She took a step back, shaking her head. ‘Wait. Just a minute.’ She saw Milena stiffen, then heard Simon reassure her.
Essie blotted out everything around her, except for Mara. She cradled the baby in her arms, letting her eyes travel over her, memorising every detail. The roundness of her cheeks; the curve of her rosy-purple lips; the tip of her tongue peeping between her gums. There was a crust of salt, left by dried tears, in the corner of her eye . . .
The image blurred as Essie’s own eyes swam with unshed tears. She bent her head over the baby, hugging her close, feeling the supple body moulding into hers. When she finally spoke, her voice little more than a whisper, she pictured her words reaching deep inside Mara, lodging in her heart.
‘I love you, my little one. I will always love you.’ Essie broke off, gasping back a sob. ‘Be safe. Be good. Be happy.’
Simon came to stand next to her. He stroked the baby’s head, talking softly to her. He sounded calm, almost bright. Essie knew that he, like her, was being brave for Mara’s sake.
Essie walked back to Milena, each step like a blow to her soul. The woman, though tall for a Hadza, was shorter than she was; Essie had to stoop to transfer Mara into her arms. The women’s shoulders bumped together; their heads touched. Essie breathed the Hadza’s musky, smoky scent.
‘Mara, this is Milena.’ The words were torn from Essie’s throat, but she managed to keep her voice steady. ‘She is going to look after you.’
Mara gave Milena a broad grin. Her face displayed the brimming confidence of a child accustomed to being loved and admired. Milena smiled back, a light burning in her dark eyes. For what felt like a long time, she just gazed down at the baby. Essie was aware that Kefa and Daudi had arrived, along with some other people from the workers’ camp. There were soft murmurs as subdued conversations were held.
Milena shifted Mara into the crook of one arm, then began trying to remove the white dress.
‘She can keep it,’ Essie said to Simon. ‘And tell her she can take what she wants from the nursery.’
‘A Hadza baby does not need anything,’ Simon responded.
‘I know, but still . . .’ Essie wanted, suddenly, to send Mara off with at least some of her possessions. It would make Essie feel that she was taking a piece of her life at Magadi along with her.
‘Milena will tie a string of plaited grass around her waist,’ Simon said gently. He pointed to where Mara’s baboon pelt and sling were lying on a chair. ‘That is all she needs.’
Essie turned to Milena, who was now struggling to undo a set of hooks and eyes. Essie reached automatically to take Mara back and help remove the dress. But she knew that if she had the baby in her arms again, she might never let her go. She hesitated, her hands outstretched, her mind a haze of distress. Then Julia stepped forward. Undoing the fastenings, she eased the open neck up over Mara’s head. The soft fabric snagged on the tough skin of her hands as she pulled it free. She folded the dress and pushed it into her trouser pocket.
Essie gazed at the baby lying in Milena’s arms, naked but for her string of eggshell beads. Mara was still smiling happily. With one hand she reached for Milena’s ear; the other rested on the mound of her breast. A faint smile touched Essie’s lips. It was so obvious that Mara belonged there, with this woman who looked like a grown-up version of herself. The two had the same skin, the same hair. They were part of the same world.
Nandamara approached Essie. He reached for one of her hands, enfolding it in a leathery grasp. As she looked into his eyes, lids drooping and the whites yellowed with age, thoughts swarmed in her head – plans, suggestions, promises. She wanted to ask if the family would definitely still be returning to the Painted Cave when the rains came. If perhaps they could stay there for a while. But she already knew the Hadza didn’t plan their lives like this. And she’d always promised herself, and Mara, that when this day of parting came, she would let go completely and freely – so they could both move forward into their own futures.
Essie held her breath, keeping all these thoughts in their place – locked inside her. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She bowed her head. She could hardly bear to look at Mara. If she was going to hold her composure, she knew this farewell could not be stretched out.
‘Tell them . . .’ she said to Simon, choking on the words. ‘Tell them to leave.’
