The Beautiful Mother

by Katherine Scholes

  Inside the confines of the Land Rover the atmosphere felt even more tense than it had been back on the mountain. The two Maasai sat stiff-backed in their seats, hands braced on their knees, eyes fixed ahead. No one spoke. Essie gazed out over the scenery, taking in the sun-yellowed grasses, the splashes of pink made by the desert roses, the blue ellipses of the pools. She tried to draw the beauty and peacefulness into herself, but nothing could quell the misgiving that grew inside her. She kept going back over all the things she’d thought about the day before, as she and Simon were returning to the camp. There were so many issues to be considered – all of them unexpected.

  Essie had always assumed that the pictures described by the Hadza hunter would be in an open setting like the ones she’d already studied. Now that Simon had given her a new understanding of the meaning of darkness, she grasped the implications of them being deep inside a cave. The site would have to be lit up while she did her tracings. The almost tangible peacefulness was going to be disturbed. Then, there was the fact that the adjoining cave had been the final resting place for two bodies. The proximity to the volcano took on new meaning as well. Essie’s research would take place literally inside it. Whether she believed in the existence of Lengai or not was irrelevant. To the Maasai, the mountain was holy.

  Whatever Essie might do as part of her work would pale into insignificance, she knew, compared with the invasion that was going to be triggered by the erectus skeleton. As soon as news of its existence got out, the attention of the whole world would be focused on the cave. Archaeologists would flock here, along with teams of journalists and photographers. Even though carrying out the research in situ was the best option, the disturbance would be both intense and lasting. The age-old silence would be broken by the clamour of voices. And the sacred darkness would be blasted with light – a bright unwavering glare that would go on for years.

  If they hadn’t discovered Robbie’s body, Essie thought, perhaps it would’ve been better to have simply concealed what they’d found. But they could never have robbed Julia and Ian of the knowledge about where Robbie’s body lay, or withheld the clues to how he’d died. Also, Essie didn’t think she was brave enough to make the same decision as Stein appeared to have done. The responsibility was too great. She had tried telling herself that in due course someone would surely find other proof that Homo erectus had inhabited this continent, but the truth was that lots of people had already been searching diligently for over half a century. In addition to the Leakeys and the Lawrences here in Tanzania, there were the Wilfred-Smiths in Kenya, Broom and Clarke in South Africa, and others elsewhere. All that time and effort had not turned up a single tooth or scrap of a cranium that could be given this classification. Even stone tools like the ones linked with Homo erectus remains in Indonesia, Europe and China had eluded discovery. And now, Essie and Simon had stumbled on an entire erectus skeleton. The find in the cave was – and always would be – completely unique.

  Yet still, as Essie thought it all through again, she wondered if she and Simon should have just returned to the camp yesterday and said nothing. Maybe the benefit to the Lawrences of knowing what had happened to Robbie and the contribution to the world of discovering more about the human story were not the things that mattered most. Maybe there was a reason why this continent, Africa, protected her secrets. Perhaps the enduring mystery – that had captured the imagination of so many people for so long – was intended to remind us that facts and figures, rational thought and scientific theory, were not everything.

  Even while she was contemplating this, Essie viewed herself with amazement. She’d devoted her whole life to archaeology, and much of it to the field of paleoanthropology. She was the daughter of Professor Arthur Holland. She was Ian Lawrence’s wife. Julia Lawrence’s daughter-in-law. For her to be considering following Stein’s example, even for a second, was inexplicable. If Ian could read her thoughts, he’d think she had simply gone mad. Like her mother. Or like Stein. Essie recalled how Ian had accused her the night before of being like the old missionary – he’d said they’d make a good pair. Maybe he was right. Essie had exposed herself to influences that had changed her in ways she’d not understood. If that were the case, it had all begun the day she had crossed paths with Nandamara while out collecting flint stones – and come home with a baby in her arms.

