The Drowning Lesson (25 page)

We both work part time: we're balanced, though balance may not be the right word. The Relate counsellor asked us to think of our lives like circles that overlap, rather than weights on a machine. My circles are family, marriage, work and swimming. Sam is learning to swim; Adam comes along. Sam clings to us. We're taking it slowly. There are more good nights now; less waking, less clinging and crying. He said his first word two weeks ago: dog. I hope that's Kodi, not the slavering animals who guarded him. The psychiatrist said he could have problems later, but he's been wrong before.

Adam and I are taking it slowly too. We swim together on Tuesdays when Megan has Sam. Adam beats me at butterfly; I'm faster at crawl. It gives me a kick to touch the side first; some things are too ingrained to change.

Zoë's growing up determined. She says she wants to be a vet. She's quieter now: we're watching her, too, just in case.

It's different with Alice. She talks all the time. Going back, going forward, going through it all again
and again. The psychiatrist was right about the anxiety, feeling unsafe, the worsening fear when Sam was born; what no one could have spotted was how this played straight into Claire's hands.

After we arrived in Kubung, Alice heard Teko whispering on the house phone in English. Teko begged her to keep the secret, in case she was sacked for lying, she said. Alice agreed: she needed a friend and Teko seemed to be a good one. They both overheard me talking about giving babies away and Teko sympathized with Alice's fears about Sam, while skilfully deepening them. When Teko disappeared, Alice had no idea she'd been involved in her brother's kidnap.

The night before Sam was taken, Alice surprised a man hiding in the kitchen, as she'd told us. He claimed he was there to rescue Sam from being given away. He said she had to help or there'd be trouble. Terrified but wanting the best for Sam, she agreed to keep the family out of the way the next afternoon. She realized her mistake when she saw our anguish. Later, regretful and despairing, she threw Sam's elephant in the pond: she'd thrown her brother away, what point was there in keeping his toys?

Mostly I listen. She knows it's not her fault; she knows we're sorry; even the psychiatrist apologized.

We can't blame Teko, not completely. Was it poverty or did she really think Sam needed saving? We'll
never know. She walked out minutes after we left, taking nothing with her, vanishing into the bush.

When the police arrived, Daniel and Claire were back in their house, unaware that Sam was missing or that Teko had gone. By the time the case came to trial, months later, they were blaming each other and the truth came spilling out.

Megan went to listen on our behalf. ‘I want to,' she'd said. Sam was on her lap; she moved her coffee out of his reach, then leant towards me over his head. ‘I persuaded you to go to Botswana. Then I didn't follow up when David failed to get back. It's the least I can do.'

If she felt guilty, so did I. She must never know that, in spite of everything, she had been a strand in the mesh of possibilities until Sam's discovery.

The courtroom had been packed. Claire and Daniel ran a legitimate orphanage in Gaborone. As their defence barrister pointed out, the business had been inspected by government agencies and had passed with flying colours. Even Goodwill had been wrong-footed. The house in Tshabong was the base for a secret trade in babies conceived or stolen to order for illegal adoption; white babies were hard to find for white South African couples. Sam had been special. It must have helped that I'd told Claire his birthmark would disappear quickly.

Teko had been told to co-ordinate the abduction from inside, but she'd become fond of Alice and
things got delayed. Daniel began visiting Teko at night, bullying her into submission. When Alice came across him in the kitchen, he threatened her too. He damaged my car to delay my return; spying out in advance where Sam slept, he'd left his fingermarks on the wall.

Claire must have hoped that by revealing so much about Daniel, she would get off lightly, but they both got prison sentences of indefinite length. Their accomplices, the men who snatched Sam for them, were never found.

To date, no one has claimed any of the other babies. All have gone to government-run homes. I sent the photos I took to Goodwill and Chief Momotsi in case they hear of parents who are searching. No one has come forward. They might be too afraid. There might have been contracts that Claire didn't mention, unwritten ones worth thousands, with businessmen, politicians or the
boloi
themselves, men whose beliefs run counter to common sense, to humanity. A mother, fearful for her other children, wouldn't dare involve the police. Baruti's mother didn't.

Today at breakfast, we start talking about summer holidays. It's the kind of cold, rainy morning that makes everyone want sunshine, though at the same time it feels good to be inside. The kitchen smells of toast and coffee. It's my day off, and I'm in pyjamas, about to feed the dog.

