The Beautiful Mother

by Katherine Scholes

  The baby finished drinking and let her hand drop from the bottle. Essie looked down at her, but only for a moment. The wide trusting eyes made her indecision feel treacherous. She stared blankly across the room. She remembered how the baby’s grandfather, Nandamara, had pleaded for help. She saw the depths of love and fear in his hazy old eyes, opposites twined together, like an impossible blend of light and dark that did not blur into grey. How could she contemplate letting him down? But then another thought came to her, with a stroke of clarity. Perhaps she needed to protect Nandamara from his own weakness, just as Ian intended to protect her. If the Hadza tribesman really understood the world of Europeans, he wouldn’t be afraid to let his granddaughter go away to Arusha. He’d welcome the chance for her to be placed in the expert care of St Joseph’s.

  Essie turned towards Simon. ‘Ask Kefa to bring a kettle of hot water and a laundry tub. I also need soap and another towel if he can find one.’

  ‘You going to wash this baby.’ Simon’s words were somewhere between a statement and a question.

  Essie avoided his gaze. ‘I want her to make a good impression.’

  Kneeling on the mat next to the tub, Essie tested the water with the tender skin on the underside of her forearm.

  ‘That feels about right,’ she told Simon, who was holding a steaming kettle. ‘Warm but not too hot.’

  On the floor beside her the baby was kicking her legs, clearly glad to be free of the nappy. Her hands moved in time with her feet, as if connected by invisible strings. Essie shared a smile with Simon – she looked like a little beetle lying on its back. She still wore the string of beads. Essie hadn’t liked to remove it – perhaps Nandamara’s daughter had put it there, in the short time she had shared with her baby before she died. Anyway, the ends of the strand were knotted tightly – clearly not intended to be untied until the necklace became too small.

  The baby gave off the smell of fresh urine, like the sodden towel Essie had tossed into the tin. Apart from that, she was pretty clean – with each nappy change Essie had wiped her bottom with a wet cloth. On closer examination, though, there was a faintly dusty look to her skin. There were also smears of something oily on one leg. Giga obviously hadn’t given her a proper bath recently. Perhaps this was because there were no pools of water near the Painted Cave. It was also quite possible that the Hadza simply didn’t see the need for constant washing.

  Regardless of what suited them, Essie was determined for this baby to be as spotless as possible. She couldn’t forget Baraka saying that the Hadza were despised by everyone. She hated to think that the baby might be shunned by the African staff at St Joseph’s. Perhaps they wouldn’t pick her up if she cried. They might not want to carry her around. The Europeans would not neglect her, but they might see her as a curiosity. The baby might be made into a talking point: a specimen of a rare breed put on display, like an exotic animal in a zoo.

  This made Essie feel even more uneasy. She knew the anthropologists who’d come to Magadi over the years were interested in the Hadza because they saw them as being the most primitive people alive who still had intact traditional societies. They compared them only with the Khoisan in South Africa, who shared the unique manner of talking using click consonants. Essie felt their fascination herself; she knew Ian and Julia did, too. But it could lead into dangerous territory. There had been researchers, over time, who supported the idea that Africa was the likely birthplace of humanity but believed that black people had remained primitive – their development stalled – while others had evolved into superior races. Not surprisingly this kind of thinking – the field of eugenics – had fallen out of favour after the horrors of the Holocaust. But Essie was all too aware that preoccupation with the physical characteristics of different peoples lingered in the field of anthropology. In museums and universities across the world academics still studied human skulls and other bones, many of which had been stolen from graves or mortuaries. The remains came from places as far afield as Namibia and Java; and, of course, Tasmania, which was seen as the home of possibly the most isolated humans ever to have lived. Brain cavities were filled with gunshot, the contents weighed for comparison with other samples. Bones were measured. Researchers looked for links between anatomy and the other things that defined people – technology, culture, belief systems, art.

  It wasn’t all about science. In the minds of some researchers – and ordinary travellers as well – there was a romantic reverence for the noble savage: a belief that something desirable, that had become lost in the modern world, could be seen in tribes like the Hadza. But even this approach risked a negative outcome. Humans could still become specimens, rather than being real individuals.

