The Beautiful Mother

by Scholes, Katherine

  Ian removed his watch, laying it carefully on his towel. It was a Rolex that had belonged to his father – a gift from the manufacturers in recognition of the achievements at Magadi Gorge. The face was cracked, the time hard to read, but the heirloom was still Ian’s most precious possession.

  Ian adjusted his swimming trunks and then plunged into the pool, sending waves lapping to the edge, ruffling the reeds. He sighed with pleasure as he floated on his back. His body was part brown, part white, the boundaries marked by his work clothes: an open-necked shirt, shorts and long socks. Essie watched him for a moment, then waded in to join him.

  ‘I wonder how the Leakeys are doing,’ Ian said happily. It was a standing joke. Residents of Olduvai Camp relied for water on a single muddy spring shared with a colony of hippos. Their laundry was stained red-brown and personal washing was limited to sponge baths. The boundless supply of fresh water was the one luxury the Lawrences enjoyed that those at the Leakeys’ camp envied.

  ‘Poor things,’ Essie said. ‘It can’t have been easy, scrubbing up for a visit from Mr Marlow.’ She laughed as she pushed herself away from the edge, ducking underwater, her hair streaming out behind her. She surfaced near Ian, wiping the water from her face.

  The two stood shoulder-deep in the blue-green pool. Ian put his hands on Essie’s hips, running them down over the edge of her costume onto her thighs. Then he pulled her closer, cradling her breasts against his chest. Their legs entwined, skin gliding over skin, cloaked in water that felt like silk. Essie looked into his eyes as he slid his hands between her legs. A shiver of desire ran through her. She wished they could go straight back to the camp and disappear into the tent, without questions being asked. It was a safe time of the month for her. They wouldn’t have to be too careful.

  Ian kissed her gently. She tasted salty sweat, still lingering on his mouth. After a brief time he pulled away, scanning their surroundings. Essie followed his gaze. The only living beings in view were waterbirds skulking in the reeds, but she knew as well as he did that at any time a human shape could emerge without warning from the background. The Maasai didn’t really accept the boundaries of the Archaeological Reserve – herders often trespassed here. It was important that the Lawrences, as the people in charge of Magadi, protected their reputation. In African society public displays of affection were not acceptable. Kissing was thought completely bizarre.

  ‘Come on,’ Ian said. ‘Let’s swim. We have to get back for supper on time.’ He smiled. ‘I told Baraka we were celebrating. He’s going to use the last of the Christmas hamper.’

  Essie looked at him in surprise. They always kept some imported treats to celebrate the end of the Long Dry – and that was still many months away. The cook would disapprove of the break with tradition; he had been working for the Lawrences even longer than Kefa. Essie pictured him taking down the tins that were displayed on the top shelf of the bookcase in the Dining Tent. If he really opened them all tonight, they’d be having smoked fillets of herring for entrée followed by a main course of Virginia ham and asparagus. Afterwards there would be plum pudding. Assuming the description on the tin was accurate, it would be laced with brandy and dotted with plump cherries. If the Maasai women had brought fresh eggs and milk today, there would be custard too. The meal would be a welcome change from boiled rice and bean stew. But even as Essie’s mouth was watering, she felt uneasy again. An African proverb came to her – Don’t make the cradle skin before the baby is born – the local version of not counting chickens before they hatch. It was out of character for Ian not to be more cautious. He was a scientist, after all; trained to take things step by step. And he was so used to disappointment now that he normally didn’t believe in anything until the proof was in front of him.

  It just showed, Essie thought, as she breaststroked across the pool, that when you wanted something badly enough, your judgement could not be trusted.

  TWO

  A hot wind blew, stirring the dust and bending the yellow grass that bordered the steep gully. It was well past midday now, and too hot to be out walking, let alone climbing. A strand of loose hair stuck to Essie’s face. She wiped it away, smearing gritty sweat.

