‘You should have insisted they come to see us,’ Julia said. ‘They took advantage of you.’
Essie nodded. She wished she had done exactly that. Then she wouldn’t have felt personally responsible for the outcome. She was just glad the others didn’t know that she’d not even made a deliberate decision about the baby. She’d just nodded her head at the wrong moment, and then been caught up in a current that pulled her along. Julia would have handled it so differently. Essie had seen how strict she was in her dealings with the Maasai. She ran a weekly clinic for them as part of an agreement made back when the Archaeological Reserve was established. The herdsmen had to keep their cattle out of the area to avoid damaging potentially precious sites; in return Julia attended to minor injuries and illnesses. Whenever the deal was broken, she kept her medicine cabinet shut. And while the Lawrences helped with emergencies as best they could, she was never persuaded to feel accountable when people who needed hospital care had no way to get it.
Ian leaned towards Essie, placing his hand on her arm. ‘No one blames you for being emotional about a baby. And you haven’t been in Africa long. But the fact is, we can’t afford any distractions. Our only hope now is to find something important enough to get more government funds. We have to watch every shilling.’ Ian raked his fingers back through his hair. Essie could see the fear in his face. ‘If we don’t succeed, we really will have to close down.’
Julia lifted her head. Her eyes were hard splinters of light.
Ian stared around the room looking like a hunted animal searching for an escape. Seeing him like this – when he was usually so confident and in control – made Essie feel as if she was standing on the edge of a cliff. She wanted to scramble away from the edge but couldn’t see how to do it.
‘I can’t just take her back.’
‘You might not be able to find them if you did,’ Julia pointed out. ‘They’ve got what they wanted.’
Essie closed her eyes. She felt suddenly exhausted. It had been only this morning that she’d set off to the flint factory to pick out some stones. She could barely take in what had happened since then. One thing she knew for sure. She couldn’t be responsible for a baby for the whole of this crucial dry season. She had to be free to work hard alongside Julia and Ian to try to save Magadi. She remembered Diana saying how lucky she was, how others would envy her life. She didn’t want to lose what she had.
Essie glanced up at Ian. If she showed how much she needed him to take charge, perhaps he might rise to the occasion. It had happened before. She leaned towards him. ‘What can we do?’
She waited for him to bend his head, resting his chin in his hand. This was what he always did when he was thinking hard. The workers all knew not to interrupt him with questions or suggestions. They just squatted on their heels, out in the korongos, awaiting his instructions.
Ian started pushing a pickled onion around his plate with his fork. As the quiet lengthened, Essie turned to Julia. She was watching Ian, too. She always let him take the lead, as William had evidently done when he was alive. From what Essie gathered, the Lawrences’ marriage had been typical of their era. And William’s status as a man had been further enhanced by professional fame and a personal charisma that people still mentioned. Though times had changed (in England, if not here) Julia expected Ian to take his father’s place. It was as if – with her husband’s death – ultimate authority had to be passed to the next generation.
Finally, Julia broke the silence. Her tone was brisk. ‘I know what I would do. Give the baby to the Maasai. Pay one of the women to nurse her.’ Ian and Essie both turned to her. Their focus seemed to urge her on. ‘She’d be better off with them. The life would be more like what she’s going back to.’
Ian put down his fork. ‘That’s true. It makes much better sense than having her here.’ He looked at Essie. ‘You could visit her. Check she’s okay. I don’t think the Hadza could expect more than that.’
Essie ran through the conversation at the Painted Cave. The people feared their baby being sent out of the area, but the Maasai village – the manyatta – was nearby. Although the cattle-herders were normally semi-nomadic, the tribe in this area didn’t move around much. In fact, their substantial huts and thorn barricades hadn’t been relocated for many years. ‘It sounds like a good solution.’
‘We’ll ask Baraka to find someone,’ Julia said.
Essie smiled with relief. They could trust Baraka to choose a suitable foster mother. Caring. Kind. A woman who would carry the Hadza baby on her back all day and sleep with her at night.
‘I’ll get him now.’ Julia left the table, picking up one of the kerosene lanterns to light her way.
