The Beautiful Mother

by Scholes, Katherine

  Diana clicked her tongue as she peered curiously into the blanket. ‘Poor little thing. What did you say happened to her mom?’

  ‘She died in childbirth.’

  Diana whistled through her teeth. ‘My God, I can’t imagine what it would be like, having a baby out here in the bush. It’s bad enough in a top-class hospital.’ She gave a faint shrug of her bare shoulders. ‘Well, so I’ve been told.’ Leaning closer, she studied the baby. ‘What’s her name?’

  Essie eyed Diana uncertainly. She didn’t want the baby disturbed by voices. On the other hand, the visitor’s interest was welcome. Perhaps the presence of the rescued baby could somehow be turned into an asset – after all, she was a member of a rare tribe. Frank might well be intrigued. Essie considered extending the conversation by telling Mrs Marlow that the infant didn’t actually have a name yet. She could show off her knowledge of local customs by explaining that parents sometimes felt it wise to hold off choosing one until the youngster was old enough to have a good chance of surviving. In other cases, the delay was more a matter of the family wanting to find out what would suit the child’s personality. Before Essie had a chance to speak, however, she felt a sudden warmth, accompanied by wetness, reaching through Baraka’s thin blanket. Diana stepped back as a splash of urine landed on the toe of her shoe.

  Julia took a deep breath, her chest rising visibly. Then she approached Diana, a thin smile on her lips. ‘The others are waiting for us. The sun sets quickly here in Africa.’ She addressed Simon in an undertone. ‘Get some towels from the guest tents. There will be safety pins in the first-aid kit.’

  She turned to Baraka. ‘Make sure you’ve got boiled water.’ Baraka was already on his knees, mopping the floor with a grey rag worn to threads. He kept his head down.

  Diana remained at Essie’s side, gazing intently at the baby. She seemed reluctant to leave.

  ‘I can hear the Land Rover,’ Julia said firmly. ‘Let’s go.’

  The white-topped peak of the volcano stood out against the clear sky, the outline crisp and craggy as an iceberg. The cloud of smoke and steam that had hovered around the summit all day was gone. Essie had no idea why. The life of the volcano was powered from deep inside the earth and followed no rules but its own. It was a frustration to the volcanologists who came here to monitor its activity. They could measure, record, describe, but they could neither predict nor exert control.

  Essie walked along a narrow track that led away from the camp. It was surrounded on both sides by bushes, giving it a sense of secrecy. The leather sling held the baby against her chest. She had her arms wrapped over the sleeping child. With each step, the limp weight moved as she moved, like part of her own body. The bundle was more bulky now, with a makeshift nappy in place. When Essie had put it on, back at the camp, she’d had only a vague idea how to fold the towel correctly. The cloth was rectangular instead of square, which hadn’t made the task any easier. Baraka and Simon had apparently never seen a nappy before, so they were no help. And the whole process had had to be carried out with minimum disturbance to the baby. After another episode of screaming – her face contorted, hands closed into fists – she had eventually consumed a whole bottle of milk and then fallen into a deep sleep. Essie smoothed the lumpy nappy through the thin leather. At least now, held in the sling, it wasn’t able to fall off.

  The hem of the silk dress lapped softly around Essie’s ankles as she took each stride. She’d have preferred to change into practical clothes, but when she’d tried handing the baby to Baraka, there was a cry of protest, so she’d set off as she was. The long skirt would keep mosquitoes off her ankles, at least. To protect her upper body she’d draped a colourful cotton kitenge, lent by Simon, around her shoulders and over the baby’s head. Down at the Steps, she guessed, Daudi would have offered the guests the use of the Lawrences’ last bottle of imported insect repellent.

  The path came to a more open area. Reaching a small korongo, Essie looked down its length towards the plains below. She could see the Marlows’ aircraft – a splash of colour against the ochre earth of the strip. Now that the light didn’t bounce from the metal so brightly, she saw that the plane was painted a pinky red – almost as if it had been chosen to match the coming sunset.