Adam wants to go to Iceland. Alice says Provence. Zoë, stroking Kodi, looks up and smiles. ‘Africa,' she says brightly.

Dog biscuits clatter into the bowl. Adam, on his way to fetch his shoes, stops in his tracks. ‘Really, Zoë?' he asks.

Sam is eating a banana. He squeezes it tightly in his fist, watching as it bulges out between his fingers.

‘We've been there already, Zo-Zo,' I tell her. Sam is sucking his hand now; banana is in his hair.

‘Rosie saw elephants when she went.'

We saw other things. The sun on the trees. Birdsong. Kindness. Poverty, what it can do.

I wipe Sam's hands and he wriggles down from his chair, squatting next to Zoë. They watch Kodi crunching his biscuits. When he has finished, Zoë stands up. She tugs my hand. ‘I want to go to Africa again.'

I kiss the top of her head. Her face darkens, but then her gaze falls on Kodi's empty water bowl. ‘Sorry,' she says, bending to stroke his head. She picks up the bowl and stretches on tiptoe to fill it from the tap. Sam stands next to her, copying, stretching up as high as he can. The bowl slips, water splashes on him and on her uniform. There is a little fuss. By the time they are both dried off, she's forgotten what she'd been asking.

The girls leave with Adam. I check anoraks are done up, scarves in place and kiss everyone goodbye.

I haven't forgotten anything.

Sam settles for his nap. The pot of powdered herbs is still in the side pocket of my case where I left it ten months ago. The contents look like ordinary dust: grey, soft, settled. I stand on a chair in the study and put it high on a shelf, beyond anyone's reach, next to the medical encyclopedias at the very top.

1. ‘Our relationship was evenly weighted with work and success, but the balance could tip at any moment.' Discuss what it means to be equal in a relationship. To what extent do you think Emma and Adam's competitive marriage contributes to what happens in the novel? What kind of secrets are allowed in a marriage?
   
2. Emma is amazed that Megan put her career aside to look after her husband. Does Emma rely too heavily on her job to give her a solid identity?
   
3. When Sam is born with the birthmark on his face Emma is upset that he is not ‘perfect'. Perfection is something she strives for, but does she really know what this is? What does Emma really want from life?
   
4. At first Emma is uncomfortable with having staff in her Botswanan home, though she is perfectly happy employing staff in London. Discuss the reasons for this.
   
5. Did Emma have a responsibility to be a better mother to Alice, Zoë and Sam? Do you believe she was suffering from post-natal depression? How far is she responsible for what happened?
   
6. What did Emma learn from the drowning lesson in the quarry as a child?
   
7. How much does our relationship with our parents influence our choices as adults? Is it inevitable we will repeat the same patterns of behaviour?
   
8. Sam is not the only missing child in
   The Drowning Lesson
   . Compare and contrast his abduction with Baruti's disappearance. How might the investigation have differed if the disappearance had taken place in the UK?
   
9. Discuss the different representations of female relationships throughout the novel. Do women really need female friends?
   
10. Alice is in trouble but no one sees. Mental health issues in children can slip below the radar. How many of Alice's problems could have been avoided?
    
11. Things are not always what they seem, yet judgements are often made on appearance. How important is it that Emma learns to look below the surface?
    

I would like to thank Eve White, Jack Ramm and Kitty Walker at Eve White Literary Agency.

Many thanks to the team at Penguin: my editor Maxine Hitchcock, also Hazel Orme, Beatrix McIntyre and Eve Hall. Lee Motley designed the beautiful jacket.

Warm thanks to Jessica Jackson, my publicist.

I am grateful to the many friends who showed me the magnificent country of Botswana; special thanks are due to Tebogo Basupang and Boston Naledi Basupang for their friendship and patience. Thanks also to Evelyn Lorato Botshabelo, then the acting headteacher at Kubung Primary School, to teachers Edith Nthaba, Motswaki Mothokatse and Polite Mmopi and to all the children we met there. Thank you to Agnes Motlhabedi and Matilda Ranko, nurses at Kubung clinic.

Many thanks for his wisdom are due to the chief at Kubung, Boitshwarelo Mabutlwane and to his wife, Oefile Mabutlwane.

Modiri and Kaletso Ramahobo, Thongbotho Nkaelang, Kabo Garebakwena and Frank and Moses Peter in Tonota were very helpful, as were the staff at
World Spine Care near Mahalapye in the Central District of Botswana.