As he passed on what she’d said, Milena reached out, touching Essie’s arm. The contact was light, brief. Then the hand pulled away.
Nandamara stepped back outside the Work Hut, bending his head against the wind. Milena picked up the fur and the sling. As she was about to turn away, Mara’s face spun round, seeking Essie – the baby reached out her hands, grasping at the air.
When Essie didn’t respond, Mara’s eyes widened with anxiety. She began to struggle in Milena’s arms.
Essie managed a smile. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Milena will take good care of you.’
Inside her heart was breaking. Every fibre of her body wanted to take her baby back.
She’s not your baby.
Simon murmured something to Milena; she began walking away.
Mara started to cry. At first it was just a whimper of protest but with each step Milena took the sound grew louder and more urgent. It wasn’t the cry of annoyance Mara made when she didn’t get what she wanted. The baby was afraid.
Essie turned to Simon. All her emotions were mirrored on his face. The screams ran on, floating back to them. Rudie bounded after the departing figures, but then stopped and looked back, his head tilted in confusion.
Essie stared around her, almost in panic. The sound of Mara screaming was too much to bear. Yet she could not intervene. She turned to Simon.
‘I can’t bear this . . .’
Her voice trailed off as she saw that he was holding something out to her: the field guide he’d been studying. Essie’s hands rose automatically, taking hold of it. With his own hands now free, Simon started unbuttoning his shirt. The look on his face was one of surprise, as if his actions were running ahead of his thoughts.
Soon he was wearing only his shorts. From his belt hung a sheath, holding his hunting knife. With his chest bare, and no shoes on, he resembled the departing Hadza much more than he did a Magadi Research Camp worker.
Simon called out to Nandamara. The old man stopped, then turned around. Milena followed his example. They’d only gone a short distance and Essie could see the torn emotions on their faces: they didn’t want to bring Mara back; but to them, too, the baby’s distress was intolerable. Simon called to Nandamara again. Words travelled between them. At the sound of the voices – one strange, but one deeply familiar – Mara’s cries quietened. Next, a discussion took place between the old man and Milena. Essie sensed that Simon, standing next to her, was holding his breath as he waited to hear their response.
Finally, Nandamara raised his hand in a welcoming gesture. Simon turned to Essie. They didn’t hug or shake hands. A stillness enveloped them, dense with the memories of all that they had shared. The moment passed quickly; Simon shifted his gaze in the direction of the Hadza. As he said goodbye to Essie, she could feel that a part of him was already on his way towards them – leaving behind his old life and joining Mara in hers.
Soon, Simon was walking in between Nandamara and Milena, heading past the orange tent, aiming for the korongos. He was holding one of Mara’s hands, Essie saw, her short chubby arm forming a link between him and the woman at his side. No sound carried back from the baby. Everything was quiet. The three were like figures in a slow-motion film, their bodies almost suspended in time. Clinging to the last glimpse of them, Essie walked out of the hut. She kept them in view for a little longer. But finally they blended into the landscape, and were gone.
Essie stared in disbelief. The whole episode had taken place so quickly and without warning. It felt like an aberration that would soon be corrected. Everything would go back to normal. But then the harsh truth broke through. Her baby was gone. S
he might never see her, touch her, hear her, ever again.
Essie sagged to her knees as if all her strength had departed along with Mara. She bent over, her hair hanging down, shrouding her face. Her hands pressed into the ground. She felt she was disintegrating, falling away into nothing. There was no boundary between herself and the earth beneath her. The pieces of her would merge into the particles of sand and be lost forever.
Then, as she gave in to the sensation of falling, she felt two arms wrapping around her, lean but strong – pulling her back to reality.
Julia knelt beside Essie, rocking her gently, stroking her hair. She didn’t say anything. She just held her, as if she understood that there could be no words, at least for now – no comfort or advice. All Julia had to offer, and all that was needed at this moment, was her presence.
