The Beautiful Mother

by Katherine Scholes

  ‘When I heard I was going to be living in his house I decided to do a bit of research. I was in Holland at the time so I went across to the Mission headquarters in Berlin. They’ve got an archive there.’

  ‘We have copies of all his published articles at Magadi. He only mentions the one cave.’ Essie paused for a moment, wondering if there was anything to be lost by talking openly to Carl Bergmann. She decided to go ahead. After all, they weren’t in competing fields. ‘There’s a Hadza story about a cave with rock art, located somewhere around the base of the volcano. I checked Stein’s maps of the area and there’s nothing marked. But maybe there was something else in the archive . . .’

  Carl shook his head. ‘Not that I saw – and I looked at a lot of documents.’

  ‘There’s a landmark near the cave,’ Essie prompted. ‘It’s like a tower of rock. Probably an erosion stack.’

  ‘Nothing comes to mind, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I found a Maasai who thinks he knows where it is. So that gives me somewhere to start.’ Essie frowned thoughtfully. ‘It’s just odd that Stein didn’t make any note of it.’

  ‘But you know there’s a gap in his story?’ Carl said. ‘Stein suddenly stopped publishing his research.’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘It wasn’t that,’ Carl said. ‘Something happened to him. The people at the archive didn’t want to talk about his private life. He was a failure as a missionary, apparently. He hardly made any converts. They said he lived alone for too long and got too close to the Africans. In the end he went mad. That was how they put it.’

  Essie bit her lip. Went mad. Two words; just one syllable each. Yet they contained a whole story. A nightmare played out over countless agonising episodes, each one leading relentlessly on to the next.

  ‘So,’ Carl concluded, ‘it doesn’t mean anything – the fact that he didn’t write about another cave.’

  Essie nodded; the new information was encouraging. But the story about Stein left her feeling uneasy. She gazed in the direction of the volcano. Shrouded in smoke haze, it seemed almost defiantly mysterious. ‘I’m doing a recce today – just to see what the access is like.’ She gestured to the binoculars hanging over her shoulder. ‘I really should get to work.’

  ‘Me too,’ Carl said.

  But neither of them moved. They just stood there, as if each were waiting for the other to take the first step. Essie could feel the sun cutting through the meagre shade, dabbing patches of heat onto her skin.

  ‘How did you first get interested in birds?’ Essie asked. It was an obvious ploy to extend the conversation: the answer wasn’t likely to be short. She waited to hear a story from his childhood about rescuing fledglings or feeding swans in one of those concrete-edged lakes that were installed in public parks. Or perhaps he was the son of a famous ornithologist.

  ‘I was commissioned to take pictures for an article about short-tailed shearwaters,’ Carl said. ‘That’s where it all began. I filmed them in the Aleutian Islands, in Alaska. They spend half of the year there. Then I went to Tasmania to cover the breeding cycle.’

  ‘I was born there,’ Essie said. It was a surprise to hear the place mentioned in connection with something other than the flint collection, or the amusing confusion over the name being so similar to Tanzania.

  ‘You don’t have an Australian accent,’ Carl commented.

  ‘I guess I did once,’ Essie said. ‘But we left when I was a child.’

  ‘But you know about the shearwaters? The Aboriginal people call them moonbirds. Or muttonbirds?’

  Muttonbirds.

  Essie looked down at the ground. She remembered the red-gold flicker of fire, set against cool white sand. The tickle of downy feathers in her nose, the smell of roasting fat. Her lips and fingers were slick with grease. She chewed dense dark meat that tasted faintly of fish and dropped slender bones around her bare feet.

  ‘I’ve heard of them,’ Essie said vaguely. She pretended to be occupied with Mara. She assumed Carl knew that people ate the species of bird that had inspired his career – the name ‘muttonbird’ was a clue. But she didn’t want to admit to having done it herself. It would probably lead to questions she would not be able to answer. She knew the birds weren’t an everyday food. They were only a part of visits to Lorna’s family on the coast. Essie didn’t have to be warned not to mention eating muttonbirds to the girls at school in Hobart. They’d wrinkle up their noses, like they did the time she’d talked of her grandmother’s rabbit stew. But it was more than just that. Essie knew there was something about eating muttonbirds in particular that was not quite the same as other game. There was almost a secrecy surrounding it. But why this was so, she didn’t know.

