Abruptly Essie switched her thoughts away from them. She focused instead on the backdrop to the Hadza camp – the Painted Cave. Stroke by stroke, she conjured the pictures in her mind. Over the generations new paintings had been superimposed over earlier ones. Her task as a researcher had been to isolate the layers in a way that a camera never could. As she’d done her drawings – taping her paper onto the rock surface, using a soft crayon so she didn’t press too hard against the precious artwork – she’d experienced a sense of satisfaction that went beyond Ian’s academic objectives. She felt she was making it possible for all the different people and animals to become themselves again. Separate, whole, free.
Now, beginning at the far end of the cave wall, Essie recited in her head the individual titles she’d given them – rolling them out, one by one.
Family of stick dancers.
Tall woman with hat or wig.
Hunter with arm tassels and penis.
Reclining man with lenticular shape – maybe a rattle.
Child with warthog.
Crisscross lines. Bones?
Circle of dots.
Crouching dog.
Long-necked bird. (Flamingo.)
Volcano . . .
As she drifted into sleep, the image of the mountain lingered – hovering above her like a beckoning dream.
SIX
Essie was drawn out of her sleep by the frantic buzzing of a fly trying to escape through the gauze window of the tent. As soon as she opened her eyes she knew the light was wrong. Bedroom furnishings that should have been draped in pre-dawn gloom were clear-edged; surfaces were bright. The door was unzipped, rolled up. Daylight streamed in.
She frowned, confused. Ian always woke her up. It was a daily ritual. He would shake her shoulder, then wish her good morning in the formal manner of the Lawrences. As he climbed out of the bed Essie would lie still for a while, listening to him getting dressed – the rustle of fabric, his footsteps on the wooden flooring, first the pad of socked feet, then the solid thud of work boots. There had been a time when she could hear fresh energy in his movements. But that had been at least two years ago. Now she sensed only weariness, as if he were exhausted already by the challenges of the coming day. Sometimes she picked up a brittle impatience, too, in the way he shoved his shirt into his trousers and tightened his belt. If a bootlace was tangled, he swore under his breath. Perhaps the problems he faced felt more acute, piling up in front of him, than they did after he’d been awake for a while. Or maybe it was just that there was no one but his wife watching on.
By the time Ian was in the company of others he’d have adopted a businesslike manner that was sometimes almost cheery. But by then Essie was already drawn into his hopeless mood. Any joy sparked by the chorus of songbirds in the trees outside was dulled. Even the colours of the dawn sky, glimpsed through the window, seemed muted. Essie had to drag herself from the bed. If she was too slow, Ian hurried her along before he left the tent. Sometimes he reminded her of the need to be washed and dressed before Kefa appeared with her chai.
Turning over, Essie stared at the bare pillow beside her – at the rounded hollow where Ian’s head had been. She felt a flicker of anxiety. Why had he not woken her? Glancing around, she could see that Rudie had disappeared as well. Where the dog had lain last night there was just a speckle of stray hairs.
Suddenly, Essie was fully awake. Rolling over, she looked down at the box beside her. The sight of an African baby lying there jolted through her like an electric shock. The infant was fast asleep. The towel that had served as a light blanket had been thrown off. She lay so still that Essie fastened her gaze on the bare chest until she saw that it was rising and falling evenly. The rounded arms were flung out to the sides, with hands opened showing pink palms, the fingers half-curled. Her legs were bent at the knees, crab-like, due to the bulky nappy. Very gently, Essie touched one of the feet. The tiny toes, lined up in a row like pieces of corn on the cob, were warm. She was used to sleeping outside, Essie reminded herself. And the dry season brought heat, not cool. Nevertheless, Essie felt an impulse to cover her. She looked so vulnerable, lying there. But there was a risk of disturbing her by pulling up the towel. She had to be hungry after sleeping for so many hours; it would be wise to have a clean nappy and a bottle on hand before she woke. Essie eyed the peaceful face – the eyelids sealed shut, the bow lips slightly parted. The baby must have needed this rest.
