The Beautiful Mother

by Scholes, Katherine

  Slowing the Land Rover to a crawl, Essie leaned down to select low ratio. As she let out the clutch, the engine whined in a deeper register. The vehicle ground its way up the hillside. She remembered what Diana had said, when they were standing between Baraka’s kitchen and the cho tent, the day they first met.

  I hope you know how lucky you are . . .

  Essie let the vehicle come to a halt. Torn between conflicting emotions, she stared out over the arid landscape. After a short while, though, her eyes were drawn to the passenger seat beside her, where the carrycot was lodged between the door and the gear stick. The steady jogging had soothed Mara into a deep sleep. Her head was turned to one side. Her ear was like a shell, delicately formed; her eyelashes were a perfect black crescent above her plump cheek. No matter how often Essie looked at the baby, it was still a surprise to see how nearly every part of her was such a deep brown – almost black. The colour seemed to infuse her flawless skin. She looked so beautiful.

  As if able to sense Essie’s gaze, Mara stirred in her sleep. Her lips made little sucking movements as though she were dreaming of milk. Essie felt a twinge in her heart. Reaching out one finger, she stroked the soft hair. Her eyes prickled with sudden tears.

  You can’t have everything.

  Diana leaned back in her chair, long legs stretched out in front of her. Her new boots were scuffed; red dust was ground into the leather. She eyed them with a look of satisfaction.

  ‘I’m worn out,’ she said, sighing contentedly as she picked up her glass and took a gulp of her gin and tonic.

  Supper was going to be served soon, but for now the Lawrences and their guest were all sitting outside. The group was gathered around the fireplace, even though the hearth contained just a pile of cold ashes and half-burnt logs. The dry-season winds had dropped for the night; the air was still and hot. Essie held Mara in her arms. The baby was calm and contented, having been recently fed. She was chewing on her fingers, looking up at the darkening sky.

  Ian smiled across at Diana. ‘You did well today. It was a long one.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Diana accepted the praise with a nod. ‘We certainly covered a lot.’

  Ian and Julia had spent the morning showing Diana over the korongo where the new work was soon to begin. After lunch, they’d visited one of the established sites so she could see how the excavation process was carried out – the painstaking digging, sieving of earth and tagging of artefacts. The labour was done under the glaring eye of the sun with only old beach umbrellas for protection. Diana had offered a suggestion about how this situation could be improved. She’d also made insightful remarks about other aspects of the work. When Essie was told about the tour and how successful it had been, she’d felt a guilty pang of disappointment. If she was honest, she’d rather have been told that Diana had become bored or that the harsh conditions had proved too much for her – that the guest had retreated to her tent hours ago.

  Instead Diana had been in the Work Hut sitting in front of a large piece of paper. On one side of it she’d written LEAKEY, on the other LAWRENCE. Under the left-hand title she’d listed the Leakeys’ key finds. Proconsul came first. She’d tagged it Ancestor of Apes (therefore maybe us). Next, there was Australopithecine (Ape-man), then Habilis (Toolmaker). Under the Lawrences she’d made another list: The Steps. Australopithecine. Habilis.

  ‘Three each,’ she’d said, as if describing a game of hockey.

  Essie had opened her mouth to add the Painted Cave, but the Leakeys had researched another set of Neolithic paintings in another area – so it didn’t change the even score.

  Diana drew a line down from each side – Leakey and Lawrence – angled towards a point. There she wrote ERECTUS – TOOLS AND BONES.

  ‘So that’s the situation?’ she’d asked Ian. ‘It’s a race.’

  Ian had looked awkward about the rivalry being named so bluntly. ‘Well, we all want to prove that there was one source, and it was here in Africa. So we’re really on the same team.’

  Diana had just smiled. She’d drawn an arrow connecting the Lawrences with ERECTUS. The strong, dark line left no room for doubt about who was going to claim the prize.

  Now, sitting by the fireplace, Essie could see the piece of paper pinned on the wall behind Ian’s work table. She was surprised he’d agreed to it being put up there, where everyone could see it. As if he could tell that Essie was thinking about him, Ian turned to her.

