The Beautiful Mother

by Scholes, Katherine

  ‘You have hurt yourself,’ she commented.

  Simon wiped away the blood. It left a shiny smear on his arm, the colour lost on his dark skin. ‘The moon was small. It was hard to see. And I had no fur jacket to protect me.’ As he spoke, Simon was putting his shirt back on, and pushing his feet into his boots. ‘I did not want to join the hunt,’ he said.

  Essie made no comment. She remembered the lively expression on his face as he’d approached. Was he trying to fool her, or himself, or them both?

  ‘But I had to be polite,’ he added. ‘So I could ask about the cave.’

  Essie’s lips parted. She’d told Simon of her mimed communication with the hunter but had been too distracted by Mara to think of sending her assistant to see if the Hadza were still around to be questioned about a second cave. She’d never imagined he would take the task on for himself. ‘What did they tell you?’

  Simon gave her a satisfied look, clearly pleased with his investigation. ‘There is a cave, with many paintings inside. They are very old like the ones you have studied. These Hadza people have not seen the cave themselves. Their ancestors stopped visiting there – for some reason that is no longer remembered.’ Simon shrugged. ‘But they know about it. They say it is on Ol Doinyo Lengai, down at the bottom.’

  Essie caught her breath in excitement. Hominid remains would always be the jackpot as far as Ian and Julia were concerned, but the fresh discovery of a cave of prehistoric artwork would still be a very good way to mark Magadi’s return to the world stage.

  ‘At the bottom of the volcano?’ Essie checked she’d heard correctly.

  ‘That was what they said.’

  Essie went back over the conclusions she’d drawn at the time when the Hadza hunter had mimed the act of painting and had then pointed towards the lake and the volcano. She reminded herself, again, that parts of the foothills had been searched when Robbie went missing. But the police and volunteers had their mind on other things, and in a landscape formed almost entirely from rock, an overhang or cave could easily be missed. The most likely source of information would have been the missionary, Wolfgang Stein. However, as Essie had already noted, there were no significant caves marked on his maps, let alone one containing paintings.

  While she was still thinking this all through, Mara began to stir, kicking her feet and whimpering. Quickly Essie grabbed the handle of the pram and began to shake it, mimicking the movement of wheels over the gravel. She kept it up until Mara was quiet again, then she turned to Simon.

  ‘That is a very big area. Did they say any more?’

  ‘Only one thing,’ Simon answered. ‘The cave is near a tall rock that stands by itself.’

  ‘Something like the Tower,’ Essie mused. She pictured the erosion stack near the camp that captured everyone’s attention. She’d not heard of any other landmarks like it. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t one, somewhere in the foothills. ‘Do you think we could find it?’

  Simon nodded. ‘Of course. I hope so.’

  From the typical African response – one that politely left room for whatever might eventuate – Essie couldn’t tell how optimistic Simon actually was. Regardless, she was grateful for the effort he’d made. ‘Ian will be very pleased to hear what you have learned.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘It was for you.’

  Essie was taken aback – not just by his words, but his sombre tone. ‘For me?’

  ‘You like copying these ancient paintings. It makes you happy.’

  Essie eyed him uncertainly. Was he saying that – more recently – she appeared to be unhappy?

  ‘When you worked at the Painted Cave,’ Simon added, ‘you laughed every day.’

  Essie gazed into the distance. What he said was true. But back then she was newly married and madly in love with her husband. She was living out a dream she would never have dared even to imagine. She was working with the Lawrences in Africa. Even her own father was envious of her! But she couldn’t deny that a lot had changed since then. The financial issues and lack of success with work had weighed heavily on her in recent years, just as it had on Ian and Julia. Nevertheless, it was embarrassing to think that this had been so apparent to her assistant. She should have been more professional. She managed a smile. ‘Let’s just hope we can find it.’

  ‘We will try,’ Simon said, as if that was all they could expect of themselves.

