‘The Bwana is returning,’ she would announce. ‘Make certain you are ready to begin work.’
She wouldn’t linger there. She didn’t want to get drawn into the question of what kinds of jobs they were going to be asked to do.
As she gathered up cot sheets and pillowcases, Essie thought back over last night’s scheduled radio call. The wind had dropped and conditions had been perfect for a clear transmission. It was just as well, since Ian had a lot of news to convey. His contact at the BBC had finally confirmed that a film crew was going to fly back to Magadi with him and Diana. The negotiations were one of the reasons the trip had been extended. The crew was going to record the excavation of the erectus from the very start. It would be like when the Leakeys found the skull of Johnny’s Child; the television audience, watching from their sitting rooms, would feel as if they were right in the midst of the action.
Essie didn’t interject to remind Ian that he’d promised a different approach to the work in the cave. The whole issue was overshadowed in her mind by the loss of Mara. When there was a moment of space, she told Ian what had happened. The facts, broken up into pieces for transmission, had sounded as bald and brutal as they felt.
‘The Hadza came back early. They’ve taken Mara away.’
There was a short silence – just static on the airwaves. Essie could feel Ian struggling to shift his focus.
‘I’m so sorry, Essie. It must have been a shock,’ he’d said eventually.
He was full of sympathy, then. He understood how bereft Essie must feel. He was sorry that he wasn’t there to comfort her. But behind his words Essie could hear the note of relief. A baby at the camp – black or white – didn’t fit into the scene Ian wanted to present to the world. He hadn’t lingered on the subject for long; he thought it was best for Essie not to dwell on her distress. He’d moved on to an account of visiting Cambridge.
‘Your father is doing well.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Of course, he was disappointed you didn’t come, too.’
Now it was Essie’s turn to be silent. She bit her lip as Ian added that he’d told Arthur his daughter would come next time.
‘And you will,’ Ian said. ‘Now that you are free again.’
Essie stared at the receiver as if she could see, and not just hear, these last words.
‘Diana’s doing a wonderful job.’ Ian switched topics without a pause. ‘She’s completely at home with all the university people, the press – everyone.’
Essie listened to him with a sense of unreality. They were discussing a woman who was now her husband’s constant companion; probably his lover as well. What was going to happen when the pair got back here? Was Essie supposed to maintain the façade of a happy husband-and-wife team, in front of the visitors, with Diana watching on? It was impossible to imagine. Essie had no intention of being like Julia, accepting a marriage in which her husband was involved with someone else. Yet she seemed, already, to be doing just that. She thought of saying something to indicate how she felt, but she knew these transmissions weren’t private – anyone from the Ranger at Serengeti to the radio operator for St Joseph’s Mission could be listening in.
‘We’ll be home next Tuesday, then,’ Ian said next. ‘You need to make sure everything’s ready. Brief the staff.’
‘Yes. Sure, of course,’ Essie responded. She knew this was the time to let him know that at least a third of the Africans had left, and the ones who remained were not doing any work. But she simply didn’t have the energy to absorb his reaction. She decided she’d tell him during the next radio call; she might feel more ready for it then.
Fortunately, Ian hadn’t dwelled on this topic. He began enquiring about Julia – whether she was looking after herself. Eating. Working. Dressing properly. Essie couldn’t help thinking that his main concern was not so much his mother’s wellbeing as the issue of how Julia Lawrence was going to appear to the team from the BBC. Listening to Ian talk, Essie wondered if he’d changed during these last months. Had he been influenced by Diana? Or had he always been so focused on his own goals and his own feelings? It occurred to Essie that perhaps she’d been so intimately involved with her husband – every strand of their lives entwined – that his thoughts and actions were like her own. She had been too close to actually see what was in front of her.
