Slowly and calmly, Ian lowered himself to his chair. Earlier on, the fact that the Europeans were seated seemed to give them an advantage. Now the situation was reversed. Why Ian had made that move Essie didn’t know. But it left room for the Maasai to back down with dignity. The man stepped away, turning cold eyes from Ian to Julia and back. For the first time, Essie felt glad that she wasn’t truly seen as a Lawrence – that she was an onlooker in this confrontation rather than a player.
With an angry swish of his blanket cape, the worker left the tent.
As soon as he was gone, Julia had turned to Ian. ‘You handled that rather well.’
Essie had watched her husband swell with the pleasure of his mother’s praise.
Now, as she neared the corner of the tent, she wondered if she should try to follow the Maasai’s example: pretend to be strong, undaunted by the choice she’d made. But she knew she simply wouldn’t be able to do it. Writing a bold note was one thing; being face to face with Ian and Julia, her courage would surely fail.
She came to a sudden halt. From the other side of the canvas came a peal of laughter. It sounded like Julia, except it was too loud, and went on for too long. Essie was puzzled: there was no one else it could be. Unless, that is, the yellow plane had delivered a visitor here. Essie felt a thread of hope – her encounter with the others might be easier with a stranger present. They would all feel constrained by politeness.
Breathing more freely, she rounded the front corner of the tent. Then she blinked in surprise. The scene came to her in fragments. An impression of wheels with glittering spokes. White tyres. Sleek lines of a smart white pram with a black hood. A sun canopy with a fringed edge – white, lined with a rosebud print. A pink ribbon tied to a silver handle, gleaming in the sun.
With the next step she saw a chest of drawers, painted white, decorated with pink bows. Resting on top was a baby-sized wicker basket garnished with a flurry of lace. Standing next to it were three tea chests, stark lettering on their sides: Highgrown Kenya Tea. The open tops revealed cardboard shopping bags with glimpses of pink-and-white fabric, and several bulky packages wrapped in paper. Peeping from one tea chest was a honey-brown teddy bear with a pink satin bow around its neck.
Essie gazed at the array of baby paraphernalia. Even knowing nothing about such things, she could tell that a huge amount of money had been spent. With it all laid out here, the barren korongos of Magadi Gorge as a background, the scene was like something from a nonsensical dream.
Ian could be heard laughing now, too. As Essie skirted the chest of drawers, the open front of the tent came into view. He was standing up, pouring champagne into a cut crystal glass. Judging by the way he tilted it, the bottle was nearly empty. Another stood unopened nearby. A spare glass stood next to it. Essie’s note had been pushed across to the far side of the table, as if forgotten. Julia sat back in her chair, smiling. There was no one else in the tent.
When Ian saw Essie there, he grinned, raising the bottle. ‘You’re back!’
At a loss for words, she just stared at him.
‘We have a grant, Ess.’ Ian almost skipped across to her. ‘A huge one!’ Champagne floated on his breath. He seemed about to hug her, but then looked down at the baby and stepped away. ‘You won’t believe it.’ His gaze jumped from place to place as if he was too excited to concentrate on any one thing.
Essie’s eyes widened. ‘The Marlow Trust?’
‘Not exactly.’ He took a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and held it towards her. It was a cheque made out to Ian Lawrence. At a glance Essie saw lots of zeros. She focused on the signature, but it was just a scrawl.
‘It is a personal grant from Mrs Marlow. Diana. No strings attached. We can do whatever we want.’ He whistled through his teeth. ‘It’s more than we’ve ever dreamed of.’
‘And she sent all this?’ Essie scanned the assemblage of furniture, equipment and boxes.
‘Ridiculous, I know.’ Ian returned to the table and picked up his glass. ‘According to the pilot, Mrs Marlow contacted the Nairobi Club via the Serengeti radio and got the manager to send his wife shopping. Apparently there’s some place in town called Babyland. The woman was told to buy everything a baby needs. It was for a little girl and she had to have the best.’ Ian waved at the elegant pram. It would have looked at home in a London high street. ‘Obviously the circumstances were not mentioned.’
