The artist’s impression of the Sivatherium, elaborate in its detail, suited Essie’s childhood memories. It was fanciful – there was even a family of hominid hunters crouched in the background. The illustration had no value as a reference, and could even be misleading, but it helped Essie imagine the ancient giraffid as it had been while still alive. If Ian and Julia were around, she would never have brought the book to the Work Hut. It would have caused odd looks, perhaps even negative comments. But that wasn’t going to happen today. By now, the two of them were many miles away from Magadi Gorge.
They’d left at first light. Julia had decided to accompany Ian on his trip to Arusha. She hadn’t visited the place for such a long time. Essie didn’t begrudge her mother-in-law the chance to see old friends, and share in the triumphant excursion to the bank, but it had been hard to watch the others prepare for the journey. It had gone on all week, with the pair discussing plans and forming strategies for making use of the new funds. During this time Essie had devoted herself to keeping the baby out of their way – anticipating Mara’s every need and meeting it before any upset could occur. Essie seemed to be preparing bottles, changing nappies, jiggling toys and rocking the pram all day. She spent her nights going back and forth between the bed she shared with Ian and the guest tent. She was determined to avoid disrupting her husband’s sleep. With exhaustion setting in, it wasn’t easy to think about anything but the baby. Whenever Mara was sleeping, Essie longed to lie down and rest as well. But she refused to give in to the temptation. At every opportunity, she forced herself to hurry to her desk.
This morning, sitting alone here in the Work Hut, she felt she’d been abandoned by Ian and Julia. But it was her own fault, she knew. The staff were more than capable of being in charge of themselves for a few days. If Essie hadn’t had a baby to care for, she could have joined the safari. The best she could do now was make good use of the time alone.
The harsh ring of a wind-up alarm shattered the quiet. Essie almost knocked over a bottle of ink as she hurried to turn it off. She checked the clock face, surprised that two hours had gone by. It felt like less than one. She stared, frustrated, at her work. She was just about to slot a fragment of the cranium into place. It was the part of the task she relished most – when pieces of the puzzle finally came together. Now it would have to wait.
She turned her ear towards the guest tent. Mara must still be sleeping peacefully, tucked up in her pram. Essie would have preferred to have her here in the Work Hut, since Nandamara had explained that the Hadza baby was used to always being around her tribe. But Complete Babycare said the nursery was the correct place for a baby to sleep. How else would she learn to be independent? Isolation was also the best way to ensure that sleep was not accidentally disturbed. A routine could then be established with waking, sleeping and feeding locked into a firm timeframe. It was the only way a busy mother could expect to take proper care of her home and her husband. There was no mention in the book of a professional being able to continue her work, but the same rules would obviously apply.
As Essie walked to the guest tent she felt a burst of anxiety. Had she zipped up the tent properly? Was there any chance that a snake could have slithered in? She’d left Rudie on guard outside the entrance. Her impulse had been to put him inside, right next to the pram – they were living in the African bush, after all, not an English village. But the manual said the family dog should never be left alone with the baby. They could not be trusted.
Rudie lifted his head as Essie appeared, with Tommy at her heels. The Dalmatian didn’t look guilty, his mouth was not bloodstained; the tent walls behind him had not been ripped apart. Essie smiled at herself. It was the sheer helplessness of the baby that sparked such ridiculous fears. As Essie well knew, young humans were uniquely vulnerable, among all the mammals. Babies were born long before they were mature enough to take care of themselves. This was the direct result of humans having evolved such large brains. Their offspring could remain in the womb only for as long as it would still be possible for the head – which was huge, relative to the size of the body – to be pushed through the mother’s pelvis. There was another issue here: the shift to walking on two legs had brought with it skeletal changes that made childbirth both agonising and dangerous. If not for these structural issues, a human pregnancy should have lasted for nearly two years, like the elephant’s, rather than just nine months.
