The Beautiful Mother

by Katherine Scholes

  Julia raised her eyebrows. Magadi ran on a strict schedule. The local staff as well as the Lawrences worked every day except Sundays. Even during the rainy season, the teams achieved whatever they could.

  ‘There’s a lot to do.’ Ian swung one arm, taking in their immediate surroundings, and then gestured towards the open doorway with its view to the rest of the camp.

  Essie scanned the tent, her gaze passing over the sideboard with the gramophone player; the neat stacks of books, their dust jackets faded in the harsh sun; the Persian carpet that was well worn but swept clean. Kefa worked hard to keep the place presentable. The effort he put into polishing silver, waxing furniture and laundering linen sometimes felt to Essie like a reproach to the Lawrences with their shrinking resources. Even though his official title was ‘houseboy’, the man was in his sixties. He had been employed by the family, on and off, ever since Julia and her husband, William, first came here, nearly forty years ago. Kefa liked to place on the top of the magazine pile an old National Geographic from 1956 with William on the cover, standing proudly at the Steps. The photograph was taken only four years before his death. The magazine had come to symbolise everything the man had achieved. It had to be dusted daily to maintain the glossy shine.

  ‘The place isn’t too bad,’ Essie ventured.

  ‘It has to look busier,’ Ian explained. ‘We need to get things out of the store. Fossil eggs. The giraffe skull. Snake skins. Anything interesting. And I want a few of the guest tents erected, nets hung and beds made up, in case we end up giving a tour. We want it to appear as if they’ve caught us in a slow moment, but we’re expecting company.’ Ian paced back and forth, making small detours to avoid Tommy, who kept standing in his path.

  Essie smiled at her husband. He looked more wide-awake and alive than she’d seen him in years. Then she felt a twist of anxiety. Was he getting carried away? What if Frank Marlow and his wife came here to enjoy their romantic interlude, and then just flew away, never to be heard from again?

  On the other side of the table Julia had turned around to peer at a map of Magadi that was pinned on a noticeboard. A grid had been drawn in red pen, dividing the Gorge, and the smaller gullies – called korongos in Swahili – into zones.

  ‘We could begin work somewhere completely new,’ she said. For someone so practical, she seemed to be getting ahead of herself too.

  Ian nodded, following her gaze. ‘A fresh start.’

  With Tommy dogging his steps, Ian came back to the table. He stood behind Essie, placing his hands on her shoulders. His thumb rested on her neck. The touch sent a warm current through her body. She leaned back against him, feeling the hard mould of his muscles through his shirt. Perhaps their luck really was about to change. There would be more times like this – carefree and bright. Suddenly, Tommy’s bony head butted in from the side. Sitting up straight, she pushed him away. She glanced across to Julia, waiting for a critical look.

  But the other woman hadn’t been watching. She was staring out towards the volcano. The flush of excitement had vanished from her face, but her usual calm expression had not returned. In her eyes was a look of fierce longing. The lines around her mouth and across her brow were drawn tight as if she was in pain. Essie felt uncomfortable, looking on. It was as though Julia’s mask had been torn away.

  The emotion was too raw to be connected with the Lawrences’ quest to solve the puzzle of the human family tree. Essie guessed Julia was thinking about something that was even closer to her heart: the child she had lost.

  Ian’s little brother, Robbie, had gone missing when he was only four years old. Julia had been doing fieldwork over in the foothills of the mountain. The two boys were playing near her when they’d wandered off and become lost. Their absence had not been noticed for some time, with Julia and her assistant both focused on their work. After a frantic search Ian was located, but he’d become separated from his brother. No sign of Robbie had ever been found. It had taken months after Essie became close to Ian for him to talk about the tragedy. Even then the story had come out in small painful pieces, not all of which made sense. Julia kept up a wall of silence on the topic, as if it gave her a place to hide. The Africans in the camp hardly ever talked about Robbie. If they did, they never used his name. He was mtoto wa siri. The hidden child. Visitors to Magadi understood not to mention the lost boy, even though the case was well known; the fruitless search had been covered in newspapers, here in Tanzania and abroad. More than thirty years had passed since Robbie’s disappearance, yet his presence – absence – still haunted Magadi Gorge, like the echo of a cry that had never been heard.