  Essie looked down at Mara, resting on her lap. She traced the contours of the little face, the subtle tones of black on black. Then she took in the rest of her body, bare but for the string of white beads and the nappy that had been put on in preparation for the return to camp. The white towelling stood out against her darkness. Essie thought of all the times she’d bathed, dried, oiled and powdered every inch of that velvet skin. All the bottles of milk she’d prepared in order to keep Mara well fed and content. The tears she’d wiped away. The hiccups she’d soothed. It was impossible, now, to imagine that Essie might never have had anything to do with Mara. If fate had not brought Nandamara and Essie together, the baby might even be dead by now.

  Essie stroked Mara’s forehead, feeling the warmth of her. Watching the rise and fall of her chest. Mara was deeply asleep, her limbs flopping loosely. She always felt heavier in this state, somehow, than when she was awake. Essie had given up the obsessive ritual of weighing her on the nursery scales; she could tell by the feel of her body that flesh had filled out, firm yet soft, cushioning her bones. She was around four months old now. The fragility of the newborn was long gone. She’d claimed her place in the world.

  A lump formed in Essie’s throat. She stared out at the landscape again, searching for reassuring evidence that – even though the pools and springs created patches of green – the land was still deep in the grip of the dry season. If she were to walk across the grasses, the brittle stems would crunch and shatter underfoot. The leaves on the bushes were tough and old. The place was still empty of large game – the sand would be marked only with the prints of small, scurrying creatures; lizards trailing long tails; slow-moving, sun-sleepy snakes. The sky above was clear and blue – safely empty of any hint of cloud. It should be around two months before the Short Rains came.

  There was no need to think of the future. Not yet.

  ‘Nearly home.’ Ian’s voice rose over the drone of the engine, his tone still insistently bright.

  Essie watched the camp come into view. There were the lines of tents and thatch-roofed huts, the shade trees huddled in groups, and the barren swathe of the parking area. A tendril of smoke rose up from Baraka’s cooking fire. Usually Essie felt a sense of homecoming when she caught sight of the place after a day out in the bush. But today, it was as if her perceptions had been distorted. The settlement didn’t seem to belong there on the hillside any more. Set against the background of the korongos, its grip on the environment looked fragile. It was so easy to picture it just disappearing – an unwanted smudge, wiped away. As she watched the camp draw nearer, Essie had a vision of the land as a living creature, the humans who lived and worked there no more than an unwanted infestation. She imagined it stirring into life, rising up and giving its body a great shake, like a huge wet dog shedding water from its fur.

  NINETEEN

  The yellow plastic moon swung wildly as Mara batted it with her hand. A few days ago Essie had lengthened the cord from which the mobile hung, so the nursery rhyme characters would be in reach of the change table. It meant she had to be careful while she was standing there in case she was hit on the head, but the distraction stopped Mara from wriggling in protest as she was being dressed. The baby didn’t understand why sometimes she was allowed the freedom of being naked, while on other occasions – like now – she had to wear a nappy, pants and frock.

  Essie pulled the two corners of the folded cloth together, binding them firmly over Mara’s hips. She tried to keep her movements steady and relaxed to avoid transmitting the tension that simmered inside her. Mara was so quick to pick up on Essie’s emotions that it seemed there was an almost physical connectio
n between them. The last thing Essie wanted this morning was for Mara to be unsettled.

  As soon as she was finished here she’d be heading for the Work Hut, where Ian was waiting to talk to her. The meeting had been set up at breakfast time. There was a formal air to the arrangement as if she and Ian were just colleagues, now, instead of husband and wife. They’d slept apart again last night. Essie had gone straight to the nursery when she’d eaten her dinner. After the events of the day – the visit to the cave, and all that had then ensued – she simply didn’t have the energy to face the question of whether she and Ian would, or would not, be sharing the same bed. Nor did she want to risk a confrontation about where else her husband might have preferred to be sleeping. When she thought about Ian and Diana – and the truth of what might be going on between them – she felt like a moth hovering around a lantern. If she moved in close, she would be burned. Unbearable emotions would overwhelm her and she wasn’t sure how she would cope. And there was more than her own survival to consider. There was Mara. With a baby in the camp, life could not be turned on its head.