When she was alone with Ian, Essie reached across the table, touching his hand. ‘I’m sorry.’ She wasn’t sure exactly what she was apologising about – whether it was the baby, or the disappointment of Frank Marlow’s silence, or all the other let-downs the Lawrences had suffered over recent times. Perhaps it was just everything.
Ian gave her a wan smile. He looked tired, too. Essie wished they could retreat to their tent. The place had always been a haven for them – earlier on, when there were frequent visitors in the camp, and in these last few years when Julia’s undiluted company made them feel like a threesome rather than a couple. The canvas walls formed a barrier to the world outside, and the mosquito net around their bed created an intimate inner sanctum.
It didn’t take long for Julia to return. Baraka appeared beside her at the entrance to the tent, sharing the light of the single lantern. Essie’s eyes went straight to the bulging sling that was resting at his side. She thought of the baby, sleeping innocently, while her fate was being discussed. She could just see the top of her head emerging from the wrapping of fur.
Baraka scanned the table. ‘Do you need more food?’
‘That’s not why we’ve called you,’ Julia said.
The cook looked around for some other source of concern.
Ian cleared his throat. Then he began to lay out the plan they had in mind for the Hadza baby. He ran one sentence into the next, leaving no room for any questions or comments. Though Ian spoke in Swahili, Baraka seemed to be having trouble following. A deep line appeared between his eyebrows. He kept looking at Essie, even though Ian was the one addressing him.
When Ian was finished, he poured himself some more champagne as if preparing to celebrate finding a solution to at least one of the Lawrences’ problems.
‘You want a Maasai woman to become the mother of this Hadza baby?’ Baraka asked him.
‘She has to breastfeed her,’ Julia said. ‘Bottles aren’t an option in the manyatta. There must be someone ready to wean a toddler. We can provide the food for them.’
‘It’s only for a little while,’ Essie said firmly. ‘They have to give her back when the rains come.’
Baraka began shaking his head before she’d even finished. ‘They will not consider it.’
‘Why ever not?’ Julia demanded. ‘We will pay – money or cattle, whatever they prefer.’
Ian nodded, lending authority to the offer. Essie guessed he knew that the price negotiated would not be too high for his bank account to meet.
‘It is not a matter of payment.’ Baraka spoke carefully as though his words were like pieces of fruit to be turned over before being selected. ‘It is rare for a mother to take another woman’s baby to her breast. She will do it for one of her own tribe, of course. And it will happen when Maasai have been fighting and they want to make peace. A mother from each tribe is chosen. The women swap their babies. The mothers’ milk binds the agreement. They bring up the children as their own.’ He looked down into the sling. ‘This baby has nothing to do with us. She is not a Maasai.’
There was silence as the meaning of his words was digested.
‘Couldn’t you at least ask?’ Julia said.
It took Essie a moment to identify the emotion on Baraka’s face: it was not confusion but embarrassment. He hung his head, sp
eaking to the floor. ‘It would be an insult.’
Ian threw an olive pip onto his plate. ‘Bloody Maasai . . . You think the Hadza are beneath you! Like everyone else you ever meet.’
Essie looked at her husband in surprise. It was true the Maasai were famous for having a superior attitude to other tribes, but Ian wouldn’t normally state the fact openly like this. It showed just how annoyed and frustrated he was.
‘The Hadza are not like everyone else,’ Baraka said firmly. He must have decided to be blunt, too. His frank gaze swept between Ian, Julia and Essie as he continued. ‘These people have no cattle. Not even goats or donkeys. They have no manyattas. No spears, no cooking pots. They are nothing. They don’t even believe in God.’
As he finished his speech, Baraka drew himself up to his full height, pushing out his chest. In spite of his grey hair, it was easy to picture him as a spear-wielding warrior daubed in ochre paint. In the pause that followed, Essie noticed the drumming in the camp had increased in tempo.
‘Then maybe someone in the village would do it,’ Julia persisted. The settlement was further away than the manyatta, but not impossibly distant.
