Essie tuned her ears towards the kitchen. It was a wooden structure but the walls were thin. She could hear Baraka moving around in there. His usual clattering of pans and utensils was toned right down; he was humming quietly too. He had taken in his stride Essie’s sudden appearance just before, thrusting bottles and teats at him, amid a torrent of instructions. He’d told her that the Bwana had received a radio call just a few hours ago. The special visitors had decided to come a day early.
‘Why?’ Essie asked.
Baraka shrugged. Africans tended not to take plans as seriously as Europeans. Every arrangement was considered provisional, which meant people had to be adaptable. He’d helped untie the sling, smiling as the sleeping baby was revealed. Then he’d handed her to Simon, who was sitting on a chair in the corner. Essie noticed he’d taken the precaution of laying a folded cloth over his lap.
‘If she wakes?’ Simon queried.
‘Feed her,’ Essie said. ‘No, come and get me.’ Her thoughts were in turmoil. ‘I don’t know!’
‘Go and sit with them.’ Baraka spoke calmly. ‘They have been to the digging site. Now they are looking at some of the special things. You have arrived at the right moment. The demonstration is next.’
Simon had handed Essie the bag of stones. Now, as she stood in her tent hastily applying mascara, the chunks of flint were spread out on the dressing table nearby, ready for her to select the ones that would make the best mother stones.
Essie stood back from the mirror, adjusting the position of her dress so that the V-shaped neckline didn’t plunge so low. Perhaps the amount of cleavage it revealed was the reason her mother had never actually worn the dress after bringing it home. Essie smoothed down her hair. She noticed how her honey-brown skin complemented the orange of the gown. Her eyes were big and shiny. She didn’t look too bad; somehow she’d expected that the enormity of what had just happened to her would show on her face. Perhaps the situation was so extreme that all expression had disappeared.
Slipping on her party shoes, she hurried outside. The high heels wobbled in the soft earth. Like the dress, they had never been worn since her arrival in Africa. Walking around in them here at Magadi was impractical, but Essie could hardly pair her cocktail gown with work boots.
She focused on keeping her feet moving. If she stopped, she feared she might turn around and rush back to the safe haven of her bedroom. The challenge of acting as if everything was normal felt completely beyond her.
Drawing near to the Dining Tent, she paused in a spot where she could not easily be seen, yet could peer in through the open front. Ian, Julia and the two visitors were sitting around the table. Kefa was standing nearby, a white tea towel folded neatly over his arm. Frank Marlow and his wife had their backs to Essie. The ‘typical day’s find’ tray was in front of Ian. He held one of the items in his hand. Essie didn’t have to listen to know what he would be saying.
This might look like an ordinary fragment of bone. But it’s not. See this groove? That’s where an animal has chewed it. From that small detail we know for sure that . . .
Mr Marlow was leaning forward eagerly. As Essie watched, he turned away from the display to look at his wife. His face was alight with enthusiasm. In the gap between their chairs, Essie saw him reach for her hand, obviously seeking a moment of shared excitement. But as his fingers folded over hers, they were abruptly shaken off. The man’s hand reached again. This time his wife literally slapped it aside. Before Essie had time to absorb her surprise, Ian stood up. As he saw her there, mixed emotions flitted over his face. Then he found a smile.
‘Essie! At last.’ Beneath his genial tone was an edge of frustration. ‘We were wondering what had happened to you.’
Essie walked into the tent. ‘I’m sorry. I was held up. It’s a long story.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Hello, everyone.’
Frank rose to his feet as Ian began the introductions. Even being preoccupied, Essie was struck by how handsome her husband was in his linen suit. ‘Frank, this is my wife, Essie. Essie – Frank Marlow.’
‘How do you do?’ Essie greeted the visitor. He looked like a rich man. It wasn’t just his well-cut jacket or the bow tie. There was something about the style of his streaky grey-blond hair, the big square teeth that were too white, and the evenly tanned skin that was the result of lying in the sun rather than being outside working in it.