  Continuing along the track, Essie veered to the right. Ahead of her now was the distinctive landmark the Lawrences called the Tower. An area of higher land had been eroded from all sides until only a square pillar of stone remained. The technical term was an erosion stack, but the name didn’t suit the place. The Tower was like something from a mythic tale the way it stood overlooking the plains. You could picture a medieval castle built on the top, or perhaps a prison, like the one in the highlands of Ethiopia that Ian had told her about. Accessible only by ladders and ropes, it had once housed three hundred princes – only one of whom would ever leave by becoming the next king.

  It was a long time since Essie had taken a walk to look at the Tower close-up – with no work being done in this sector, there was no reason to. But now, as she approached the landmark along the track, she scarcely gave it a second glance. She kept her eyes on the ground, wary of tripping. Carrying a baby made the path seem more dangerous than it was.

  Soon she was skirting the base of the Tower. Resting her hand on the crumbly stone, she stopped for a few moments; she was carrying extra weight, and it was on her front instead of her back. Lifting aside the soft-worn kitenge, she peered at the baby. She was slumped down, her face hidden. Essie felt a stab of alarm. She was so still. Essie plunged her hand into the sling, breathing out with relief as the baby stirred.

  Only a little further on, she got her first glimpse of the Steps, down below her. The Land Rover came into view first, parked a short distance from the edge of the site. Daudi was standing beside it, upright, like a soldier on parade. Ian and Julia must have told him what was expected; normally their driver sat on the spare wheel mounted on the bonnet when he had to wait around.

  Not far from there was the rocky cairn topped with a brass plaque that commemorated William’s achievements. A line of stones stretched away from it, forming the boundary of the excavated site. Essie could see part of the field of fossilised mud that had been exposed. The grey stone, stripped of layers of sediment built up over millennia, stood out from the surrounding land with its ochre gravel, sparse grass and bushes. Some of the footprints were visible from here. They’d been left by the three sets of feet – big, middle-sized and small, as if they belonged in a fairy story. The spaces between the indents were smooth, with no marks left by knuckles – a clear sign that they had been made by hominids, not apes. The prints looked almost more impressive viewed from up here than at close quarters. Even now, with her mind on other things, Essie was struck by the sight of them.

  To see the rest of the site, Essie had to edge out towards a steep drop. She crouched down, using one hand to steady herself, while holding the baby with the other. Soon, more of the vista was revealed. When she was safely settled, she raised her binoculars to her eyes. She saw a table draped with a white cloth. A couple of platters of food sat there, along with an ornate silver ice bucket, the neck of a champagne bottle angling out from its scalloped lip. At the end of the table stood the waiter from the Lodge, as upright as Daudi, wearing a long white kanzu and a red fez on his head.

  And there, within the boundary of the site, were Ian, Julia and the Marlows. They held champagne glasses in their hands. The toasts must already have been done, and Ian must have finished his talk about the place, because the four were spread out, studying the footprints. With their heads down, taking slow steps, they looked like a small family of birds scouring the ground for food. Beside the pale suits of the men and Julia’s cream dress, the turquoise splash of Diana’s gown stood out. Essie was reminded of a peacock in the drab company of peahens. The metaphor was faulty, though. In the bird kingdom males were the ones that strutted and preened to attract, or keep, a mate. Diana was the result of an evolutionary path that had headed in
the opposite direction.

  Essie pictured herself moving among the figures below, her orange dress adding a second streak of colour. She imagined the tingle of cold champagne on her tongue. The tang of lemon squeezed over smoked salmon. Russian caviar, dark and salty, staining her lips. But that wasn’t why she’d come here – to see what she was missing out on. She wanted to know what was happening. Back at the camp she’d paced nervously, wondering if Ian and Julia had managed to smooth over the disruption she had caused. Before long she’d set off with the baby towards the track, pausing only to grab binoculars from her tent. Now, leaning closer, she frowned tensely. Did Ian and Julia look relaxed? Were the Marlows enjoying themselves?