  ‘How was your day?’ The query came with a smile, but there was a cautious note in Ian’s voice. Essie’s scouting project had been discussed with the others, but the focus needed to remain on the serious part of the work, where Diana Marlow would be able to see her money put to good use.

  ‘I haven’t really done anything, yet,’ Essie responded. In fact, she had spent several hours surveying the foothills through her binoculars, from a series of vantage points. She’d found no sign of a tower, but the vistas of broken rock had proved hard to assess from a distance. ‘Hopefully I’ll have Simon back tomorrow.’

  ‘We don’t need him, do we?’ Diana turned to Ian. ‘To finish my camp, I mean . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘It should all be done by now.’

  Essie peered past her husband towards the place where Diana’s tent had been erected. With its multiple peaks it looked like a small mountain range made from orange canvas. A short distance away from it stood a bathing tent. There was a cho as well; the earth dug out from the pit was piled in a mound outside the canvas walls.

  Turning back to the fireplace, Essie took a sip from her glass, steadying Mara with one arm. Behind the fizz of the tonic, she felt the burn of a large shot of gin. The tang of citrus combined with the floral fragrance of juniper rose to her nostrils. She felt the cold liquid slipping down her throat, soothing away heat and dust.

  As she put down her drink, she saw that Diana was studying her, a quizzical look on her face. Essie wondered if she was still trying to get used to the odd sight of a white woman nursing a black baby. Sometimes Essie felt a sense of shock herself, when she thought about the contrast between her and Mara.

  Still eyeing Essie, Diana fished a piece of lime from her drink and sucked it. ‘You know that Frank went to see your father’s collection?’ she asked.

  Essie blinked at the unexpected topic. ‘Yes. He mentioned that when he was here.’ She remembered how she’d wanted to ask the man more about the time he’d spent with her father.

  ‘When we got back to the Lodge that night, he told me all about his visit,’ Diana continued. ‘He met some people in Cambridge who knew your parents.’ She broke off, shaking her head. ‘It’s so sad about your mother.’

  Essie’s lips parted, every nerve in her body on instant alert.

  ‘Imagine . . . destroying half of your father’s life’s work . . .’ Diana whistled soundlessly. ‘Just like that.’ She snapped her fingers.

  There was a tense quiet. Essie stared into the cold ashes in front of her. A whole scene came into her head – as clear and detailed as if it had happened yesterday, yet telescoped into mere seconds.

  She was arriving home from an excursion with her father, cheeks tingling from a day spent out in the wind. The smell of the café where they’d stopped for fish and chips still lingered in her hair. From the kerb where the car was parked she headed for the front garden. Rusty springs creaked as she pushed open the gate.

  At the top of the path she faltered. Part of her wanted to put off the moment of encountering her mother. But another part just wanted to get it over with. Lorna might be in bed, the curtains closed, the air a dense fug of spent breath. Or she could be up, having made an effort to dress, to wash some dishes. Only a week ago, Essie and Arthur had come home to find a banana cake cooling on a rack in the kitchen, and several bunches of garden flowers in the sitting room. You never knew what to expect.

  Essie took two steps along the gravel path. Then she felt the sole of her boot tilt sideways. Glancing down, she saw what had caused it: a stone – much too
big for a pebble; the wrong colour and shape. She caught her breath, looking further. Scattered along the path were dozens of stone tools – hand axes, scrapers, shards, mother stones, strikers . . . Some stood out clearly, marked by texture, tone and shape. Others were only just visible among the pebbles. It was anyone’s guess how many more artefacts were there, no longer even visible, completely absorbed into the pathway.

  From behind her she heard a gasp. Turning around, she met her father’s disbelieving stare.

  ‘We can pick them up.’ Essie’s voice was shrill. She began collecting the stones, shoving them into her pockets.

  But she knew it was pointless. Even if they picked up every one of the artefacts, they were all mixed up now. Arthur had never defaced his tools by writing on them. He labelled the trays, the bags. Some of the pieces he’d be able to recognise, but not all of them. The rest, scattered like this, could no longer be linked with a particular location. Disconnected from their story, they had lost the best part of their meaning.

  Essie watched her father’s rigid face; it could have been formed from flint. She ran into the house, feet drumming down the hallway, shouting and crying at the same time.