  He scratched his head, fingertips buried in his tight curls. Then he bent over his prey. Essie watched as he hefted the meat back onto his shoulders. She was touched by his concern for her happiness. It underlined, however, his attitude to the work the Lawrences were doing at Magadi. He was not personally committed to the research. To him, a position on the staff was no more than an opportunity for advancement; it was a part of his ambitious plan for his future. Essie had tried to explain to him, one day, how the Lawrences were striving to find evidence that Homo erectus had once lived in this region. Combined with the existence of the Australopithecine remains, it would help build the case that Africa was the place of origin for the whole human family.

  ‘And what would that mean?’ Simon had responded when she’d finished her speech.

  ‘We would know that we are all one people.’

  Simon had tilted his head questioningly. ‘And this would change the way humans treat one another? Everyone would become like the Hadza pori and share their food? Everybody would be equal?’ He’d laughed at the proposition. Essie had been about to insist that the knowledge would, indeed, have a big impact on society, but as she’d opened her mouth to speak her conviction had failed. The fact was that it was impossible to extrapolate in the way Simon proposed. Essie had been left trying to explain that the knowledge itself would have value – even if, from this vantage point in history, she was not able to say exactly what that might be.

  ‘I shall return to the camp now,’ Simon said. ‘Baraka will be happy to see me.’

  ‘I’ll go on a bit further,’ Essie said. ‘I want Mara to stay asleep.’ She glanced at her watch. If they could make it until lunchtime, there would be a chance of getting the routine back on track. ‘She has been crying again today. I don’t understand it. I am doing everything according to the book.’

  Simon gave her a blank look.

  ‘Timing feeds. Timing sleeps. Not making eye contact when I’m getting her ready for bed. But it’s just not working.’

  Simon frowned, as if her words made no sense. He bent over the pram, the hunk of antelope joining with his head to cast a strange shadow over the lacy coverlet. He murmured something so softly Essie could only hear the clicks in his words. There was a sympathetic expression on his face. He obviously pitied Mara, left in the hands of such an amateur. Essie felt a lump in her throat. She busied herself adjusting the sun canopy, keeping her head down until Simon stepped away. Then she gave him a brief, forced smile and nodded goodbye.

  The old Mission house was a squat white shape surrounded by the remains of an overgrown garden. Exotic plants – strangers to the landscape – had thrived in the small spring-fed oasis. Essie hurried towards it, trying to block out the sound of Mara crying. The baby had woken up some distance back but she’d decided not to stop and feed her. She didn’t want to deal with an unhappy baby out in the open or in some skimpy patch of shade. The abandoned house was boarded up – aside from a team of volcanologists who’d once spent a month there, no one had lived in the place since Stein departed forty years ago – however, there was a shady verandah running along the front.

  Essie cursed herself for having ended up so far from home. While Mara slept, she’d just kept on walking, distracted by thoughts of her work, Ian, Diana Marlow – and especially the new cave. Unconsciously she’d aimed for the lake, where she would be able to take out the small binoculars she always carried in the pocket of her safari vest and scan the foothills for any sign of the landmark tower of rock. Somehow the distance had lengthened without her noticing. Now it would take well over an hour to walk back to the ca
mp. Normally it wouldn’t matter if Essie ended up worn out and thirsty. But with Mara awake and crying again, she felt suddenly vulnerable.

  She approached the house from the rear, leaning on the pram as she pushed through an area of tall grass. Bougainvillea climbed up the wall, almost obscuring the back door. It was a relief to reach the pathway. A large lizard sunning itself on the paving stones flicked out a yellow tongue before waddling into the shadows.

  Essie half ran down the side of the building. Mara’s cries were frantic now and bouncing off the stone walls they sounded even louder. Essie couldn’t wait to reach the sanctuary of the verandah.

  Rounding the corner, she jerked to a halt, the pram lurching on its springs. Parked in front of her was a black jeep. She could see it was brand-new. The gleam of polished duco penetrated the coating of dust. The tyres had the crisp pattern of unworn tread. On the door was a small pink shape – a flamingo – and the logo of the Frank Marlow Trust. As Essie stared at it, rigid with surprise, she recalled Ian’s gloomy report on the visit of the Canadian philanthropist to the Steps.

  All he talked about was flamingos.