The Kubung village in
The Drowning Lesson
drew only its name from the real Kubung village in Botswana; all the people mentioned in the book are also entirely imaginary.

Thanks are due to Alexander McCall Smith, met by chance at Gabarone airport and most generous with his time and thoughts.

My daughter Mary came with me, fellow traveller and lovely companion. Thank you.

Many thanks for her wise counsel are due to Tricia Wastvedt.

My writing group continues to meet; for friendship and inspiration thanks to: Tanya Attapattu, Victoria Finlay, Emma Geen, Susan Jordan, Sophie McGovern, Peter Reason and Mimi Thebo and now further away, to Hadiza El-Rufai and Vanessa Vaughan.

Thanks for their continuing support to Kathryn Atkins and her family of Durdham Down Bookshop in Northview in Bristol.

My enduring gratitude and love go to my family: Steve, my bedrock, and our beloved children Martha, Mary, Henry, Tommy and Johny.

The days grow short. Apples litter the grass, their flesh pockmarked by crows. As I carry logs from the stack under the overhang today, I tread on a soft globe; it collapses into slime under my feet.

November.

I am cold all the time but she could be colder. Why should I be comfortable? How could I be?

By evening the dog is shivering. The room darkens; I light the fire and the flames pull me near as the regrets begin to flare, burning and hissing in my head.

If only. If only I'd been listening. If only I'd been watching. If only I could start again, exactly one year ago
.

The leather-bound sketchbook Michael gave me is on the table and in the pocket of the dressing gown there is a bitten red stub of pencil; he told me it would help to draw the past. The pictures are in my head already: a scalpel balanced in trembling fingers, a plastic ballerina twirling round and round, a pile of notes neatly stacked on a bedside table in the dark.

I write my daughter's name on the first unmarked
page and underneath I sketch the outline of two black high-heeled shoes lying on their sides, long straps tangled together.

Naomi.

She was swaying to music on her iPod so she didn't notice me at first. Her orange scarf was looped round her throat, schoolbooks scattered everywhere. I closed the back door quietly behind me and slid my bag to the floor; it was heavy with notes, my stethoscope, syringes, vials and boxes. It had been a long day: two surgeries, home visits and paperwork. Leaning against the kitchen door, I watched my daughter, but another girl was in my mind's eye. Jade, lying in a bed with bruises on her arms.

That was the chilli in my eye. They squirt chilli juice into an elephant's eye to distract him while they mend his wounded leg. Theo told me that once. At the time I didn't believe it could work, but I should have taken it as a warning. It's easier than you think to lose sight of what matters.

As I watched Naomi, I imagined painting the curve of her cheeks as she smiled to herself. I would outline them with a paler shade for the light trapped against her skin. With every step her blonde fringe jumped softly against her forehead. When it lifted, beads of sweat along the hairline glistened. She had pushed up the sleeves of her school jersey; the charm bracelet moved up and down, up
and down the smooth skin of her arm, almost slipping off. I was glad to see her wearing it; I thought she had lost it years ago.

‘Mum! I didn't see you there. What do you think?' She pulled out her earphones and looked at me.

‘Wish I could dance like that …'

I stepped forward and quickly kissed the velvety bloom along her cheek, breathing her in. Lemon soap and sweat.

She jerked her head away, and bent to pick up her books in a swerving movement that had her quick, glancing grace. Her voice was impatient: ‘No, I mean my shoes – look at them.'

They must have been new. Black, very high heels, with straps of leather binding her feet and wrapping tightly round her slim legs; they looked wrong on her. She usually wore pumps in coloured leather or Converses.

‘The heels are incredibly high.' Even I could hear the criticism in my voice, so I tried to laugh. ‘Not like your usual –'

‘They're not, are they?' Her voice was triumphant. ‘Totally different.'

‘They must have cost the earth. I thought you'd spent your allowance?'

‘They're so comfortable. Exactly the right size.' As if she couldn't believe her luck.

‘You can't wear them to go out, darling. They look far too tight on you.'

‘Admit you're jealous. You want them.' She smiled a little half-smile that I hadn't seen before.

‘Naomi –'

‘Well, you can't have them. I'm in love with them. I love
them almost as much as I love Bertie.' While she was speaking she stretched down to stroke the dog's head. She turned then and, yawning widely, went slowly upstairs, her shoes hitting each step with a harsh metallic noise, like little hammers.