Lifting the net that draped over the sunshade, Essie peered into the pram. Mara lay on her back with her arms flung up to each side of her head. There was something deeply peaceful about the expression on her face combined with the complete abandonment conveyed by her posture. It was as if, for this time, the infant had journeyed away to another realm, leaving her body here to hold her place in the everyday world. Essie was reluctant to wake her and drag her back. But Mara had to drink one full bottle of formula, be patted until she burped, then have her nappy changed, all before mid-morning bath time.
‘Hello, Mara. Time to wake up,’ Essie said brightly. The baby stirred but didn’t open her eyes. Essie gave her shoulder a shake, but that had little effect. The book recommended using a light flick of the finger against the cheek if necessary. Essie reached one hand into the pram, letting it hover for a moment. She watched the closed eyes for a while. There was a faint movement behind the dark lids, like secret signals from a dream. Essie drew back her hand and walked away.
It was another half an hour – two more fragments of bone had been cleaned and set in place – before Essie heard Mara wake up by herself. Her cry was sudden and loud. Rudie barked in alarm. Essie told herself to sit still – to give the baby a chance to discover that she was alone and get used to the idea. The crying continued, winding steadily up. Essie watched the clock, timing two minutes, then three. Four. Five. It felt like forever. The screams seemed to float above Magadi like the plume of smoke that rose from Ol Doinyo Lengai. When Essie could stand it no longer, she pushed back her chair, dropping the toothbrush she was using as a cleaning tool. The alarm clock tumbled off the desk, rolling away over the floor.
Baraka emerged from the kitchen to hand Essie a bottle as she passed. He gave her a questioning frown but said nothing. Essie slowed to a walk, trying to look as if she was in control. She wished she had time to explain to the man that she was following a guide written by experts. She was doing the right thing – she just wasn’t very good at it yet, and nor was Mara.
By the time Essie had lifted her from the pram, the baby was sobbing so hard her whole body shook. Her hands were curled into tight fists. Essie held her against her shoulder and walked around patting her, but Mara was caught in a whirlpool of panic, and probably hunger as well. Carrying her to the change table, Essie laid her down under the mobile, but the jiggling cow and moon did nothing to calm her. Essie felt desperate. The cries seemed too loud to be made by such a small creature. Mara’s panic aroused an answering emotion in Essie. The air felt stifled by it – too thick to breathe.
At a loss, Essie looked helplessly around the tent. Her eye was caught by a music box on the chest of drawers nearby; with so many items in the nursery there always seemed to be another surprise. Quickly she wound the key at the back. As she lifted the lid a miniature ballerina with a pink net skirt popped up. The doll revolved jerkily on one pointed toe, as tinny music entered the air. Essie stared at the box. The decorations on the outside were new to her, but everything else was deeply familiar – the image of the dancer reflected in a tiny mirror mounted inside the lid; the pink silk lining; the tune that was playing. Essie breathed a perfume that couldn’t possibly have been lingering in the brand-new musical box. She could feel herself being caught up, every turn of the dancer winding her back into her past.
Snapping down the lid, she cut off the song and made the ballerina fold forward and disappear. Essie didn’t need to have the weight of childhood memories added to this situation that was already so tense. She was about to pick Mara up, to try carrying her again, when she realised the
baby had quietened. Her hands were reaching towards what had been the source of the music. As the silence lengthened, a frown crossed Mara’s face. Her mouth opened as she prepared to cry again. Reluctantly Essie lifted the lid of the box, bracing herself as the tune was triggered again. But the memories that came to her were not what she was expecting. There was no rasp of irritation in the air. No dark weight of unhappiness. Instead she felt warmth, excitement.
Happy birthday, darling.
Look at her, Mummy. She’s going round and round!
There was tinkling laughter, following the notes of the song.
A kiss dropping like a ray of sunshine onto skin . . .
