The Beautiful Mother

by Scholes, Katherine

  ‘What are you going to be doing here?’ Essie enquired instead. Ian would be keen to know, when he got home. He’d also be interested in whether Carl Bergmann had approached Frank Marlow, or vice versa – either way, though, the newcomer was trespassing on the Lawrences’ territory. ‘You’re an ornithologist, I’m guessing.’

  Carl shook his head. ‘Not really. I’m a photographer. I do some ethnographic work – that’s why I was in Thailand that time. But I specialise in birds.’

  Essie tried to place his accent. It sounded like a blend of different tongues that she couldn’t identify. ‘You missed seeing the flamingos arriving.’

  He nodded regretfully. ‘The funding only just came through. I got here as soon as I could. The aim is to document the breeding. The government is talking about building a soda factory on the lake here, like the one in Kenya. It would be a disaster for the species. That’s why I wrote to Frank Marlow about it. Someone has to get shots of the nesting. It’s hard to protect something that no one has ever seen.’

  Essie wasn’t sure how to respond. She assumed the photographer already knew just how difficult it was going to be for him to succeed with his plan. Lake Magadi was the only place in the world where the lesser flamingos nested, and they chose the location – out of all the soda lakes in the East African Rift Valley – for one very good reason. In the dry season a lot of the water evaporated, leaving an island of mud in the middle. It was surrounded by what remained of the lake: water so concentrated with salt it was like acid. In effect, it formed a moat around the breeding grounds. Beyond it lay a wide expanse of hard, dried salt. Flamingos had evolved thick skin on their legs, so they were able to wade in the water, but hyenas, jackals and other predators could not. The only threat on the island came from marabou storks and vultures that swooped in from the air. With the difficulties of crossing the saltpan, and then the corrosive water, no human had ever, yet, been able to view the nests and chicks except from a plane.

  The Maasai didn’t even believe the birds came from eggs. Each year, they saw them emerge from the shimmering heat haze of the lake in vast throngs. The parents synchronised their breeding so the baby birds were all the same age and were able to be marched together across the saltpan like some massive kindergarten group, shepherded by a few adult guardians. Safety in numbers was their key to survival. Due to the grey-white colour of the juvenile feathers, the Maasai believed Lengai had formed the birds from salt. No one yet had been able to prove to them that they were wrong. The last ornithologist to try had been flown to hospital with serious burns on his legs where water had leaked over the top of his gumboots.

  Essie found herself peering down at Carl Bergmann’s bare feet. Where most people had a white sock mark, his were the even brown of someone who spent lots of time with no shoes on. Even if the man didn’t go anywhere near the lake, he was risking other dangers. Essie looked up, eyeing him doubtfully.

  ‘Do you live here in Africa?’

  ‘Sometimes. It just depends where I’m working.’ He smiled. ‘I’m a nomad – like the flamingos.’

  Essie nodded. So he didn’t have a family, then. He was one of those professionals who lived only for their work. It was a status she understood and respected.

  Carl was smiling down at Mara now – she’d finished her bottle and was pulling off one of her booties. His eyes creased at the corners, and a line formed down both his cheeks. He was lean, Essie noticed, as well as being tall.

  ‘What’s her name?’ Carl asked.

  ‘Mara. After her grandfather.’

  Essie guessed he thought the baby was adopted – that the Lawrences had visited an orphanage and picked out a child to fill the gap left by their inability to conceive. ‘I’m looking after her,’ she explained. ‘Just for the dry season. She belongs to a tribe of Hadza. Her mother died giving birth to her.’

  Bergmann raised his eyebrows as he absorbed her words. Essie waited for him to ask the predictable questions and raise the obvious concerns. Instead he just touched Mara’s hand. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘About two months.’

  ‘She is so beautiful.’ He sighed, settling back in his chair. It was as if the need to talk was now finished – and this was the final truth.