Baraka shook his head. ‘The Warangi look down on them, too. All the farming people do – the Wagogo, the Wachaga. Why would they not? The Hadza cannot grow crops. They feed like animals in the bush. And the others who have cattle – the Sukuma, the Barabaig – despise them as much as we Maasai do.’ He glanced down at the baby. ‘No one will take this child.’
Essie stared at him. ‘But you’ve been looking after her.’ She felt a flush of outrage. ‘You like her!’
Baraka gazed at her in silence. He seemed to be searching for an answer to give himself as well as her. Finally, he spread his hands. ‘She is a baby. Someone must help her.’
‘This is a Tanzanian baby,’ Julia said. ‘A Tanzanian should look after her.’
Baraka gave her a knowing look, indicating this new tack was not going to draw him in. Essie felt for the old cook; he was not accustomed to arguing with these people he’d served for most of his life. The implications of her decision to follow the Hadza hunters seemed to be spreading like tentacles that kept catching more prey.
Pulling the sling around so that the baby was in front of him, Baraka bent over, causing the opening to gape. Carefully he lifted the sleeping baby out. His hands were under her arms, fingers supporting her head. She was like a floppy doll, limbs dangling down. Her trunk seemed to lengthen, becoming impossibly thin; the bulky towel that stood in for a nappy hung precariously from her narrow hips. Baraka took her over to Essie, hovering by the chair until her weight was transferred. At the moment when he removed his hands, the baby opened her eyes. She stared around her, before fixing her gaze on Baraka. As he backed away, her mouth began to quiver. Then she whimpered as if in pain.
Essie jiggled the baby in her arms as she’d seen mothers do. She looked pleadingly at Baraka – but he just slipped the sling over his head and passed it to her. The whimper turned into a wail. Essie stared helplessly. The baby couldn’t be hungry yet. The nappy didn’t feel wet. The distress seemed to be caused by Baraka handing her over. There must be something familiar about his smell, his manner with her – perhaps it was the touch of an experienced father. But the baby had been content, earlier, in Essie’s care. That was why babies were so difficult to manage, Essie realised. They made no sense.
As the crying continued Ian stood up, but then seemed unsure what to do. He began pacing. Essie turned to Julia; she was a mother, after all. Julia was rolling a cigarette. Her fingers were clumsy. The tobacco fell to the floor.
Essie tried holding the baby close, but she wriggled and screamed even more loudly. Tears ran down her cheeks. Essie turned back to Ian. He was watching Julia, frowning with concern. His mother had abandoned the cigarette rolling; her hands were gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
Essie met Baraka’s gaze. He nodded almost imperceptibly towards the entrance of the tent. Pushing back her chair with her legs, Essie stood up. Throwing another look at Ian and Julia, she carried the baby outside.
Almost as soon as Essie left the tent the baby became still. It was as if the sudden darkness had distracted her. Or perhaps the night air playing over her skin soothed her. The cries became less frantic, and gradually died away. Then there were just brief silent sobs that made her chest heave. She seemed to be listening – perhaps waiting to see what the change of place would bring. Tipping back her head, she looked up into the sky. Essie followed her gaze. The last shadows of dusk had gone; the stars were bright pinpricks in a field of black. The moon was full and round with just a wisp of cloud travelling over its blue-patterned face. Essie lifted the baby against her shoulder. She could feel the strong neck craning to keep the sky in view. Essie rubbed the baby’s back, feeling the nubs of her spine, the splay of her shoulder blades. The little body began to relax, the head falling forward. A soft, warm cheek came to rest against Essie’s shoulder, printing tears onto her bare skin.
Essie tiptoed across the bedroom floor. On her side of the bed was a makeshift cot. The baby was sleeping there, almost hidden behind the draped mosquito net. Ian had brought a wooden box over from the Work Hut and added a couple of cushions to make a mattress. He’d set it down in reach of where Essie slept. The baby had not stirred as she was gently lowered inside. She was deep in slumber. Essie had fed her again, in the peace and quiet of the guest tent, while Ian and Julia were still at the dining table. This time Essie had tried slipping her finger into the baby’s mouth, along with the dribbled milk. When she began sucking, Essie brought in the teat. After a few more tentative sucks, the baby seemed to make the connection with the familiar sensation of breastfeeding. Before long she had drained the whole bottle.
