The Beautiful Mother

by Scholes, Katherine

  ‘I don’t believe he would tell me the truth.’ Essie bit her lip, shocked by the reality of what she’d just said. She handed back the picture. ‘Anyway, my mother was right about living in the present. There’s no point in looking back.’

  Simon raised his eyebrows. ‘But every day you are busy with discovering the past!’

  Essie looked at him in silence; she could think of nothing to say in response. She crossed to Carl and bent to pick up the baby. Mara stirred, letting out a mumble of protest. Essie lifted her against her shoulder, patting her back. She walked a little way off and stood gazing out beyond the boundaries of what had once been Wolfgang Stein’s garden. Her eyes settled on a huge desert rose, its spreading branches dotted with pink blooms. As she absorbed the vivid colour, standing out against the backdrop of bare earth and stone, another scene came into her mind.

  She saw pale rocks patterned with orange lichen – so brightly coloured it looked as if the stone had been daubed with paint. The boulders bordered a beach formed from pure white sand. Turquoise sea washed in over it, breaking on the shore. Essie could feel the water swirling around her feet. White foam settled on her skin. From overhead came the cry of seabirds. They hovered against the crystal-blue sky, suspended like marionette puppets in the wind.

  She felt a shiver of cold. Strong currents pulled at her little girl’s legs.

  There was someone with her. A figure bobbing in the surf – diving like a seal, then rising to break the surface. A hand sweeping hair back from a sun-tanned face. A smile, a wave.

  The picture was clear for a few moments, but then began to fade. As Essie tried to catch it, the memory seeped away like water between stones. Then it was gone.

  She turned back towards the house. Gesturing at the sun, she called across to the others.

  ‘It’s getting late. We should go back.’

  A pillar of thick smoke rose into the air. It seemed to be coming from in front of the Dining Tent. Essie watched it as she pushed the pram across from the parking area. She wasn’t alarmed; she guessed Ian must have asked Baraka to prepare an old-fashioned safari meal for Diana to experience. It was a tradition here at Magadi; visitors liked to imagine they were in a scene from a Hemingway novel, or Karen Blixen’s Out of Africa. It was a bit early to have started a cooking fire, though – the sun was still well above the horizon. Baraka must have wanted to make sure there were plenty of glowing coals to rake over his damper. As these thoughts ran through Essie’s mind, she focused on the smell of smoke, the sight of it rising against the sky. She wanted to forget the unsettling conversation at the Mission house – to wrap it up in her mind like a cocoon of spun silk, the contents hidden away.

  As she neared the tent, she ran her fingers through her hair. Normally she tied it back so it would dry smooth and tidy. Today she’d left it loose and the ends had turned curly. Almost certainly, no one else would notice, but Essie knew it was a telltale clue that her workday had not followed its usual course. She leaned over the pram, peering through the draped mosquito netting to check on Mara. The baby was sometimes unhappy at this time of the day – not hungry or tired, but grizzly. When this happened, Essie tried to keep her away from Ian, Julia and Diana. They didn’t like the intrusion on their peace and quiet. Ian would look at Essie in frustration, as if she was deliberately allowing Mara to misbehave. Now, though, the baby was sound asleep. It had been a big day. Essie watched Mara’s face – wondering if memories of the time at the pool lingered with her, perhaps even finding their way into her dreams.

  Essie rounded the clump of bushes next to the Dining Tent. Julia was sitting out by the fireplace holding a long stick. Something large and flat was lying in front of her, flames licking around its edges. Essie caught her breath as she recognised the vibrant colours of the Ol Doinyo sunset, melting in the heat. And the signature in the corner of the canvas, about to be consumed: Mirella.

  It was too late for Essie to change course. She pushed the pram over to one of the chairs and sat down, pretending everything was normal. Julia ignored her tentative greeting; she was poking the painting further into the fire. The woman’s hair was dishevelled – almost as if she, too, had been swimming. Her bun had half fallen out; loose grey strands hung around her face. Her cheek was smudged with ash and there was a burn on her trouser leg. She was staring grimly into the fire.

