The Drowning Lesson (8 page)

The boy veers down a smaller track and through a gate, his long legs flickering in and out of the headlights. I follow, braking sharply when he dodges in front of the car before vanishing. The engine cuts out.

In front of us a rondavel is attached to a squat building, the tin roof glittering in the moonlight. Dark shapes huddle around a small fire. We get out of the car, the girls clinging to me.

‘
Dumela
.' A tall figure moves from the shadows. ‘Kgosi Momotsi.' He bows. Firelight flickers over a long, handsome face, as stern and still as if sculpted from stone. His grip is firm.

He leads me to a seat; a cup is pushed into my hand; Zoë burrows into my lap and Alice presses against my side. The people around the fire get up silently and disappear into darkness. Ginger beer burns a fiery track down my gullet.

‘I was in the clinic, this afternoon. I work with Esther …'

He nods. He knows this already. He would have
known about us from the beginning; though we neglected to pay our respects, now we need his help.

‘My baby was stolen today.' Will he believe me? ‘He has a mark on his face,' I continue, circling my own right cheek, as if that would anchor my story.

‘Who would do this?' Chief Momotsi asks quietly, his eyes intent on mine.

Who? Like a swarm of insects, the questions have been circling loudly, more closely: Teko, who loves him, whom I found crying in the corner? Josiah, who is old and kind? Elisabeth? She was there all the time. No one else had been around that day, apart from Kabo, and he'd been with Adam. A random criminal, then, but what could have been the motive?

‘I have to go. The police might have come by now.'

‘The elders will meet in the
kgotla
to discuss this.' He stands too. ‘My son will drive you home now. Tomorrow my wife, Peo, comes to be with you.' He turns to indicate a tall woman at his side; she nods gravely.

Why would we need anyone unless they help us find Sam? But Chief Momotsi bows and turns away. The arrangement is already in place.

A tall boy steps close, his large spectacles neatly patched with tape. I drop the keys into his palm. The girls scramble ahead of me into the back seat and the jeep moves off jerkily.

Back at home, in London, the kitchen would have
been full of uniformed men in minutes, notes taken and information flashed between teams. Records would be checked even as cars were dispatched, sirens screaming down the roads. And then? There were babies in England who were never found; police were fallible everywhere. Sam could be just as lost, but at least everything would be familiar: I would know where to turn and who to call. Megan would be there, dealing with the children, making tea.

The headlights on the road pick out the twisted shapes of thorn trees at either side. Beyond, in the darkness, the empty land stretches for hundreds of miles.

In the night sky five miles above Paris, the plane banked. Adam and the girls slept, while Sam dozed in my arms. Imagined horror played like a film in the back of my mind. A bomb explosion, mechanical failure, even a moment of inattention from the pilot, and we could all be spun down through space. Would Alice, deeply asleep, wake before she lost consciousness? Or Zoë, leaning against Adam's shoulder, snoring lightly, feel even a second of pain as the impact splintered the eggshell bone of her ear canals? Sam might survive a crash, being tiny and sheltered by me, but would perish in the fire that followed.

Hundreds of passengers slept. No one else was torturing themselves as I was – as I always did on planes. Adam usually held my hand but he was two seats away, head slumped sideways. He looked remote in sleep but in the last weeks he'd become remote anyway. He'd been staying late at the hospital preparing for the trip, whereas I got up early to finish editing the paper on ventouse deliveries. By the time he came
home I was usually asleep. He'd settled on his diagnosis of postnatal depression: it was simpler for him to think my lack of interest in Sam was an illness that Africa might cure. We hardly talked any more. In a few hours we would arrive in a bright, different world but, contrary to what Adam thought, sunshine wouldn't cure anything.

Sam's head dropped backwards in sleep; his mouth slipped slowly off my nipple, pulling it as he went, raising a blister. The skin would burn and bleed when he latched on again. A thin skein of milk stretched from his lips and broke, trailing on my shirt. I lifted him to my shoulder. The flight attendant paused as she bustled past. Her eyes widened as she took in the birthmark; she saw me watching and gave a brief professional smile. She probably thought I was used to it.

I wasn't used to it. How could I be? How could I get used to a birthmark that spread like a stain, over the face of my child? I glanced around: the other parents looked so peaceful, sleeping alongside their children as they were transported through the dark skies. Somewhere in the world there must be parents like me, who didn't like the way their children looked, burying repulsion and burying guilt. Megan was the only one who knew how I felt, and now she was thousands of miles away. My thoughts, guilty and wretched as they were, would have to stay hidden.

