She turned towards Simon, ready to give the baby to him – but he looked deeply engrossed in his book. She began to walk away; she’d become used to doing tasks with one hand while holding Mara with the other.
A voice came after her. ‘I can hold her.’
Turning back, Essie saw Julia spreading her arms. She faltered, mid-step. A memory came to her of the day when Julia had burned the paintings on the fire. When Essie had returned from looking for Baraka, and found her clutching Mara against her chest, she’d felt an urgent desire to get the baby safely back into her own hands. Julia wasn’t in a half-crazed state now – she seemed very steady and relaxed – but only recently she had been emotionally unhinged again. Essie didn’t want to let her hold Mara. Yet she didn’t feel she could just walk away. She knew the offer was more than a casual gesture on Julia’s part – it suggested that something was shifting inside her.
After hesitating just a few seconds more, Essie walked over to Julia. Leaning close to her, she smelled the familiar hint of eau de cologne. A wiry strand of grey hair brushed her cheek. The next moment, Mara was in Julia’s hands. The action had felt smooth, natural. Julia hoisted the baby expertly onto her hip. She didn’t seem bothered about the bare bottom, only thinly veiled by the cotton smock. She pulled back her head, chin pressing into her wrinkled neck, so she could watch Mara’s face. There was a gleam of light in Julia’s faded blue eyes, the beginning of a smile on her lips.
The tune of a popular song carried across from the workers’ camp. Essie thought she recognised something by The Beatles, but wasn’t sure. Stepping into the kitchen, she wrinkled her nose. Something must have gone rotten – it didn’t take long in the heat. One of the field staff had been asked to take over cooking duties but he hardly spent any time in here. He served basic meals of boiled rice and beans that reminded Essie of the days before Diana Marlow had arrived at Magadi with all her supplies of luxuries.
Glancing around the small space, Essie took in the blackened pans and hanging spoons, a lamp with a shattered mantle, a dead cockroach on the table. Her gaze settled on the bare nail where Baraka’s shuka used to hang. She remembered the day she’d used the plaid blanket to wrap Mara tightly so she would calm down enough to drink her very first bottle of milk formula. Essie thought of how encouraging Baraka had been, back when she was new to the role of looking after a baby. And now – spurred by fear, anger, shame – he’d been driven from his home.
She crossed to look out through the small window, screened with dense wire mesh to keep out mice and rats. Through the haze of tiny squares, she stared towards the volcano. She pictured Baraka doing the same – trying to read the mood of Lengai. As she trained her eyes on the distant peak, she thought the plume of smoke looked bigger, darker. Her hands tightened on the narrow window ledge. She imagined the incessant grumbling of the mountain taking on a new note of urgency – the restless activity beginning to build, and build, until finally an eruption was unleashed.
Lowering her gaze to the lake, just below the foothills, Essie scanned the deserted shores that should have been painted pink with flamingos. Could the birds have known, somehow, of the events that would unfold at Magadi – not just the discovery of the cave and its extraordinary contents, but the plans that Ian would make? Did they see, in the future, the threat of an invasion by foreigners? And the fury of Lengai? Essie remembered the picture of time – as a circle with no beginning and no end – that Simon had tried to describe to her. You had to imagine the viewpoint of a bird in the sky, he’d said. The story of the world is laid out below. You can look forward and backwards and see everything at once. There seemed no other explanation for why the flamingos had left this place – with its protected island nesting ground where they had always hatched their young – to take their chances elsewhere.
There had been no news yet, via the Ranger at Serengeti, of where the flocks had gone. They hadn’t settled at the soda lake over the border in Kenya where they’d nested that year when the one at Magadi was flooded. It was thought they were probably somewhere else – less known; more remote. The Ranger was expecting a report any day. Essie pictured Carl flying over the countryside in a small plane, like a bird himself, looking down over the land. Or perhaps he was already standing on the shore of some far-off lake, observing a parade of flamingos high-stepping across the crystal glitter of the saltpan – beaks waving, heads dipping, wings stretching and folding as they each played their part in the time-old dance of attraction and desire.