  While Essie was seeking clues, she saw Frank approach Diana. Slipping his hand around her waist, he leaned to touch her head with his. Essie thought Diana was standing stiffly, as if she didn’t want to be there. But perhaps Essie was being influenced by Diana’s statement about her husband’s unfaithfulness. While Essie was still studying her, Diana ducked away. She wandered over to stand with Ian. She waved one hand, taking in the scene around her, smiling. Then she cocked her head, perhaps asking a question. Soon, the two were laughing together, Diana tipping back her head, showing off her swanlike neck. She must have lost her balance, her high-heeled sandals wobbling on the rough ground, because she steadied herself by touching Ian’s arm, just briefly.

  Essie swung the binoculars towards Julia. She was guiding Frank across to the plaque. They appeared to be deep in conversation, too. It occurred to Essie that she and Ian might have planned to separate the Marlows, taking one each. It all seemed to be going well. Everyone was happy.

  When Essie looked back to Ian and Diana, they were at the far corner of the site, where the last of the footprints could be seen. Squatting down, Ian had placed his hand in the indent. When he took it away, Diana mirrored his action. Essie guessed he’d been inviting the visitor to connect with the ancient ancestors who’d walked right here, so long ago. Or he might have been pointing out to Diana that standing upright was the defining characteristic of humans. The development had led to enormous evolutionary change. With their hands free, the Australopithecines were now free to carry food or simple weapons or tools, or to hold the hand of a child. It was equally possible that Ian was explaining to his guest how William had brought a forensic footprint expert from America to verify the discovery. Whatever line he was taking, Diana was listening very intently. Her head was bent close to Ian’s. Where Essie and Ian were opposites, blonde and dark, the two bending over the footprint were like a matching pair.

  Essie turned away, heading back to the Tower. She now felt left out, abandoned, up here alone – even though it was the outcome of her own actions. In the shade that stretched in front of the rock, she lowered herself to the ground. Cross-legged, she rested her back against the upright shaft of stone. The movement disturbed the baby, who wriggled in the sling, making a mewing sound. Essie stroked her back gently through the soft hide. Thoughts and emotions tumbled inside her but she focused on the rhythmic movements of her hand. The baby soon settled again, but Essie continued patting her. She was comforting herself, she realised, as much as the baby.

  Sunset was not far off. From the western horizon, hidden behind the Tower, shafts of light reached over the plains and bathed the slopes of the volcano. Before long it would be time for the Marlows to fly back to Serengeti, and for everyone else to return to the camp. Essie lingered, hanging on to the interlude of calm. The storm would come soon enough. She watched as the lava on the peak became tinged with blue. The sky behind it was awash with orange and pink. Thin green streaks of cloud looked like seaweed drifting in a gentle sea.

  FIVE

  There was the occasional clink of cutlery as Ian, Julia and Essie consumed the food that had been left behind by the Marlows. The champagne was flat and the crackers under the caviar and cream cheese were now soft, but they all ate steadily. There was plenty to choose from. Devils on horseback and mini sausage rolls; slices of terrine topped with gelatine; cheese spiked onto cocktail sticks along with tiny pickled onions dyed red and green. The luxurious spread made a mockery of the tinned Christmas treats that had seemed so special the night before.

  The scene was lit by lanterns that had been set up by Kefa as the darkness closed in. In the middle of the table was the centrepiece of the feast. The chef at Serengeti Lodge had created a pastry model of the Steps site. Stuffed eggs with yolks piped into yellow swirls marked the rock boundary and a tall club sandwich represented William’s plaque. Three pairs of footprints had been cut out of the dough. Gherkin rounds, olives and pieces of pineapple were strewn across the miniature field. Someone had eaten one of the stuffed eggs, leaving a break in the line, and in the transfer from the Lodge’s porcelain platter to a wooden board from Baraka’s kitchen the club sandwich had acquired a lean, but other than that the model still looked impressive.

  Talking was limited to comments on the food or wine – remarks about tastes long forgotten, or unusual combinations of ingredients. The words had a hollow ring. Disappointment floated in the air like a dark cloud. Essie had been given the brief report that no generous offer had been made by Frank Marlow. All that remained for her to discover was if there was any hope at all.