The plane shifted, seeming to change course as it navigated towards Africa, taking us somewhere we had never been before. A tiny clutch of hope followed this thought, as if a hand had just taken mine. Something might be waiting for us that could change things beyond imagination. The warmth of Sam's body against me was hypnotic. In the dark I could pretend he looked completely normal. Despite my fear of the plane, the muscles of my face began to slacken and my pulse to slow as I slid into sleep.

The metal rail was hot as we stepped down the rickety stairway to the ground. Sensations crowded against my skin: heat, as if blown from an oven; light, thick and yellow as treacle; the scent of eucalyptus, fuel oil and dust. I wanted to absorb this moment of arrival, but my mouth tasted stale, my nipples were sore and Sam was wriggling in my arms. Adam was ahead with Zoë, Alice between us, half running after Adam. Beneath my shoes, the tarmac felt tacky. Around the airport, flat brown land stretched to a distant rim of hills. Next to the terminal there was an untidy sprawl of abandoned buildings and a wire fence, behind which two thin donkeys cropped a dusting of brown grass. Zoë's head turned to follow them as Adam guided her forwards.

Inside the glass-fronted building, white pipes
stretched upwards, birdsong and fluttering wings came from near the roof. I had imagined a low-ceilinged building humming with noise, not this cool cathedral. The woman who stamped my passport smiled and welcomed us to Botswana. The brilliant blue of an old woman's headcloth sang out in the crowds; red flowers in pots tumbled to the pale marble floor. It seemed we had arrived in an ordered, colourful world.

I bent to Alice. ‘Does it feel good to be on the ground again, sweetheart? We're going to have fun here.'

She nodded and relief washed through me. I lifted her hand to my lips for a quick kiss.

Once we had collected our luggage, we stood together in the arrivals hall, the girls staring at a Christmas tree that listed unevenly to one side. It was Christmas in two days but my sense of the season had been dislocated. It felt as if we were starting our summer holiday. Those who had been on our flight were dispersing into the airport, swallowed into the sea of people. After a while there was a thinning out, a sense of quiet. Sam began to grizzle. Had we got the arrangements wrong? I wasn't even sure what they were. Adam was scrutinizing the crowd and began to wave energetically. Following his gaze I saw a large African man who stood shoulders above the throng; he was holding a placard with our name
written unevenly across it in thick blue letters: ‘FAMILY JORDAN.' A moment later he caught sight of Adam waving and hurried towards us. ‘Welcome.' His voice was deep and seemed to echo in his mouth. He wore a crumpled white suit and half-moon glasses, which slipped down his nose as he bowed low to our little group. ‘I'm Kabo.'

Adam had mentioned Kabo, his research assistant, but I'd forgotten about him. Even before Sam had been born, details like this had got lost, drowned in background clamour. Perhaps it would be easier to hold onto things here. Kabo enveloped my hand in both of his and smiled widely.

‘Thanks so much for coming to meet us.' Adam clapped him on the shoulder, then Kabo gravely shook the girls' hands in turn. He touched Sam's foot gently. There was no rapidly disguised pity or distaste in his smile, and some of the tension from the long night began to dissolve.

He had already found a couple of trolleys for our luggage and we walked past the pots of flowers into the blinding brightness of the car park, where long rows of cars glittered in the hot sun.

‘Would it be a good idea for us to hire a car here?' Adam asked, pointing to a queue by a car-rental office.

‘No need. I'm taking you to Kubung – I live not far from your house,' Kabo told him. ‘And your cars
are there already: a jeep for supplies and a four-wheel drive. You'll need them when it rains. Just don't forget to check them over – oil, water and so on. There's no AA here.' And he laughed, a deep chuckle that seemed to make the differences between our countries into a joke we could share. He gestured to dry beds of shrivelled flowers that ran alongside the road. ‘The rains are overdue. They should have started in September. There is bad drought everywhere.'

I remembered that the yellow of the desert had seemed to cover most of Botswana in Alice's school atlas, the only break a tiny patch of green in the north-west by the delta.

Our luggage was loaded into Kabo's roomy car and then he helped strap Sam into the baby seat that miraculously appeared. The girls clambered in on either side of their brother and I sat with them, relieved to escape the heat. Adam took the front passenger seat. Kabo carefully manoeuvred round islands of straggling palm trees and desiccated hedges as we headed to the road.

‘I hadn't realized it would be so hot,' Adam said, rolling up his sleeves. ‘It hits you like a sledgehammer.' He gazed eagerly out of the window. I could tell the heat excited him.

‘We pass a hotel with a pool on our way out of town,' Kabo said. ‘We can drop by, if you like, no problem.'

‘Great idea.' Adam looked back at me. ‘What do you think, Em?'

‘Not sure.' The prospect of cool water was tempting but I wanted to reach the end of the journey, settle Sam and sleep.

‘We pass it anyway,' Kabo said. ‘You can decide when you see it.'