  Essie relaxed in her own chair. She was silent as well. From the lake came a dulled blur of honking, peeping and singing – the sound of the multitudes of flamingos. Overhead the tin roof creaked in the heat. The whole situation felt unreal – the house, the man, the Hadza baby, the pram parked outside. And all this was on the back of the inexplicable turnaround in the fortunes of the Lawrences. After years of a predictable existence at Magadi, one unexpected event now seemed to follow another like a chain reaction. It was as if the world had been tilted from its axis, and now anything could happen.

  TEN

  Two-dozen white squares patterned the tufted grasses that surrounded the washing pool. Essie surveyed them with a satisfaction that felt out of proportion to what they were: clean, almost-dry nappies being sterilised by the strong rays of the sun. Not far away, on a line hung between two stunted trees, was a row of little dresses, bibs, bunny rugs and plastic pants. Essie pictured the guest tent – which was now known as the ‘nursery’ – back at the camp. The dirty laundry buckets were all empty; previously washed nappies and clothes were folded away in the drawers; Mara’s cot had been made up with fresh sheets. Everything was in order.

  Essie smiled across at Kefa. He stood with his arms crossed, gazing out over the expanse of white. It had been he who had discovered that one of the staff knew the purpose of the odd galvanised tool sent by Babyland. It was a washing implement. The idea was to press the metal cone down onto an item soaking in a bucket, causing water to be forced through the fabric. Openings in the cone allowed the trapped water to escape. After a few energetic pushes, all dirt was lifted from the fabric without the need for anyone to touch it with their hands. Now that the tool was in use there were plenty of volunteers for the role of nursery launderer. It was pleasant working here by the pools compared to being in the korongos, exposed to wind, dust and sun. A young Chagga man called Tembo, from one of the sieving teams, had been given the role. A small deep pool fed by a hot spring had been selected for his use. A stony area some distance away was perfect for disposing of contaminated water. Tembo was there now, emptying out his buckets.

  ‘I can’t think of anything else we have to do,’ Essie told Kefa. She ran through a mental list, covering not just the nursery but the Work Hut, Dining Tent, the staff quarters – the whole camp. Assuming Baraka had managed to find something to serve for supper, everything was in place for Ian and Julia’s imminent return.

  The trip to Arusha had been extended twice. The pair had been gone for nearly two weeks now – but it felt like much longer. Essie hadn’t been able to get used to their absence. She was reminded of a centipede waving its feelers constantly, searching for boundaries and obstacles that were not there. She told herself she should feel carefree and relaxed, left on her own – instead it was as if she’d been cut adrift and had lost her bearings. Essie hadn’t realised how completely Ian and Julia dominated the world of Magadi – with their expectations, idiosyncrasies, shared history, even their moods. Without them, Essie was in a vacuum.

  It was hardly surprising she felt this way. In the five years she had been here she’d barely been apart from them. And it was not as if she’d had a very independent life even before that. When she was at university, doing what all the other students did – going to parties and concerts, making shopping trips to London, as well as studying – she was always conscious of feeling responsible for her father. For a long period after Lorna’s death he’d been ill – falling prey to every passing infection. It was as if the dark spirit that had plagued his wife for so long had leapt from her shoulder as death approached, taking possession of him instead. He wasn’t able to visit digs or even give lectures. Instead he spent hours sitting at his desk – not reading or writing, just gazing out over the
front garden with its narrow winding path. Essie used to watch how he raked the gravel with his eyes as if somewhere among the stones was the answer to a deep and burning question. She didn’t like to think of him passing his days like this – solitary and unwell – so she made sure she considered him in all her daily plans. Arthur eventually became stronger again and returned to work, but he never regained full health. Essie’s habit of being always mindful of his wellbeing lingered. With her mother’s needs, through all the years of illness prior to her death, and then those of her father, the demands on Essie had been unrelenting. The truth was that she had never been a person on her own.

  Of course, she was not alone now, either. There were lots of people at Magadi – Simon, Baraka, Kefa, Daudi and all the other staff. And there was Mara. The baby’s presence filled every moment of Essie’s day and a fair portion of the night as well. But it was still different to having Ian and Julia here.