Essie stared blankly down at Mara as she tried to tease the memory out a little further. But the fleeting power of the music evaporated like steam. Essie tried to think how old she might have been when she’d received the music box. She didn’t know. Were they living in England, or was it before? It felt crucial to her to work it out – not because it mattered when she’d been given the gift, but because it signalled a time when her mother must have been happier, more normal. Behind the issue of timing was another, deeper question. What had happened to Lorna to transform her so completely? Essie remembered how, as a little girl, she’d believed she was the source of her mother’s despair – it was due to something she had done, or not done, or had failed to be. Now, Essie knew that there had to be another cause: some inherent weakness, perhaps, that meant Lorna couldn’t deal with the challenges of life the way other people did; or a mental illness that just set in, and got worse, like an unstoppable cancer.
Essie gazed at the music box. There was no point now in thinking about her mother’s life. The questions this would raise were ones she had finally managed to leave behind her – far away, on another continent. She focused on Mara instead, following the movements of her waving hands. The tiny fingers grasped at the air as if music was something tangible that could be caught and held. Eventually, the mechanism inside the box wound down and the music stumbled to a halt.
Essie quickly produced the bottle of formula, before Mara could become upset again. The strategy worked well. Soon the baby was sitting on Essie’s lap, feeding happily. Afterwards she lay still, sucking her fingers, while Essie changed her nappy. Bath time was next. Essie was about to call out for Kefa to bring hot water when she heard someone enter the tent. She turned to see Simon standing there. His hands were clasped tensely together; he glanced back over his shoulder, then at Mara.
‘Visitors are here,’ he announced.
Essie eyed him uneasily. Had Nandamara and his friends come to check on how she was caring for Mara? She felt, as she had before, that the Hadza might be able to see and know everything – that they’d heard the baby screaming in fear after waking to find herself alone. But then Essie remembered how firmly Simon had replied when she’d asked him if he thought the Hadza might come and say goodbye before actually leaving the Magadi area. They would not. The farewell had taken place. What would be gained by having to go through it all again?
‘The women from the manyatta have come,’ Simon elaborated.
Essie looked in the direction of the kitchen. The cook was the one who purchased the eggs, milk or honey. ‘Where’s Baraka?’
Simon shook his head. ‘That is not why they are here. They have come to see the baby.’
Essie nodded slowly. The news that a band of Hadza had convinced the Bwana’s wife to look after their baby would have spread like wildfire. There wasn’t an oversupply of excitement around Magadi so it was not surprising a few sightseers had turned up. Essie pursed her lips, recalling how Baraka had said it would be an insult for a Maasai woman to be asked to feed a Hadza baby. Had they now come to gawk at her? Essie looked down at Mara. She was smiling trustingly in the direction of Simon’s voice. The little girl had no idea that the world was a place where one group of people looked down on another, and that she was a member of the wrong tribe.
‘Tell them we will come,’ Essie said to him. ‘But they will have to wait for us to be ready. Tell Baraka to serve them tea.’
‘All of them?’
Essie felt a hollow in her stomach. ‘How many are there?’
‘They are still arriving. Not just from the local manyatta, but from Engare Sero as well.’
Essie stared at him. She pictured dozens of Maasai women gathered in the open space in front of the Work Hut and Dining Tent. Listening past the squabbling weaverbirds and strains of song coming from the workers’ camp, she could now detect a hum of voices. The women would have brought their children with them, Essie realised, even though many would know they were banned from the camp; Maasai mothers didn’t see the company of their offspring as optional. Essie was just grateful the visit was happening now, while she was here alone. Hopefully Ian and Julia need never know that their camp had been invaded.
Essie pushed the pram along the path, jolting over the stones that always seemed to be on the path, no matter how often they were cleared away. Folds of cloth rustled around her legs with each step. Without even looking down, she could see the bright blur of her skirt – green, red, splashes of yellow. She was reminded of wearing the orange cocktail dress for the Marlows’ visit. It was hard to believe that it had only been just over a week ago. And it seemed absurd that she was now getting dressed up for a second time. It was as if the first event had somehow led to this one, like a chain reaction.
