The Beautiful Mother

by Katherine Scholes

  Start as you mean to go on.

  The saying came to Essie out of the blue. It was one of the few pieces of advice she remembered being given by her mother. It had been delivered more than once. There was an ominous ring to the words, as if ignoring them could bring dire results. A second phrase often followed. Essie took a moment to reel in the memory and pin it down.

  Start as you mean to go on . . .

  Because you don’t get a second chance.

  As Essie walked on, she replayed the words in her head. Had her mother wanted to have a second chance, in her life? And what different path might she have wished to follow?

  A hum of conversation broke into her thoughts as she neared the entrance to the tent. Then came the sound of Ian laughing. He must have woken up in a good mood again. Essie hadn’t seen him yet today; he’d left the tent without waking her. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that they were now running on separate schedules.

  As she came into view, Ian half rose to his feet. ‘Good morning, Essie.’

  His gaze flicked over Mara, then fixed on his wife. Essie stiffened, creating a fractional distance between herself and the baby.

  ‘Good morning.’ Julia echoed Ian’s words. Then Essie repeated them in response.

  Diana smiled, as if charmed by the old-fashioned manners. Then she added her own greeting. ‘Hi there.’ Her eyes latched onto Mara. ‘Oh my God, just look at her. She’s perfect in that dress!’

  Essie smiled gratefully. It was good to have an ally in the camp.

  ‘She is so adorable!’ Diana added.

  ‘Thank you.’ Essie’s smile widened. It seemed natural, somehow, to accept praise on Mara’s behalf. After all, it had been Essie who’d washed the baby, dressed her, fed her, sung to her . . .

  Kefa pulled out a chair for Essie and poured her some tea. Holding Mara with one arm, she sipped her drink. She could almost feel the strong brew entering her blood, waking her up. Mara had disturbed her twice in the night. Both times Essie had sat bolt upright at the first whimper, ready to jump out of bed and carry her away. She didn’t have to be reminded that Ian needed his sleep.

  There was the clink of cups on saucers and cutlery on plates as Ian, Julia and Diana ate toast and poached eggs. A new jar of marmalade held pride of place in the middle of the table, beside a bowl brimming with fine white sugar. While Essie waited for Kefa to bring her some food, she observed Diana covertly. The woman looked a bit pale – her features stark, somehow.

  ‘Did you sleep well enough?’ Essie asked. While she was still speaking, it came to her that the reason for Diana’s changed appearance was simply that she was wearing not a trace of make-up. Essie was taken by surprise. She’d expected Diana Marlow to be one of those women who enjoyed the idea of being off the beaten track in Africa but couldn’t relinquish the need to be glamorous. Lots of the female students and academics who came to Magadi fitted this category. Maybe Diana had taken her cue from Essie’s appearance. If that were true, Essie should be flattered. Instead, she felt oddly dismayed – as if Diana had stolen a card from her hand.

  ‘The birds were very noisy,’ Diana responded. ‘And the moon was bright. Luckily, I always travel with earplugs and an eye mask. But the stretcher was rather hard, to be honest.’

  ‘Tonight you’ll be more comfortable,’ Ian said. He nodded towards an area a little way beyond the other side of the Dining Tent. Peering past some bushes, Essie noticed a pile of orange canvas spread out on the ground. Standing near it was a proper wooden bed. She wondered, again, exactly how long Diana was going to be here. Ian spoke as if her plans were still evolving. Essie had a feeling he was being deliberately vague, but she hadn’t yet pursued the topic with him – their conversations had been dominated by issues surrounding Mara.

  As Essie was finishing her cup of tea, Kefa appeared with her eggs and toast. Her stomach growled with hunger, but she looked helplessly at the plate. She couldn’t tackle it with only one hand free. She glanced across at Diana. The visitor had finished her meal but showed no sign of wanting to hold the baby – her initial enthusiasm seemed to have waned. Essie turned to Julia. Their eyes met for a few seconds. Then Julia gave Kefa a curt nod. The man took Essie’s plate to the sideboard. Moments later he returned it, with the toast and egg cut up into portions.