She'd escaped. My question hung, unanswered, in the warm air of the kitchen.

I poured myself a glass of Ted's wine. Naomi didn't usually answer back or walk out while I was talking. I stashed the doctor's bag and notes in the corner of the cloakroom, then, sipping my drink, started walking around the kitchen, straightening towels. She used to tell me everything. As I hung up her coat, the sharpness of the alcohol began to clear my mind; it was part of the bargain and I'd weighed it all up long ago. It was simple. I did the job I loved and earned good money, but it meant I was home less than some mothers. The bonus was that it gave the children space. They were growing up independently, which was what we'd always wanted.

I pulled the potatoes out of the cupboard. They were covered in little lumps of soil so I rinsed them quickly under the tap. Thinking about it, though, she hadn't wanted to talk properly for months now. Ted would tell me not to worry. She's a teenager, he would say, growing up. The cold water chilled my hands and I turned off the tap. Growing up or growing away? Preoccupied or withdrawn? The questions hummed in my mind as I hunted in the drawer for the potato peeler. Last summer in my surgery I had seen an anxious adolescent; she had carefully sliced the delicate skin of her wrists into multiple red
lines. I shook my head to drive the image away. Naomi wasn't depressed. There was that new smile to set against the impatience. Her involvement in the play against the silences at home. If she seemed preoccupied it was because she was older now, more thoughtful. Acting had given her maturity. Last summer she'd worked with Ted in his lab and she'd become interested in medicine. As I began peeling potatoes it occurred to me that her new-found confidence could be key to success in interviews. Perhaps I should celebrate. The starring role in the school play would also increase her chances of getting a place at medical school. Interviewers liked students with outside interests; it was known to offset the stress of becoming a doctor. Painting worked like that for me, dissolving the stress of general practice. With the tap back on, the brown mud swirled around and around in the sink and then disappeared. I'd almost finished Naomi's portrait and I could feel the pull of it now. Whenever I painted I was in a different world; worries melted away. My easel was just upstairs in the attic and I wished I could escape more often. I dumped the potato peelings in the bin and took the sausages out of the fridge. Theo's favourite had been bangers and mash since he was a toddler. I could talk to Naomi tomorrow.

Later Ted phoned to say he was held up at the hospital. The twins came back home ravenously hungry. Ed lifted his hand in silent greeting as he took a heaped plate of toast upstairs. I could hear the bedroom door close behind him and pictured him turning on music, falling onto his bed, toast in hand, eyes closed. I remembered that about being seventeen: hoping no one would bang on your door
or, worse, walk in and talk to you. Theo, freckles blazing in his pale face, shouted out the day's triumphs as he crunched biscuits, one after another, emptying the tin. Naomi came back through the kitchen, her wet hair lying in thick points on her neck. I hurriedly pushed sandwiches into her rucksack as she was on her way out, then stood at the open door for a few minutes, listening to her footsteps going slowly down the road, gradually becoming fainter. The school theatre was a street away but she was always late. She'd stopped running everywhere now; the play was sapping her energy.

‘Though just fifteen Naomi Malcolm's Maria is mature beyond her years.' ‘Naomi mixes innocence and sexuality in a bewitching performance as Maria; a star is born.' Being tired and wound up was worth it for those reviews on the school website. Two more performances after this: Thursday, then Friday. Soon we would all get back to normal.

I know it's Friday today because the fish lady comes to the cottage. I crouch down under the stairs as her van draws up outside, the white shape smudged by the old glass of the door. The woman rings the bell and waits, a squat, hopeful figure, head bobbing as she searches the windows. If she sees me I will have to open the door, compose words, smile. None of these are possible today. A small spider scrabbles over my hand. Bending my head further,
I breathe dust from the carpet and after a while the van rumbles away down the lane. It's a day for being on my own. I lie low and wait for the hours to pass. Fridays still hurt.

After a while, I get up and find the book I left on the hearth last night. I turn over the page with the picture of her shoes and, on the next one, draw the little overlapping circles of a silver ring.

I knelt on the kitchen floor, opening up my medical bag to check the drugs against a list to see what I needed. This job was easier away from the surgery; there were fewer interruptions if I picked my time. I was groping into the depths of the leather pockets so I didn't notice her come silently into the kitchen. She walked past me and the bag she was carrying knocked against my shoulder. I looked up, keeping a finger on my list; I was running low on paracetamol and pethidine. Naomi glanced down at me, her blue eyes clouded with thought. Even through the thick make-up she'd already put on for the play there were dark lines under her eyes. She looked exhausted. This wasn't the moment to ask the questions I'd wanted to.