  From behind her came the sound of Tommy’s hooves scrabbling on loose gravel. She usually let him come with her to the work sites and today of all days she didn’t want him causing trouble back at the camp. She glanced over her shoulder to check his progress. He bleated anxiously, his eyes fixed on her as if afraid she might disappear.

  ‘Come on,’ she said encouragingly. ‘There’s a good boy.’

  Behind the gazelle came Simon, her African assistant. He was climbing nimbly, binoculars swinging from his neck. A quiver spiked with arrows was slung across his back, looking out of place next to his khaki shirt. He kept peering up over the sides of the gully, on the lookout for movement in the bushes. Rudie and Meg were off hunting as well. Essie had seen the dogs streaking away into the distance, noses to the ground. How they ever stalked prey unnoticed, with such startling spotted coats, she never understood. With their lean bodies and long legs, they looked like some strange form of leopard. At least the distinctive dogs were well known in the area and wouldn’t be mistaken for something wild.

  Today, both Simon and the dogs would probably be out of luck. Ian would be disappointed; he was hoping to have some small game animal on hand so that he could show the visitors when they came tomorrow how stone tools could cut hide and flesh while human teeth were useless. With the coming of the dry season, though, most of the grazing animals and the predators that followed them had moved north. Many of the birds had become scarce too. The land had a quiet, abandoned feeling. The heat, shimmering in the air, seemed to vibrate in the emptiness.

  Reaching the top of the gully, Essie climbed out onto flatter ground. As she stood up, she shaded her eyes with her hand. The place they called the ‘flint factory’ was visible now: a scattering of darker stones and, further on, the rocky outcrop from where they’d all been mined. After waiting for Tommy to catch up, Essie set off towards it.

  With each step she studied the ground, her gaze moving steadily from side to side. The Long Rains had ended a few weeks ago, which meant this was the best time for a chance discovery. Streams of water running between the steep banks of the korongos sometimes exposed very old fossils. Even with all the digging that money could buy, and the best-trained workers, the truth was that many of the world’s important discoveries had been found by accident. It was a frustration to researchers as it was impossible to plan and budget on the basis of luck.

  Essie had to remind herself to blink, resting her eyes. It was hard not to stare for too long, when you knew that one more moment of looking could change everything. She imagined finding something important – right now. Nothing as outlandish as a whole skeleton; her dream had to be practical. When millions of years were involved, or even tens of thousands, the most likely remains were those of the toughest part of the body: the skull. Essie pictured herself picking up a fragment of a cranium, or a piece of an eye socket or brow ridge. Something that gave solid clues to what the whole head would have been like. She’d mark the spot with a cairn, then wrap up the treasure and slip it into her pocket. Tomorrow, while Frank Marlow was at the Steps, she’d casually bring it out. The fantasy ran on. Frank would be so impressed that he’d take out his chequebook, then and there. Everyone would know that it had been Essie’s find that had saved Magadi. This gully where she now stood would be named after her: Essie Lawrence Korongo. All the results of the work that would ensue here – every fossil and artefact that was found – would bear her initials . . .

  Reaching the scattered flint, Essie let go of her daydream. She glanced across the sharp flakes and stone tools that lay among naturally broken pebbles. Here and there she could see lumps of uncut flint that would be perfect for her knapping demonstration. But she walked past them towards the outcrop. There she pulled a small pick from her pocket, balancing its weight in her hand. She preferred to min
e her own stones. There would be nothing wrong with her collecting the ones lying here on the surface; the flint factory had already been thoroughly documented. William had published two papers about it. But Essie still felt uneasy taking anything from the site. The nodules of flint had been chipped from the surrounding sediments with stone tools more than one-and-a-half million years ago. She couldn’t forget that this work had been done by creatures who were almost like her. She kept visualising them, with their hands more ape than human, but their eyes more human than ape. Picking up their flints felt like stealing. Ian would shake his head at such an idea. Essie could picture his tolerant smile – one that would make her feel much younger than him, even though their age gap was only a little over ten years. Julia would just give her daughter-in-law a blank look, as if such an idea were beyond comprehension.