  There was another reason, as well, for Essie to remain silent. In her time at the camp she’d witnessed some uneasy conversations – even arguments – between zoologists who studied birds or animals that were a part of the same food chain. The wildebeest man had no love of the lion; the expert on small primates saw chimpanzees in a dim light. When it came to humans who preyed on a beloved species, the tension was even worse.

  ‘I spent a whole year following the shearwater migration.’ Carl continued his story. ‘The birds travel from the Southern Ocean right up to Alaska and back. They fly low over the sea, shearing the water with the tips of their wings. That’s where their name comes from. They mate for life – they only separate if they fail to produce young. Every year they return to the same island, to the very same location. For some reason coming home means a lot to them. When you see the rookery pitted with burrows, you can’t imagine how they find the one that’s theirs.’

  As he talked Essie could see the fascination in his eyes. He hadn’t lost the sense of wonder about his subject – the way he spoke of the shearwaters was fanciful, almost romantic. That was probably what made him a successful photographer. Essie was reminded of the way she used to talk about the Painted Cave when she was first working there. Once she’d persisted with describing the rock art images to a couple from Arusha – detailing picture and motif, one after another – until Ian nudged her under the table.

  Carl broke off, smiling. ‘You shouldn’t have asked. We’ll be here all day.’

  She smiled back. She let her eyes play over him. She noticed where there had been a small rip in his shirt – how it had been repaired by hand. The stitches were neat, but the cotton was not the right colour. She looked away, annoyed with herself. Was she collecting notes on him as if he were some rare species?

  ‘Well, then . . . I really should head off.’ She gestured towards the lake. ‘Good luck out there.’

  ‘Thanks. Same to you,’ Carl replied. ‘Feel free to call in at the house any time – for a cup of tea. Or if you ever need anything.’

  A look flashed between them. The invitation felt charged with meaning, even though Essie knew it was a simple courtesy. Shifting Mara back to her hip, she whistled for Rudie, then turned and walked away.

  Soon, she was back in the Land Rover with Mara tucked into the carrycot, Rudie and Tommy sharing space in the rear. She swung the vehicle into a reverse curve, then drove off, scattering loose stones behind her.

  Essie’s jumbled thoughts matched the erratic movement of the Land Rover as it lurched along the track. She went back over what Carl had said about Wolfgang Stein. The only image she’d seen of the missionary was in an academic journal – a hazy black-and-white photograph of a dour individual in a formal coat and top hat. It was hard to imagine the man becoming ‘too close’ to the Africans – whatever that meant. She thought of him losing his grip on sanity, here at Magadi, far from other Europeans. She saw him roaming through the stone house, muttering to himself, hands wandering aimlessly over furniture, walls, his own body, as if seeking some purchase on reality. The black coat was replaced by a dirty shirt, trailing from grubby trousers. There was a haunted look in his red-rimmed eyes. The smell of disinfectant. Doors slamming. The tormented screams of other inmates. A nurse’s footsteps falling fi
rm, heavy, as if to tread down her own fear . . .

  Essie swallowed hard. She had no reason to think Stein had been locked up in a mental hospital. In her mind, his fate was entangled with that of her mother. Nausea hollowed Essie’s stomach. She saw herself sitting on a hard chair in the ward at Fulbourn Hospital. She’d come there between a hockey game and a visit to the cinema with friends; the place was a harsh intrusion from another world. In front of her lay Lorna, eyes closed, arms lying over the sheet that covered her thin body. She looked so small and frail, like a child more than a mother. Aside from the slight movement of her chest, she could have been dead.

  ‘Mum?’

  Just a flicker of an eyelid.

  ‘It’s me.’

  Nothing.