  Essie didn’t know if Ian had been upset about her choice to sleep in the nursery or relieved. Perhaps he’d been glad to be alone in their tent. Perhaps he’d not even been there. This morning he’d made no comment on it. Instead he’d been preoccupied with scribbling notes on his pad, writing and chewing toast at the same time. Any attempt to conceal his feelings about the contents of the cave had been abandoned. He radiated an intense, almost uncontainable, excitement.

  Yesterday, when they’d all finally returned to the camp, his demeanour had been very different. He’d watched on in silence while Simon, Koinet and Legishon walked off towards the staff camp, and Julia retired to her bed, wanting solitude. When he’d joined the others in the Dining Tent his mood had remained subdued. Essie knew he was not grief-stricken about Robbie – he’d made that clear – but the experience of seeing the boy’s body, and witnessing his mother’s distress, was obviously raw and close. On top of this, there was the conflict with the Maasai workers. A report on the events at the cave must have travelled around the staff camp quickly. There was no sound of singing or drumming coming from that end of the settlement – only an eerie quiet. Kefa had served the meal but hadn’t lingered in the tent. The after-dinner cup of tea had been slow to arrive.

  Diana had been determined to lift Ian’s spirits. She started talking about the erectus – teasing out what the discovery would mean. Then she had a bottle of champagne brought to the table, and opened it herself, aiming the cork out through the doorway. The familiar popping sound created an atmosphere of celebration, but it had not lasted. Even as the wine frothed over the edges of the glasses, it was fizzling away. Ian’s toast to the future of Magadi sounded hollow. Every now and then, as the evening progressed, his excitement had flared up like a pocket of oil burning in a piece of green firewood. With Diana’s encouragement he would discuss the position of the skeleton, or speculate about how the erectus came to be there, and how the remains had been so perfectly preserved. Then he would fall suddenly quiet again, though Essie could sense thoughts still racing behind his eyes. Diana had smoked constantly, lighting a new cigarette from the stub of the one before. She hadn’t spoken much herself, aside from prompting Ian. Perhaps she realised that the undercurrents of emotion were too complex for her to understand. Or else she, like Ian, was thinking and planning in silence.

  Essie pulled a pair of pink plastic pants over Mara’s nappy and smoothed down the skirt of a pink-and-white dress. Then she paused, gazing down, almost wishing Mara would begin to cry, holding Essie hostage to the task of meeting her needs. But the baby kicked her legs happily, as if she’d forgotten she didn’t like being clothed. Essie smiled, momentarily distracted from her concerns. Playfully she reached for Mara’s feet. Though still so small they felt firm and strong in her hands. If Hadza babies were like their Maasai counterparts, it was likely that within a few months she’d begin standing up. Essie pictured the sturdy feet planted on the ground. The soft pink soles pressed into the red earth. Skin dusty with ash. Dirt under the toenails. Her imagination was like a roving camera lens, pulling back, revealing more. A tuft of yellow grass. The spiky thicket of a thornbush. There was a burnt stick, one end charred with a black pattern of squares. A woven basket, the insides stained red by berry juice. Sounds went with the scene – women talking to one another, their words punctuated with the constant clicking that Essie had once found so strange. The voices floated, disembodied, in the air. There was a lilt of laughter, the hiss and crackle of a fire. Then one woman’s voice could be heard rising above the others. She was calling out to the baby, Mara – but not using her name.

  Essie tried to add to the vision – summoning Giga’s face, the way she spoke, the string of beads she’d been wearing that day at the Painted Cave. But nothing came to her. The Hadza woman was like a wraith from a dream. The essence of ‘mother’. The one who would take Essie’s place.