  Essie looked around for Ian or Diana. Or even Kefa. But no one was in view. She watched as Julia stabbed the painting with her stick. A blue flame leapt through a jagged hole.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Essie asked carefully. It was a rhetorical question – the answer was being played out in front of her. But it was all she could think of to say. She noticed a crystal tumbler at Julia’s feet, and an empty whisky bottle lying on its side nearby.

  Julia didn’t answer. She just pushed the canvas further into the flames. A portion of another painting was revealed, lying underneath it. And there was something else there, too. Essie recognised the distinctive black-and-yellow borders of a National Geographic magazine. Her jaw dropped. It was the one with William’s photograph on the front. Only fragments of his face remained – an eye, a cheek, one thick brow and just the wristband of the famous Rolex.

  Essie stared in astonishment. Could Julia have brought the magazine out here by mistake, and somehow it had ended up in the fire?

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked again.

  The air was full of the crackle of flaming cloth and the fragrant smell of burning oil paints. Julia was nodding to herself as if listening to an inner voice. Eventually she looked up at Essie.

  ‘Monogamy is not normal among mammals, you know. It’s a huge disadvantage in evolutionary terms.’ Her tone was conversational; she might have been embarking on an impromptu after-supper lecture – except that this particular topic was not exactly in her field. ‘Swapping partners is good for the gene pool. Number one: it increases diversity, raising the chances of useful mutations, thus enabling evolution. Number two . . .’ She was counting the points off on her fingers. ‘It increases the rate of offspring survival. The passing on of genes, as we know, is the whole purpose of life. That is why so many traditional societies allow people to have multiple partners.’ Julia smiled brightly. ‘As, of course, do we.’

  Essie pressed her lips together. She had been in this position too many times before: dealing with someone whose behaviour made no sense.

  ‘Where is Ian?’ she asked.

  Julia nodded in the direction of the Palace. ‘Having a meeting.’

  Essie turned towards the orange tent. Through one of the plastic windows she could see the outline of two figures. Ian and Diana were standing close together, almost touching at the hips. Essie looked across to her mother-in-law. Julia’s eyebrows were raised, her head tilted suggestively to one side. Essie’s lips parted. Was Julia suggesting that something inappropriate was going on between her son and Diana?

  Essie pushed away a lock of hair that hung over her eyes, her finger snagging on a tangled curl. For an instant, she was caught up in the insinuation. Then she shook her head. She, of all people, should understand that Ian and Diana were working as a team at the moment – and that jealousy would be a misplaced emotion. She was, herself, making regular visits to the home of Carl Bergmann. (She hadn’t mentioned this fact to Ian or Julia, but told herself they’d approve. After all, Ian had said he was glad of the potentially useful connection with the photographer.) Essie was working alone with Simon, too, for that matter.

  She looked back to the tent. It was very possible that the reason Ian was over there now with Diana was that he didn’t want the visitor to see the spectacle Julia was making of herself. Having a mother who behaved bizarrely was part of Essie’s family story – not his. Still, Essie felt a sense of unease. From the very beginning – when Frank had arranged sundowners at the Steps – Diana Marlow had gravitated towards Ian. She’d even told Essie how lucky she was to be married to a man like him. But there was nothing unusual about women payin
g attention to Ian Lawrence. Essie knew that Julia would have been used to seeing William at the centre of attention, too. Ian had inherited his role from his father. Apparently he’d also adopted one of William’s most effective mannerisms – the one where he looked down at the ground or the tabletop as he talked; when he was about to deliver his major point he suddenly lifted his eyes, fixing his audience with an intense gaze. The effect was mesmerising. Onlookers felt deeply privileged to be present. The Lawrence men knew how to be perfect hosts, as well as effective teachers. Julia’s husband would have fended off the advances of admiring women, just as Ian had done in the days when the camp was awash with visitors. Ian and William were the patriarchs of Magadi. All the academics, students, volunteers – whether male or female – were like their children. Nothing more.