Crossing to the change table, Essie stood still, gazing at the mobile. The hanging shapes looked so still, with no waving hands to set them in motion. Essie nudged the black plastic cat with her finger, watching it collide with the fiddle, then swing away. Baraka loved the mobile as much as Mara had. Several times Essie had seen him standing in here, looking at it. He was not interested in the nursery rhyme; he just liked the fact that the cow was jumping over the moon. The symbolism was powerful to him. Lengai had given the Maasai ownership of all the cattle in the world. Once, a Texan rancher had turned up at Magadi as part of a hunting safari. Baraka had overheard him boasting about how many heifers and steers he owned. The cook had informed the visitor that he was mistaken in his claims. The herds that grazed on his land actually belonged to the Maasai. Essie smiled at the memory. She understood why Baraka liked the nursery mobile. That a cow could be seen to dominate the moon – as much a source of life as the sun – ascribed ultimate power to his tribe’s most precious asset.
Essie untied the mobile and laid it on the bed. Instead of packing it away, she decided, she would give it to Baraka. She and Julia were planning a visit to the manyatta some time soon. As well as seeing the old cook, Julia wanted to meet up with Kisani. There was a lot for the two to talk about after all these years: not just the recent discovery of Robbie’s body, but also their shared memories of the little boy himself.
Upturning a basket onto the change table, Essie spread out an array of frocks, singlets and shorts. Among the pastel tones a splash of colour caught her eye. It was the bright-patterned dress that mirrored the one she had hanging in her own wardrobe. As she picked it up, memories came to her of the day the Maasai women had come to the camp, full of curiosity about the Hadza baby that had been taken in by the Bwana’s wife. She relived the moment when they had given her a new name, translating it from Maa into Swahili so she’d know what it meant.
Mama Mzuri.
The Beautiful Mother.
Essie held the miniature dress up to her face, feeling the soft fabric against her skin. It didn’t smell of Mara – only of the soap Tembo had used to launder it – yet it still seemed to carry with it some essence of the baby. She didn’t want to part with it.
With the dress in her hand, she left the nursery. She headed along the path that led to the tent she shared with Ian. Rudie followed her, sticking close on her heels. Ever since the departure of Simon and Mara, he’d been uneasy. Essie wanted to convey to him that the two were not lost somewhere, in need of rescue. All was as it should be. But she knew a dog was not easy to fool. Even if she managed to sound convincing, Rudie would pick up on her mixed emotions. All she could do was stroke his head, easing the lines from his brow.
Unzipping the tent, Essie breathed the familiar smell of the place – shoe polish, canvas and a hint of Imperial Leather soap. She hadn’t been in here since the evening of the day she and Simon had found the cave; she’d already moved some clothes and other items into the nursery so she hadn’t needed to return. Now, as she stepped inside, she saw evidence of Ian’s speedy departure – Kefa hadn’t found time to tidy up in here; he had too much to do, helping cover Baraka’s workload. There was a single shoe in the middle of the floor. A pair of socks rolled into a ball lay on the bed. Beside it was a flared tie with a lurid paisley pattern. It had been a thank-you present from a visitor, Essie recalled. The female historian had said she’d bought it in Carnaby Street, and it was the very latest fashion. Ian had shoved the tie into his bottom drawer; it was the last thing he would ever want to wear. Essie was surprised to see it had been unearthed now. He must have considered taking it to London.
H
er gaze passed over a formal shirt with a stiff collar, and then settled on an odd-looking hunting vest – too neatly tailored and made from fine cotton instead of sturdy twill – that she’d never seen before. Next to it was an array of bits and pieces that must have come from the pockets of Ian’s work clothes: a broken pencil, a scrap of paper, a piece of string and the sunglasses Diana had bought him when they’d met up in Arusha. Essie found herself viewing the collection of objects with the eyes of a stranger. They didn’t look as if they all belonged to the same person. She was reminded of her mother’s wardrobe – the way there was no sense of cohesion about the things that had been chosen. Perhaps Ian, too, had no idea of who he really was.
