The Beautiful Mother

by Katherine Scholes

  Simon looked mystified. His lips moved as he repeated the information to himself. Then he translated it for Kefa.

  The other man raised his eyebrows, his whole forehead wrinkling. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Essie replied.

  ‘You must know. Think harder,’ Simon pressed her. ‘What did your grandmother tell you?’

  Essie smiled. Her assistant sounded exactly like an anthropologist she’d once heard interrogating a Maasai woman. ‘I have no idea what it means,’ Essie insisted. ‘No one does.’

  Simon gave her an accusing look. ‘You do not want to share your stories.’

  ‘It’s not that . . .’ Essie shifted the baby from one hip to the other. Her shirt would now be wet on both sides. She glanced across at the last tea chest; surely there would be nappies in there. She couldn’t wait to have a clean, dry baby, wearing plastic pants. She realised Simon was still waiting for an explanation. ‘It’s not really my story. It’s English. And it’s very old. The people who sing it to their kids don’t know what it means.’

  ‘That is not wise,’ commented Kefa.

  ‘Wait – did you say it is not your story because you are not English?’ Simon sounded almost shocked.

  ‘I am now,’ Essie clarified. ‘But I was born in Tasmania. A small island off the bottom of Australia.’

  ‘I have only heard of Australia – not that other place. What language do they speak there?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘No, I mean the language of the mothers.’

  Essie recognised Simon’s version of the term ‘mother tongue’ – the first means of communication that a child learns. In Africa it was rare for no other languages to ever be acquired. ‘We only speak English.’

  Essie found it strange to be saying ‘we’, even though she was – technically – Tasmanian. She had become used to being thought of as a Lawrence, and while William and his father had both been born in Africa, the family was never viewed as anything but British.

  Simon looked puzzled. ‘Does that place have no languages of its own? Not even one?’

  Essie didn’t answer straightaway. She had no desire to embark on the whole history of Tasmania. It would be too complicated, especially when everything had to be told in Swahili. And there was still an urgent need to find those nappies. On the other hand, she had always encouraged her assistant to have an enquiring mind.

  ‘The English set up a colony on the island, nearly two hundred years ago. When they arrived, people were already living there. They spoke several languages.’

  Kefa moved to stand near her. ‘Were there lots of tribes? Can you tell us their names?’

  Essie pictured the hand-drawn maps in her father’s publications. When she was little, she used to read out the melodic names that labelled different territories, stumbling over all the syllables. They sounded so mysterious to her – linked with a faraway place. ‘There are the Nuenonne. Larmairene. Melukerdee. And others, too. But most people just call them all Aborigines.’

  ‘Aborigines.’ Kefa repeated the word as if trying it out on his tongue. He glanced at Simon, then turned back to Essie. ‘Did they like the English being in their country?’ he asked. ‘Or is there fighting – even today?’

  Essie eyed the men uneasily. She was very aware – as she had been when Frank Marlow had started talking about Tasmania’s history – that the topic was fraught, especially here in newly independent Tanzania. The best thing, she decided, would be to keep the story simple.

  ‘Those first people are gone now,’ she said. ‘They lost their land to the English.’

  She knew this idea would be familiar to both men – one group moving in on another’s tribal homeland and pushing them out. The consequences for the displaced were often devastating. Africans had been doing it to Africans for as long as humans had lived here; now foreign powers had joined in.

  Simon was nodding slowly. ‘So those Aborigines – they went away to another place?’

  Essie hesitated again. She knew whatever she said could be passed around the camp, harming the image of Europeans. If they heard about it, Julia and Ian would be angry. But she couldn’t just refuse to answer. She shook her head. ‘No. They were killed by the English. Or they caught diseases they weren’t used to. In the end, there were no full-blood Tasmanians left.’

  Simon lowered his gaze as he absorbed the information. When he looked up his eyes were sharp with interest. ‘What kind of people were they?’

  ‘Dark-skinned, the same as you. They lived like the Hadza pori, hunting and collecting food. Moving around.’

  ‘So they are gone . . .’ There was regret in his voice. ‘Have they disappeared completely? Or did some of them marry with the new people? And mix their blood?’