  Except that Julia was, right now, burning Mirella’s paintings. Essie recalled the ruined drawings in the storeroom – the suppressed rage suggested by the deep lines scored in the paper. Then, there was the primatologist, Alice Jones. Julia’s resentment of her was clear. Perhaps it was nothing to do with the naming of the korongo, or the dirty orphan bonobos, or the woeful manners. Maybe both of these women had had affairs with William . . .

  Essie stared into the fire. Julia had always spoken with such admiration of her husband. When she brushed the dust off the memorial plaque down at the Steps, she wore such a tender look on her face. Julia must have loved William. Presumably he had loved her. Perhaps a deal had been struck between them – but one that only part of Julia had truly been able to accept. Essie reined in her speculation. She was only guessing at the truth . . .

  She turned her thoughts back to her own husband, and Diana. She checked the orange tent once more. As she watched, the two figures moved back from the window, disappearing into the shadows.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be over soon,’ Essie said. ‘They have to eat.’

  Julia just looked at her. ‘A man has his needs. They have to be met. We know that.’ She let out a short, mirthless laugh. Then she shook her head. ‘It used to be different. Before we lost Robbie. I know it was my fault. But I couldn’t help it.’ Her voice was strained, half strangled in her throat. ‘I had nothing to give, to anyone. I was hardly alive.’ A moan escaped her lips. ‘I didn’t survive. They said I would, but I didn’t.’

  Essie cast desperate glances around her. Whether the whisky was playing a part in all this or not, she didn’t want to be the one to deal with Julia’s distress. On the other hand, she wasn’t keen to just walk into the Palace, interrupting Diana and Ian. She turned instead towards the kitchen. The cook had known the Lawrences for decades – he might know how to respond . . .

  ‘I’m going to find Baraka.’ She spoke in a low, steady voice as if she were a nurse from Fulbourn, or one of the well-trained nannies described in Complete Babycare.

  After checking that Mara was still asleep, and that the net was correctly draped to keep out insects, Essie hurried over to the kitchen. Inside, the air was misty with steam rising from two pots bubbling on the stove. A knife lay on a large chopping board. Potato starch, drying into smears of white, covered the blade. Baraka must have been here only a short time ago, cutting up vegetables, but now the place was empty.

  Essie rushed to the staff camp, interrupting an argument between two workers in order to ask where she could find the cook. She waited impatiently for an answer. Someone was sent off to talk to someone else. Eventually she learned that Baraka was ‘searching for bush medicine’ – a euphemism for using the lavatory.

  Back in the kitchen, Essie surveyed the shelves. If nothing else, providing Julia with some food to go with the alcohol seemed a good idea. She grabbed a box of water crackers. Beside it was a tin of smoked mussels – probably part of Baraka’s plan for hors d’oeuvres. She took a banana from a long stalk trailing from a hook on the wall.

  Balancing all the items on a plate, Essie walked back towards the fireplace. Ahead, the plume rising from the fire had thickened. The large painting must be fully alight. As the oil paints burned, the smoke turned pink, green, yellow. Clouds of colour rose and dispersed, as if the spirit of the artwork was being released into the air.

  Reaching the fireplace, Essie saw that Julia’s chair was vacant. She felt a wash of relief. Putting down the food, she crossed to the pram. As she lifted the net, she froze in alarm. Mara was not there.

  Essie spun round, searching for Julia. She had to have taken the baby – even though she’d never come close to picking her up before and had avoided even being near her. Essie strode into the Dining Tent, scanning the vacant space. Then she jogged across to the Work Hut. Her heart pounded. She told herself not to be alarmed. Julia had drunk too much whisky. The alcohol had caused pent-up emotions to spin out of control. But that didn’t mean she’d suddenly transformed into someone dangerous. Yet in just a few seconds – less than a minute – a myriad frightening scenarios raced through Essie’s mind.

  Then she saw the silhouette of a tall, still figure standing at the edge of the camp. Julia was staring into the lowering sun, her face half turned against the glare. She held Mara in her arms.

  Essie moved slowly up to her as if approaching a wild animal. When she was close, she leaned around to see her face. Julia was gazing down at the baby. One finger, knobbly with arthritis, touched her plump cheek. Mara stirred, then started whimpering. Julia lifted her to her chest, jogging her gently. Mara must have sensed that she was in the arms of a stranger. She began wailing. It was her fearful cry – the one that sounded like the keening of a bird.

