leaved variety of wattle had not dared to grow.
By day Kim was flat out busy tagging specimens, drawing others, and recording all that were brought in for classification.
On the fifth night of their stay at the main Base, Kim sat by the camp-fire leaning against George Crossman’s shoulder, while others nearby talked of their plant finds. She stared into the coals while she listened without much interest to her beautiful flowers being called by such freakish names as Eucalyptus erythrocorys, or Verticordia spicata.
She couldn’t pronounce the names anyway. She had already confessed this shortcoming to George.
‘Don’t try,’ he said, kindly. ‘Don’t lose your own ideas in the face of science ‒ if you’re not a scientist, Kim. Let a flower be a flower for its interest, not for the sake of a generic name.’
John Andrews overheard these last words as he slid down to a seat on the rug edge next to George.
‘You’ll have to learn to spell them from here on, Kim,’ he said, intruding without apology. ‘Several of us have special specimens we want recorded: and sectional drawings made of them too. They’ll take priority over the other specimens you’ve been working on. Remember, all information about them is confidential. Right?’
‘Of course,’ she said, sitting up and taking notice. They were on to something new. She felt the thrill of discovery down her spine.
John looked across Kim to George Crossman.
‘How about a table and drawing space in your caravan, George?’ he asked.
‘I have a folding table in my own van,’ Kim said quickly. ‘I can put it out under the canvas shelter for work ‒ so long as there’s no wind to blow papers about ‒’
George Crossman made a humorous grimace.
‘You see? She doesn’t want my company.’ He glanced at Kim, a teasing twinkle in his eyes. ‘I think she prefers Stephen Cole breathing down her neck while she draws ‒’
‘He does not breathe down my neck,’ Kim said promptly. ‘He’s merely interested in what my hand does. He finds it absorbing to watch someone drawing ‒’ she broke off suddenly. John Andrews’ eyes were fixed on her. There was an odd expression in them.
‘Some of these new records must be kept confidential,’ he repeated, his voice compelling attention.
‘Of course,’ Kim agreed. ‘They’ll be clearly marked ‒’
It was her turn to break off. What was John thinking at the back of that camouflaged mind of his? Did he suspect she was irresponsible, or something?
She felt indignant with him all over again.
There was quite a weighted silence, then John turned to George Crossman as if he had second thoughts. Or a new idea.
‘It might be just as well for Kim to work under the shelter for a day or two,’ he agreed. ‘In any case it would be more useful if Myree worked in your lab with you, George. She would like an organic analysis of some special Hibbertia miniata. It’s rare and there could be something of interest in it for you too.’
‘Miniata? It’s all but died out. A lucky find for Myree!’
‘She’s observant,’ John said bluntly. ‘And very particular about details. Myree misses nothing.’
Kim thought he said this last with satisfaction. One botanist enamoured of another botanist’s find?
She stared into the fire coals a
nd let John and George talk on about their work. She was thinking of dear darling Ralph Sinclair and the almost holy smile he used to wear on his face when he found something in the dissections that was new or unexpected. Her own face, as memory stirred her, wore a sudden tender look of which she was unaware. What had made her think of Ralph? Something about Stephen Cole breathing down her neck ‒ holding over her head that silent blackmail threat that Ralph might have his thesis set aside if someone suggested too much of the work had been done by another!
In one mood this threat of Stephen’s made Kim want to laugh. In another mood it made her uneasy. It would be so simple to set up a rumour ‒ A research worker might never live down a rumour ‒ however false it was in fact.
Poor darling Ralph!
Then, on the other hand, Kim thought, she wasn’t playing fair to Stephen. He had only been joking about the drawings she had done for Ralph, of course. He was being marvellously kind to her. He sharpened her pencils, washed her brushes and cleaned her fine nibs. She liked him for his thoughtfulness. It showed quite an interesting and generous side of his nature.
John Andrews’ voice broke in on her thoughts. He was still talking to George.