  Spinning round, Essie saw that the boards had been removed from the windows. There was a folding canvas chair on the verandah, an open book lying on its seat. The front door was ajar. Essie glanced back the way she’d come. The last thing she wanted was an encounter with a stranger – especially one who may well have diverted Frank Marlow’s interest from the Lawrences’ work. But she couldn’t leave Mara crying in the pram any longer.

  She lifted the baby out, smoothing down her dress and holding her against her chest. Through the fine cotton, she could feel Mara’s ribs expanding as she sucked in air to fuel another wail. In the brief quiet there was the thud of footsteps. Then a man stepped onto the verandah. Essie caught an impression of messy dark hair, deep brown eyes and scruffy clothes.

  For a few seconds the man was motionless, his gaze travelling from Essie and Mara to the pram and back. Then he jumped down the verandah steps in one bound and ran over to them.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Essie guessed he was picturing a scorpion bite or worse. She shook her head. ‘Nothing. I don’t know.’ She heard the desperate edge in her voice.

  The man looked around urgently, as if some solution to the situation might pop into view. He ran his fingers back through his unkempt hair, revealing the tanned face of someone who worked outdoors.

  ‘Come inside,’ he said.

  Essie gestured towards her bag, stowed on a rack under the pram. He grabbed it and tucked it under his arm.

  Essie bent her head over Mara’s as she walked up the verandah steps. The woolly hair was damp from tears that had run back onto the silk pillow.

  ‘I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry,’ Essie murmured. She wasn’t sure what she was apologising to Mara for – failing to implement the Enforcement Parenting approach properly or upsetting her by trying to do it in the first place. Presumably the people at Babyland had included the book because they believed in it – and they should know. But the fact was, Mara had been quite contented, if unpredictable, until the regime had been started. Essie was lost in confusion.

  It was a relief to step over the threshold into air that was even cooler than she expected. The walls, almost a foot thick, did a good job of keeping out the heat. She found herself in a long room, dotted with items that obviously belonged to the man outside, including half-unpacked luggage. There were, as well, two ancient armchairs, with stuffing emerging in tufts from torn velvet upholstery.

  Essie sat down on one of them, rusty springs creaking under her weight. She tried to lay the writhing baby over her lap. The man came to stand beside her.

  ‘What do you need?’ He rummaged through the bag, pulling out a nappy, scattering safety pins onto the floor.

  ‘There’s a pink plastic container.’

  The man glanced anxiously at Mara as he located the insulated box. He took out a bottle of milk and removed the cap.

  Essie offered it to Mara but she just batted it away. Essie tried following the open mouth with the teat, having no success. The man watched helplessly for a while, then began pacing the room. Mara screamed even more loudly. Essie would have been convinced there was something seriously wrong except that the baby had worked herself up into this state several times before. When she eventually drank her milk, she was fine. But maybe it was different this time? Perhaps an experienced mother would know she was dealing with an emergency.

  When the man returned to stand next to her, Essie gave him a despairing look.

  He eyed Mara for a moment, then sat down in the other chair, holding out his arms.

  ‘Shall I try?’

  Essie passed Mara over. He held her carefully, a focused expression on his face. As his fingers closed around her body, Essie wondered if it felt safer to the baby, being in such big, strong hands.

  He laid her on his lap, her trunk between his legs, her head resting on his knees. Mara arched her back and kicked her feet against his abdomen. The man spoke to her in a low voice – a striking contrast to Essie’s female pitch. The baby fell instantly quiet, gazing up at him, wide-eyed. Then she began crying again. Essie saw her trying to draw up her knees, like a woodlouse flipped on its back, wanting to curl into a ball. The man caught both feet in one hand, holding them still. With the other he began massaging her belly using slow, steady movements. The screams continued but he just kept on rubbing her stomach. Gradually the cries quietened, then died away. Mara’s arms flopped, her hands unfurling.

  Essie knelt beside the chair, nudging the teat at the baby’s mouth. Mara latched onto it straightaway and began gulping the milk. Essie looked up at the man. As their eyes met, they both smiled with relief.