  ‘That did happen,’ Essie confirmed. This scenario would be well known to the Africans, too. Intermarriage with other tribes was common. Among the Hadza, it was more usual for a woman to do it than a man. If she wasn’t happy being a farmer’s wife housed in a village, she often just gathered up her children and returned to her old life.

  ‘So they still kept their stories, and their songs?’ Simon queried. ‘They remember all the things their ancestors did?’

  ‘I suppose so. Some of it, at least . . .’

  Essie pretended to be occupied with the baby as she tried to think of a better answer – she understood why Simon was so intrigued. But the question of how much culture had or had not survived the devastation wreaked by the English wasn’t something she’d heard talked about in any real detail. In Australia, anthropologists focused on the mainland, where there were Aborigines in remote areas who still lived pretty much as they always had. It was easy to gather information. If researchers had tried to carry out interviews in Tasmania, it occurred to Essie, they might not have got very far. Honesty relied on trust, which would be a rare commodity in a place where the memory of massacres was only a few generations old.

  As far as the academic world was concerned, the interest in Tasmania lay in the question of what level of culture had evolved in the first place. Hunter-gatherers left behind little concrete evidence for archaeologists to collect. Research had to be based mainly on stone tools, as well as the middens that dotted the island – collections of mollusc shells, animal bones, flint shards and other domestic refuse found in occupation sites. The sum total of knowledge didn’t add up to very much. This didn’t mean it wasn’t of great significance, though, as was proved by the status of Essie’s father’s research. But the concern wasn’t really with the story of an island at the far end of the earth. Academics wanted to use information gleaned about the first Tasmanians to build a picture of the ancient people of Europe – illuminating the meaning of stone tools and other items that had been found there.

  When she looked up, Essie saw that Simon was about to speak again – but this time she shook her head.

  ‘No more questions, now,’ she said firmly. ‘We’ve got a lot to do here.’

  She crossed to where Kefa was bending over the last tea chest. He pulled out more clothes and another mosquito net. Then Essie sighed with relief as he began removing a snowy pile of nappies. He placed them on the bed. Selecting one, he went over to the change table.

  ‘Can you fold it for me – like this?’ Essie offered Julia’s scrap of yellow paper.

  Kefa brushed it aside. With a few deft movements he prepared the towelling square. Then he picked out a pair of plastic pants, a tin of talcum powder and two nappy pins.

  As Essie put the baby down on the change table, she looked at him in surprise. ‘You’ve done this before.’

  ‘When Ian was a baby the family lived in Arusha. They travelled here only for the digging season. Mrs Lawrence had an ayah to help her. But the little one . . .’ The man’s face softened into a smile. His gaze was fond and sad. ‘He was very small when they came to stay all year round at Magadi. Mrs Lawrence decided not to bring the ayah, so she asked me to do some things for her. I folded the towels, tid
ied his clothes, pushed him in the pram. But she wanted to be the one to change his nappy or give him a bottle. She loved him too much. She did not like to share.’

  A dense quiet fell. Essie was taken aback by this unimaginable picture of Julia. She was also confused. She didn’t know if Kefa was saying that Julia’s love for Robbie was too extreme, or just that she loved her baby a great deal. With the Swahili words he’d used, the meaning was unclear.

  Was it possible to love a baby too much?

  Was it possible to love a baby too little?

  Essie unwound the wet kitenge and dropped it into a pink plastic nursery pail. She caught both of the little feet in one hand, lifting the lower body up. With the other hand she wiped the round buttocks clean with a wet flannel provided by Kefa. She shook some talc from the tin, sprinkling white on the black skin. She smoothed the silky powder into all the folds. Her touch must have tickled, because the baby laughed, showing her bare gums and fat pink tongue. Essie found herself laughing back at her, as if they were sharing a private joke.

  Somehow, she managed to get the folded nappy into position. Lowering the baby down, she let go of her legs. Immediately the baby began kicking. Essie was conscious of the men watching on as she tried to avoid being hit in the face while she was wrapping the nappy tightly.

  Simon brought the mobile across and held it above the baby. She grew still, as she stared up at it.