  Essie understood why Julia would be thinking of Robbie now. Perhaps Ian was too. A grant from the Marlow Trust would mean the Lawrences could continue to live and work here. But if this bid failed, they might well have to leave, cutting off their last link with Robbie. It would also be the end of an extraordinary era. The Lawrences had been researching in the Gorge since the 1930s – during the dry season only, at first; then full-time. After the interruption of the Second World War they’d returned here again. Where the Marlows’ visit was concerned, the stakes were high.

  As if aware of being observed, Julia turned around. As she did so, Essie saw her take possession of herself again. Feature by feature, like an artist correcting a faulty painting, she rearranged her face. When she spoke, her voice was almost bright.

  ‘Where shall we begin?’

  Ian went to sit next to Julia. Frowning with concentration, he ran one hand back through his hair, leaving it standing up in dark tufts. He looked across the table. Caught in the brightening sunlight, his eyes were a piercing blue. ‘I’ll start with the landing strip. You two deal with things here.’

  Julia watched her son intently as he spoke. It seemed to complete her recovery. Essie saw a look of renewed excitement pass between the two. She presumed they were thinking of the days when Magadi Camp was at its peak – when William was alive, with Julia working at his side, and Ian a young graduate already making his own name in their field. At that time, Essie was still a schoolgirl in England, looking forward to university. The thought made her feel like a newcomer all over again. Though it was childish, she wanted to push her way in, like Tommy. She gazed down once more at the dogs under the table. Rudie had moved closer to her chair. Essie watched his spotted chest rising and falling. He’d already begun to pant, his long pink tongue draping onto the worn threads of the rug. The day was fast warming up. A first trickle of sweat moved slowly down her back.

  Essie tied up the mosquito net neatly and straightened the pillows. She smoothed the sheets and tucked them in – Ian slept badly and his tossing and turning always left the bed rumpled by morning. Next, she picked up items of clothing and dropped them in the laundry basket. She could have let Kefa deal with the tent, but she still felt it was an invasion of her and Ian’s privacy having him do this, regardless of what Julia thought.

  Essie had already spent several hours in the Work Hut this morning, helping Julia rearrange the tables and lay out collections of specimens – careful not to separate items that belonged together or to dislodge anything that was in the process of being assembled. Julia was now preparing a ‘typical day’s find’ on a tray. Frank Marlow was very knowledgeable about archaeology, but Julia pointed out that his wife might be completely ignorant, for all they knew. She might be completely uninterested too, Essie thought. But she didn’t say this – Julia would find it hard to imagine that anyone could fail to be fascinated by the topic.

  Ian was down on the plains, supervising the clearing of bushes that had grown up on the landing strip. The place hadn’t been used in years. The Lawrences could no longer afford to fly supplies in to Magadi. Instead they radioed their orders to Arusha and the items were sent to Olduvai Camp on one of the Leakey’s regular chartered flights. From there, they were collected by Land Rover. None of the Lawrences took part in the pickups. Their friendship with the Leakeys – which had led to the gift of the two Dalmatia
n puppies some years ago – had been neglected. Ian pretended the Lawrences were too busy to make the trip to Olduvai, but Essie knew he found the contrast between the camps too humiliating.

  After kicking a pair of old sandals out of sight under the bed, Essie crossed to the cupboard. She took out Ian’s cream linen suit and his matching shirt. A faint smell of mould clung to them, but she could see no sign of any green-black blemishes. She hung the garments up to air from one of the tent cross-poles, then she took down her suitcase and laid it on the sisal matting. After working open the corroded locks, she lifted the lid. The smell of musty wool and lavender rose up. She stroked her grey jumper with its coloured band of Fair Isle knitting – the one she’d worn since she was a teenager, out collecting with her father. A wave of longing washed over her.