Essie imagined an eager shopkeeper bringing out his wares, making suggestions. He’d have had a coffee planter’s young wife and baby in mind, or the family of a government official, still clinging to his post in Independent Tanzania, or maybe even a fortunate missionary.
‘The pilot had the wrong impression, too. He congratulated me.’ Ian’s voice was suddenly spiked with anger. ‘It was very awkward.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ Essie said. She knew Ian hated being embarrassed more than anything. She glanced down at the baby who was quietly taking in the action around her. When Essie looked up, she kept her gaze away from her husband. Outside the tent, she noticed that a crowd of onlookers had gathered – camp staff, field workers, even a teenage Maasai goatherd. Keeping a respectful distance away, they were whispering and pointing – no doubt finding it incomprehensible that all this equipment was for one little Hadza baby.
Julia sniffed. ‘Hopefully they sent some items that are actually useful. Nappies, for example, and plastic pants.’
‘I should think so,’ Ian said, ‘if she ordered everything.’
‘You’ll need a lot of formula, you know,’ Julia continued, ‘to last four months. At least a tin a fortnight.’
Essie’s lips parted as the meaning of these words sank in. In spite of the tart tone, Julia had obviously accepted the baby was going to stay at Magadi, from now until the coming of the rains. And she was even sharing information from her own experience. Essie felt the knot of tension begin to loosen inside her.
‘What made Diana want to do all this?’ She gestured at the deliveries outside, the bottles of champagne, the fancy glasses and the cheque resting on the table.
‘There was a letter,’ Ian answered. ‘The pilot came via the Lodge to collect an envelope from Diana. The champagne was put on board, too; it was nice and cold.’ He poured a third glass and gave it to Essie. ‘She just said she was impressed by her visit and wants to support the work. I guess she has money of her own – there’s no mention of Frank.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘She did show a lot of interest, down at the Steps. And who knows, maybe she was also touched by the idea of you rescuing a Hadza baby. Philanthropists can be quite irrational.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, we have the grant. That’s what counts.’ He smiled as he looked outside, into the distance. ‘I’ll go to Arusha as soon as possible. I can’t wait to see the bank manager’s face when I bring out that cheque!’
Julia was gazing in the opposite direction as if she could see through the back of the tent, up towards the Gorge. ‘We can begin work in the korongo where the Sivatherium was found.’
Essie nodded her agreement, even though no one was looking at her. Her current project in the Work Hut involved working on the fossil remains of a dinosaur that was an ancestor of the giraffe. She was cleaning and assembling small fragments of the cranium. There were three leg bones, a tooth and half a vertebrae, too. Together the fossils were sufficient for a definitive identification. The discovery of a giraffid at Magadi wasn’t extraordinary in itself. The importance lay in the fact that a particular stone tool had been found nearby, in the same strata. It had been used to butcher the giraffid; there were nicks on the leg bones consistent with the cutting edge. With the three elements taken together – the bones, the tool and the matrix in which it was located – the find was significant. Everyone at Magadi had been excited the day it was all revealed.
The tool was similar to ones made by Homo habilis, the hominid whose remains had been discovered a decade ago at Olduvai, drawing worldwide attention to the Leakeys. Habilis was more advanced than Australopithecine b
ut still had a brain only half the size of modern humans, and short legs and long arms. He’d been given the nickname Handyman, because Homo habilis was the first category of hominid to actually create stone tools, rather than just make use of rocks picked up from the ground. The artefact that was sitting in the tray on Essie’s work table was just a little bit more sophisticated, however, than could be expected of Handyman. This offered the tantalising possibility that somewhere in that site were the remains of an even more evolved hominid. Someone more like us. The potential of the location was the very reason excavation had not yet begun. There had not been the resources to do it properly.
Until now.
Julia turned back to Ian. ‘We should think about a name for the site.’