  Essie struggled with a safety pin. Until now she’d made do with tucking in the ends of the folded cloth at the baby’s waist; it was easy, but not very secure. Now, she found the towelling was surprisingly hard to penetrate with the pin. She was afraid of piercing skin as well as cloth. She pictured red blood staining the white. But the baby kept smiling and kicking, apparently unharmed.

  ‘She likes the moon,’ Simon commented. ‘Because it is female.’

  That was the belief held in many traditional societies, Essie knew. It had something to do with women having a monthly cycle that matched, in length if not timing, the phases of the moon.

  ‘Why does the cow jump over the moon?’ Simon mused.

  Essie shrugged. She imagined how Baraka, the Maasai, was going to react to the story he would no doubt be told. He would approve of it wholeheartedly, since cows were supreme animals, far above cats and dogs, let alone inanimate objects like a fiddle or a spoon.

  Kefa chose a pink dress with a white smocked yoke, offering it to Simon for approval. Essie hid a smile. She knew it wasn’t usual for African men to be this interested in a baby. Maybe it was the novelty of all the gifts Diana had sent. On the other hand, Kefa had spoken so fondly about Ian’s brother as a baby. And perhaps Simon had younger siblings at home, whom he missed.

  Eventually, the baby was clean, dry and dressed. Essie tied on a pair of knitted booties. The black skin somehow made the white appear brighter and the pink softer.

  ‘Doesn’t she look beautiful!’ Essie said.

  Kefa eyed the baby critically, then nodded. ‘She is a fine baby.’

  Essie saw a tentative glimmer of pride in Simon’s eyes.

  ‘She needs a name,’ Essie said. ‘We can’t just keep calling her “the baby”.’

  ‘She is very young,’ Kefa responded doubtfully. Then he waved one arm, taking in the contents of the tent, focusing on the stacked tins of formula. ‘But, God willing, I think she can survive.’

  Essie felt a rush of anxiety. He made the situation sound so precarious. What if something happened to this baby? She thought of the box she’d opened that contained chloroquine syrup to prevent malaria, and several other medicines especially for babies. Then there was the Complete Babycare book. Surely Essie – at the age of twenty-eight, with a university degree – could keep one baby healthy and safe for four months?

  ‘You could choose the name of your mother,’ Simon suggested. ‘Or your aunty.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Essie said. ‘She’s not joining our family. I’m only taking care of her.’ She didn’t say that giving an innocent baby the name of her mother – one that carried with it such a weight of unhappiness – would have been like a curse. Nor did she add that her father had no sister, his mother was only ever referred to as ‘Grandma’, and Essie had no knowledge of any other female relatives he might have. Arthur rarely spoke of his family in Sydney. There was a rift between them; from something Essie had once overheard, she thought perhaps his parents hadn’t approved of his choice of a wife. There were definitely lots of aunties back in Tasmania – Lorna’s kin – but Essie could not remember their names any more than she could picture their faces. They were just a blur, lost in time. All Essie recalled of them was a sense of quiet busyness. Of soft conversation broken by bursts of laughter. They were always outside, it seemed – their presence blended with the hush of waves washing over sand. And the sound of seabirds calling on the wind . . .

  ‘I know lots of good names,’ Simon offered. ‘Susan. Elizabeth. Mary. Jane.’ He eyed Essie thoughtfully. ‘I have never heard of anyone who has the same name as you.’

  ‘It’s short for Esther,’ Essie explained. She had been named after an obscure Jewish archaeologist admired by her father. When she married Ian and became a Lawrence, Julia had tried to get her to use the full version of her name. Essie’s refusal was one of the few battles with her mother-in-law that she’d managed to win.

  ‘Esther.’ Simon repeated the name, stretching out the sounds. He shook his head. ‘Essie is better.’

  Essie gazed around the tent, her focus returning to the question of what to call the baby. She wished she could have been discussing this with Ian. But choosing a name together was something couples did with their own babies, or babies they’d adopted – not ones on short-term loan. And anyway, Essie was the person who’d taken on this responsibility. Ian hadn’t been consulted about the promise to care for the baby, so why would he want to be involved in selecting her name?