Essie peered around her. The room was a mess. Ian’s suit and shirt from yesterday were still draped over the chair. Essie’s orange dress, which she had eventually replaced with a nightgown before falling asleep, lay in a heap on the bedside table. Her work clothes were where she’d dropped them when she’d rushed in to get changed for the Marlows. Essie knew she should be up, putting the room straight and getting herself and the baby organised. Ian and Julia would be at work by now, and Essie had to join them as soon as possible. She had to show that she could still meet her commitments. And she needed to talk to them. Together they’d have to work out what to do about this baby.
But for a moment longer, Essie stayed where she was, gazing down over the side of the bed. She took in the whole image of the baby, lying there in her makeshift cot. The cushions Ian had used as a mattress had red velvet covers. The corners were worn bare but the rest of the pile was still thick. Essie was reminded of a display in a museum – the baby a precious relic laid out in a soft-lined case.
The wooden crate was rough, though; it had originally contained tins of fuel. The Lawrences re-used the boxes for storing fossils and artefacts. The containers were strong enough to be sent all the way to places like the British Museum or Edinburgh University. On the bare wooden sides a set of numbers and letters were painted in black; they indicated exactly where, when and by whom the items inside had been collected. This particular box must have been sent away and later returned. Next to the numbers were the words National Museum, Dar es Salaam. They’d been crossed out and RETURN TO SENDER painted in bright red. On the other side of the box would be another name and address: Ian Lawrence, Magadi Gorge.
Essie’s gaze snagged on the words in red. They seemed to be speaking to her – the message short and straight. Simple.
Except that the contents of this box could not be sent back. It would be a death sentence. For better or worse, for at least four months, this Hadza baby was part of Essie’s world.
As if in response to these thoughts, the black-lashed eyes sprang open. The baby stared around, taking in her surroundings. She fixed her eyes on Essie, wide and fearful. Her lips began to tremble, then they turned down at the corners.
‘You poor girl.’ Essie imagined what it must be like for a baby to wake up and find herself in such an alien setting. Without even thinking, Essie scooped her up into her arms, hugging her close, speaking soothingly. The little hand grabbed a bunch of her hair and clung on as if it were a lifeline. ‘It’s all right.’
Essie patted the baby’s back. The muscles relaxed for a few seconds, but then stiffened. Essie could feel the lungs filling with air, ready for the first wail. She jumped out of bed. Crossing the room, she located her dressing-gown. She managed to shove her free arm into a sleeve while grasping the baby with the other. She hitched the second sleeve over her shoulder. The garment had once been pretty, fresh, summery – one of her mother’s purchases for a holiday abroad that had never been taken. It looked very shabby now; Tommy had torn the sleeve with his budding horns and the fabric was faded from constant washing during the period when she’d had to get up in the night to feed the newborn gazelle. Normally she only wore the gown inside the bedroom tent. Whether it was better than nothing, right now she wasn’t certain.
Without even sandals on her feet, Essie half ran towards the kitchen, holding the baby against her shoulder, steadying her head. Not watching the ground, she trod on a sharp stone, but didn’t pause. The camp had a deserted feel. Most of the workers would have gone to the digging site with Ian and Julia, leaving only the d
omestic staff. But Essie counted at least three sets of eyes staring at her in shock. She knew how she must look. Her hair in a tangle around her shoulders. A ragged dressing-gown half put on. A nightdress flapping around her knees, baring way too much leg. Mascara smeared around her eyes. Essie didn’t have time to care. All she wanted was to grab the bottle of milk that she knew was waiting ready in the fridge, and then head for the seclusion of the guest tent where her supply of towels and washing cloths was laid out. The baboon pelt – surely comforting in its familiarity – was there, too.