  ‘We. Hate. You.’

  Years later, and far away in Magadi, Essie could still hear the words – her little girl’s voice echoing through the house. She could see the scene that followed. The empty bottles, scattered pills. Her father’s voice on the telephone.

  ‘Yes, still breathing . . . Unconscious.’

  His frantic pacing, back and forth. The waiting that seemed to go on forever. Finally, people in uniforms approaching down the path, not knowing what they were treading on. The odd mix of pity and judgement on their faces.

  Then the still body of a woman dressed in Lorna’s red-and-white spotted dress disappearing into the ambulance . . .

  Essie rubbed her hand over her face as if memories were like dirt and could be simply erased. Then she looked up at Diana. She had no idea why the woman had brought up the topic. Perhaps she was just expressing a passing thought, on impulse, as she sometimes seemed to do. Regardless, the facts needed to be laid out.

  ‘My mother suffered from depression,’ Essie stated. ‘It was a psychotic episode. She didn’t know what she was doing.’

  ‘Sounds like jealousy to me,’ Diana said. ‘And I know a bit about that . . .’ She gave a brief, hollow laugh. ‘Your father was always going away, I gather. What was she supposed to think?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Essie asked.

  ‘Maybe she knew he was off with some gorgeous young student. Having a fling.’

  Julia stiffened, as if she’d been slapped. Ian stared in shocked silence. Essie remembered this wasn’t the first time Diana had been unnervingly frank about this subject; she’d told Essie her husband was serially unfaithful only hours after they first met. But this wasn’t about Frank Marlow; it was about Essie’s father. She opened her mouth, ready to dispute the absurd suggestion – but Diana just kept talking.

  ‘You have to admire her. She knew how to bite back!’

  Ian cleared his throat but seemed unable to find any words. Julia’s eyes were wide.

  ‘No,’ Essie spoke up again. ‘It wasn’t like that. My father never did anything wrong. And my mother loved his collection. She found some of the tools herself – brought them up from under the sea. In her right mind she would never have thrown them away.’

  Essie tried to hold a firm tone, but even as she was speaking, doubt was sliding beneath her words like a snake. She was reminded of the defaced drawings in the storeroom – the sense of fury that was etched into the sheets of paper. It was unmistakably an act of passion. Lorna’s scattering of the stones had a similar feel. But that didn’t mean Diana had put her finger on the cause . . .

  Essie picked up her glass, intending to take a drink. Instead she just clasped it in her hand. The suggestion of adultery was ridiculous. But she couldn’t deny that there was a sense in which her mother had been betrayed. Professor Holland spent all week at the university working until late, and then on weekends he went into the field, taking his daughter along. There had been occasions when Lorna joined them, but she didn’t enjoy herself. She couldn’t get along with the other people who were part of the excursions – Arthur’s colleagues, the students, volunteers. She got too cold, too tired. It was better for everyone if she just stayed at home. Essie remembered the sheer relief she used to feel each weekend that she and her father escaped together. It was as if the air suddenly became clear and light. Essie could breathe and smile again. She’d felt guilty, even back then. But she knew her father relied on her. He’d often said how lucky he was that his daughter shared his interests.

  ‘Well, anyway . . .’ Ian finally spoke. ‘The whole thing was a tragedy – such a loss. It was just fortunate that half of the collection survived. It was on loan to the university, I believe.’

  ‘There was a special exhibition,’ Essie confirmed. She pictured the artefacts laid out on their velvet-lined trays, locked safely away behind glass. Even with so many pieces lost or disidentified, Professor Holland still possessed the biggest collection of Tasmanian stone tools in the world. His research remained seminal.

  ‘But your mother went mad,’ Diana persisted. ‘She ended up in an asylum.’

  Essie didn’t answer straightaway. She still couldn’t think why Diana was pursuing the topic – it was almost as if she didn’t see that it was both personal and painful. But there was no point in denying the truth about Lorna. The story was well known in archaeology circles – just as it had been in the school playground, on the university campus, everywhere . . .

  ‘She had a complete breakdown,’ Essie said.