There was a brief silence, with looks passing between the three. The naming of a korongo could be a contentious matter. The one where they were digging now was called Alice Jones Korongo – AJK for short. It was in honour of a primatologist who studied bonobo apes in the Congo. Her work was of interest to the Lawrences, since the great apes – so humanlike, with the absence of tails – were our closest relatives. Aside from the orangutans of Indonesia and Malaysia, they existed only in Africa. The fact added weight to the proposition that this continent was the setting in which the genus Homo had begun to evolve. Alice Jones had visited Magadi around the time the excavation had got underway, nearly ten years before Essie had arrived here. William had named the korongo after her. Julia had not approved. She didn’t think Alice Jones deserved the honour. In fact, Julia must have taken a deep dislike to her. Essie had heard her description of the woman’s unexpected arrival at Magadi one day, in a jeep full of bonobos rescued from poachers. With her dirty clothes, dishevelled ponytail and her cargo of what might have been wild hairy children, she looked as if she’d been in the jungle for far too long, according to Julia. The primatologist had no business turning up at Magadi just because she’d happened to meet William on a trip to Arusha. She had worse manners than the animals she studied. The Africans agreed with Julia’s low opinion of Alice Jones. Some even believed she was a witch, who had given birth to animal children. They blamed her for the lack of success the Lawrences had experienced while working in AJK.
‘Diana might appreciate her name being used,’ Ian said.
Essie quashed a sense of disappointment. William, Ian and Julia already had sites named after them; she was the next obvious choice. But then, Diana was the one who was making it all happen.
‘That would be a nice idea.’ Essie smiled as she eyed her glass of champagne. Fortunately, she didn’t still have an empty stomach. The Hadza hunter had produced a leather pouch bulging with yellow berries and shared them with Essie before handing back the baby and heading off into the bush with his zebra meat. Though a bit shrivelled, the berries had been sweet and fleshy.
‘To us!’ Essie raised her glass. It wasn’t important what the new site was called; the results were what mattered. The whole digging season – the Long Dry – lay ahead of them. They’d all be working together from dawn to dark. She sipped the cool drink, savouring the sweet tingle on her tongue. As the alcohol entered her blood she felt her body relax, her spirits rise. As if on cue, the baby made a small mewing sound and stretched out her arm.
Essie put down her champagne so she could carry her outside as soon as she woke fully and started to cry. Kefa separated himself from the other onlookers and hurried over. ‘Would you like me to unpack these boxes?’ He looked eager to begin.
Essie nodded vaguely. She couldn’t think where all the contents should go. She glanced over at Ian. Presumably he, like Julia, had accepted the baby was staying here. But that didn’t mean he wanted his bedroom turned into a nursery.
‘Take it all to the guest tent I’ve been using.’ Essie stood up. ‘I’ll come too.’ She took two steps towards the doorway, before turning back to Julia. ‘How do you fold a nappy? I haven’t got it right yet.’ She held her breath, torn between fearing she was pushing things too far and hoping Julia might even offer to come along and help.
Julia reached across the table for Essie’s note. She tore the sheet of yellow paper into a rough square and began folding it.
‘You make the shape of a kite and turn up the bottom.’ She handed the example to Essie, then turned to Ian, holding out her glass. ‘Let’s open the other bottle before it gets too warm.’
The last of the tea chests was half empty and still no nappies had been unearthed. Essie was jiggling the baby in her arms. The kitenge she’d wrapped around the bare bottom, after the Hadza hunter had departed, was sodden. It must have felt uncomfortable because the baby kept wriggling. She was not unhappy, though. She had her eyes on Kefa as he moved around the tent, accompanied by Simon, who’d also come to help. The baby followed the action with as much interest as if the men had been putting on a performance just for her.
After some debate, all the nursery furniture was eventually arranged. Essie mostly let the others decide where to put everything. They all spoke in Swahili so that Kefa could follow; even after his long years with the Lawrences his knowledge of English was largely limited to topics like cleaning and serving food. Essie had to step in once or twice during the process, when there was a misunderstanding about what a particular item was for. There was one object the purpose of which none of them could guess – an inverted cone on a stick, made of galvanised steel. Kefa placed it near the door of the tent.