Baraka must have heard the baby crying or watched Essie approach through cracks in the timbered walls of his kitchen. As she reached the door, he opened it, letting out the aroma of porridge, honey and fresh bread. He handed her the bottle. Essie grabbed the offering like a baton in a relay race without breaking her stride. As she limped away she could feel Baraka’s eyes following her. She tried to read the expression she’d seen on his face. He’d definitely looked uncomfortable. Was he dismayed by the state she was in? Concerned about the welfare of the baby – even though she was a Hadza? Or was it something else altogether?
In the guest tent Essie sat down in a camping chair, but then moved to the bed when she realised the baby barely fitted between the two wooden arms. The baby had stopped crying, as if she’d learned already that the proximity of a bottle was a comforting sign. Settling her on her lap, Essie found that the nappy was wet through. She didn’t bother wasting a towel protecting her dressing-gown; it would just have to join the growing pile of laundry that was waiting to be done.
As she aimed the bottle towards the baby’s mouth, already open, Essie felt the chill coming off the glass. It should have been heated a little or at least brought up to air temperature. But that didn’t seem to matter. Within seconds the baby was feeding hungrily. Essie felt a twinge of pity for her. The infant had spent her life sharing another baby’s mother. She was only a couple of months old, yet had already learned to take what she could get and be glad of it.
As the sucking and gulping fell into a contented rhythm, Essie breathed easily again. She noticed the little fist was still closed around a lock of her hair.
‘Hodi?’
She looked up as someone – she thought she recognised Simon’s voice – announced his presence outside. Everyone at Magadi, including the Europeans, followed the African protocol for arriving at someone’s dwelling. You couldn’t knock at a canvas door, after all, any more than you could on the empty hole that formed the entrance of a mud hut.
Essie stood up, moving to the chair, taking the chance to shake her nightdress loose so it wasn’t bunched up around her thighs.
‘Karibu,’ she called. Come close. You are welcome.
Her assistant appeared in the doorway. He was smartly dressed as always. He kept his eyes politely lowered until Essie spoke.
‘Good morning, Simon. How did you awake?’ Essie had switched to English but found herself still using the traditional phrases.
‘I woke in peace,’ Simon replied. ‘And you?’
‘Peace also.’
‘And this baby?’
‘She slept very well. I think she was tired.’
They both watched the baby in silence. She had one hand on the bottle as if trying to hold it in place.
‘She is learning very quickly,’ Simon commented. Essie saw a softening in his eyes. Then he gathered himself. ‘Bwana Lawrence has left a note.’
Essie saw the piece of yellow field-pad paper in his hand. It was not unusual for her husband to prepare written instructions for her. It was part of his scientific approach to life. If he was going to delegate, he needed to know that a task would be carried out correctly. Knowledge was only valuable when based on a solid process. His notes were formal in tone, with no closing ‘love’ or kisses. Essie was a co-worker where this kind of communication was concerned, not a wife. Ian took professionalism even further where his parents were concerned, only ever naming them Julia and William, as if they were always colleagues first and family second. When Essie initially arrived at Magadi she had found this odd, but she’d come to like the sense of equality it conveyed.
‘Show me.’ Essie managed a small smile, even though she felt uneasy about what kind of instructions she might be about to read. Today was not an ordinary day.
Simon unfolded the paper and held it up, angled to catch the best light.
Essie scanned the letter, picking up the key phrases.
Radio contact with St Joseph’s Orphanage . . . absolute guarantee the baby will not be removed from their care . . . after a night’s sleep I know you will agree that this is the best way to proceed . . . welfare of the baby . . .
Her eyes widened as she read the final lines.
Mission plane booked . . . arrive early afternoon . . . nurse on board . . .
Essie sat motionless as the meaning sank in. Then she looked up. She could tell from Simon’s expression that he knew the contents of the note.
He cleared his throat. ‘Bwana said to let you know they are returning for lunch.’
Essie’s jaw tightened as she imagined Julia and Ian discussing the baby over their breakfast, reaching a decision and taking action – all without involving her. At lunchtime they would present a united front, making it impossible for Essie to take part in any real debate. And anyway, by noon the pilot might already be at the airport in Arusha, preparing to fly to Magadi.