  Essie smiled apologetically at him, wondering what he thought about having to look after her like a child. This was part of what being in charge of a baby entailed, she realised. You were at a constant disadvantage compared to other adults.

  She ate clumsily with her one hand, balancing Mara with the other. She was aware of the baby watching her – those wide dark eyes following the fork from plate to mouth and back as if watching a fascinating dance. Mara had already consumed a bottle of milk in the nursery; the one now standing next to Essie’s plate was just a precaution. Essie wanted to ensure Mara was quiet and contented. Aside from making a good impression with her outfit, the baby had to be as unobtrusive as possible. After all, breakfast time was not just for eating. It was when the events of the day were planned.

  Ian had already begun. While still sipping his tea, he was outlining the new strategies for research. They had obviously been formulated back in Arusha. Diana seemed to know a lot of the details already. Essie was amazed at how freely she took part in the discussions. She seemed happy to give her views on things she obviously knew almost nothing about. As the conversation went on, Essie waited for Ian to let the others know about her idea of doing some scouting. But he said nothing. Was it possible he’d completely forgotten the conversation? To prompt him, she asked where Simon was.

  ‘Helping with the tent,’ Ian answered.

  ‘Which is no small task,’ Julia added.

  There was a sharp edge to her tone – so slight that Essie was only able to pick it up because she’d spent nearly every day for the last five years in her company. Glancing across the table, Essie saw that Julia was now sitting very upright, the tendons in her neck standing out. No doubt she was finding it difficult to accept Diana’s position here. Julia would normally have put such an upstart firmly in their place – making only slight concessions for an influential journalist or academic. But she had to take a different approach to Diana Marlow. Essie felt a guilty satisfaction at seeing her mother-in-law powerless like this, for once.

  Ian got out a notebook. He rolled up his sleeves as if signalling serious work was about to occur. Essie leaned forward as his left wrist was revealed. He was wearing a new watch. She couldn’t see the brand – whether it was a Rolex like William’s – but it looked impressive. It had to be a gift from Diana. Essie felt a twist of jealousy in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know why the present should affect her this way. The fact that it would have cost a huge amount didn’t matter; Diana was obviously so wealthy the price tag was irrelevant. Essie should be glad for Ian that he had a new watch with a face that was easy to read. Why shouldn’t he benefit from their benefactor’s largesse? After all, Diana had been even more generous to Mara – and therefore Essie – with the gift of a whole nursery.

  ‘Isn’t that a great watch?’ Diana must have been following Essie’s gaze. ‘It’s an Oyster Perpetual. Edmund Hillary was wearing one when he climbed Everest. I bought it for Frank. He likes that kind of thing.’ Her mouth thinned. ‘Then I decided he didn’t deserve it.’

  Ian looked embarrassed. ‘I had no idea. You shouldn’t have . . .’

  Diana shrugged. ‘Yours was broken. And it was a waste, just leaving it in its box.’

  Listening to these words, and their tone, Essie decided there was something naïve, almost childlike, about Diana. If she wanted to do something, she just did it. It was probably the result of growing up as an heiress, then marrying into even more wealth. The woman had never lived in the real world.

  As if to shift attention from the watch, Ian tapped his pencil on his notebook. He began talking about the new excavations. The work was going to be centred on the korongo where Essie had foun
d the giraffid fossil and the promising stone tool. Ian was already referring to the site as DMK. Diana Marlow Korongo. This, too, must have been decided in Arusha. Essie felt a glimmer of resentment every time Ian uttered the initials. The name was not a surprise, and the choice was not unreasonable. But as Ian and Julia both knew, it had been Essie’s turn . . .

  As the talking continued, Essie struggled to absorb the reality that she was not going to be involved in the work. She was out of the picture for the whole of this season. Even though it was by her own choice, she felt excluded. She shifted Mara to her other arm. As she did so she felt the warmth of a wet nappy through the plastic pants. She was about to quietly withdraw when Diana stood up. She stretched like a cat, arching her back. Then she pointed at the painting of the volcano.