  Leaving Kefa to supervise Tembo, Essie headed back towards the camp. As she ambled along the path, she was followed by Tommy. He bleated loudly. Since Mara’s arrival a plaintive note had crept into his voice, and there was often an accusing look in his eyes. Simon said it was a good thing if the gazelle felt he’d been displaced; it was time for him to grow up and return to his own kind. Essie knew her assistant was right, but she still felt guilty. She carried bread crusts around in her pocket so she could offer Tommy regular treats.

  Mara was in the leather sling, swinging gently at Essie’s hip as she took each step. Essie’s spine curved to compensate for the extra weight. It seemed second nature to her already, as if the baby had become an extension of her own body. Glancing down, Essie saw that Mara was now wide-awake. Her eyes were fixed on Rudie, who was strolling along beside them. She had one finger hooked over her lower lip. She was calm and relaxed. Over the last few days Essie’s attempt at forcing a routine had been abandoned. The baby had been allowed to wake and feed and sleep whenever and however she chose. Near the end of the afternoon, when she tended to be unsettled, Essie massaged her body like the photographer had done, before offering her a bottle. She also made sure Mara spent a lot of time outdoors; she seemed happier there than shut up inside a tent. As a result, the baby now barely cried at all.

  Essie found it hard to match her with the screaming infant that had prompted the frantic rush to the Mission house. She thought back to the time she’d spent there with Carl Bergmann – how he had responded so warmly to Mara. She remembered the two of them just sitting like devotees at a temple, admiring the baby – the tiny features, so finely formed; the darkness of her skin that seemed to highlight the perfect contours of her nose, chin and brow.

  The interlude had seemed timeless. But the angle of the sun, reaching in through the dusty windows, had been a reminder that the afternoon was dwindling. After Mara had finished the bottle and had her nappy changed, Carl had offered to drive Essie home. She had accepted gratefully. While she climbed into the passenger seat, lodging the baby on her lap, Carl lifted the pram onto the back of the jeep. Looking over her shoulder as they lurched away over the rough track, Essie watched the fringe on the canopy blowing in the breeze. She smiled to herself at the thought of how incongruous the sight would be, for anyone who saw them pass by.

  On the way back to the camp Essie tried to work out how to avoid asking Carl to stay for a cup of tea. The rules of hospitality out here in the bush required her to offer, but she wasn’t sure how the Africans would view her entertaining a man while her husband was away. They were very old-fashioned in some ways. It was a relief when Carl said he had to return to the Mission house straightaway. He had tasks to complete by nightfall.

  As they stood by the jeep, shaking hands, Essie knew she was being watched. Baraka, Simon, Kefa and Daudi were all among the staff who’d come out to see the jeep arrive, and then lingered at a distance.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said politely.

  ‘It was no trouble.’ Carl’s tone matched hers.

  ‘Ian and Julia will be keen to meet you,’ she added. ‘Perhaps you could come for lunch one Sunday?’ She’d begun to think the Lawrences would change their attitude to Frank Marlow’s Flamingo Project. Carl Bergmann was going to be their neighbour, after all, for at least the next couple of months. It would be churlish to maintain their animosity, especially now that their future at Magadi was secure.

  ‘I’d like that,’ Carl said. ‘Just send someone over with a message.’

  Essie nodded. He’d already told her the Marlow Trust had arranged access to the house and provided some of what he’d require to live there – but they’d overlooked his need for a radio.

  As he said goodbye Carl rested his hand on Mara’s head. In response, she began blowing bubbles at him. Then she giggled as if she’d played a joke. The formal mood was gone in an instant. Essie and Carl both laughed with her. It was impossible not to.

  Essie had hugged Mara against her chest as she watched Carl drive away. When the jeep picked up speed, his hair blew back from his face and his shirt flapped against his body. Soon the vehicle was just a small black shape with a long cloud of dust stretching behind it like steam following a train. Then it was gone.

  The table was set for three, each place marked with a napkin rolled neatly and tucked into a ring. Ian and Julia had solid silver rings with engraved initials. The third one, Essie’s, was formed from brass wire and coloured beads – the work of a Maasai souvenir maker.