Cups rattled on their saucers as Essie carried the tray back towards the Work Hut. She bent her head against the dry season wind that always sprang up as the day wore on. She could feel the grit sticking to her sweaty face and collecting in her hair. She knew she’d have to wipe the dust from the cups before she could pour the tea.
The path ahead was marked by white-painted rocks. As she passed them, one by one, her head bowed, Essie recognised their individual shapes and the size of the spaces between them. Soon she was nearing the hut. As she ducked around into the shelter, she looked up, shaking her head to dislodge a loose strand of hair that was stuck to her lips.
She saw Julia still standing where she’d left her, holding Mara. Simon had joined them, his book dangling in his hand. Essie picked up the tension in their bodies, her own muscles tightening in response even before she had time to wonder at its cause. They were both looking out through the front of the hut. There was something protective in the way Julia’s arm was covering Mara’s body. A shiver travelled up Essie’s spine as she turned slowly round, her gaze following theirs.
Standing beyond the fireplace at the edge of the clearing, almost blending with the backdrop of bushes and red earth, was the dark slender figure of a woman. She wore nothing but a leather apron around her loins and a necklace of red-and-yellow berries. In one hand she carried a small woven basket decorated with feathers. If she noticed Essie, she gave no sign of it. She was staring at Mara with wide eyes and a focus almost fierce in its intensity – as if there was nothing else in the whole world for her to see.
TWENTY-TWO
Essie gripped the tray with rigid hands. The figure was like an apparition conjured from one of her dreams. She thought it was Giga standing there, unflinching in the wind. But then, with a flash of relief, she saw that this woman was much taller than Mara’s foster mother.
Keeping her eyes trained on the motionless figure, Essie moved further into the hut. Questions raced through her mind. What was a Hadza tribeswoman doing in this area, at this time of the year? And what had brought her to the Lawrences’ camp? Essie scanned the surroundings – the bushes, sisal plants and clumps of desert roses that grew around the clearing – but there was no sign of any companions. That was strange as well. The Hadza lived in close-knit communities and rarely travelled alone. Yet it seemed unlikely that one of these expert hunter-gatherers would ever become lost. Essie wondered if the woman could have been cast out by her people; Simon had explained that this was the worst punishment a Hadza could receive, reserved only for the most serious of crimes. She didn’t look hungry or sick. But from the way she stood there – tense, silent – something had to be wrong.
Essie deposited the tray on a table, tea slopping from the pot as it settled at an angle. She crossed to Julia, exchanging puzzled looks with her as she took Mara into her arms. She held the baby tightly; the stranger’s intense focus on Mara made her uneasy. The presence of an African child in a European family always aroused attention, but this was much more extreme. Essie turned to Simon with raised eyebrows.
‘What does she want?’
‘I will talk to her,’ he said.
Tucking his field guide under his arm, he took a few steps towards the woman, while beckoning her to come closer. She hovered uncertainly for a moment, then began walking over to him. She was still staring at Mara, her gaze unwavering. As she stepped cautiously into the shelter of the hut, Meg ran up and sniffed her hand, but she didn’t even glance down.
Now th
at she was closer, Essie saw that as well as being taller, the woman had finer features than Giga. And on her prominent cheekbones, the flesh was marked with dark lines of decorative scars.
Simon began offering greetings. He’d barely begun, though, when a second figure emerged from behind one of the sisal plants – an old man with grey-speckled hair. He was panting with exertion, but still strode on until he reached the fireplace. Then he bent over to catch his breath, bracing his hands on his knees. A baboon hide covered his back. Hanging down from it were two strips of fur – once legs – swaying in the wind. Essie recognised the distinctive waistcoat. Her stomach twisted in alarm.
‘Nandamara.’ She breathed his name.
The old man approached the hut. He was looking at Mara, his gaze as intense as that of the young woman. Essie turned to Simon, her heart beginning to pound.
‘Why are they here?’ Her voice was edged with panic. ‘It’s too early.’
Simon lifted one hand towards her – a hunter’s signal to be quiet, still. He continued with his greetings, now addressing both of the visitors. He looked calm, but Essie could tell that he, too, was shaken by Nandamara’s unexpected appearance.