Essie turned her face to the older woman’s chest and sobbed. As Julia tightened her arms around her shoulders, Essie clung to her. Julia began to cry as well – a high keening sound, like the call of a bird on the wing, broke from her lips. Grief flowed between the two – old pain and grief meeting fresh, sharp loss. Their bodies heaved together, faces pressed skin to skin, tears blending with tears.
TWENTY-THREE
Essie walked slowly around the nursery. Each step she took was an effort – like wading through mud – but she pushed herself to keep moving. She was collecting up toys, clothes, bottles, tins of unused formula – everything that was connected with Mara. It was unbearable to have these things still here, now that the baby was gone. Even with the door zipped shut and the window coverings folded down, Essie could sense their existence from the most distant corners of the camp. So far this morning she had already packed two large baskets and placed them by the door. A third stood half full by the bed. Once the tent was stripped bare she hoped to feel stronger and more able to concentrate on her work. There was a lot to be done before Ian and Diana returned with the first entourage of visitors. Their trip had been extended twice already – but now, within a week, they would be back.
Essie wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed since Simon and Mara left. The first few days had been a blur. She and Julia had spent many long hours together – neither of them could face the isolation of their tents. They talked about Mara and Robbie, but their conversations were disjointed, often fading into painful silence. Time moved slowly, as if life itself had wound down. Essie felt numb inside; when she bumped her elbow against the table edge, she was almost surprised to feel pain. She felt as if she was wrapped in a dense cocoon, half prison and half refuge.
The nights were the hardest. As Essie lay awake listening for the soft rhythm of Mara’s breathing, or a whimper sparked by a dream, she heard instead just the lonely call of the night birds. Hot tears trailed back over her temples and into her hair. When she finally slept, there was no waking cry to send her fumbling for the lamp and reaching for the bottle. And when the morning finally dawned it brought with it the harsh knowledge that what might have been just a nightmare was true.
But with each day, the sense of loss receded a fraction. Essie glimpsed the horizon beyond the dark cloud that filled her consciousness. She could see that Julia was making the same progress. The pair began to eat again, and to talk in longer bursts. They were like dancers moving together to the same music, taking turns to lead. Two steps forward, before the one that led them back.
Now, while Essie was packing up the nursery, Julia was up behind the parking area, preparing the ground for a garden plot. She’d announced her intention that morning after breakfast. Instead of instructing staff to do the work, she was wielding a pickaxe herself. Essie had watched her for a while, observing her firm grip on the handle and the bunch of her arm muscles. She appeared younger somehow, carrying out this hard labour, than she usually did, as though her body was thriving on the new challenge. Looking on, Essie had a sense that the act of turning the soil might be linked in some way with Robbie. Julia didn’t want his body to be buried at Magadi beside his father. She said that if the erectus had not been in the cave – soon to become the centre of research activity – she’d rather he could just stay in the place where he’d rested peacefully for so long. She wasn’t preoccupied with Robbie’s physical remains, Essie realised. What mattered to Julia was that she now knew his story. So far she’d shown no interest in finding an alternative site. Essie wondered if this garden plot was the memorial she had chosen, perhaps unconsciously, for her son – instead of a grave, a place for burying seeds and looking towards new life.
Standing at one corner of a large rectangle marked out with string, Julia had told Essie what she intended to grow. She was going to irrigate by piping water from one of the pools. It sounded so simple that it seemed surprising no one at Magadi had ever bothered to plant crops before. But then, there had been no spare time or energy to spend on something that wasn’t vital. After all, it was perfectly possible to live on tinned and dried food, plus the supplies from the Maasai, and for everyone to spend their days in the korongos digging for buried fossils.
Essie collected up a pile of nappies, trying not to think of how she’d folded them, ready for use – achieving that perfect kite shape that was now second nature to her. As she carried them to the basket, they were heavy in her arms. She felt a deep sense of exhaustion. At the same time, though, she was wide-awake; some part of her on full alert. She was sure there were important things she’d forgotten to do. The question of what they were nagged at her. Then she remembered. There were no urgent, vital tasks that she’d neglected to carry out. The responsibilities that had filled her days had evaporated away. There was just a gulf of nothingness left behind.