The car gathered speed along a wide dual carriageway; Alice stared out of the window; Zoë's eyes were closing, despite the voices around her. Sam was drowsy, though he'd need feeding soon. Adam and Kabo leant towards each other, talking. I caught the words ‘lymphoma' and ‘AIDS'; already they seemed like a team. Outside, high-rise buildings flashed by, their blue-tinted windows gleaming. Kabo called out the names as we drove past: Diamond Terminal, Department of Health, Trade Centre. The roofs of smaller buildings were tucked among green trees; stalls stood here and there along the verge but we passed so quickly it was impossible to see what was being sold. A few people strolled along the edge of the road. This wasn't the Africa I'd been expecting: I'd imagined more poverty, milling crowds. Gaborone looked like any cosmopolitan city. It was hotter, different, of course, but the buildings, the people and the roads were reassuring. The children would be safe; I would be able to do my research. Things would work out.

After a couple of miles, Kabo slowed and pointed to a sprawling brick building ahead on the left. There were palm trees in the courtyard and an impression of green space behind; tall trees were visible over the roof. ‘This is the hotel I told you about. Do you want to stop?' He turned to smile at the girls, as the car slowed. ‘There are usually monkeys in the garden.'

‘Monkeys!' Zoë echoed rapturously. She had woken and her head was already tilting so she could scan the trees.

Adam turned to me, eyebrow raised.

I removed Zoë's hand from the door handle. ‘I suppose a quick dip won't hurt,' I replied.

Kabo drove into the forecourt, parking alongside a coach and a yellow minibus, which was covered with painted lions. As we watched, a stream of children descended from the coach and formed a straggling crocodile shepherded by two women in red blazers, clipboards in hand. A few seconds later they had disappeared into the hotel. Then the doors of the minibus opened, and ten much younger children clambered out, followed by an overweight white woman with piled blonde hair. They moved, an untidy little group, into the hotel. A tall African man in opaque sunglasses and a broad-brimmed cowboy hat brought up the rear.

‘School outing?' asked Adam, as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

Kabo turned to look at him. ‘Orphans,' he said, in a low voice. ‘AIDS has removed a whole generation. These kids and thousands like them are brought up in orphanages.' He gestured towards the last child, who had run back for his dropped towel. ‘They get taken for treats like this every so often. Hotels let them in for free when it's quiet – good for their image.'

I slid awkwardly out of the car with Sam, the girls scrambling after us. Adam put an arm round each of them; they leant against him, asking questions, their voices high with excitement. It was easy to forget how lucky we were. How would an occasional outing change anything very much in those orphans' broken lives?

We were greeted with warm flannels and glasses of juice; it was cool inside, and the cottony balls of a large bunch of mimosa on the front desk filled the lobby with almond scent. The damp cloth was soothing on my sweaty face. Kabo signed us in as visitors while Zoë twirled round and round on the shiny wooden floor in front of a Christmas tree, holding out the edges of her shorts. Alice was by the window at the back, studying the garden.

‘They've got rooms available, Em,' Adam said. ‘How about staying here overnight to break the journey? Kabo says it's at least two more hours to Kubung.'

Sam began to struggle and whine. The thought of stretching out in a bed after the night on the plane with Sam on my lap was compelling.

‘Okay,' I said.

Zoe clapped her hands and the girl behind the desk smiled.

We found a table in the shade by the pool. Sam drank from his bottle as I sat with Kabo, a jug of fresh orange juice between us. The girls flung themselves into the water as Adam waited to catch them, Zoë shrieking with joy. The orphaned children stood together in silence in the shallow end, one or two jumping up and down cautiously.

‘They seem so subdued,' I remarked to Kabo, ‘not like kids in a pool should be.'

‘They have no idea how to play,' he replied. ‘Some of them have been in charge of families themselves or were found sleeping rough.' He shook his head. ‘Orphanages aren't ideal, but the alternatives are far worse.'

The younger children from the minibus filed past us. No one was talking. As she walked by, the blonde woman glanced down at Sam, and her sunburnt face creased into a friendly smile. ‘Beautiful,' she said.

Perhaps the birthmark was less visible to someone dealing with tragedy every day, but as her gaze lingered on his face I felt for the first time that a stranger was truly acknowledging him. The girls, as pretty
babies, had garnered praise everywhere, but I'd been too busy to take Sam out, too tired to invite anyone in, too ashamed.

‘That mark will vanish within a year, and then he really will be beautiful.' I could hear the eagerness in my voice. It could take nearer four years but it was hard to admit that even to myself.

‘Welcome to Botswana. My name's Claire. Claire Stukker. Here on holiday?' She gestured to the hotel. Her South African accent gave her voice a hopeful, friendly edge.