  She looked back at the infant, who was waving her hands above her face, following the movement with her eyes. Essie remembered the moment she’d first seen her, almost lost inside a baboon pelt, and naked but for her string of beads.

  ‘It should be a Hadza name,’ Essie said. ‘Something from her family. Did you know those people at the cave? Had you met them before?’

  ‘Never,’ Simon said firmly. ‘They are wild Hadza. Where I come from, near Lake Eyasi, our children go to school. We grow our own food. We have a clinic and a church.’ He was now looking at Kefa as he spoke. Essie was struck by how complex this situation was for Simon. Her field assistant prided himself on being more educated, modern and sophisticated than the other staff. Now the presence of the Hadza baby in the camp was a constant reminder of a tribal background he had tried to leave behind.

  ‘Do you remember if Nandamara mentioned the name of her mother?’ Essie asked him.

  ‘He only called her his daughter.’

  ‘Then Nandamara is the only name we have,’ Essie said.

  ‘But the baby is a girl,’ Simon pointed out.

  ‘I’ll shorten it,’ Essie said. ‘It’s what we call a “nickname”. Nandamara can choose the real one when the baby is returned.’ She tried some options in her head. Nanda. Nandy. Mara.

  ‘I’ll call her Mara.’ The name had a gentle, lyrical sound. As soon as she’d said it, Essie knew it was right.

  The two men repeated the nickname, eyeing the baby as they tested it out. They both nodded.

  Essie bent over the baby, scooping her up. ‘Hello, Mara.’ She murmured into the tiny ear, feeling its soft contours against her lips. Emotion welled up inside her. She felt a sense of relief. She had everything she needed, here in this tent. She was going to be able to save this beautiful little girl, without creating turmoil in her life and that of her family. And alongside relief was deep gratitude to Diana Marlow. It wasn’t just that she’d been so generous with the nursery provisions; spending money wasn’t hard if you were wealthy. Diana had acted so quickly and decisively. She must have made helping Essi
e her top priority. And as for the grant . . . With a literal stroke of her pen Diana had changed the whole world of Magadi. Ian and Julia were so happy they had no room to be angry with Essie. And now that Diana had made a show of support for the baby, no one would question the situation. It was as if the woman who’d flown in for sundowners – dressed like a queen in her turquoise gown and glittering jewellery – was nothing less than an angel in disguise.

  EIGHT

  Essie stifled a yawn as she bent over her specimen tray. Many of the fragments of fossil laid out were tiny, and she was glad of the strong morning light coming in through the open front of the Work Hut. With a pair of tweezers she gripped one of the pieces. Carefully she flicked a paintbrush over its pitted surface to remove a few more grains of earth. On a card table beside her was a book opened at a full-page picture of the dinosaur giraffe, Sivatherium giganteum. The drawing showed the creature’s moose-like antlers, as well as the distinctive secondary ossicones above the eyes. The shoulder muscles were huge, as they’d have to be in order to hold up the heavy head.

  Now, as Essie glanced sideways at the image, her eyes lingered on the neck, which was short compared with the giraffes of today. She was reminded of one of her first lessons in evolution. At bedtime her father, despising fairy tales, liked to teach her useful things. The special storyteller’s voice he used came back to her.

  Once upon a time a giraffe was born with a longer-than-usual neck. All the other little giraffes teased him for being different.

  Arthur went on to tell of how the situation changed when there was a terrible drought. Soon, all the giraffes were hungry. ‘Long-neck’ was able to eat the leaves that were out of reach of the others. They died of starvation, while he survived to become a father. His children inherited the long neck, and in turn bred with other survivors of the drought, who also shared the same advantage. The next time the rains failed and food was scarce, the ones most able to chew away at the treetops again won the battle to survive and become parents. Over millions of generations of giraffe families – with the circumstances repeating – necks grew longer and longer. At the same time the heart had to become bigger and bigger in order to pump blood all the way up the neck to the brain. It happened by the same process: chance mutations proving useful. Essie was only young, but she could already see that her father was right: the simple facts of evolution were far more extraordinary than any work of fiction.