  It didn’t take Essie long to gather a good collection of flints. The nodules were like large heavy potatoes coated in earth, giving no hint of the fine-grained grey stone concealed inside. Tommy ambled up to her as she stashed them away in her bag. She was eager to get back to camp now that her mission was accomplished. Hopefully, some of the frenzy of activity had died down – after all, they still had half of tomorrow to finalise the preparations. There could even be time for another afternoon swim. Essie felt a wave of pleasure when she pictured herself and Ian immersed, again, in the pool – the intimacy of their bodies meeting underwater.

  Shouldering her bag, Essie was about to turn back to the gully when she noticed Tommy suddenly freeze. At the same moment, she felt an odd sense that she was being watched. A prickle of fear ran up her spine. Glancing behind her, she saw that Simon was still out of sight, presumably stalking game. The dogs were not around either. Her pulse quickened as she looked about her. She remembered what Simon had taught her.

  You never see the leopard that kills you.

  She grasped Tommy’s collar and pulled him close. Her hand moved to her prospecting pick, even though she knew it would be of little possible use.

  Loose stones and a scattering of earth fell down the cliff face in front of her.

  Slowly she raised her eyes.

  Never run from a predator.

  Bare dusty feet were planted on the rocky ledge above. The lean body of a man stood over her. A tall bow rose behind his head, curving against the sky. His skin, leathery with age, was so dark it was almost pure black. He wore a baboon pelt, complete with tail and limbs, fashioned into a crude waistcoat. For a second, Essie saw the man and the fur as one: a human with a long tail and an extra pair of hairy arms. He carried a dead gazelle slung over his shoulder. Essie glanced from its two spiralled horns, pointing downwards, to the glazed eyes crusted with flies.

  The tribesman looked from Tommy to Essie, and back. His eyes narrowed. Essie’s hand tightened on Tommy’s blue collar.

  ‘Nyama huyu ni mali yangu,’ she said firmly. This animal belongs to me.

  The man’s attention shifted again to her. His dark eyes were faintly clouded, yet his focus was intense. He studied her as if he’d never seen anything like her before.

  Essie gave him a nervous smile, observing him as he continued to stare at her. She could tell he was not a Bantu villager far from home or a Maasai herdsman wandering, for some reason, without his cows. He was very different to any of the Africans she’d met at Magadi. Aside from the baboon pelt, he wore a rawhide loincloth. Around his neck were strings of dried seeds. There was no sign that he had any connection with the modern world. Essie scanned the old man’s face, noting the broad nose, the high cheekbones. He was short but had a well-developed upper body. He could have come straight from an anthropological textbook about East Africa’s only surviving tribe of hunter-gatherers. The Hadza.

  In her five years at Magadi, Essie had never encountered a single member of this tribe, even though she knew groups of them moved around the area. They had a reputation for being invisible until they chose to be seen. The hunters were usually just shadows glimpsed in the bush. The women and children, out collecting plants, seeds and fruit, were rarely seen at all. Anthropologists were always keen to make contact with them. But the Hadza could not be lured by gifts. They had no interest in European possessions. There was nothing they wanted, except to be left alone – which made this hunter’s keen interest in Essie strange and unsettling.

  ‘Hujambo kaka.’ Hello, my brother. Essie offered the belated greeting, trying to sound relaxed. The Hadza had their own language, but she hoped this man might at least know a bit of Swahili.

  The hunter didn’t answer. Now he was looking at Tommy again. It was as if he recognised something about the connection between the woman and her pet – and whatever he saw was of more than idle interest to him. In spite of his age he looked fit and strong. Essie glanced over her shoulder uneasily, to see if Simon had appeared. She didn’t like to shout for him. If there was reason for her to be afraid, it would only make her look weak. If not, she’d seem hysterical and rude.

  In the gully below, nothing moved. Tommy pressed up against her, sheltering behind her legs. When Essie turned back to the rock ledge, she saw that a second hunter was approaching. He leapt from boulder to boulder as easily as if he were running across an open field. In one hand he held a large hare, his fingers wrapped around its neck. The long furry legs swung from side to side.