  The issue of the Hadza baby was yet to be addressed. Julia had simply refused to discuss the matter until after they’d eaten. It felt like an attempt on her part to exert some kind of control over a day where almost nothing had gone to plan. When they did talk, Essie knew the tone would be cool and restrained. It would be easier, in a way, if shock and outrage were expressed, but that wasn’t how the Lawrences operated. Sometimes Essie had the feeling that when Julia and Ian were together they actually competed with one another to be extra calm and civilised. The tension around the table now made it hard for her to eat, but she forced herself to comply.

  In stark contrast to the mood in the Dining Tent, there was singing, laughter and the throb of drums coming from the workers’ camp. Frank Marlow had arranged for the Lodge to send food for the Africans so they too could share in the special occasion. This had sparked a celebration that Essie knew would have eclipsed anything evoked by the Marlows’ wedding anniversary. People would be dancing and telling stories for hours. They seemed to possess the gift of being able to enjoy life in the moment, unfettered by thoughts or worries about the future.

  Essie wondered where Baraka was – whether he’d remained in the kitchen with the baby or taken her out with him to the fireside. Essie had given her another bottle of milk and then changed her nappy, having relocated, along with a supply of towels and washcloths, from the kitchen to one of the guest tents. Then she’d left the baby in Baraka’s care. Since she’d not heard from him, she assumed all must be well. She had no idea how long a baby of this age usually stayed awake, or how they spent their time. But Baraka had seemed unfazed as he’d tied on the sling and settled her on his hip. With her head up, the baby was able to see out. Her eyes had been wide and shiny as she’d gazed solemnly around her. The baby would have hampered Baraka’s movements had it been necessary for him to prepare a meal. Essie was acutely aware that the reprieve given by the Marlows’ leftovers was only for tonight; the next day the cook would be working hard from dawn until dark.

  Essie picked up her champagne. The glass was a sturdy tumbler with a chip in the rim, a far cry from the cut crystal she’d seen through her binoculars earlier. She watched the lamplight glow through the golden liquid. A few bubbles straggled to the surface. There was a small fly floating there. Fishing it out with her finger, she rubbed it off onto her dress, adding a black mark to the milk stains and the smudges of ochre earth she’d picked up at the Tower. She took a long gulp of the tepid wine, then put down her glass and looked up.

  ‘What exactly did Frank Marlow say?’

  Ian finished a mouthful, swallowed hard, then shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  The single word conveyed a deep well of despair.

  Ju
lia stabbed an olive with a cocktail fork. ‘He seemed impressed by what we’ve done. But he showed no interest in our plans for new work. I’m sure he knew we wanted to ask him for a grant. He avoided the whole topic.’

  ‘Flamingos,’ Ian said bitterly. ‘He kept talking about flamingos. He’s funding some work on them – at our lake!’

  Essie looked down at her plate. No one could know if her presence at the Steps would have made any difference to how the occasion might have unfolded, but she felt guilty anyway. And she didn’t need the others to tell her that the financial problems that were now not going to be solved by the Marlow Trust would be exacerbated by the presence of a baby. Precious supplies of powdered milk would be used up. Nappies would have to be washed, requiring both laundry soap and labour. Who knew what other expenses there might be? Essie turned from Ian to Julia and back, eyeing the scraps on their plates. Surely enough food had now been eaten. She tried to think of the best way to begin the conversation about the baby.

  ‘What would you have said to the Hadza?’ she asked finally. ‘In my place?’

  Julia sighed, her lips pursed. ‘There are always lots of Africans with lots of big problems. You can’t help them all. Even if we thought it was practical – for one second – for us to have a baby here, where would it end? We’d be flooded with demands for help. You know that.’

  Essie gazed at a sliver of smoked salmon that was curling at the edges as it dried out. She remembered how after she’d adopted Tommy, the Maasai herd boys kept arriving at the camp trying to sell her baby animals they’d captured. Essie had said no to them from the start, hoping to send a clear message. But the offers kept on coming; she didn’t like to think how many deaths had resulted from Tommy’s rescue. Nothing was as simple as it seemed.