Essie watched the men as they came nearer – noting the moment when each one set eyes on the pool. She felt an odd pride that she had discovered the place first. While they walked down to join her, she moved closer to the water. She checked the reeds for signs of yellowing, but they looked healthy – green and supple. She noticed a dragonfly skimming the surface. Below the waterline tiny shrimps swam amid lacy strands of algae. There was nothing to suggest any leakage of carbon dioxide, hewa mbaya. Essie wanted to be extra cautious, though, with Mara being nearby. Shrugging off her rucksack, she felt in the side pocket for her matches. Then she knelt down among the reeds. As the blue-black head of the match ignited, a tiny flame flared. Essie moved her hand slowly over the surface of the water. The flame burned brightly, unwavering in the still air.
She got to her feet as Simon and Carl arrived at the water’s edge. The three stood there, gazing at the pool. The small sounds they could hear – birds, insects, the squelch of their boots on the flattened reeds – seemed to intensify a pervasive quiet that no one was willing to break. Essie eyed Simon, wondering if he saw this as a sacred place – perhaps one where they should not linger. If he were a Maasai, she felt sure he would have this view. But then, if that were the case, he wouldn’t have been here on the holy mountain in the first place.
Simon placed Mara on a cloth spread out in the shade of an overhanging rock right beside the pool. When she was happily occupied with trying to reach a leaf hanging from a nearby bush, he pulled off his boots and socks. Then, turning his back to Essie, he dropped his shorts and waded naked into the water. The pool quickly became deep, his body disappearing to his thighs.
Essie lowered her gaze. Peering through her lashes, she saw Carl pause for a few seconds, then follow Simon’s example. She glimpsed the white of his skin, where it lay beyond the reach of the sun. She heard the slap of tiny waves against the sides of the pool as he launched himself in.
She turned to watch Mara while she weighed up her options. She could take off her boots and have a paddle. Or she could remove her trousers, too. On the other hand, stripping right down to her bra and pants would be no different to wearing a bikini. When she looked back the men were waist-deep in the water. They’d both been fully immersed; water dripped from their hair. Sun gleamed on their upper bodies – silver on black, and gold on white.
Essie took off her shirt and trousers quickly in case she lost her nerve. The air brushed her skin as she moved. She looked down at her bra. The lace was tatty. The elastic in the straps had perished, frilling the edges. Her underpants were baggy. She glanced at the others. They were not looking at her – she couldn’t tell if they were being discreet or if their attention was drawn elsewhere, perhaps by the watchful presence of the grouped stones.
Wincing on tender feet, Essie picked her way through the reeds, mud oozing between her toes. Just as she reached the water, she paused. The idea of keeping parts of herself covered suddenly seemed like a false modesty – one that added too much significance to her body. Hadza and Maasai women alike attached no special meaning to their breasts. If they covered them with cloths, it was for practical reasons. Only the genitals were considered private. And even from the point of view of people back in Britain, nudity was not such a big thing. It was 1970, after all – not the fifties. On a summer holiday in Wales, Essie had been skinny-dipping with friends; at a music festival she’d attended, a small but noticeable portion of the women went topless. The Lawrences’ obsession with protocol didn’t apply up here on the mountain. There would be no goat herders or hunters turning up. Simon and Carl were the only people around. And they were both naked.
Reaching behind her, Essie unclipped her bra, then she removed her underpants. She tried to look nonchalant as she tossed the garments onto a rock. Her hair was already hanging loose, covering her neck against the sun. She quickly pulled it forward to hide her nipples.
She was ankle-deep in the water when she heard Mara crying. It was a half-hearted grumble that she knew well. It meant the baby could see that both she and Simon were right nearby, but that was not enough; she wanted to be held.
Crossing to where she lay, Essie picked her up. As she cradled Mara against her chest, she sensed the baby’s instant awareness, matching her own, that something was different: bare skin was touching bare skin, the contact unbroken by clothes.
Mara buried her face against Essie’s breast, moving her open hands over her skin like someone feeling their way in the dark. Essie closed her eyes as a tingle travelled up her spine. She felt the faint whisper of Mara’s breath. She knew Simon and Carl were not far away – probably watching on. But in the moment she felt as if she and the baby were all alone together in their own private world.
Careful not to slip, she picked her way back through the reeds to the edge of the pool. Soon she and Mara were both half immersed in the water. Essie kept her feet planted apart, pressed into the fine gravel that layered the floor of the pool. She grasped the baby firmly under her arms. Particles of algae in the water made her skin slippery; Essie had a vision of the little body sliding from her grasp, sinking out of sight under the water. As if reading her thoughts, Mara arched her back, turning panicked eyes upwards.
‘It’s all right,’ Essie murmured. ‘I’ve got you.’
She repeated the phrase, needing to convince herself as much as Mara that her grip was secure. She watched the tension gradually fade from Mara’s face, her arms and legs relaxing muscle by muscle. Eventually she was limp, floating weightless in Essie’s arms. The baby became very still, then, as if her attention was directed inwards. After a few moments she suddenly began kicking her feet and splashing the water with her hands. A wide grin broke over her face. She’d just decided, Essie realised, that the pool was one enormous bathtub.