Frank strode up and took her hand in his, shaking it warmly. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Lawrence.’ When his gaze met hers, it was unwavering, confident.
‘Call me Essie, please.’
Ian turned to Mrs Marlow. ‘Diana, this is my wife, Essie. Essie – Diana.’
Diana regarded Essie impassively; her beautiful face might have been a cardboard cut-out. Essie took a step towards the far side of the table, then stopped and smiled awkwardly. She could never work out how to greet other women. It was easy for the men; they always shook hands. Women tended to hover uncertainly, until one took the initiative by either offering their hand or holding it still.
Diana waved her cigarette. ‘Hi.’ She looked Essie up and down. Her gaze lingered on the orange dress. Essie was glad it was of good quality, with a name on its label that even she had recognised when she’d bothered to check. She took the opportunity to study Diana back. From what Ian had said, she must be in her mid-forties, but she appeared younger. She had fair, flawless skin. Her long dark hair was teased into a mound on top and curled up at the ends. A sleek section at the front had been brushed across her forehead. Dark eyes sat below brows that were like the wings of a tiny black bird. Her contrasting features – light skin, dark hair – were set off perfectly by her turquoise dress. Even Essie, who hadn’t been shopping on a high street for five years, could tell that the gown was very modern. The bodice was gathered into a strap that fitted close around Diana’s neck like a choker. It reminded Essie of Tommy’s collar – only this one was crusted with seed pearls and silk embroidery. The design drew attention to Diana’s bare shoulders. The effect was more suggestive and daring, for some reason, than if half of her breasts had been exposed.
Diana drew on her cigarette as she finished her own appraisal, carefully shaping her mouth to avoid puckering her lips. Then she looked down at the ground, revealing eyelids shadowed with turquoise.
Essie didn’t think she’d ever seen such a beautiful woman in the flesh. She had to make herself turn away in order to greet her mother-in-law. Julia was sitting upright in her chair. In front of her was a plaster model of a skull reconstructed from fossil fragments she and William had found in their early years here. It represented one of the most important Australopithecine finds yet made by anyone. No doubt Ian had been talking about the fact that evidence of these early precursors of humans – the ones who had emerged from the forests when the grasslands formed – had only ever been discovered in Africa. This was why the Lawrences, as well as the Leakeys, believed this continent was where the human family had originated, even though this flew in the face of the more popular view that Europe or Asia – where the Neanderthals eventually evolved, with their impressive sophistication – was our first home. It occurred to Essie that Ian’s perspective might have particular appeal to Marlow. As a Canadian he might be drawn to the idea that somewhere remote from the regions usually seen as the heart of civilisation could be the place where our story began.
Julia’s work-roughened fingers draped down over the yellowed cranium, resting on the protruding brow ridges. Essie thought she looked surprisingly comfortable in her cream lace dress, considering she probably hadn’t been out of her work clothes for decades. The gown still fitted her well. She’d pinned up her thinning hair, which made her look younger. If the image of her were blurred, she’d look as she did in her photo with the Queen. However, in the strong light that angled into the tent, her upper arms sagged and her neck was creased. She must have been tapping her foot against the table leg – a sign of contained impatience that she often displayed. Normally, Ian would have foun
d it intolerable, but right now he was distracted by his role as host.
Essie could tell that her husband was trying hard to appear relaxed. Her late return home had come on top of the early arrival of the Marlows, and he hated surprises of any kind. She wondered what explanation – if any – had been given for the visitors’ change of plan. Perhaps the couple needed to cut short their holiday. Essie could imagine that someone like Frank Marlow might have to deal with business crises whenever they came up.
Ian was smiling at his guests. ‘Now we can have our knapping demonstration,’ he said.