  ‘Who is Mirella?’

  Ian threw a cursory look at the artwork. ‘Just someone who came here a long time ago. She pinned some of her pictures up here. William liked them, so they stayed.’

  ‘I think I recognise the style. Is she well-known?’

  Julia let out a small laugh, almost a bark. ‘I shouldn’t think so. I don’t even remember her other name.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Ian said.

  ‘It’s not in good shape,’ Diana continued. ‘I know a man in London who could restore it.’

  ‘Not to bother,’ Julia said. ‘The thing’s been there too long. They all have. They should come down.’

  Ian looked shocked. The way Julia spoke made it sound as if her husband’s heritage was a casual affair, rather than something that was carefully curated by staff and family alike.

  ‘Nineteen fifty-five . . .’ Diana read out the date next to the signature. ‘That was fifteen years ago. I must’ve had half-a-dozen homes since then!’ She shook her head, smiling. ‘I love the way everything here just stays the same.’

  ‘Until now,’ Julia pointed out, her tone a little tart. She eyed Ian’s notebook. The plans under discussion involved creating a replacement Work Hut – to be called a ‘studio’ – and a whole new accommodation area. Again, Essie sensed how Julia was being torn. She wanted the work to be developed, but she didn’t like losing control.

  Diana continued to enthuse about Magadi Camp, while also identifying a few problems she’d noticed. Essie only half heard her. She was staring at the painting. For years she’d eaten her meals in front of the picture, barely noticing it. Now the image seemed to be speaking to her. As she took in the stark lines of the volcano, she thought about the fact that the artist, enjoying William’s support, had wandered freely around Magadi, not limiting herself to where archaeological work was being carried out. Mirella might well have seen a towerlike rockform in the foothills. She might even have captured its likeness.

  ‘Please excuse me,’ Essie said, getting to her feet. ‘I hope you have a good day, everyone. I’ll see you later on.’

  No one questioned her walking away. That was one advantage of being in charge of a baby – you always had a reason to disappear.

  The storeroom was shadowy and cool compared to outside. The sunlight that angled in was crisscrossed by thick wire mesh. Over in the Work Hut, which had no front wall, let alone a door, there were dozens of priceless fossils and valuable reference books. All that had ever gone missing from there was the odd toothbrush, candle or a box of matches – and that was rare. But the storeroom had always been kept locked, even when the supplies had dwindled almost to nothing. Now that the shelves were stacked with tins and jars and boxes, unpacked from the two Land Rovers, Baraka was even more protective of his key than usual. While Essie was in here, he was waiting right outside the open doorway, next to the pram. She could hear him murmuring softly to Mara, even though the baby was sound asleep.

  Reaching up to the top shelf, Essie was just able to grasp the edge of the art folio. As she pulled it down, a dead moth fell in a spiralling flutter amid a cloud of dust. Essie laid the folder on the floor, choosing a spot where the light was best.

  Silverfish had chewed their wandering pattern through the navy linen cover of the folio. Essie untied a ribbon. The silk fabric, stiffened by time, held on to the shape of the bow. As she opened the cover, she smelled pencil lead, wax crayon and a faint musty perfume. She began flicking through the drawings, looking for any that included the volcano, especially the lower slopes. She held in her mind the image of the Tower that was near the camp, superimposing it onto the landscapes in front of her, wishing the scene into reality. She stopped on one that looked promising. It was a charcoal sketch formed from deft, purposeful lines. There were lots of heaped rocks in the foreground. The mountain rose up in the rear. But there was no sign of anything remotely like the Tower. Essie scanned drawing after drawing but found nothing of interest.

  Soon she was nearing the bottom of the pile. As she turned to a new page, her hand froze. Someone had taken a dark-red pencil and drawn over the work, covering it in jagged red lines. The next picture was defaced as well. This time the red had been used to blot out the signature. The next four artworks were ruined. The pencil lines were not a child’s carefree scribbles. There was malice in the way they were dug into the page – long gouges scored across the detailed work.