A change table and a plastic bath complete with rubber duck were grouped near the chest of drawers. The bed was dotted with tiny dresses and nightgowns, satin-edged blankets, plastic pants, crisp sheets and soft towels – all folded into neat piles. There were crocheted booties, tied by their laces into pairs; singlets; stockings; socks. Everything was either white or pink – though before long, Essie knew, the striking contrast between the two options would be dulled by the pervasive dust of Magadi.
The imposing pram and a matching carrycot stood by the door. A bassinet with an elaborate net was there, too; it was going to be taken into Ian and Essie’s tent. Kefa and Simon had assumed Essie would sleep here in the guest tent with the baby. That was not surprising. Most African mothers shared a bed with their children. Sometimes their husbands had another hut; sometimes there was another wife, as well. Essie intended to spend her nights at Ian’s side, just as she always had. There would be clear boundaries and routines where this baby was concerned. The infant would sleep next to Essie in the bassinet. When she awoke, she would be taken away to the nursery for a bottle and nappy change. The guest tent wasn’t too far for Essie to walk at night, with a torch in hand and Rudie as an escort, but it was far enough away for her not to have to worry about disturbing Ian.
Essie surveyed the rest of the tent. A shag pile rug in soft pink had been unrolled on top of the sisal mat on the floor. It was half-covered in toys – a rag doll, a grey plush elephant, some rattles and the teddy with the satin bow. Along with a few picture books, Essie was relieved to see a large solid tome called Complete Babycare. Flipping through it, she saw lots of diagrams and tables as well as dense text; it had the reassuring look of a field manual.
The shopkeeper had sent plenty of milk formula, as Julia had hoped. While Kefa stacked the tins near the back of the tent, Simon read out one of the labels.
‘Lactogen. Net weight 2 pounds. Pasteurised. Modified. Fortified.’ He made the English words sound impressive. ‘Added milk fat, milk sugar, vitamins.’ His brow furrowed. He switched back to Swahili. ‘And iron? Like an arrow?’
Essie shook her head, even though she couldn’t think if there was actually a difference between the two kinds of iron. She looked across to the bedside table, which was packed with bottles, teats and lidded containers. Kefa was standing next to the collection, examining an object in his hand – a circle of pink plastic with a ring attached, holding a rubber teat. He showed it to Essie.
‘It’s called a dummy.’ She gave the name in English; it couldn’t possibly be translated.
‘How does it work?’
‘The baby sucks on it, instead of crying.’
‘But there’s no milk.’ Kefa frowned. ‘Is it a trick?’
‘Ah – yes,’ Essie said awkwardly. ‘I suppose it is.’
Kefa and Simon exchanged looks. As Essie glanced away, she saw Kefa slipping the item into an empty bag on the pile of packaging.
As soon as one question had been answered, there was another, it seemed, the two men taking it in turns to ask them. Having disposed of the dummy, Kefa removed a mobile from a box. Essie explained how it had to be hung above the baby. As he held it up, she set the pieces moving, so he could see how it would catch the baby’s attention. Simon joined Kefa, studying the mobile.
‘A dog, a cow, a moon,’ Simon said.
‘Cat. Plate. Spoon,’ Kefa added.
‘And a guitar?’ queried Simon.
‘A fiddle,’ Essie said.
‘Why have those things been chosen?’ Simon asked.
Essie eyed the hanging objects. ‘They’re from a nursery rhyme. A song for children.’
‘Can you sing it?’ Simon requested.
‘It’ll have to be in English,’ Essie said. ‘I’m not sure I remember all the words.’
She hadn’t heard the rhyme since she was a child, but once she began, it started coming back to her.
‘“Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon”.’ Essie paused, oddly aware that she was listening to her mother’s voice. The words weren’t shaped by the English accent Lorna had eventually perfected, though; the vowels were longer, broader; the syllables merged together. They belonged in that hazy time Essie thought of as ‘before’ – when the family lived in the place that was no more than a speck on the underside of the globe that stood on Professor Holland’s desk.
‘But what about the dog?’ Simon prompted.
‘Oh yes. “The little dog laughed to see such fun, and the dish ran away with the spoon”.’
The Beautiful Mother Page 13