‘Ah yes, the Professor’s daughter!’ Frank turned to Essie. ‘You know I’ve met your father?’ Without waiting for a reaction, he went on. ‘I flew from Toronto just to see his collection. I was amazed to learn how he just wandered around Tasmania picking stone tools up off the ground by the hundreds.’ He nodded in the direction of the excavations. ‘Not like here. All that digging.’ He whistled through his teeth. ‘I’m going to take a trip to Tasmania this fall. I want to see what I can find myself.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a terrible shame what happened to those people. What a lost opportunity for research.’ He turned to his wife. ‘The British managed to kill off every last one of them. And it took less than seventy-five years. There’s not a single full-blood Tasmanian Aborigine left.’
Essie glanced at Kefa, who was still lingering nearby. She hoped he was not listening in. Any discussion about colonialism had to be handled delicately in Africa. Various European powers had exploited the continent mercilessly. The British, however, had treated the people of Tanganyika – now the United Republic of Tanzania – benignly, on the whole. Hearing the shameful story of how they’d behaved on the other side of the world would not be helpful. Essie swapped a look with Ian, unsure where the conversation might be headed.
‘Let’s get on with the demonstration,’ Ian suggested.
‘Good idea,’ Essie responded. Leaving aside the need to change the subject, she was keen to get on with the knapping. Once the task was over, perhaps she could plead a headache and avoid going down to the Steps. It would be ideal to have some time at the camp without the others. She felt reassured by Baraka’s calm response to the arrival of a baby in his kitchen. At his age, the man had probably fathered plenty of offspring. He must have learned a thing or two, watching his wife. Perhaps he could be encouraged to take charge.
Essie looked across at Diana, wondering how she’d react if Essie absented herself, especially since she’d been late turning up. Mrs Marlow was watching her husband as he rubbed his hands in anticipation of the demonstration. To Essie’s surprise, a fond smile curved her lips. The expression didn’t fit with the interchange that had occurred between the two earlier. Diana had definitely been annoyed. This smile had to be a fake. What could have gone wrong between them? Maybe Diana was upset that the celebration had been brought forward, presumably to the wrong date. But Essie sensed there was something more seriously amiss. Whatever was really going on, though, Essie’s presence at the sundowners wasn’t vital. In fact, it should really have been just the Marlows down there, toasting their marriage – though how romantic the event was going to be, in spite of the setting, now seemed questionable.
Essie put on a leather work apron and led the others outside. In front of the tent was a clearing with a fireplace in the middle, bordered by bushes and clumps of sisal; it had the feeling of a stage. There was a creak of canvas as the others took their places on some camp chairs. In the area where she planned to do the knapping, Essie laid down a piece of sacking ready to catch the chips of unwanted flint. If anyone was researching this area in a time to come, she didn’t want her work to be mistaken for something ancient. She sat on a solid stool, resting the mother stone on her knee. Grasping it in one hand, she held the egg-shaped hammer stone in the other. The familiar feeling of flint pressing into her skin was reassuring. She’d done this task hundreds of times before.
She looked up at Ian, who gave her an encouraging smile. He appeared much more relaxed, now that everything was proceeding according to plan. She let him do the commentary, while she concentrated on her technique. She struck the mother stone lightly to check her position, then hit it hard, making sure she aimed for a spot beyond the stone. She watched with relief as a perfect flake fell from the core.
‘It’s all about the line of impact,’ Ian explained. ‘What you want is a glancing blow with a follow-through.’
Essie began making secondary strikes, forming an edge. She was creating an Acheulean hand axe. It was a sophisticated tool, associated with our most recent ancestor, Homo erectus. Frustratingly, not one example of this advanced technology had yet been located in Africa, even though plenty had been dug up in places like China, Indonesia and across Europe. It was as if the earth was playing a trick: while Australopithecine remains had only been found here in Africa, Homo erectus fossils, along with the Acheulean tools, had only been found in Europe and Asia. Nowhere had both bits of the puzzle been discovered in the same region – the proof of our beginnings as ape-people, and then of the erectus stage, which was just before we became our modern selves, Homo sapiens. It might have made more sense for Essie to create a tool similar to what was found here at Magadi, but the idea was to inspire Frank Marlow to fund the research that might solve the stubborn mystery.