  As all these thoughts ran through Essie’s mind, she began to wonder if there was some way the baby’s status as a Hadza could be concealed. Perhaps they could say she was just an African baby, her origins unknown. Or they could give her a misleading tribal name. But even if the Lawrences were prepared to be dishonest, it was doubtful the ploy would work.

  Essie grasped the infant under the arms, fingers extended behind her neck to support the weight of the head. She lifted her up until the legs were dangling, then lowered her into the water. As the warmth lapped her skin, the baby opened her eyes wide in surprise. Her dark irises, starkly outlined by white, stood out in the soft light of the tent.

  ‘Isn’t that nice?’ Essie murmured encouragingly.

  Uncertainty travelled from the eyes to the lips, which began to pucker. As the emotion spread, the little hands grasped at the air. Essie glanced across to Simon.

  He said something in Hadza, soft clicks accompanying gentle vowels. The baby turned towards the sound. She relaxed in Essie’s hands, her limbs drifting in the water. Then she began to kick her legs, just as she’d been doing on the floor. As splashes flew, spattering her face, she looked shocked. Then she smiled, her tongue pushing forward, pink between her dark lips. She kicked again, and then lay completely still, absorbing the effect. A chuckle rose from her throat. Essie looked up at Simon. The sound seemed oddly adult and surprisingly loud. The cycle continued, one action triggering the next – kick, splash, pause, chuckle. Soon Essie and Simon were laughing too.

  ‘Isn’t she a bit young to be showing off?’ Essie grinned, water dripping from her hair.

  ‘African children grow up quickly,’ Simon stated.

  Essie nodded. She’d seen Maasai offspring running around when they looked barely old enough to stand up. Very small boys drove goats all day by themselves.

  Eventually the bath began to cool. Essie rubbed soap over the baby’s skin, lathering away all traces of dirt. It wasn’t easy to keep track of the soap; it was just a sliver. The Lawrences ordered supplies of blue-and-white marbled soap from a factory up on Lake Tanganyika. It came in substantial slabs that you broke into hunks, but it was a long time since a fresh bar had been seen at Magadi. The fragment Essie was using had lost its perfume, letting the unpleasant smell of lye come through. The aroma would cling to the baby’s skin, but at least it would indicate that she was clean.

  As a last task, Essie carefully submerged the back of the baby’s head, then scooped water up until all the hair was wet. She rubbed her hands through the downy fuzz to clean the scalp. As she did so she felt the shape of the skull beneath the skin. The posterior fontanel was almost completely closed up; the anterior fontanel, located nearer the forehead, was still coming together – it wouldn’t be fully fused until the little girl was about two. The slight dip, and the softness in the area of the open fontanel, made the baby seem frighteningly vulnerable; there was nothing but a thin covering of hair, skin and flesh to shield her brain.

  Essie couldn’t help picturing how the skull would look, with fine cracks marking the plates, and ragged holes where they were yet to be joined up. Most archaeologists studied anatomy, but Essie had paid particular attention to the subject; at university she’d even joined the trainee doctors in their classes. To carry out fieldwork, researchers
needed a sound knowledge of the human body (and of animals, birds, fish, insects – even molluscs, for that matter). They required a grasp of botany as well. How else would they be able to identify a shard of fossilised bone, or the imprint on rock of a particular lichen? Additional advice from specialists was often sought; that was one of the reasons – along with storage, preservation and display – that fossils were sent away from Magadi. But the researcher in the field had to make the first judgement about what was unearthed. Essie had honed her knowledge over the years. If she ever had the good fortune to come across a career-making fossil, she wanted to recognise it straightaway.

  Essie carried the baby across to the bed and laid her on a towel. She stood still, looking down at the miniature limbs, torso, head, feet and hands. Knowledge could be used to the wrong end, as the Nazis showed. But that didn’t mean facts about Hadza physiology might not still be valuable. Medical research, for one, benefitted from such information. She was tempted to take measurements of key bones and the cranial circumference. And to make notes on the presence or absence, at this early age, of the receding forehead, the rounded jawbone, and other known hallmarks of these unique people. Fate had delivered her a rare opportunity to examine a Hadza infant. There might even be enough data to write up a short paper.