Carl and Simon waded over, drawn by the spectacle; the three adults stood around Mara, smiling at her expression of sheer joy. Essie watched her relishing the freedom of movement. The touch of sleek baby skin against her own was like a miracle. When she looked down through the water, tea-stained with tannin, the contrast between their two skin tones was lessened. It was as if the boundaries between adult and child, white and black, were soothed away.
Simon held Mara for a while so that Essie could bathe. She ducked underwater, rinsing the sweat from her hair, cooling her scalp. She swam below the surface – timing how long she could remain there, wondering whether, like Lorna, she might be good at holding her breath. Her lungs seemed to swell with the effort of waiting. She burst up through the water, gasping at the air, pushing back the hair from her face.
Carl met her gaze. She could see that he was taking in the image of her. Tangled hair around her shoulders, draping her breasts. Water running down her face. She smiled, blinking with wet lashes. ‘It’s so beautiful.’
He smiled back at her. She could tell that he understood how she felt. That everything, in this moment, was perfect. And it was all that mattered. The future, with all its worries, felt distant – as if it might never even arrive.
A stream of rusty water ran into the sink, catching a small spider and washing it away. Essie rinsed a cup and dried it with a tea towel, then added it to two others set out on a tray. Glancing through the dusty window she could see Simon sitting in a chair, his head bent over a pile of photographs. Next to him Mara was in Carl’s arms, her fingers exploring the shape and feel of his watch. As Essie observed him, a shiver ran through her body. She could hardly believe she’d just been swimming naked in a pool – and not just in the presence of a fellow recipient of research funding, but a staff member as well. It was out of character for her to be so impulsive. She couldn’t bring herself to regret her decision, though.
Snapshots of the scene played over and over in her head, bringing a faint smile to her face. As she looked out towards Simon, Carl and Mara, she was aware that the time at the pool had created a new sense of intimacy between the four of them. They were like an odd little family, gathered here at the Mission house.
‘I’m wondering if you’d like me to take some photos of Mara,’ he said. ‘Not for my folio. For you.’ He nodded at the baby. ‘And maybe for her, one day.’
One day . . . Essie stared at him, the words reverberating in her head. She could barely imagine the future he was alluding to: a time when there was an older Mara, who spoke in Hadza and had a proper tribal name. Essie hoped Carl was right – that the girl might want to see the pictures. It would mean that Nandamara and Giga had kept alive the story of this early part of her life – the months she’d spent with her white-skinned, stand-in mother.
‘Thank you,’ Essie said. ‘I’d love you to do that.’ Putting aside what Mara might one day make of her baby photos, she knew she would treasure them herself in the future – when they were all that she had left.
‘I’ll print them up when I get to a dark room and post them back to you.’ As Carl spoke he removed the lens cap from his camera and began checking the aperture, making adjustments. Small sounds punctuated the quiet. He held the camera poised in front of Mara and took the first shot. Then he wound the film on, before focusing again. Mara followed him with her eyes as he took another picture, then another. The sequence was fluid, like a slow dance – a magic ritual that would capture the present and hold it still, for the rest of time.
Carl was about to put the camera down, but then Essie held out her hand. ‘Let me do some.’ She wanted to take her own pictures of Mara, but also some of the two men as well.
Carl’s camera was bigger than the one Essie was used to, but not difficult to operate. She took a series of shots, then put it down and took Mara back into her arms. As she watched Carl pouring out cups of tea, she visualised the images she’d caught on film. There was Mara gazing solemnly into the lens, the whites of her eyes standing out against the blackness of skin and iris. Her chubby hands reaching for Carl’s light meter. The close-up of her feet with the rows of toes, like peas lined up in a pod. Then there was the one of Simon and Carl, with Mara held between them.
But the picture Essie most wanted to see when it was printed had been taken by Carl. It was of her and Mara. Essie remembered the moment when the shutter had clicked. Mara was lying in her arms, smiling up into her face. With one hand she was touching Essie’s lips. With the other, she’d grabbed a thick strand of blonde hair. She clutched it tightly in her fist, as if she planned never to let it go.
As they sipped their tea, Simon’s attention turned back to the collection of prints that was spread over the table. He sorted through the images.
‘But which place is your true home?’ he asked Carl. Essie guessed he was picking up the conversation the two had been having while she was inside.
‘They all are,’ Carl replied. He turned to Essie. ‘I was telling Simon that my parents live in France, but my father is half Swedish and half German. My mother is American. When I was a kid I went to international schools in the Middle East as well as Vienna – Dad worked in the mining industry. So I’ve got friends and relatives all over the world.’ He grinned. ‘Lots of places to call home.’
‘But which is the land you care about most?’ Simon persisted.
Essie eyed Carl, keen to hear his answer. He shuffled through the photographs again, pulling out one of a sweeping vista of snowy mountains.
‘My uncle lives here – in the Austrian Alps. I’ve been visiting him there ever since I was a kid. It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.’
Simon whistled admiringly through his teeth. Essie could see why he’d be impressed by the many layers of peaks lined up behind one another; it would be an extraordinary sight to someone accustomed only to seeing single mountains rising from the plains – Kilimanjaro, Meru, or the volcanoes of the Rift Valley, including Ol Doinyo Lengai.