The woman didn’t respond to Simon, but Nandamara began smiling, pointing at Mara, talking quickly. Simon translated, throwing words to Essie, but not looking at her.
‘He is very happy. He is amazed to see his granddaughter. She is so big. As fat as a zebra.’
Essie had to smile at the comparison.
‘And she is very beautiful,’ Simon continued. ‘Like her mother.’
Mother. The word seemed to hover in the air. It took Essie a moment to realise Nandamara was referring to his dead daughter. She saw a shadow of grief pass over the old man’s face.
‘Why are they here?’ Essie asked Simon again.
More words were exchanged. Then there was a pause. The silence felt suddenly dense.
‘They have come.’ Simon’s voice was heavy and flat. He didn’t need to say any more.
Essie’s arms tightened around Mara. ‘But we’ve got six more weeks, at least. Tell him . . . we’re not ready.’
While Simon was speaking, Nandamara watched Essie’s face. He scratched his head, looking confused.
‘He thought you would be pleased to be relieved of your task,’ Simon explained. ‘You did not want to look after a baby.’
Essie eyed him blankly. She could hardly remember that she’d once been reluctant to accept responsibility for Mara – that Nandamara had more or less tricked her into agreeing.
‘Tell him . . . my feelings about her changed,’ Essie said. ‘I’ve loved looking after her.’ Her voice felt strained. ‘It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.’
Nandamara nodded slowly as Simon relayed her words. As he looked into Essie’s eyes, she had the sense that he was able to picture everything that had happened: how the whole story had been played out – beginning in one place and ending somewhere completely different. He frowned with indecision, turning from Essie, to Mara, to the young woman and back. Finally, he spoke again, pausing now and again for the translation.
‘You have protected my granddaughter, and given her good food, and kept her healthy. And you have given her love as well. For that I will always be very grateful.’ Nandamara’s eyes, wreathed in wrinkles, were full of compassion. ‘But still, the time has come for us to take her back.’
‘Why has the time come?’ Essie asked. ‘It’s still the dry season.’ She looked up at the sky as if asking it to bear witness to the lack of any sign of impending rain.
Another conversation took place between the two men. Simon’s voice sounded firm, almost interrogative. Essie guessed at what he was saying.
You can’t just turn up here and change the plan. It’s not fair on the baby. Or on this white woman who agreed to care for her.
Nandamara spoke in response, moving his hands to add weight to his words. As he did so, Simon’s expression softened. Then he began nodding his head. Essie studied Nandamara’s lips as if she might be able to read the meaning they conveyed. She was aware of Julia moving closer and doing the same.
Eventually, Nandamara fell quiet. Simon turned to Essie.
‘This woman is called Milena. She is from another Hadza tribe. The two families met in the hunting grounds in the north and began sharing the same fireside. She had a baby son, about the same age as Mara.’
Essie glanced sideways at Milena. Her belly looked firm, giving no hint that she had ever been pregnant, but on a closer look Essie saw pale stretch marks on the dark skin.
‘A few weeks ago the baby became ill,’ Simon continued his translation. Even though Milena couldn’t understand what he was saying, he lowered his voice. ‘He could not be cured. She has buried him.’
Essie’s lips parted as she took in the meaning of the words. No wonder the young mother was looking at Mara. She must be thinking of her own little one.
‘Pole sana,’ Essie said. I am very sorry.
She didn’t know if Milena understood any Swahili; she just wanted to say something directly to her. But even as she spoke, Essie shook her head helplessly; the words were inadequate for the compassion welling up inside her. She could feel the emptiness of those arms, hanging so limply by the woman’s sides.
‘They have walked a very long way,’ Simon said. ‘They slept only in the heat of the day. The journey took many, many days – at least one cycle of the moon. All of that time, Milena drew out the milk from her breasts so that they would not become empty.’
A chill spread through Essie’s body. She knew where this story was leading. It had been obvious, she saw now, from the instant the Hadza woman had appeared – but Essie had refused to let the idea settle in her head.