A feeling of panic rose up to fill the void. Essie had to pause, taking a breath.
‘She’s fine. Simon is with her. She’s okay.’
She repeated the words like a mantra. As she did this, she conjured an image of Simon holding Mara in his arms. She focused on the details – the way the baby’s head rested against his chest; the swing of her arm, flopping down; his steady, foot-sure step. She recalled the look she’d seen in Milena’s eyes as she gazed at Mara – the raw longing, giving way to relief and hope. Essie imagined Mara feeding at her new mother’s breast. She didn’t let herself wonder whether the adjustment had been easy or difficult – she dwelled on the fact that Mara was always happy and accommodating; and that when she was hungry, she’d want to drink. Essie guessed Nandamara’s group would have met up with their other travelling companions by now. Simon may have been introduced to them by his real name, Onwas. She pictured a line of people trailing across a hillside, talking to one another, pointing out landmarks, perhaps choosing a place to spend the night. A scene from Mara’s life, as it was always meant to have been.
Essie stacked a nest of cubes, one inside another, and put them in the basket. Next, she found the grey plush elephant. As she turned it over in her hands, she felt a rush of pain. She imagined that the misshapen trunk might still feel damp to the touch. One eye was gone. Essie remembered the frantic search that had taken place after she’d discovered the button was missing. She was so afraid Mara might have swallowed it. She’d been forced to ask Julia what it would mean if she had.
‘Nothing,’ Julia had replied. ‘Babies are tougher than you think.’
Though the remark sounded harsh and uncaring, Essie had found it reassuring. She’d glimpsed, in that exchange, a vision of how life with a baby was meant to be: a young woman turning to her mother, sharing skills and knowledge that had their roots in her own first years. She had allowed herself a fantasy in which Lorna was here at Magadi. It was not the sad, sick woman who’d lived in England that Essie pictured. It was a different version of her mother: happy, alive; like the person in the swimming costume, rising from the sea.
Essie placed the elephant gently in the basket, nestling it into position as if it was something alive. The next item she picked up was the nursery first-aid kit. Inside, she knew, was the box of sticking plaster she’d torn open on
e morning when she discovered Mara had a cut on her leg – somehow it must have been caught on a thornbush. Again, Essie had been in a mad panic. Caring for a baby seemed to be as much about anxiety and fear as it was about smiles and cuddles. She had washed the cut over and over, applying iodine so generously that it spilled onto the ground. The injury had looked, to Essie, so much bigger than it was. She felt negligent and guilty – she’d been given a baby who was perfect and precious and had failed to keep her safe. After dabbing the cut dry, Essie had covered it with some sticking plaster. The pink strip was eye-catching against Mara’s black skin. It immediately captured the attention of the Maasai women when they came to sell their eggs. At first they thought it was some kind of talisman – a white woman marking her black baby with a piece of her own skin. When the purpose of the plaster was explained, they were bemused. How will the skin heal, they asked, when it’s hidden from the sunshine? As it turned out, they needn’t have worried; the plaster wasn’t in place for very long. Dust started to cling to the sticky edges. It soon looked so dirty and ragged that Essie had pulled it off. Baraka, watching on, had grabbed the relic from her and tossed it into the fire. Looking back now, Essie knew that the accident would never have happened in more recent times. She’d developed a sixth sense about exactly how much space the baby took up. It was as if Mara’s body had become an extension of her own. No wonder she now felt as if part of herself was missing.
Essie dropped the first-aid kit into the basket. Taking a breath, she looked around the nursery. She was making very slow progress. Every object she came upon seemed to have a story to tell. She would have to take control of herself – this was not the only task she had to achieve today. She needed to go over to the staff camp and try to mobilise the workers. She would have to get someone to turn off the radio and summon people from their tents.
The Beautiful Mother Page 41