  ‘Well, I’m not surprised,’ Diana said, ‘even if your father really was, as you say, a faithful husband. Imagine what it must have been like for her! She came from Tasmania, for godsakes. Who’s even heard of the place?’ Opening a packet of cigarettes, she used her lips to pull one out. The sound of her striking a match, the flare of the flame, jarred the air. ‘And there she was in bloody Cambridge. I’ve met some of those university men. The snobbery is beyond belief.’ She threw Ian a smile to show she wasn’t referring to him. ‘Their wives are even worse.’

  Essie thought of the wardrobe stuffed with unworn clothes. The obsession with visits to the hairdresser, the beauty salon. She remembered seeing Lorna mimicking a British accent while watching television. ‘She tried to fit in. But she just couldn’t get things right. She . . .’ Essie’s voice trailed off. Julia was sending her meaningful looks. Essie knew she wanted the conversation steered in a different direction – it had moved on from its bizarre beginning, but was still far too personal for the Lawrences’ tastes. Diana didn’t seem to have noticed that anyone was uncomfortable, though – or perhaps she didn’t care. Her eyes were sharp with curiosity.

  ‘How did they even meet one another?’ she asked.

  ‘My mother worked for my father.’

  Diana frowned. ‘But she wasn’t an archaeologist, was she?’

  Essie shook her head. ‘Dad came down from Sydney to excavate a Tasmanian Aboriginal home site for his PhD. Part of the area was submerged. He needed a diver to search the sea floor.’ She paused, glancing at Julia. The look of disapproval was replaced by an encouraging nod. This part of Essie’s family story was in much safer territory. In fact, Essie had quite often talked about it to visitors. Everyone wanted to know the background to Professor Holland’s collection – how and where the items had been found. They were keenly interested in the Tasmanian Aborigines as well. It wasn’t known for sure if the inhabitants of the island had evolved separately, having travelled originally from some other place, or if they were the same people as the mainland Aborigines. Whichever was true – and most assumed the latter – they’d become cut off there when the ice age ended and the land bridge that had connected the two landmasses was flooded. For around ten thousand years the Tasmanians had lived in isolation from all other humans. How
this may have affected them was one of the things that had driven Arthur Holland’s fascination with their artefacts.

  ‘My mother’s family lived near the site,’ Essie explained to Diana. ‘She was still at high school. It was a holiday job for her.’

  ‘How did she know how to dive?’

  ‘Lots of people did it around there. They speared fish, picked up crayfish, scallops, abalone. My mother was one of the best, apparently – she could hold her breath a long time. Dad said she could swim like a seal.’

  An image came to Essie of a slim young woman wearing a swimsuit that clung to her body like a second skin. It was from an old photograph of Lorna. The print was dog-eared at the corners, the colours distorted by time. Essie had discovered it while helping her father collect up Lorna’s possessions that were spread around the guest room once it became clear she would never return home from Fulbourn. They’d left the hoard of dresses in the wardrobe but thrown most of the other things away. It had happened during term break from school, but there was no holiday atmosphere in the house. Essie and Arthur had moved around the room in silence. They both wanted to get the job done as quickly as possible. It was like ripping off a bandaid; the pain was made worse by lingering. Essie had been emptying a bedside drawer when she’d picked out the square of card from beneath a pile of medical prescriptions. She’d brushed away a film of talcum powder with her finger, staring at what was revealed.

  The picture had been taken as Lorna was wading through thigh-deep water towards the shore. Her goggles had been pushed up onto her forehead. She was smiling straight at the camera. In one hand she held up what looked like a stone axe. Though the image was frozen, there was the impression of movement. Drops of salt water flying. The thrust of the hand, raised in triumph, clasping the prize. The young woman’s smile breaking across her face like the light of a clear dawn over the land.

  On the back of the photograph the words Rocky Bay were written in blue ink. There was a date as well. Essie did the calculations. Arthur was twenty-two. Lorna was sixteen. Only two years older than her daughter was on this day when she was clearing out the guest room. Essie had gripped the picture with a rigid hand. This new vision of her mother felt like a cruel joke: a glimpse of what might have been, both revealed and snatched away at the same time. Essie had not drawn her father’s attention to what she’d found. She tossed the picture into a shoebox, where it settled among dried-out lipsticks, shopping dockets and half-used packets of aspirin.