  Essie felt the familiar fury rising inside her. Reaching out, she touched the woman’s arm. Then, taking a piece of soft flesh between her finger and thumb, she pinched, hard. The eyes sprang open. Stared.

  ‘So you are alive!’ Essie’s voice was harsh with teenage sarcasm. Inside, other words were forming.

  Please. Don’t go. You don’t have to get better. Just don’t die.

  Essie dragged her thoughts away from the hospital ward, focusing instead on her driving; on Mara, right beside her; on the sounds of the flamingos, which still followed her from the lake. She evoked the image of Carl Bergmann, seizing on his relaxed smile, his friendly manner. Gradually, new pictures replaced the bleak memories of Fulbourn Hospital. She replayed in her head how Carl had laughed so fondly over the story about Mara and her toes. And how he’d talked about birds mating for life, and their desire to always come home. The first time she and Carl had met he’d said he was a nomad, like the birds he photographed. Did this mean that while he moved around the world he still felt a pull back to a location he called ‘home’? Was it in the place where he was born? Or somewhere else?

  Home.

  Essie turned the word over in her mind. She thought of the house in Cambridge where she’d lived from the age of seven, right up until she left for Africa. She could recall myriad details about 26 Edenvale Road – the pebble-dash façade, a chunk of rendering missing at one corner; the clumps of mauve crocuses that poked up their heads each spring; the crocheted pot holder she’d made in primary school that hung near the smoke-stained stove; a creaky floorboard on the second landing that she knew to avoid when returning home too late from a party. There were special memories attached to the place – birthdays, holidays, homecomings – as well as scenes from the everyday that meant little on their own but which combined to form a tapestry of family life. Whole episodes had taken place in the house that no one in the world would ever want to recall. But there were happy times as well. Regardless of the weight of good memories versus bad, though, Essie didn’t expect to spend more than a holiday there, ever again. It was no longer her home. Since she’d married Ian Lawrence, Magadi Gorge was where she belonged.

  As the Land Rover climbed upwards, Essie’s back pressed into the seat. She gazed across the dust-scoured bonnet to the stony ground in front of her. She knew the geological make-up of all the rocks she could see. She knew that the clumps of grey-green local sisal dotting the land were called oldupai by the Maasai. The plant’s name, recorded incorrectly as ‘olduvai’, had been given to the gorge where the Leakeys carried out their work. Scanning the slopes, Essie could identify the approximate age of the strata revealed by erosion – around one foot of earth represented six thousand years. (Ian liked to give a demonstration at the excavation sites, walking down the hillside – literally stepping through vast chunks of time.) Essie knew, as well, the taxonomy of most of the local plants and animals and could navigate the korongos without a guide.

  But still, with all this knowledge, Magadi Gorge didn’t really feel like home. Not the way it did to Ian and Julia. Essie couldn’t imagine that either of the pair would ever leave this place. Julia would one day be buried beside her husband in the informal cemetery not far from the camp, her body protected from hyenas – or other grave robbers – by a concrete slab. Then Ian and Essie would live on here alone together, continuing their work. It was possible that they would one day be forced to leave – if there was a change of government policy about their permits, or if funds completely dried up. But both scenarios were unlikely now that Diana’s funds were revitalising the research. The fact was, when Essie was Julia’s age, the Lawrences would almost certainly still be here.

  Essie gripped the steering wheel. The dusty air seemed to tighten her chest. She couldn’t remember now exactly how she’d come to be in this position. Somehow she’d let go of any chance to travel the world, like Carl was doing, even though Tanzania was meant to have been only her first stop. She’d planned to join a dig in Jordan. Or South America. She wanted to see new places, meet new people. And now none of that would happen. She hadn’t understood the far-reaching consequences of her decision to marry Ian Lawrence. Not that it would have made any difference. She had fallen in love. That was that.