  As Essie stood there, gazing down, the legs began kicking again. A look of puzzlement crossed the baby’s face.

  ‘The water’s gone,’ Essie said. She raised her eyebrows as though she, too, was surprised at its disappearance. ‘All gone. Bye-bye.’ She glanced across to Simon, hoping he hadn’t heard her talking in a silly singsong voice. Luckily, he seemed preoccupied retying his bootlaces.

  Carefully she dabbed the baby with the towel, making sure every fold of skin was dry. The infant eyed her solemnly. Essie found herself captured by the stare. It was so intense and focused it drew her own gaze like a magnet. Essie couldn’t remember her attention being so completely caught like this – unless it was when she’d first fallen in love with Ian. The baby was so young, yet Essie sensed that she knew, somehow, that her situation was precarious – that she needed to connect with someone bigger, stronger, for her own survival. It occurred to Essie that perhaps the baby had known this feeling all her life. Giga had done her best, but her first allegiance had always been to her own child. At some deep level this baby understood that the person who was meant to be there, especially for her, was absent.

  The thought brought a pang to Essie’s heart. She understood what it was like to feel vulnerable to the world. How your own skin felt too thin to cover your flesh. How you wanted to press your back to the wall so no air could move behind it. She remembered how she used to hug her own body, skinny arms wrapped across her child’s chest, as if she could keep herself safe. She remembered the ache she felt when she saw mothers kissing their children goodbye at the school gate, while her father dropped her off with a wave. And how, after she got home, she often stood in the hallway staring in the direction of the guest bedroom.

  She saw herself there now – waiting all alone, passing the time watching dust motes dance in the air. From the kitchen came the burbling sound of the radio. Her clothes smelled of the supper prepared by her father: baked beans and fried eggs. No matter where she stood, or where she looked, all her attention was focused on the guest room down the hall where Lorna now slept. Every nerve was like an antenna, pointed in its direction. The room was a vortex, drawing in all the warmth and comfort of the whole house, sealing it away behind a closed door.

  Her father emerged from the kitchen, letting blue fluorescent light into the dimness.

  ‘Don’t bother your mother. She’s having a bad day.’ Behind his weariness was a sharp flint of resentment.

  Essie kicked the wooden wainscot with the heel of her scuffed school shoe. ‘I want to play with her.’

  Play. That was the only word she felt she could use. What she really wanted was to get into bed with her mother, pulling the sheet over their heads so that the air was heavy with the smell of their bodies and breath. She wanted to feel her mother’s skin and bury her face in the tangled mess of her hair.

  Her father sighed, cupping her bony shoulder with his heavy hand. ‘She wants to play with you, too. It won’t always be like this.’

  Essie heard the hopeless tone in his voice.

  It would always be like this . . .

  Wrapping the towel over the baby, Essie lifted her up, holding her against her chest. The cloth moulded itself around the narrow shoulders, the curved spine. Essie rested her cheek on the baby’s head. Skin to skin, she picked up a faint throb, coming through the soft fontanel. Her lips parted in wonder as she realised what it was. The steady pulse of the baby’s beating heart.

  The old Land Rover rattled as it bumped across the trackless ground. It was rarely used these days and was difficult to start. Essie hoped it would at least keep running until she was well out of sight of the camp.

  Grasping the sun-cracked steering wheel, she leaned forward, searching the terrain to find the smoothest path. On the seat beside her lay the baby in her fossil-crate cot. Now and then, Essie had to steady the box with one hand. The baby seemed to enjoy the jolting motion; as soon as Essie had begun driving, she’d fallen asleep. Tommy was sitting awkwardly in the footwell, his nose jammed against the side of the crate. He seemed to prefer being squashed in there to being relegated to the back.

  In the rear-vision mirror Essie watched the camp dwindle in the distance. She could still see Simon standing outside the Dining Tent. Even from here she could detect tension in his upright posture. He’d agreed with Essie’s decision to be absent when lunchtime came. He would probably have preferred to leave along with her, except he feared Ian might see him as her accomplice and dismiss him from his job.