  Sitting in her chair, Essie fiddled with a fork, scoring lines in the white linen. Mara was asleep in her pram, parked not far away where she could be heard if she woke. The only noise for the moment was the fluttering of a moth caught in the flue of a lamp. The urgent sound mirrored Essie’s rising anxiety. She pushed out a breath through half-closed lips, trying to relax. She was looking forward to Ian and Julia’s arrival – after the long separation she wanted to be reunited with her husband, and to hear all about Arusha – but at the same time she was worried about how she was going to manage Mara when there were the others to consider. Also, Essie had nothing to show for the days that had gone by. The Sivatherium cranium was virtually untouched. Her father’s letter was nowhere near finished. Mara was generally contented now, due to Essie’s new approach, but caring for her still seemed to fill the whole day. Even when there were peaceful times, like now, Essie felt too tired to concentrate. How she was going to take part in the projects that were about to commence – meeting the rigorous standards of Magadi Research Camp – was a question she couldn’t even begin to tackle. Sometimes, as she collapsed in a chair, barely able to find the energy to move, she couldn’t help thinking how much easier it would be to look after a baby if there was a father involved. Of course, Mara was not Ian’s responsibility; Essie alone had made the promise to the Hadza. But even if Mara had been their own baby, she knew it was unlikely her husband would have taken on any of the laborious tasks. European men didn’t change nappies or prepare bottles or rock babies in the night. The attitude Carl had demonstrated was, as far as Essie knew, most unusual.

  She remembered how Nandamara had spoken about his granddaughter, and the ease with which the hunter – who’d just put down a haunch of zebra – had cradled the tiny baby in his arms. She knew the Hadza were an exception to the norm, in terms of African families. Baraka and Kefa had been helpful with Mara, but they probably saw that as part of their job. From what Essie had observed of the Maasai, as well as the other tribes, men didn’t have much to do with caring for babies. They left the task to the women and older children. Of course, childrearing was very different in their traditional societies. People lived in large extended families. No one was a mother on her own. And there was less work to be done. No nappies, for a start. No daily baths, or piles of clothes to launder. Even so, Essie wondered if the women wished their husbands were more involved.

  The best examples of fathering, Essie knew, were to be found in non-human species – birds, in particular. It was a matter of survival. A mother trying to hatch
eggs would starve to death unless her mate brought her food or took her place on the nest while she provided for herself. The young had to be cared for too. Some males even fed them from their own mouths. This shared parenting was just an outcome of evolution. Nevertheless, it seemed very civilised to Essie – thoughtful, and simply kind . . .

  Essie looked up from the table as Kefa entered the tent.

  ‘They have arrived,’ he announced.

  ‘You mean they are here – now?’ She’d expected some warning. Usually one of the boys from the manyatta climbed a tree so they could report the first glimpse of an approaching vehicle.

  Scraping back her chair, she got to her feet. ‘Stay with Mara, please.’

  With Tommy at her heels she strode off, ignoring the look on Kefa’s face. As the houseboy he should be waiting in the car park when the Bwana arrived – but that could not be helped.

  Hurrying towards the rear of the camp, Essie tidied her hair, smoothed her eyebrows and rubbed her lips together. She checked her shoulders for patches of dribbled milk.

  When she reached the turning circle, Ian was already standing beside the Land Rover. As he turned towards her, Essie was amazed to see he was wearing sunglasses. He’d always despised them, saying they obscured the small details that a researcher needed to notice. The sleek black frames and lenses suited him, though. In brand-new khakis and with a fresh haircut, he looked more like a film star than an archaeologist.

  Essie raised her hand in an awkward little wave. She felt almost shy, suddenly, as if she were meeting Ian Lawrence for the first time. He responded with a hasty smile. His attention was focused on the passenger side of the Land Rover. The sun glanced off the windscreen so the interior was just a blur. Essie peered past him, wondering why Julia was taking her time climbing out. Normally she was impatient to escape the confines of any vehicle; she resented wasting time on the road. A Maasai boy ran to open her door, standing to attention like a soldier.