‘I love the deserts of New Mexico, too,’ Carl continued. ‘I visit my cousin there when I get the chance. But some of my favourite places in the world I’ve discovered through my work.’ He found another print and held it up. ‘This one, for example – in Tasmania.’
Essie’s lips parted as she gazed at the black-and-white image in his hands. She took in the mounds of tussock grass pushing up between granite boulders, and the bare earth pocked with small dark holes. Without even deciding to, she reached out to grasp the print, bringing it closer. In the background of the picture, near the crest of a grassy slope, there was a man. At first glance it appeared as if he was wearing a huge furry cloak. But on further examination Essie saw that he had a long stick resting over his shoulders. Hanging from it were lots of identical birds – at least a dozen – tied on by their feet. Their bodies were mounds of fluffy feathers; wingtips and beaks pointed down. There was another man following behind, carrying a similar load. The two collections of birds, lined up in their neat rows, made a bold pattern against the sky.
‘I’ve seen that . . .’ Essie’s voice was soft, almost a murmur to herself. If someone had asked her, she wouldn’t have been able to evoke the scene: the photograph had to be mirroring something stored too deeply in her memory.
Carl looked at Essie. ‘You’ve seen the muttonbirding?’
Essie nodded. She couldn’t find any words.
Simon leaned over to look at the picture. ‘These men are good hunters. Do they use a bow and arrow?’
Carl shook his head. ‘Those birds are chicks, pulled out from the burrows.’
Simon frowned. ‘They are very big.’
‘They have to be fattened up ready for long-distance flying.’
‘Do they taste good?’
‘I like them,’ Carl said. ‘But lots of people don’t.’
Simon studied the picture intently. When he looked up his expression cleared as if he’d just solved a puzzle. ‘These hunters are the descendants of those first black people!’
Carl nodded. ‘Yes, they are. So were most of the folk I met at the rookery.’
Simon pointed to the faces of the men. ‘But their skin is white.’
‘They can look very different from one another,’ Essie explained. ‘Some are a lot more like their ancestors.’
She was going on what she’d learned from Arthur. When he was collecting his stone tools – back when he first met Lorna – he’d taken every opportunity to seek out local people known to have Aboriginal heritage, in case they knew of possible research sites. When colleagues or students asked – as they sometimes did, while viewing his collection – he would describe them. He liked to say that while many had curly hair and dark olive skin, others were as blonde and blue-eyed as his own daughter.
Carl turned to Essie. ‘Who was it that took you muttonbirding?’
‘Well, it was . . . something to do with my mother’s family.’
‘Was she part Aboriginal, then?’ Carl asked. He used the past tense because Essie had already told him Lorna was dead – not the details; just that one bare fact.
Essie didn’t answer straightaway. It was an ordinary, simple question, yet it made her heartbeat quicken. Then her reply came in a rush.
‘No, she wasn’t. I know that, because I remember when someone once asked her. I was still in primary school. We were at a garden fete and we met a man from the university. He was wearing a navy blazer with gold buttons – I remember him clearly. He knew about my father’s collection of Tasmanian stone tools.’ Essie paused, glancing up at Simon and Carl. ‘It’s what Dad is famous for, in academic circles. Anyway, the man asked if Mum was a Tasmanian. When she said yes, he asked if she had black blood in her veins. He might have been joking, but no one laughed. Mum didn’t say anything. She just stood there. Dad was the one who replied. And he said no. Definitely not.’
As she t
alked Essie kept staring at the picture; she couldn’t take her eyes away.
‘And your mother never said anything different to you, when you were on your own?’ asked Carl. He was choosing his words carefully, Essie could tell – not wanting to be too inquisitive.
‘No. Mum really didn’t speak about Tasmania, or her family, at all. She said we were in England now, and it was important to live in the present . . .’ Essie was talking to herself, she realised, as much as the others. ‘But if she did have Aboriginal blood, somewhere in her family, I can see why she wouldn’t have told anyone – including me. She had enough trouble trying to fit in, without making things any more difficult. The English are very big on breeding, especially in a place like Cambridge . . .’ She smiled grimly. ‘I don’t think Dad would have wanted it to get out, either.’
‘It is a matter of shame?’ Simon looked intrigued. ‘The Hadza are despised by the other tribes – the Maasai, Kikuyu, Wagogo. They do not admire anything we do. Is it the same with these other people?’ He pointed again at the men in the photograph.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ Essie said. Her head was a blur of mismatched thoughts.
‘Your father probably knows the truth,’ Carl said. ‘You could ask him. If it were me, I’d be really keen to know.’ His eyes were bright with interest. ‘I’d want to go and find my relatives. Spend time with them.’
There was a brief quiet, broken only by the racket of the flamingos, travelling across from the lake. Essie shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t want to ask him.’
‘Why not?’ Simon demanded. There was a note of outrage in his voice. Essie could tell he felt a sense of kinship with those faraway people in the muttonbird rookery; it was making him unusually bold.
The Beautiful Mother Page 28