Rudie was stretched out in his place at the foot of the bed. His sprawled body formed a monotoned pattern in the moonlight that shone in through the gauze window. As Essie approached he lifted one ear, his eyes remaining shut.
Ian took off his suit, dropping his crumpled jacket and trousers onto a chair. After removing his shirt and tie he stretched his neck, rolling his head, undoing the constriction of the formal clothes. Then he lifted up the net and sat on the bed. As Essie kicked off her shoes she was aware of him watching her intently. She tried to read his expression as she reached behind her to unzip her dress.
‘Stop. Leave it on,’ Ian said.
Essie paused, eyeing him in surprise. Then she walked towards him. Without her shoes the skirt was too long so she lifted it to avoid tripping. When she reached the bed Ian drew her against him, nuzzling his face into her breasts. He slid the straps over her shoulders. Undoing the zip, he eased down the bodice. Essie’s worn-out bra looked tatty beside the orange silk. She undid the clasp, letting it drop. Her skin glowed golden in the lantern light.
‘You look beautiful.’
Essie smiled. She hadn’t known what to expect of her husband when they finally made it to bed – a cool, punishing quiet, perhaps; or an exhausted few words then a turned back. Instead Ian pulled her down onto the bed. He ran his hands over her hips, the silk making his touch smooth and sensual. Then he lifted the skirt and moved on top of her. Their sweat-damp skin clung together. Ian sighed with pleasure. As Essie tilted back her head, he kissed her neck hungrily. Closing her eyes, she willed the tingling warmth to spring to life, travelling through her blood, setting her on fire. But nothing happened. She felt cut off from her body. She knew why. It was because of the baby being right there beside her. Her attention was focused on wondering if she was going to wake up, and what might happen then.
‘Are we safe?’ Ian whispered.
Essie nodded. He always asked, even if sometimes he must have known where she was in her cycle. She didn’t mind. It gave her a sense of power, knowing that she was the one protecting them both from something they did not want. As if evoked by this thought, a tiny murmur came from the cot. Essie caught her breath, waiting for more.
Ian’s head was a
bove hers, his face turned to one side, as he pushed inside her. He moved quickly, almost roughly – as if he could drive out all the fears and worries that had come between them. His breath shortened, then he reared up, gasping. In a sudden movement he pulled out of her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.
‘It’s okay,’ Essie responded. ‘I’m too tired anyway.’
As he collapsed back onto her she felt the slick wetness on her belly. Usually, when she said it was safe, he risked staying inside her. It wasn’t hard to guess why he’d been extra careful tonight.
Essie stroked the back of Ian’s head, running her fingers through his hair. After a short while, he rolled off her. He kissed her cheek. ‘Will she wake up, do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ Essie replied. She didn’t bother to pass on what the Hadza had told her. She is a good baby. It sounded ridiculous to her now – too simple to mean anything.
Ian mumbled a few words, then turned over. Within moments he was asleep.
Essie was wide-awake. She pulled the sheet up over her body and lay there listening to the sounds inside the tent. There were two sets of breathing: the light flutter, barely audible, coming from the baby; and Ian’s slow, deep rasp. Now and then Rudie stirred before settling down with a sigh. From outside came the usual noises of the African night. In the distance was the rising whine of a hyena. Close-up, the racket of insects clicking and buzzing. Cries of night herons beginning their waking hours. From the workers’ camp came soft voices and the clank of lanterns being carried around. The drums had fallen silent.
Tommy was still shut up in his pen; Essie hadn’t wanted to risk him causing any problems today. Now she pictured him guiltily, knowing he’d be sulking in the corner. When she let him out in the morning he would turn his face away from her.
As she gazed into the shadows she tried not to think about what had happened during this long day, but it was hard to hold it all at bay. She soon found herself drawn back to the Hadza cave. She was surrounded once more by the curious eyes of the tribespeople. She saw their nearly bare bodies, lean and fit. She felt the desperate gaze of Nandamara, the grandfather. And Giga’s wistful look as they said goodbye . . .
The Beautiful Mother Page 9