Essie walked over to where her suitcase was stowed on top of the wardrobe. Bracing to take the weight, she dragged it down onto the chest at the end of the bed. After struggling with the corroded locks, she lifted the lid. The smell of stale lavender and wool escaped. She looked at her old grey jumper with its coloured band of Fair Isle knitting. She trailed her fingers across a pretty, sleeveless dress that she’d brought from England but never worn. Then she touched a blue silk wrap of Lorna’s. It was too big to be used as a neck scarf but Essie hadn’t been able to bring herself to cut it up; the fabric looked so expensive. Her hand came to rest on the orange gown she’d put on for the Marlows’ visit. She pictured herself all dressed up, sipping champagne, talking to the visitors – trying to appear calm, when all she could think of was the baby she’d just deposited in the kitchen. She remembered putting on her leather apron before sitting on a stool by the fireplace and giving her flint-knapping demonstration. She’d made a replica of an erectus tool – a pear-shaped, double-sided hand axe. Ian had explained to the guests that not a single example of the Acheulean style had yet been found anywhere in Africa. But with extra funding, he’d hinted, it was only a matter of time before this deficit was corrected. Imagine if they could have known back then, Essie thought, that instead of digging up Homo erectus artefacts, the Lawrences would find a whole skeleton – perfectly preserved – that was representative of the species. The discovery was beyond their most optimistic dreams. Yet it had brought disharmony and division to Magadi, instead of joy.
Essie returned to the wardrobe, this time reaching inside it, locating her own version of the little dress she’d brought from the nursery. Taking it back to the bed, she pushed Ian’s clothes out of the way and then laid the two garments out, side by side. One big. One so tiny. At the sight of them lying there – the sleeves just touching – a wave of grief swept over her. She rubbed her eyes, warding off tears.
Placing Mara’s dress on top of hers, she folded them up together – the two merged into one, cloth lying against matching cloth, and seams against seams. She placed them in the suitcase beside the jumper and the evening gown. As she did so, she noticed her document wallet tucked into the corner. Her eyes lingered on the slim tan shape. Inside it – along with her passport and Tanzanian work permit – was the piece of card on which Carl had written his agent’s address.
You can always find me.
She pictured him standing on the shore of a lake, his tripod set up beside him. He was surrounded by the hectic sound and colour of a vast congregation of flamingos. She felt a longing to be with him that was so intense it was like physical pain. She wanted to tell him about Mara and Milena, and Simon. And hear him convince her that though it hurt so much, what had taken place was the best possible ending for the story.
Even if Essie had been able to find out where Carl was, she knew there would probably be no means of communicating with him. He wouldn’t return from the field until his assignment was either abandoned or completed, and there was no way to guess when that might be. There was also no way of knowing where he’d then go. One thing Essie was certain of, though. As soon as Carl had the chance, he’d print up all the portraits he and Essie had shot at the Mission house and send copies to her. The thought aroused a feeling of relief. She’d have an image of Mara’s face, then – every detail recorded on paper in tones of black and white. Something tangible she could hold in her hand.
Essie was about to close the lid of the suitcase but then she paused, scanning the contents. Aside from more articles of clothing, there were a few books, a pair of high-heeled shoes wrapped in brown paper, some unused medicines, spare stationery. The suitcase was almost full – yet these possessions were just the ones Essie didn’t actually use. Spread around various areas of the camp there were so many more things that were hers. Essie thought of how Simon had been able to simply walk away from this place. There was not a single item, back in his tent, that he really needed. What he valued – his bow and arrows – he could make or find again.
She remembered the Maasai workers – how they, too, had left the camp in a hurry. They owned more belongings than the hunter-gatherers, but still, not much. They’d carried just a few things tied up in a spare blanket. Their spears were angled over their shoulders; knives swung at their hips. Like Simon, they’d been free to depart, as soon as they decided to.