  The two had spent so much time together, especially once the family moved from Tasmania to England. Essie had been seven at the time. At first, Arthur had had no choice but to take his young daughter with him on field trips when her mother wasn’t well, or if Essie didn’t want to spend the day shopping. There was no one else to look after her. But soon the pair had become a team. They were able to communicate without words, one passing over a tool the other needed, or lending a second pair of hands. They even liked the same cheese-and-tomato sandwiches for their picnics. Essie wished she could make a visit home. Or just talk to Arthur on the phone. He was not in good health and she worried about him, living by himself, relying on a part-time housekeeper for support. He wanted Essie to be here at Magadi – he was proud that she’d married into the Lawrence family and was pursuing her career in Tanzania – but she knew he was lonely without her company. Corresponding by mail was frustrating; the time between sending and receiving was so long that news was always out of date. (Reports on world events were slow to filter through, as well; last year, when Neil Armstrong became the first person to set foot on the moon, the Lawrences didn’t know about it for months.) Even if the postal service had been more efficient, letters were still a poor replacement for being able to see someone and hug them or even just hear their voice.

  Reaching into the corner of the case, Essie’s hand hovered over the bundle of orange silk. Letting herself give in to the lure of memories, she closed her eyes. She was back in the kitchen at home, going through her packing list. Her father was nodding as she read out each item. There was a look of anticipation on his face as if he was the one who would be travelling. The next item on the list was the formal dress.

  ‘You don’t need to buy a new one,’ Arthur said. ‘Heaven knows there are enough to choose from here.’ A wry smile offset the bitter edge to his voice. ‘Come on.’

  Essie followed him into the guest room at the end of the hallway. She avoided looking in the direction of the bed – it was too smooth, with just a satin coverlet on the bare mattress. Her eyes skimmed past an empty dressing table balled with dust.

  Arthur walked stiffly beside her, crossing to a huge antique wardrobe. It seemed to be crouched there, set on bulbous carved wooden legs that ended in lion’s feet. Both doors creaked faintly as he opened them, letting out the smell of new fabric and cardboard shopping bags.

  Essie took in the array of dresses – bright cotton prints, pastel chiffons, midnight-blue satin, black lace. It was a jumbled collection revealing no sense of one person’s taste, as if Essie’s mother had been hunting desperately to find her own style. Most of the garments looked as though they’d barely been used. Some even had their shop labels still attached. Essie scanned the options quickly, choosing by colour and length. She took out an orange silk dress.

  ‘I’ll take this,’ she said to Arthur. ‘It’ll fold up to nothing.’

  It was one of the new gowns – unworn but for the brief touch of skin on fabric in the changing room at Harrods.

  Arthur checked the label. ‘Made in France. Fifty-five pounds.’ He shook his head helplessly. ‘I remember when your mother bought this. It was for a faculty Christmas dinner. When the time came around, of course, I went on my own.’

  ‘At least it’ll go to some use now,’ Essie said, managing a bright voice.

  She hadn’t thought, then, that it would be another five years before she had any need for the gown. Luckily, she hadn’t changed size. The spare weight she’d once carried had simply turned into muscle.

  She held up the dress, shaking it out. The skirt billowed, then fell into soft folds. Here in the tent, far from that room in Cambridge, it seemed to have been set free to become beautiful. Even the dim, green-tinged light of the tent could not dull the glowing orange. When Essie hung it up beside Ian’s suit she could imagine how they would both look, all dressed up. She pictured them standing near the Steps, chatting and laughing with their guests. The thought brought a smile to her lips. But then she reminded herself how important the occasion was. How wealthy the Marlows were. How hard it would be to ensure she didn’t make the wrong remark at the wrong time, while avoiding being a bore by saying nothing at all.

  Essie now wished she could leave the sundowner party to Julia and Ian. Perhaps she could make some kind of excuse – pretend to be unwell. After all, she knew how that was done; for a good part of her life she’d watched the performance played out over and over again. She knew every small detail. How a footstep became heavy and slow. A chair was dragged, not lifted. Then came the crackle of an aspirin packet. Deep breaths that didn’t seem to help. A quick lie down in a dimmed bedroom. A headache that grew worse, not better . . .