  Bending her head, Essie brought the captive feet towards her face. She kissed the twin lines of toes, tasting warm salty skin. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Mara laughed and reached out with her hands as if they must be tickled as well. But after just a few seconds she became very still, as if sensing that this was not just a light-hearted game. Essie held the feet against her lips, pressing steady and hard as if she might somehow staunch the pain that welled inside her like blood from a cut vein.

  A sudden rustle of canvas made Essie turn around. In the doorway Ian’s body was a dark shape backlit by bright early sun.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Essie picked up Mara, holding her against one shoulder. She averted her face while she collected herself. When she turned back, Ian was scanning the nursery, looking baffled, as if he still didn’t understand how the old guest tent had come to be so transformed. In all the time since it had happened, he’d barely set foot in the place.

  ‘Shall we go to the Dining Tent?’ Essie asked.

  Ian ran his hand back through his hair. He didn’t appear to have heard her.

  ‘I’ve been on the radio,’ he said. ‘Talking to people in Dar es Salaam. And Cambridge. Telling them what we’ve found.’

  Essie stood still. ‘“We”?’

  Ian looked at her for a second. ‘Well, you. But you know how it is.’

  Essie nodded slowly, absorbing the realisation that she and Simon were not going to be personally recognised for their work. In the past, this would have upset her. However much she pretended otherwise, she’d have resented the fact that as Head of Research, Ian would enjoy the limelight. And now there was the added factor of Diana, the benefactor, being right there beside him. But these last months had changed Essie. Even though the admiration of others would have been nice, she could manage without it. She knew what she and Simon had done. She knew why it mattered. And that was enough.

  ‘No one can believe it,’ Ian continued. ‘Well, who could blame them? I just told them to wait until they see the pictures.’ He gave a triumphant smile. ‘The camera never lies.’ He began pacing up and down between the door and bed. ‘I’ll get the film developed and printed in Dar es Salaam – blown up into a large format. I’ll show them around at the museum and the university. Then I’ll go to the Department – the Minister will be there on Tuesday.’

  ‘You’re going to Dar es Salaam?’ Essie asked. ‘Straightaway?’

  ‘It’s all organised,’ Ian responded. ‘I’ve chartered a plane. I want face-to-face, top-level meetings as soon as possible.’ He paused in front of Essie. ‘One thing is very important. The location must remain a secret until I have all the right agreements in place.’

  Essie nodded. It was probably the best way to keep control, and make sure the work was done with the minimum disruption to the site.

  ‘Publicity has to be managed carefully as well. I’ve got a call booked with the BBC for later today. They’ll need detailed briefing note
s.’

  As he walked, Ian picked up random items and then put them down again – a pink hairbrush, the grey plush elephant, a plastic rattle. They were discarded after only a moment’s attention, like stones from a specimen tray that showed no potential. Essie recognised Ian’s habit of quelling nervous energy through constant movement.

  ‘We’ll fly straight on from Dar es Salaam to London,’ he continued. ‘There we’ll hold a press conference.’

  Essie didn’t need to ask where this event would happen. Back in 1948, Mary Leakey had held a press conference at Heathrow Airport after being met by a pack of journalists and photographers when she arrived on a BOAC flight from Africa. She’d shown off the skull of the ancient primate Proconsul. It was proposed that the creature could have been the common ancestor of both apes and humans – occupying a place in the family tree before the two evolutionary strands were split. The skull, with its hints at human characteristics, had been painstakingly assembled from thirty fragments of bone. It had been packed inside a biscuit tin, which Mary had famously nursed on her lap throughout the flight. The airline had offered a free ticket to the Leakeys – but only one. Since Mary was the person who’d made the discovery, she had taken the trip, exchanging her work clothes for a smart woollen suit. Essie had seen some of the press photographs mounted in frames, over at Olduvai. Mary had been at the centre of a frenzy of attention, surrounded by men wielding microphones and cameras. Though she must have loved sharing the discovery with the world, she looked stunned and forbidding – completely out of place. Back in Africa, Louis Leakey had been hard at work managing the publicity. The conference had been the family’s first step towards international fame.