Essie pictured the way they had headed off into the korongos, moving with such a resolute step. Every one of the men was clear on where he was headed. They were returning to their tribe. The local Maasai knew where their manyatta was, since it had become a long-term base. The others would just aim for the region where their relatives were last known to have been. They’d ask around until they discovered where their homes were now located. When they finally reached the family manyatta, they’d be welcomed with singing and dancing. A goat might be killed for a feast. As greetings were exchanged, the new arrival might discover that a face was absent. Someone might have moved away. There could even have been a death, news of which had not yet travelled as far as Magadi. But the extended family – the tribe – would be there. And the sense of belonging was to be found wherever they were.
Essie gazed around her, not seeing the tent walls or the space beyond the entrance – but instead, scenes from her life. It was as if she was viewing a film played in reverse: the sequence began here in Magadi and reached back to Cambridge – to university halls; soggy camping grounds near archaeological sites; the cosy kitchen of the cottage, Arthur stooped over the stove. An empty bedroom; the stained yellow walls of the hospital; a gravestone daubed with moss . . .
The pictures were vivid and clear – but they weren’t what Essie was focused on. She was chasing a vision of another place, from much further back in her life. It was like trying to find snatches of a fading dream. There was the detailed memory of the muttonbirding that had been evoked by Carl’s photograph – but the rest of her recollections were a blur. As she homed in on them, they pulled away. The moments were so few, as well. Each fragment was already familiar – the crackle of a fire, a swell of laughter, the murmur of breaking waves, the lilt of voices in the dark. What Essie could grasp felt warm, intimate. There was a sense of comfort there. She trailed the impressions through her mind, straining for detail.
There had to be more . . .
She looked down at the contents of the suitcase. Almost without thought – on impulse – she picked up Lorna’s silk wrap and spread it out on the bed. She began forming a small pile of things in the middle. First came the folded mother-and-daughter dresses. The document wallet landed alongside them. Next was the jumper – warm and comfortable. And a novel she’d not found time to read. Moving away from the suitcase, she added some work clothes from her drawers; a nightie; some underwear. From beside the bed she chose a spare pair of shoes.
When she was done, she gathered the ends of the cloth together and tied a knot, forming a bundle that would fit inside her field rucksack. Lodging it under her arm, she took a last look around the tent, and walked out the door.
As she stepped into the mid-morning heat, a sense of relief washed over her. She was not going to be here when Ian and Diana returned with their entourage. She wouldn’t have to watch while the film crew invaded the cave, and feel caught between the Africans and the outside
rs – responsible, somehow, for Ian’s actions. She’d never again have to look across to the orange glow of the Palace at night and wonder about the shadows she could see. And she would not have to find a way to face still being here, in this place, now that Mara was gone. If she was running away, she didn’t mind. She wasn’t thinking about what she was leaving behind, but where she wanted to go.
She found Julia sitting in the Work Hut, smoking a cigarette. Her shirt was damp with sweat and there was a streak of red earth on her cheek. She looked up as Essie entered. As her eyes slid to the blue cloth bundle, she raised her eyebrows questioningly.
‘What have you got there?’
‘I’ve packed up some things,’ Essie said. ‘I’m going away.’
Julia looked mystified. ‘To London – to join Ian?’ She seemed unconvinced by her own question; she didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Where to, then?’
Essie took a breath. ‘I’ve decided to go back to where my mother came from. Rocky Bay. I want to find her family and ask them about her. I want to understand who she really was. Who I am . . .’
There was a short silence. Essie waited for Julia to start arguing against the plan. There were practical barriers to making a trip from Magadi to Tasmania. But that was not all. Julia would be able to give voice to a whole list of doubts – ones that were already brewing in Essie’s own head. She knew Essie hadn’t been back to the island since she was a child, and that her mother’s illness and death had cast a shadow over her past. Julia could point out that any relatives Essie found would be complete strangers to her. She might find they had nothing in common. And who was to say that Lorna’s family would want to make any space in their lives for Essie? If everything turned out badly, Essie would be completely alone, far from anyone she knew . . .
The Beautiful Mother Page 42