  Very soon, he too was staring down at Essie. He had ritual scars – a single short slash on each of his cheeks. Instead of a baboon pelt, he wore the spotted coat of a serval cat. He was taller than his companion, and much younger, but his skin was the same deep black.

  There was silence, broken only by the hum of crickets in the bushes. Then the two men began talking in low voices. Essie listened to the distinctive sounds of their language – the tongue-clicking she’d read about. It gave the impression they were talking in a secret code.

  Their voices rose as they began arguing. Whatever issue was at stake clearly concerned Essie. They never took their eyes from her. She felt like an animal caught in the crosshairs of a riflescope.

  Eventually the men seemed to reach a consensus. The older one waved his arm towards Essie, then looked away to the east, beyond the flint factory. It was clear they wanted her to follow them.

  Essie shook her head firmly but the men’s gestures were only repeated. Speaking in Swahili, in case the second hunter might know the language, she explained that she could not come with them. She had to return to her home. She had lots of hard work to do. Her husband was waiting for her.

  The older hunter spoke directly to Essie. She didn’t need to understand his words; the urgency was obvious. She wondered if there had been an accident. If so, there wouldn’t be much she could do to help. She didn’t have a first-aid kit with her – not even the bandages and antiseptic she usually took to a work site. There was just a collecting bag, her tools, a notebook and a bottle of water.

  ‘Pole,’ she said. I am sorry. Then she backed away, dragging Tommy by his collar. The man holding the hare put his free hand on the ground, preparing to swing himself down after her.

  Essie froze, unsure what to do. At that moment she heard the sound of boots crunching over dry earth, lower down in the korongo. Exhaling with relief, she turned to see Simon striding up towards her, the Dalmatians at his heels. Even at a distance Essie could see the ridge of raised hairs on Rudie’s back. He and Meg both had their heads up, sniffing the air.

  The Hadza men seemed as glad to see Simon as she was. They watched his approach with a studied stillness that somehow conveyed intense impatience. When Simon came near, the older hunter began calling out in the Hadza tongue. Simon ignored him, speaking instead to Essie.

  ‘Are you all right? What is happening?’ He used English, as he always did with Essie. The young man was ambitious and knew that a good grasp of the language was the key to promotion.

  ‘I don’t know. They want me to go with them. It seems urgent.’ Essie checked her watch. It was now almost midafternoon. ‘I said we had to get back. But
they don’t understand Swahili.’

  Simon nodded, as if this was no surprise to him. ‘They are Hadza pori,’ he stated. Wild Hadza.

  The hunters continued to talk to him – first one, then the other. Their stubborn insistence gave way to what appeared to be distress. Essie looked at Simon. A frown marked his brow. Slowly it came to her that he was listening to the hunters – and making sense of their words.

  Simon glanced at Essie, then lowered his gaze. For a moment he seemed torn. Then he replied in the Hadza language, speaking quietly, as if ashamed of his own words. The clicking joined naturally with the unusual vowels. Essie listened in surprise. It sounded like a skill that would be almost impossible to learn, if you hadn’t been born to it.

  It dawned on her, then, why Simon had always seemed to be a loner, over at the workers’ camp. It wasn’t because he spent his spare time reading textbooks instead of sitting at the fireside with the others. Or because he flaunted his fashionable tastes by choosing not to go barefoot around the camp after removing his work boots, instead changing into a pair of blue winklepickers he’d bought in Arusha. The truth was that Simon was isolated because he was a Hadza. The hunter-gatherers might be of academic interest to Europeans, but to other Africans they were primitive. It occurred to Essie that his tribal background was also the reason why Simon had ended up being her assistant. Her work held less status than that of Ian and Julia. She and her assistant were well matched: a newcomer and an outsider; both second-class.

  Simon began arguing with the hunters, raising his voice indignantly. He turned to Essie. ‘They won’t tell me why we must go with them. Yet they insist.’