Pausing near the kitchen, Essie leaned around to look at Mara. The baby grinned up at her, as if the bumping motion had been done purely for her amusement. The eye-catching fabric of Essie’s gown was mirrored in Mara’s miniature dress. The two garments had been packaged together – they were a ‘Mother and Daughter’ set, according to the label attached to the cellophane. When Essie had first seen the matching clothes, she’d rolled her eyes. The owner of Babyland was obviously an opportunist. Diana Marlow’s offer of a blank cheque had been seen as a chance to unload some stock that few people would be likely to buy, especially with the population of wealthy English settlers on the decline since Independence. But for this occasion – the meeting of the Maasai women – the ensemble was perfect. Mara looked even more striking in the colourful print with its pattern of flowers and leaves than she did in pink and white. Essie wasn’t so sure the bright, busy pattern suited her, but that didn’t matter. Her goal was to send a message about how she viewed this Hadza baby. She wanted everyone to know that Mara deserved fine clothes; that she was accepted here, with the Lawrences. Essie hoped the statement might reflect well on Simon, too, though she was wary of social manipulation. Ian had warned her against trying to change the way Africans saw the world, in terms of their own affairs; the Lawrences weren’t missionaries, after all. The Africans should only be expected to conform to the demands of scientific practice. But in this instance, the gesture of solidarity seemed a small thing Essie could do for the Hadza – and for her assistant, who’d been caught up in this delicate situation through no fault of his own.
Rounding the corner, Essie came to a halt. There must have been fifty women, plus at least as many children, all squatting in a loose circle around the central fireplace. Some of the adults wore shukas, creating splashes of purple, orange, red and maroon that clashed strongly, but en masse became oddly harmonious. Many women had plain cloths that blended with the burnished tones of their ochre-painted skin. Some were young, with swanlike necks and upright backs. Mothers of all ages cradled toddlers and babies. There were grandmothers, too: grey-haired, with sunken eyes and bony limbs. Everyone must have dressed up for the occasion. They all wore elaborate jewellery – earrings made of metal, shells, feathers; coloured headpieces; and the distinctive Maasai beaded discs, the size and shape of dinner plates, that circled the wearer’s neck, resting on their shoulders. The overall impression was of colour and life. The impact of the group seemed to spread beyond their physical boundaries, overtaking the whole camp. It was as if a huge flock of exotic birds had inexplicably landed here, claiming the pl
ace as their own.
At the sight of Essie pushing the pram, a hush fell over the crowd. Essie tried to walk tall and gracefully, like the music box ballerina. But her nerve failed; she suddenly felt ridiculous in the elaborate dress with the skirt that swept the ground and the generously puffed sleeves that fell to her elbows. She was reminded of how it felt to arrive at a party wearing an unusual outfit: in the seclusion of home the choice seemed viable. Then as you entered the space filled with guests, you felt so exposed you might as well have been naked.
But as the Maasai women studied her, Essie realised she’d made the right choice. The long gown added to her stature. The powerful colours lent her their strength. She was used to seeing the Maasai looking pityingly at her fair skin, blonde hair and drab clothing. She’d once even seen a worker pick up a white grub that was squirming in a shovel of earth. It had the blind, bleached look of something that lived its whole life in the dark. The man had pointed surreptitiously at Essie. That had been back when she was new here. As soon as she’d acquired a tan she’d looked healthier. But she had never been seen wearing anything but her work khakis. Now, under the eyes of these women, Essie got the feeling that she had finally presented herself in a better light.
As Essie approached, adults and children alike shuffled aside to make a pathway to the centre. They looked from her to the pram and back, and craned their necks, trying to see in under the fringed canopy.
Essie came to a halt, parking the pram next to the circle of stones. Her feet were bare, since the sturdy boots she’d had on in the guest tent would’ve looked ridiculous with the dress. A piece of charred firewood brushed her skirt, leaving a black smear on the hem. Bending over, she peered into the pram. Mara was waving her hands in excitement. She was wide-awake, ready to play.
The Beautiful Mother Page 15