  Essie took in a slow breath as memories returned to her of that time when all she’d wanted, in any given moment, was to be with her husband. She had been drawn to Ian from the day they first met in Cambridge. On her arrival in Magadi that interest had quickly become a fascination. It was hardly surprising. The Head of Research was famous, handsome and a talented archaeologist. Every young woman who came to the camp competed for his attention. In the Dining Tent, or out at the digging sites, Essie used to watch his face when she didn’t think he would notice – tracing the strong lines of his brow, nose and chin. If she found an excuse to stand close to where he was, she would breathe in his smell – shaving soap, boot polish, leather, dust, a hint of sweat – imagining the essence of him being captured in her lungs.

  All this time later, Essie could clearly recall the wonder and amazement she’d felt when she realised that Ian Lawrence was attracted to her. He could have chosen a girlfriend from any number of willing candidates – but he wanted Essie Holland. It was as if he’d seen in her something that he wanted or needed – and he’d set out to make her his own. He made sure she sat near him at the dining table. He put her on his team in the korongos. He took time out of his busy schedule to teach her about the work, the place – his life.

  Compared with other men she’d known, Essie felt surprisingly comfortable with Ian. Perhaps because she’d grown up in the company of her father, she recognised so many things in him – his attention to detail, his curious mind, his ability to remember everything he’d ever learned. She was struck by the way he inhabited the camp, the digging sites – the whole of Magadi Gorge – with such authority. In his presence she felt completely safe in this strange, wild land.

  There was nothing to keep the two apart. Their lives were joined together so easily that the time span between Essie’s arrival at the camp and their wedding day seemed collapsed into just weeks, rather than months. The wedding took place in the height of the digging season. There was a celebration at the camp – a special meal at the end of the day, with everyone still in their work clothes and Essie holding a bunch of hastily picked flowers. The event was followed by a brief trip to Arusha to do the paperwork. While they were there, Essie had the chance to make a phonecall to her father. She could tell he felt torn by her surprise news – there was a quaver in his voice, even as he offered his congratulations. But he made it clear that he supported the marriage, even though it meant Essie wouldn’t be returning to live in England. Essie had to put herself – her career – first. He’d made a similar decision himself, he pointed out, when he left Australia. And if he was going to lose his daughter to another man, Ian Lawrence was the best possible choice.

  Returning to a busy schedule, the couple spent their days together out in the field; afterwards, in the Work Hut, they sat side by side. As a member of the Lawrence family, Essie helped Ian and Julia host the successive waves of guests. Every time she told someone her full name she felt a thrill of pride. Ian thrived on the company of these outsiders �
� but even as he was giving a mini-lecture or telling a story he would seek Essie out and hold her gaze. It was as if she was the only person he could see. In those moments she had a new vision of herself – she felt precious; beautiful.

  Cloistered in their tent in the evenings, Essie and Ian took turns to read aloud from the odd collection of novels left behind by visitors. When it was Essie’s turn to listen, she barely focused on Ian’s words. Instead, she just revelled in the sound of his voice. In the soft light she watched his eyes, burning like the blue heart of a candle flame. Sometimes the reading ceased well before the end of the chapter, the book becoming lost among tangled sheets as they made love. When Essie woke each morning and saw Ian lying beside her, she could hardly believe he belonged to her, and she to him. They were lovers, friends, colleagues – all at once. It seemed too perfect to be true.

  But then, as the fortunes of Magadi took a downward turn, things began to change. Without the company of all the visitors, Ian’s energy flagged. He found no satisfaction in his work; everything was just a burden. Research became a source of anxiety instead of excitement. There was no joy in his eyes any more.

  The transformation crept up on Essie, so she was never taken by surprise. She simply became used to a new Ian. Now, as she thought back over what had happened, she wondered which version of her husband was the real one. Had he adopted a façade earlier on? Or was the man who’d appeared in more recent years the imposter? Of course, she understood the situation was more complex than that. As people’s lives threw up challenges, different parts of them emerged. They evolved into someone new.

  Ian was changing again now, Essie reminded herself. Since Diana’s funds had begun flowing into Magadi, he had been brighter, happier – notwithstanding the complications of Essie having brought a baby into the camp. He was coming back to his old self. His energy had been rekindled. Inspired once again, he walked with a lighter step.

  Only this time, his wife was not the one at his side.