  Essie’s mouth opened in shock. Who could have done this? It had happened a long time ago – the dust proved that. Had it occurred while the work was in here, under lock and key? Or was it before the folder had been packed away on these shelves, along with Mirella’s art supplies? None of the staff would have even opened the folio if they’d come across it somewhere in the camp, let alone destroyed the work. However it had occurred, Essie guessed the damage must have been done by another visitor to Magadi – one who’d had some conflict with Mirella.

  When Essie had first arrived here she’d noticed how the various people who came to assist the Lawrences competed with one another for their attention. William had already been dead for several years, but even the ownership of his memory was a source of keen competition. The rivalry was one of the reasons Essie had felt so privileged to discover that Ian Lawrence was focused only on her. Perhaps Mirella had monopolised William, taking up too much space – literally and figuratively – with her paintings. Someone had taken out their jealousy on her work. Presumably the artist had not even known about it; surely she would have thrown the ruined pictures away. If that were the case, it was quite possible that Essie was the only person, apart from the perpetrator, who was aware the damage had been done.

  These musings were pointless, Essie knew – the matter wasn’t her responsibility. And it was a distraction from her goal. She glanced over the next few images. One looked as if it had been screwed up, then flattened out again. Another had the signature corner torn off. The rest of the drawings were undamaged. Essie searched them for a rocky tower, a pillar of stone – or any other unusual landmark. Even the tumbled remains of one.

  There was nothing.

  Essie reached the end of the collection and gathered up the drawings. As she slid them back into the folio, she could still picture the dark-red lines, like angry welts whipped across the artworks. Though the attack had been done years ago she could almost feel the emotion clouding the air. She was glad to return the folio to its place on the shelf. Shoving it in next to a box of paint tubes and brushes, she pushed it as far back as possible, almost out of sight.

  Outside, Baraka still stood by the pram. He was chewing on a piece of dried meat. It looked like a hunk of old leather frosted with salty sweat.

  ‘Did you make that biltong?’ Essie asked in Swahili. She felt she should chat with him for a while to make up for interrupting his morning schedule.

  He shook his head. ‘I have visited the manyatta.’

  Essie was so used to the man being in the kitchen or around the camp that she often forgot he had a private life.

  A thought came to her. ‘Do you know the place called the Tower, where you can stand and look down to the Steps?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you seen another one –
something like it? In the hills at the bottom of the volcano?’

  ‘The mountain belongs to God,’ Baraka responded. ‘Maasai do not go there.’

  Essie pushed on. ‘Mrs Lawrence worked in that area a long time ago. I am talking about when her child, the mtoto wa siri, was lost.’

  Baraka frowned warily. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Her assistant was a Maasai called Kisani. And the man who found Ian was also a Maasai. So some of you have been there.’

  The man looked around him as if afraid of being caught in a forbidden conversation. When he spoke it was in an undertone. ‘Kisani should not have agreed to do that work. It was wrong. The mountain is holy. It is not a place for digging in the earth, removing stones. The only Maasai who trespass there are women who want to have children but have been unsuccessful. And they do not go wandering around. They just climb to the top, where they can see into the heart of Lengai, and plead for a miracle.’

  Essie nodded. She knew how holy the volcano was for the Maasai. An expert had once explained they felt about it the same way people back in England did about Westminster Abbey. In fact, their emotions were even more intense. They believed Lengai actually resided in the mountain, whereas the English pictured their God installed in heaven.

  Baraka lowered his voice even further as he continued. ‘No one wanted to take part in the search. They had no choice. A child was missing. The Maasai are expert trackers. They were needed.’ He shook his head. ‘But it was very bad.’ He added a final word, and then repeated it. Essie guessed he was resorting to Maa – that he found the Swahili word for ‘bad’– mbaya – inadequate for what he wanted to express.

  ‘Those trackers – did they come from the local manyatta?’