  The man swivelled Mara around, without interrupting her feeding, until she was resting in his arms. Essie passed over the bottle, and then sat down again in the second chair. Part of her felt she should be taking the baby back – this person was a stranger, after all. But it was such a relief to let someone help her.

  ‘How did you know what to do?’ she asked.

  ‘I saw a mother massage her baby like that once, in Thailand.’ He nodded towards Mara. ‘I thought she looked uncomfortable, tensed up, so it was worth trying. It seemed to work.’

  Essie frowned thoughtfully. He made it sound so easy – a matter of trial and error and filling the gaps with guesswork.

  The two sat quietly, watching Mara drink. There was no close-up sound except for the steady swallowing and an occasional sucking noise as she paused to let air go back into the teat. Essie took quick glances at the man, while he was focused on the baby. His weathered skin made his age hard to guess. He looked younger than Ian, though – maybe closer in age to her. His hair hadn’t been cut recently; long wisps curled around his ears. Dark stubble on his chin showed he hadn’t shaved for several days.

  Instead of practical khakis with plenty of useful pockets, he wore casual clothes – more suited to a holidaymaker than an ornithologist in the field. His shirt, now faded almost to white, had once been brightly patterned. His shorts were sky-blue. Essie could just imagine what the Lawrences would think of him. One digging season a student had arrived at Magadi in an outfit something like this, and Julia asked if he was looking for a golf course. He hadn’t lasted long at the camp.

  Thinking of Julia reminded Essie that the man sitting in front of her was not welcome here at Magadi Gorge. The funds from Frank Marlow that had been used on the jeep and other expenses could have been given to the Lawrences. If Diana hadn’t come to the rescue, the diversion of funds would have been disastrous. On the other hand, the stranger had been so kind and concerned.

  Essie stared down at the floor, trying to sort out her conflicting emotions. The concrete had been recently mopped; a swirly pattern of dust had been left behind when the water evaporated. There was no sign of a houseboy or other staff; the man must have cleaned up the abandoned house himself. She wondered how long he was pl
anning to stay here.

  Lifting her gaze, she scanned the room. The stone walls, once painted white, were rosy with dust and tracked with brown termite trails. Only rotten threads of green-and-white checked curtains hung at the windows; pieces of new mosquito gauze had been taped over two of the openings. On a card table was a pair of binoculars, a folded map and a tube of toothpaste. There was a jar, its glass clouded with age, holding a sprig of a desert rose.

  Turning to look behind her, Essie saw two stainless steel cases of the kind used for camera equipment. They were covered in airline labels, and each bore a DO NOT X-RAY sign. Propped in the corner of the room was an ex-army kitbag, a tartan blanket spilling from the open top. There was a patch of white paint on the canvas side covered in black writing. It looked like a name, followed by several crossed-out addresses. Craning her neck, Essie was able to pick out the largest letters.

  Carl Bergmann.

  It was a name that would have suited someone Nordic, as blonde as Essie – not this dark-haired man. She turned back to face her companion. Since she now knew his name it seemed the right time to share her own.

  ‘I’m Essie Lawrence. From Magadi Research Camp.’

  ‘Carl Bergmann,’ he responded. Unable to shake hands, he just nodded. ‘I know your family, of course.’

  ‘I’m married to Ian,’ Essie said, in case he was mistaking her for a real Lawrence. She found she wanted to add more, to show that she was not just a wife. ‘I am a paleoanthropologist as well.’

  Carl didn’t react – he was busy juggling the bottle while adjusting Mara’s position in his arms. Essie wondered if he was married, too, and a father. He’d been as rattled as she was when Mara was screaming, but now he looked quite relaxed as he fed her. Perhaps the Thai mother wasn’t his only source of information about handling babies. If he did have a family, Essie felt sorry for them – they’d been left behind somewhere while he did his work. This scenario was common among professionals, Essie knew. It was precisely the life that she and Ian had rejected. She decided not to pursue the topic of her role at Magadi, in case it became awkward. It had happened before. Some visitors to the research base, who had spouses back at home, seemed to be confronted by watching a husband-and-wife team at work, as if it raised questions about the choices they had made for themselves.