As the stone artefact slowly took shape, Ian threw out relevant nuggets of information. Leaving his objectives aside, Essie was glad of the excuse to make an Acheulean tool. The axe was satisfyingly big, filling her hand. It would be worked on both sides, the whole surface faceted. When it was done it would be like a huge jewel made from stone.
Essie heard Ian’s tone change as he shifted his focus to Diana. He knew it would be wise to draw her in, too.
‘Some two million years ago, it is the invention of stone tools that now changes the world.’ Ian sounded as if he were parroting someone else. Essie had heard him do this before, using the present tense to speak about the past; she wondered if she was listening to the voice of William Lawrence, who’d died five years before she came here. ‘Hominids can fight harder now, even though their fighting teeth – the incisors – have become smaller. They can cut through animal hide to reach the flesh, and break bones to eat marrow.’
Diana must not have looked very interested; Ian went back to addressing Frank. Essie barely took in his words, giving all her attention to the curves of flint that sheered off the core as the hammer stone struck, then fell to the ground like petals.
As the axe took shape, Frank whistled softly.
‘It’s even harder than it looks,’ Ian said. ‘Takes years of practice, and you need a natural flair as well.’
Essie could hear the pride in his voice. Looking up, she gave him a smile. For a moment she was back in England, the cold flagstones of the university courtyard seeping up through the soles of her shoes. She was showing off her skills in a demonstration arranged by her father in honour of a visit by Ian Lawrence. Some of Essie’s university friends were gathered too, keen to make the most of the chance to meet the famous archaeologist from East Africa.
Arthur and Ian had stood together, talking, while Essie worked. She knew they’d been instantly drawn to one another. It made sense: while being admired in academic circles, they were also outsiders. Arthur was an Australian who’d once worked at the tiny and obscure University of Tasmania; Ian had been born in Africa, as had his father before him. They were both far removed, by breeding and life experience, from the upper-class English world of Cambridge. The two men had shared jokes about Tasmania and Tanzania being thought, by many people, to be one and the same place.
Watching the demonstration, Ian had been impressed by Essie’s skills.
‘I think I’ll take her back to Africa with me,’ he’d said to Arthur. He was joking, of course, but Essie savoured his words, replaying them in her head.
‘Sorry, but I can’t spare her,’ Arthur had responded. Whether he was being humorous too was unclear – but
Essie could tell he was pleased.
She had bent her head over the chunk of white chert in her lap, absorbing the moment when Ian Lawrence – a man who everyone admired, even her father – had chosen to make her the centre of his attention.
Now, perched on her stool outside the Dining Tent, in the barren surroundings of Magadi, Essie felt the cooling air that blew in as the afternoon drew to a close. It seemed a long time ago that she’d been sitting at the breakfast table, planning her day down to the last detail, never suspecting what was actually about to take place.
Pausing in her work, she looked across to the Marlows to check how her performance was being received. Frank was leaning forward, getting the best view. Julia mimicked his posture, as if this spectacle was equally new and exciting to her. But Diana was showing no interest at all. Instead, her gaze swung steadily from Ian to Essie and back. She might have been assessing some item she was thinking of making hers – except that such an idea made no sense. Lowering her eyes, Essie grasped the mother stone tightly and prepared to make another strike.
Small flakes and chips speckled Essie’s apron as she worked. Beyond the rough canvas she caught glimpses of orange silk. Her high heels, planted apart as she balanced herself, were dulled with dust. When she stood up, she knew her dress would stick to her sweaty body. She might have been made up of two people that were impossible to connect, and yet equally real.
Essie began tackling the sequence of mini-strikes that would harden the edges of the axe. It was a crucial stage. Making a mistake now could ruin all that she’d done. Ian was continuing his commentary, dropping familiar phrases that Essie could have recited for him. Then his voice cut off.
The Beautiful Mother Page 6