  But Essie was never ill. She never complained or avoided hard tasks. That was why she was good at fieldwork, and why she’d fitted in so well with the Lawrences here at Magadi Gorge. She lifted her head. This was no time to lose her nerve. Crossing to a chest of drawers, she removed a black silk purse. Unzipping the top, she took out a lipstick and mascara, an eye shadow and a powder compact in a tarnished gold case. She carried them over to where a mirror was propped up on an old tea chest, forming a makeshift dressing table. There she laid the items out like instruments ready for surgery. The lipstick, she knew, had broken off; the top was stuck inside the lid. The powder cake had fractured into small pieces. The mascara was half dried out. It would be wise to have a practice run.

  She wiped the sweat from her face and smoothed back her hair. Then she rubbed the broken stub of the lipstick over her lips, painting them a deep orange red. She paused to pick off a few dried clumps. She went on to shade her eyelids, darken her lashes and powder her nose and forehead. When she was done, she stared at her reflection. She used to wear make-up for parties when she was at university. But that seemed so long ago – and in such a different world. Standing here in the tent, Essie’s face was side-lit, accentuating her features. Her cheekbones appeared more striking, her eyes deeply set. Her sun-bleached hair looked almost white. The make-up added to the effect. The person facing her was like a stranger. Ian and Julia would barely recognise her. Whether that was a good or bad thing, she could not decide.

  Essie hung back, letting Ian approach the pool. It was late in the day, but the sun was still hot on her shoulders; the mud beneath her feet felt warm. Reeds tickled her bare calves and a fly buzzed around her head. She eyed the water longingly. Her face had been washed recently – she’d returned to the tent twice during the afternoon to make sure every trace of the make-up was gone – but the rest of her was sticky with sweat.

  The pool was one of a whole chain of spring-fed waterholes on the plains below Ol Doinyo Lengai. They looked like miniature versions of the vast Lake Magadi. Some were hot, or so caustic with salt that even a splash on your skin would burn. Others were tepid and brackish. A few were fresh and cold. It all depended on the source of the water.

  The Lawrences called their favourite pool the Swimming Bath. It was deep and wide and fringed with soft reeds. The water was a perfect temperature, with no hint of salt. It was an ideal place for a swim – just as long as you knew how to make sure it was safe.

  One of the hazards of living close to an active vol
cano was that carbon dioxide sometimes bubbled up from the ponds. Heavier than oxygen, the odourless, colourless gas accumulated just above water level – right where a swimmer drew their breath. As they took in the oxygen-free air, they would become confused; instead of escaping they stayed where they were and suffocated. The edges of ponds where the gas erupted frequently were strewn with bleached animal bones. Plants growing nearby were sickly yellow or dead. The Africans described such ponds as mahali pa hewa mbaya – places of bad air.

  It was rare to detect a cloud of gas at the Swimming Bath. In five years of coming here Essie had never seen it happen. But one of the graves at the edge of the camp – simply marked with the name of William’s favourite dog, Badger – proved that it was possible. Badger had decided to take a nap in a sheltered hollow not far from where Essie stood, and had never moved again.

  Essie watched Ian flick open the top of a silver cigarette lighter, producing a small blue-yellow flame. Bending down, he moved the lighter across the surface of the pool. Essie followed the action, wondering if this would be the day that the tiny light would dwindle and die. But as usual it burned steady and bright.

  Ian snapped shut the lighter and tossed it back onto his towel. Even that small movement seemed to contain more energy than usual. Essie knew he was happy with all that had been achieved today. It was he who had suggested they go for a swim, rather than just wash at the camp.

  Coming here to the Swimming Bath gave her and Ian some precious time on their own. Julia preferred to visit a small spring closer to the camp if she wanted a dip. Essie didn’t know if she kept her distance in order to give her son and his wife some privacy, or if she felt uncomfortable being at close quarters when they were all half-undressed. It had been different back when there were other Europeans at the camp, two years ago. Julia had happily joined the groups of visitors and volunteers that came here. But ever since the three Lawrences had found themselves alone, aside from the African staff, every dynamic between them had become more intense.