‘You're almost done, sweetie. This is the second-last performance,' I said brightly.

Clothes were spilling from her carrier bag; the heels of her shoes had made little holes in the plastic.

‘Dad and I will be there tomorrow.' I sat back on my heels and looked up, studying her face. The black eyeliner made her look much older than fifteen. ‘I'm longing to see if it's changed since the first night.'

She looked at me blankly and then gave me the new smile; only one side of her mouth lifted, so it looked as if she was smiling to herself.

‘What time will you be back?' I gave up and got to my feet reluctantly; I never managed to finish anything. ‘It's Thursday. Dad usually picks you up on Thursdays.'

‘I told him not to bother ages ago. Walking with friends is easier.' She sounded bored. ‘The meal will finish around midnight. Shan will give me a lift.'

‘Midnight?' But she was tired already. Despite myself, my voice was rising. ‘You've got the play again tomorrow, the party straight after. It's only a meal. Ten thirty.'

‘That's not nearly long enough. Why do I always have to be different from everyone else?' Her fingers started tapping the table; the little ring that some boy at school had given her was glinting in the light.

‘Eleven, then.'

She stared at me. ‘I'm not a baby.' The anger in her tone was surprising.

We couldn't argue all night. She would be onstage soon and needed to calm down; I had to finish sorting the medicines before cooking supper.

‘Half past eleven. Not a second later.'

She shrugged and turned, bending over Bertie where he lay at full stretch, sleeping against the stove. She kissed him, pulling his soft ears gently; though he hardly stirred, his tail thumped the floor.

I touched her arm. ‘He's old, sweetheart. He needs his sleep.'

She jerked her arm from my hand, her face tense. ‘Relax, it's okay. You're a triumph, remember?' I gave her a quick hug but she turned her face away. ‘Only one more day to go.'

Her mobile went off and she stepped back, her hand resting on the draining board as she answered. Her fingers were long. She had freckles, tiny ones that went as far as the second knuckle, light gold, like grains of demerara sugar. The nails were bitten like a child's, at odds with the pretty ring. I folded her hand in both of mine and kissed it quickly. She was talking to Nikita; I don't think she even noticed. She was still young enough for the knuckles to feel like little pits under my lips. The phone call finished and she turned to go, a little wave at the door, her way of making up for being irritable.

‘Bye, Mum,' she said.

Later I fell asleep by mistake. I put the kettle on for her hot-water bottle at about eleven, and lay down on the sofa to wait; I must have drifted off almost immediately. When I woke up my neck ached and my mouth tasted stale. I got up and, pulling my jersey down, went to put the kettle on again.

The kettle was cold under my hand. I looked at the clock. Two in the morning. I hadn't heard her come in. I felt sick. She'd never been as late as this. What had happened? The blood thumped painfully in my ears for a second until common sense took over. Of course, she had let herself in by the front door and gone straight up to bed. Asleep in the basement kitchen a flight below, I
wouldn't have heard the door shutting behind her. She must have dropped her shoes soundlessly in the front porch and then tiptoed upstairs, quietly, guiltily, past our room and up to hers, on the second floor. I stretched as I waited for the kettle to boil; she could still have her hot-water bottle. I would wrap it up and tuck it in beside her; she might sleepily register the warmth.

I went upstairs slowly past the boys' rooms. Ed snored suddenly as I passed, making me jump. Up another flight to Naomi's room. The door was open a crack and I went in quietly. It was pitch dark and stuffy, smelling of strawberry shampoo and something else, bitter with citrus at the back of it. I felt my way to her chest of drawers and, pulling out a shirt, slipped the hot-water bottle inside. I stepped carefully over to the bed, half tripping on strewn clothes. My hands moved to turn the cover back around her, but it was smooth and flat.

The bed was empty.

I snapped on the light. Tights spilt from open drawers, there were towels and shoes on the floor. A thong lay on top of a red lacy bra on her bedside table, a black half-cup bra on the chair. I didn't recognize any of these things; had her friends changed here too? Naomi was usually so tidy. A bottle of foundation had tipped over on the dressing table; a stick of lipstick lay in the small beige puddle. Her grey school jersey had been left on the floor, with the white shirt still inside it.