As she tried to decide how to respond, she gazed around the guest tent. It was as messy as the bedroom. Even with no possessions, the presence of this baby – who’d been at Magadi for less than twenty-four hours – seemed to fill the place. The baboon pelt, a bright kitenge, and Baraka’s faded Maasai blanket were strewn across the double bed. An enamel bowl of water sat on the floor, a wet cloth abandoned on the mat nearby. There was a tin of powdered milk from the store that had not yet made it to the kitchen. Essie couldn’t help noticing the dwindling pile of threadbare towels. By lunchtime she might be on the last clean nappy. Presumably the nurse from the orphanage would bring some with her – proper square ones, correctly folded. Essie pictured a woman in a white uniform, a watch pinned onto her chest. She had a stern look on her face. Perhaps she carried with her the faint smell of disinfectant. Her hair was swept up into a sensible bun. No draping locks for a little hand to cling to. The thought of giving the baby to such a person made Essie’s breath catch in her throat.
‘I haven’t agreed to the plan.’ Her voice sounded surprisingly firm.
Simon stared at her in confusion. ‘But the Bwana and Mrs Lawrence have made their decision.’
Essie looked past him, out through the doorway where a flock of birds on the wing speckled the rectangle of blue sky. She was shocked by how bluntly Simon’s words expressed his understanding of her status. She knew this could be based on views he may have adopted over the years about the position of women, especially a wife who had not borne children. The Hadza were known to believe in equality between the sexes, but such a stance would be rare among the Africans with whom Simon now spent his time. On the other hand, it was just as likely he had drawn his own conclusions about Essie’s standing from what he’d observed of the Europeans at Magadi. Essie tried to see the situation through his eyes. It was obvious that both Ian and Julia had authority here because of their professional achievements. After William’s death, Ian had taken over as Head of Research because he was a man. Julia had special status because she was Ian’s mother, and an elder. That left Essie answerable to them both. Why should she expect to have any power now? Why should the question of what would happen to the Hadza baby be treated any differently to all the other decisions that were made here?
Essie looked up at Simon. ‘I promised not to send her away.’
‘Yes,’ Simon agreed. Then he spread his hands. ‘But what can you do?’
As Essie hunted for an answer, a gurgling sound came from the bottle, air mixing with the milk. Quickly she tilted the bottle up further. As the milk filled the
teat the baby gulped deeply again. She might have been drinking this way for all her short life.
In the quiet Essie heard a cricket chirping outside. Her nostrils picked up a sharp ammonia smell drifting over from the old fuel drum in the corner where the used nappies were stored. They urgently needed to be washed. Essie knew none of the staff would agree to do this work. The Maasai women would be no help either. They wouldn’t even be able to make sense of a soiled nappy when with their own babies they simply relied on the ever-absorbent, all-forgiving earth. Essie recalled seeing some Maasai staring in disbelief when they saw Ian blow his nose into one of his handkerchiefs then fold the cloth and put it away in his pocket as if saving the contents for some later use. The women would probably think nappies served some inexplicable – presumably superstitious – purpose as well.
The fact was, Essie would have to deal with the washing herself. The process would have to be kept separate from the other camp laundry. The nappies might have to be boiled over a fire. It sounded like a disgusting business. And where in Essie’s day would such a task fit? How would she maintain her work output? The baby was – as Giga had promised – easily contented. But that didn’t mean that taking care of her wouldn’t use up a great deal of time.
Essie breathed out slowly, trying to think more clearly. Perhaps Ian and Julia had made the right decision. Julia, after all, knew what it was like to have a baby at the camp. The Lawrences had spent some of their children’s early years here, before the world of Magadi had been disrupted, first by the tragedy that had befallen Ian’s brother, and then by the war. It occurred to Essie that maybe, in not consulting her, Ian was just doing what he thought every good husband should. Trying to protect his wife from her own weakness.
The Beautiful Mother Page 10