Nandamara continued speaking. His voice slowed down as if he was reaching a conclusion. Simon mirrored his tone.
‘And now, two things have come together. Milena’s sadness will be healed. And Mara will have a mother.’
Essie shook her head again. For a long moment she could find no words. But then they came bursting out, desperate. ‘But she’s so happy here. She loves me. She loves Simon. And lots of the others who work here . . .’
As Simon passed on what she’d said, Nandamara nodded. ‘She will come to love Milena. And me, as well. We are her people.’
A voice inside Essie reminded her that she’d always known this time was coming. But words of protest came to her lips. ‘No. I can’t let her go. I can’t.’
Milena stared at Essie. Her eyes were wide with alarm. She hugged her arms across her chest, fingers pressing into her biceps.
Simon came to stand in front of Essie. He switched to English, his voice suddenly sounding stilted – as if in this short time Hadza had become his preferred tongue.
‘Nandamara says he has found out everything about Milena. She is gentle and kind. She laughs a lot. She is good at finding food and making baskets. Her mother has died, but there are many sisters and aunties to help her with her responsibilities. And she has no other children. All her care and attention will be for Mara. She will love her with her whole heart.’ Simon paused, looking straight into Essie’s eyes. ‘Becoming the daughter of Milena is the best future for Mara.’
Essie bent her head over the baby. Everything Simon had just said was true. It had always been a concern that Mara was going to be fostered again by Giga, whose first loyalty would always be to her own child. Whenever times became hard, Mara would be vulnerable. This mother, Milena, had lost her own baby. In time, she would probably have another – she was only young – but by then she’d be closely bonded with Mara. And Mara would be older and weaned off the breast. Leaving aside the tragedy of the death of Milena’s baby boy, it was an ideal scenario.
‘He’s right, Essie. You have to do this.’ Now it was Julia speaking. There was a surprising softness in her tone that ran counterpoint to her firm words. ‘Let her go with them.’
Essie gazed blankly ahead. She could not think, speak; her feeli
ngs were a tumult. Then she took a deep breath, struggling for clarity.
‘Are they camping at the Painted Cave?’ she asked Simon. ‘Tell them I will bring Mara there. In a few days’ time. Maybe a week?’
She waited for Nandamara to agree; perhaps he would offer to stay in the area for a while so the transition could be played out slowly. The Hadza weren’t a people who lived their lives in a hurry. But when Simon finished speaking, the old man shook his head.
‘He is sorry,’ Simon explained. ‘It is not possible for them to stay around here. Some other Hadza came with them on the journey. Nandamara and Milena must meet up with them at a certain place. Then they must return to the rest of the tribe.’
There was a short silence, then the old man signalled to Milena. She moved towards Essie as if in a trance, keeping her eyes on the baby. Her foot caught on the fringe of the rug. She almost tripped, but barely seemed to notice.
When she was right in front of Essie, she stood still. Tears ran down her cheeks. Then she began to sob, silently, her chest heaving. Rudie appeared at her side, gazing up at her with a wrinkled brow. Essie could feel the mother’s grief for her own baby radiating from her. But then, as Essie watched, something else broke through – a look of almost reverent wonder, blended with pure joy.
Milena turned to Simon, letting out a stream of words, smiling through her tears.
‘She is thanking you,’ Simon said. His own eyes had a sheen of tears. ‘She says that she will love Mara and take good care of her. And she will always remember you. You are her big sister, her aunty. In the time of the epeme, when there are voices in the dark, she will imagine that you are speaking to her, and to this child.’
Milena spread her arms, ready to receive the baby. Essie stared at the outstretched hands, her whole body rigid. She watched herself as if from outside. She knew she had to push all her emotions back down inside, where Mara could not feel them. Her one task was to convey to Mara that she was safe. She had to be warm, steady, confident. She felt a spasm pass through her. It was impossible. She couldn’t do it. She’d rehearsed this moment in her head so many times, but now it was happening she felt completely unprepared. Yet for Mara’s sake, she had to succeed.
The Beautiful Mother Page 40
