The Drowning Lesson by Jane Shemilt Page B

cardigan and she hardly stirred. Zoë was staring out of the window, sucking her thumb, her eyelids were drooping. ‘Sleep, baby girl.’ I stroked her chubby arm and her eyes closed. I smiled, and glanced at Sam. His head was turned sideways in the padded seat. The naevus was uppermost: in the sun it seemed larger and shinier than ever. The sunscreen was in my bag. As I smoothed it on, his mouth opened and he seemed to nuzzle the padding on the chair. I leant back; my last conscious thought was that I hoped it was clean.
    A complex fragment of a frightening dream slid away before I could grasp more than shadows. We had stopped, and the car was quiet. The window was filled with white sky, brown earth and green leaves. The girls were sprawled on the back seat, their eyes shut, breathing deeply, as if drugged. Sam’s arms
were flung wide – he seemed happy even in sleep. I slid past Alice and eased the door open. Ahead of us, on a rise in the ground, was a long, low, thatched building. Adam was under a tree, talking to Kabo.
    The heat was ferocious; the skin on my face and arms stung. It was far hotter than it had been in Gaborone. Stumbling on tree roots in hard, reddish soil, I walked quickly to Adam. He broke off his conversation with Kabo and turned to me. ‘We’ve arrived! You slept nearly all the way.’ Then, turning, he indicated a young girl I hadn’t noticed, half hidden by Kabo.
    She stepped forward, and glanced down at her feet. They were bare and covered in red dust; her hair was tightly plaited; her face was smoothly composed. She seemed very young.
    ‘This is Teko,’ Kabo said. ‘She’s been waiting here for us. She heard about your arrival. She’s come to look after the children.’
    ‘Look after the children?’ This child? Megan must have gone ahead with her idea, after all, but I felt irritation rather than gratitude. We didn’t need a nanny – I thought we’d discussed that. I’d planned to spend more time with the children, working and playing together. I’d looked forward to bush walks collecting insects and plants, outings to wildlife parks, lying in the grass under the trees with our
books. Bedtime stories. Adam’s eyebrows were raised expectantly. I smiled and shook Teko’s hand. It was rough-skinned. A working hand. Her face was pretty but tense; her eyes were older than her body looked. Although she wore no shoes, she was neatly dressed in a black skirt and crisp white shirt; there was a lovely necklace of blue stones round her slender neck.
    ‘Our friend lived near here when she was a child. She said she’d find us help through a contact who runs an orphanage,’ I told Kabo. ‘I hadn’t realized she’d gone ahead.’
    Kabo turned to Teko and questioned her in rapid Setswana; she glanced at me as she nodded and replied briefly. ‘She’s come straight from the orphanage; her boss told her about your arrival.’ He shrugged. ‘This is normal for us. People can turn up for jobs, even without this kind of introduction.’ Then he smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘Teko was in charge of the babies and some older children. She’s got a note.’ He passed it to me. I read the few typewritten sentences about her responsibilities with the younger orphans. Her honesty was recommended. I handed it to Adam, who scanned it briefly and gave it back to her.
    ‘Well, good for Megan for following through. We’re very grateful,’ Adam said heartily. He nodded at Teko. ‘You’ve arrived in perfect time.’
    ‘Like magic.’ I turned to Kabo. ‘How did she actually find us?’
    ‘She was given the address by the boss at the orphanage. She got a bus to Kubung village, then a lift with a farmer going to Thamaga,’ he answered, looking at her and nodding approval. She had managed a complex journey, his words implied; she must really want the job.
    ‘So when do you want to start? Now?’ Adam asked, with a smile. Teko looked back at him, the tight skin around her eyes relaxed,