  Reaching a copse of scrubby trees, Essie swung the Land Rover to the right, then drove on until she was safely hidden. Turning off the engine, she climbed out, slowly and quietly, leaving the sleeping baby inside, the door open.

  Tommy skipped around the clearing, stretching his legs. He’d stopped sulking about being locked up in his pen and now just wanted to play. Lowering his head, he butted Essie in the thigh. She pushed him away distractedly. Her stomach heaved, unsettled by hunger as well as tension. Before leaving, she’d focused on preparing two bottles for the baby and had forgotten any breakfast for herself.

  She sat down on a low boulder, resting her head in her hands. When she thought back over the last hour, it was like viewing a horror film. She didn’t want to watch what came next but couldn’t look away.

  She saw herself in the radio room, holding the microphone to her mouth, putting through her call. Someone at St Joseph’s had answered, speaking English with an African accent. The transmission had been patchy, so Essie had kept her statement simple.

  ‘This is Magadi Camp. There is no need for anyone to come today. The baby is staying here. Over.’

  The African woman repeated the message back.

  ‘Please let the pilot know,’ Essie added. ‘Cancel the flight. Thank you.’

  After having her words relayed again, Essie ended the call. She felt guilty about leaving what sounded like a casual message, while being well aware that the missionaries in charge at St Joseph’s would be confused at the very least, and most likely annoyed – even alarmed – at the change of plan.

  Essie went over to the Dining Tent next and found the yellow notepad Ian had left there. The top sheet still bore the imprint of the words he’d written to her this morning. She paused in front of the blank paper, gazing across the table at a smear of blue-black caviar that Kefa must have missed. When she picked up a pen and began to write, she was conscious of Simon watching her. She kept the communication brief – every letter of every word took all her courage to complete.

  The plane is cancelled.

  I am keeping the baby.

  Just until the rains.

  I can’t break the promise I made.

  I’m sorry.


  Essie propped the note up against the saltshaker. She quailed at the prospect of it being read. Even with the apology at the end, the message sounded bold, almost rebellious. But it was too late for second thoughts now.

  She got ready to leave, grabbing the last of the clean towels, the sling and the kitenge cloth. Baraka had already prepared a bottle of milk for her to take, presumably on Simon’s request. As he handed it to her, he gave a faint shake of his head.

  ‘Ukicheka mkwe-mkwe,’ he warned, ‘utapata uchafu katika jicho lako.’ If you laugh at your mother-in-law, you will get dirt in your eye.

  Baraka’s words stayed with Essie as she headed for the parking area at the rear of the camp, with Simon at her side carrying the baby in her makeshift cot. Baraka liked to quote traditional sayings that suited a situation. Had he chosen this one because he thought Julia’s displeasure would be greater than Ian’s? Or was it more that Essie would have fewer cards in her hand when it came to appeasing her? Ian loved Essie, after all. Julia’s relationship with her daughter-in-law was always much more complicated.

  When Ian and Essie had decided to marry, Julia indicated that she was glad her son had found someone who shared his passion for the research at Magadi. Essie had already proved that she knew how to work hard and do without luxuries. Julia, evidently, had been chosen by William to meet the same criteria, when he’d left Africa as a young white Tanganyikan in order to do his degree in England. Essie’s mother-in-law took time to teach her all the things she needed to know in order to operate in this remote location. But beyond this, Julia was largely indifferent to Essie, expressing little emotion towards her – unless you counted the undercurrent of criticism that was always there, waiting to rise to the surface. At first, Essie had been hurt by Julia’s attitude. But she now understood that this was just how Ian’s mother was. She was uncompromising – as tough on herself as she was on others. And she didn’t like to share her feelings. Even with Ian, she was reserved. It was impossible to picture her having cuddled him or his younger brother as babies. Essie felt sure she’d never talked to either of them in a silly voice, or licked her finger in order to wipe dried food from their faces, as Essie had watched other mothers do. Julia would never have been seen running her fingers absently through her boys’ hair when they were little, as if their bodies were an extension of her own.