‘… so, in that case I’ll revise my plans and take Kim in the jeep with me for this next part of the trip. That will leave your lab clear for Myree. As I’m collecting the living specimens I can get my descriptions typed and some drawings of the locality while on the hunt. Kim can then be passed on to the next wanting her skills. Probably Myree or Charles. We’ll leave in two days time.’
Kim blinked. She wished she had listened to that crosstalk instead of fire-dreaming of Ralph’s non-existent problems, and of Stephen’s helpfulness.
In two days’ time she was going somewhere with John Andrews! For heaven’s sake! She hoped there wouldn’t be fireworks.
Then her heart dropped again at the thought he might be taking her to keep his eye on her. Those confidential records!
He mightn’t like her much, but he should at least trust her.
‘Well, that will be all for now, Kim,’ John Andrews said as he drew in his long legs, and stood up. ‘You’ll need to pack a kit as well as your drawing materials. I have a portable typewriter and all the specimen cases necessary. We’ll be away three to five days at least.’
Why hadn’t she listened indeed? And why was he taking her with him on second thoughts, not first ones? Because she could keep records and draw? And Myree couldn’t?
‘Tea-o!’ one of the men called from the other side of the fire. The billy was being lifted from the coals with a stick thrust through the handle. ‘Ten minutes for late supper ‒’ the voice went on. ‘Fifteen minutes for ablutions. Lights out at nine-thirty! Come and get it, boys and girls!’
‘Coming!’ Barney and Stephen Cole called in unison. They made their way through the shadows to where Kim was sitting. George Crossman, on Kim’s far side, seemed to regard Stephen’s arrival with some annoyance.
‘We’re making an early start before the heat turns on, Kim,’ George said, a rough note in his voice. ‘Five a.m. is the starting time. It might be a good thing to let Stephen say good night to himself ‒ for a change.’
Was he, or was he not, joking?
George had actually implied ‒?
Well, how dare he!
Alas, there were too many people around, including Stephen, to ask George what he meant. Instead Kim accepted a mug of tea from his hand ‒ very meekly. George, she guessed, did not know that when meekness sat on her brow she was brooding at her most dangerous. Stephen enquiring into the private life of her immortal soul was difficult enough to contend with. All the same ‒ she was puzzled.
Chapter Six
Three days later the Expedition split up into separate parties. One group ‒ the chemists, the cook, the mechanic and Myree, remained at Base with George Crossman in charge. Two of the Land-Rovers with members aboard made off in a south easterly direction. Another party including Barney Sage and Stephen headed due north to search new territory.
John Andrews, with Kim’s help, began to prepare his jeep and pack in supplies. This was to be a long jaunt east in search of a plant species of which he had found evidence on a previous expedition.
As they sealed in the last containers, cartons of tinned food and the sleeping bags, he told her he had first known of this species from a group of aborigines who had some in their possession.
‘Didn’t you ask them to give you one of the plants?’ Kim asked, pushing her hat to an appropriate angle to register impression.
John’s eye was quite withering as he glanced down at her.
‘They were in possession of a dried form of chemical which I surmised could only be taken from that type of plant,’ he said, explaining to a child. ‘That, Kim, is evidence only. Not the plant: though I had found some of the same family but different species on an earlier expedition.’
‘Oh,’ she said deflated. ‘I must remember that evidence is not a plant, but a plant is evidence. Have I got it right?’
John fixed down the back flap of the jeep in a banging kind of a way. Then he seemed to relent, smiling at her half-ruefully. Kim interpreted this change as evidence ‒ as of an adult being sorry he had smacked a child.
‘I’m sorry I have to monopolise your services for the time being, Kim,’ he said, shoving his own hat to the back of his head and looking ‒ not at her ‒ but at some distant vision a few thousand miles away over the horizon. ‘That evidence could lead to ‒ well, never mind that! If I find the source, namely the plant-species, I will need drawings of the growing specimen in its environment. Its immediate background ‒ habitat ‒ all that sort of thing. On-the-spot records. This sort of work is the reason for your being with the Expedition.’