  ‘Shshsh. It’s all right. Don’t cry.’ There was a pleading note in Julia’s voice. ‘Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.’

  Julia repeated the words as if chanting a spell. Gradually, Mara quietened. But when Julia turned to Essie, her own eyes were brimming with tears. Her expression was bleak. She was like a prisoner who has long given up hope of release.

  ‘She woke up,’ Julia said. She handed over the baby, expertly supporting the heavy head with her fingers, and gathering in the arms and legs. The gestures looked automatic, as if her hands still remembered their old skills. When Mara was settled in Essie’s arms, Julia turned and walked away.

  Essie stared into the fire while she held the bottle for Mara to drink. The sunset painting was burned almost to ash. Baraka had removed the whisky bottle and glass. At the same time he’d retrieved the singed spine, which was virtually all that remained of the precious magazine. He had maintained an impassive expression while doing this – if he knew any more than Essie about the meaning of what had happened here, he gave nothing away.

  He’d returned to the kitchen now. Essie was trying to decide whether to go to Julia’s tent herself and check that she was there, or to summon Ian from the Palace to do it. Either way, she had to finish feeding Mara first; the screams of a hungry baby would only strain tensions even further.

  The bottle was almost empty when Essie looked up to see Ian approaching. He smoothed back his hair with one hand as he walked. When he reached the fireside he stood still, his eyes widening as he took in the bits of burned canvas; the unusual smell; the fragments of the National Geographic. He glanced back over his shoulder. Essie guessed he was trying to work out how to conceal from Diana that something inexplicable had occurred. But it was too late. The woman was already approaching. When she reached the fireside she poked at the ashes with the toe of her boot.

  Ian turned to Essie. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. He looked from her to Mara as if he thought the answer to his question could somehow be linked with the Hadza baby.

  ‘Julia burned Mirella’s paintings. And the magazine with William on the cover.’

  As she spoke, Essie watched Ian’s expression. The date on the paintings was 1955. That meant he would have been twenty-four when Mirella was here at Magadi. He’d finished his degree and returned home. It was quite possible he’d known there was something going on between the artist and his father. Yet Ian liked to portray a picture
of his parents as having a perfect marriage. It was the image held by the public: William and Julia Lawrence were the golden couple of archaeology; they’d survived a terrible tragedy, and yet, supporting one another, they had continued their important work. If Ian had known for years that his father was unfaithful, and that the betrayal was a source of anguish for his mother, then he had kept the facts well hidden.

  But as Essie scanned Ian’s face she could see that he was confused – and then, as his thoughts raced on, deeply shocked. He screwed up his eyes as if tasting a bitter brew. She saw him reject the idea of his father’s infidelity, spitting it out like something bad.

  ‘Julia said the paintings should be taken down. She’s tired of them.’ Ian turned to Diana. ‘That’s what she said, the other night . . .’

  Diana lit a cigarette, narrowing her gaze as she blew out a stream of smoke. ‘She didn’t think much of the painter, either.’

  There was a dense quiet, heightened by raucous laughter over in the staff camp.

  ‘I think you should go to Julia’s tent.’ Essie gave Ian a meaningful look. ‘She’s . . . not herself.’

  In his eyes she saw a flicker of what looked like fear. It only showed for a second, then he was ushering Diana to a seat. ‘She’s been working too hard. Overdoing it. She probably just wants to be left alone. I’ll send Baraka over with some supper.’

  Ian, Diana and Essie ate their own meal quickly, with barely any conversation. The smell of burning paint floated like a pall in the air. Mara must have picked up on the mood of the adults. She’d been placed on her baboon pelt with some toys but wouldn’t settle. Ian kept throwing irritated looks in her direction. Before long, Essie decided to leave the table.

  It was only later in the evening, when Ian joined her in their tent, that it became clear where her husband’s emotions had led him. He said nothing at first – just sat on the end of the bed untying his shoelaces. Then he drew in a breath, letting it out with a loud sigh.