‘Oh quite,’ Kim said cheerfully. ‘Actually I’m excited. I hope when we find it it will make us as rich as Stephen’s millionaire boss ‒’
John’s eyes came back from distant views and fixed her with something either exasperated or baleful. She wasn’t sure which. One thing she did know ‒ she meant him to feel that way. Just to punish him.
Then she sighed, changed the angle of her hat and said meekly,
‘Shall I get in now? I think we’ve packed everything. There’s nothing left on the ground anyway.’
Why did she always use two left feet wherever she trod?
John’s answer was to open the passenger door for her, then walk round the bonnet and heft himself into the drive seat. He sat, his hands on the steering wheel, as if thinking. Then he looked down at her.
She was quite small, almost hiding under the brim of that ridiculous hat, as if away from him. He wondered was she nervous of him? Or … well … or what?
‘Are you all right, Kim?’ he asked.
Her eyes widened in surprise.
‘Yes, of course. I’m always all right. Nothing ever happens to me that isn’t absolutely and altogether all right. At least I make it come out that way.’
This was bravado. Half her wrong words and all her wrong laughs had come as a sort of defence mechanism.
She looked away from him, suddenly alarmed at the scrutiny in his eyes.
She wanted really to shed her old self. Well ‒ for the time being anyway. How could she tell him that underneath the pep talks she didn’t quite believe in herself at all. Well, not all the time anyway! Was he reading that in her face?
She thought she was generally pretty good at faking expressions so she’d fake one right now. ‘Obliging obedience’ was the most suitable.
John started up the engine and drove out on to the track.
‘We follow this route for about thirty-five miles,’ he said after a silence. ‘Then we cut off across the bush in a south-easterly direction. I’ve a surveyor’s map for the further hundred miles after that. We’re breaking little-known territory. We cross a narrow tongue of the Gibson Desert. A sand plain. Then I anticipate finding shrubland again.’
Kim nodded.
‘If you�
��ll give me the map, I’ll navigate.’
He glanced down at her, surprised at her confidence.
‘You can do that accurately?’
He’d asked that question once before! Kim shifted her hat from one angle to another.
‘Quite accurately,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Those trips in the ranges and forest, you know. Remember?’
John Andrews drove on, a thoughtful expression on his face. Then he braked the jeep to a stop. He took the map out of the door pocket, unfolded it and pointed to the area they were now crossing.
‘I believe you!’ he said categorically. ‘Now follow this. That’s the main Base marked X.’ He moved his finger along a meandering line. ‘We’re about at this spot now. The road we’re taking for the last hundred miles is an old disused station track. An abandoned station, I’m afraid. However, we leave the track here ‒’ He moved his finger farther along the line.
‘And after that?’
‘We’ll take a reckoning by my watch and the sun; then check it against the compass in my working bag. I want to get into the sand-plain country round about here. It’s desert fringe mostly.’ This time he made a circling movement with his finger. ‘We’ll make camp and see what we can find thereabouts.’
‘Do we have a two-way walkie-talkie?’ Kim asked.
‘Yes, but after we turn off the main track it will be useless. We’d need a modern 25 watt transceiver unit and a radio base to make any effective communication. That, I’m afraid, the Council for Organic Chemical Research cannot afford. You don’t know any millionaires, Kim? The kind likely to make munificent funds to anything as irrelevant to society as a Botanical Garden?’
‘We might ask Stephen Cole to put in a good word for us with his boss. Stephen’s boss only keeps a herbarium as a status symbol.’
Kim’s remark had an unexpected effect on John Andrews. He smiled as if struck by something amusing. It was a beautiful slow smile that took possession of his mouth, then his eyes, practically against his will.
‘Why are you laughing at the idea?’ Kim asked with a touch of her old truculence. ‘If you don’t ask you don’t get. The worst that could happen is that he could say “no”. We’d be just the same as we are now. The best‒’