Free Through a Window by Jane Goodall Page A

Flo? We first saw her baby in May 1971 when he was about two days old. Remembering the wild sexual adventures of his mother's adolescence, we named him—naturally enough—Freud! Just as expected, Fifi was from the start a relaxed and competent mother. Like Flo before her,
she was tolerant, affectionate and playful. And she too showed some of the behaviour that had been unique to her mother.
    One day, when Freud was just a few months old, a student called to me: "Isn't that what Flo used to do?" And there was Fifi dangling Freud from one foot while she tickled him just as Flo had played with Flint! Until then, no other mother had been observed to play in that special way. Fifi had tried when, as a child, she played with little Flint, but in those days her legs had been too short. Now she imitated Flo to perfection.
    Fifi continued to spend most of her time with her own mother during Freud's first year of life, but disappointingly, Flo showed little interest in her grandson. Sometimes she peered at him and, as he grew older, she tolerated him when he occasionally held onto her hair. But by then Flo was very old indeed; she had barely enough energy to get her frail body through each day and there was none left over for luxuries such as playing with her daughter's infant. Freud was only fifteen months old when his grandmother died.
    And what of Pom and her first baby? She was almost exactly thirteen years old when Pan was born. I had expected her to treat him much as she herself had been treated as an infant but in this case (fortunately for Pan) my predictions were largely wrong. Pom was most definitely a more attentive and tolerant mother than Passion had been. Indeed, when first I watched her with her baby, carefully supporting him during travel whenever he lost his grip, it seemed that she had the makings of a really considerate mother. But there was something lacking: Pom did not develop anything like the degree of maternal proficiency and concern shown by Fifi.
    Indeed, in some ways Pom's behaviour did reflect the manner in which she herself had been handled as an infant. She found it difficult to cradle Pan comfortably when he was small—or else she simply couldn't be bothered. Often, as she sat in a tree, the infant would slip down off her lap and hang on frantically with
wildly kicking legs as he tried to pull himself back up again. Only when he whimpered did Pom look down and, appearing slightly surprised, gather him back onto her thighs. But she seldom made any attempt to make a better lap and often, after a few minutes, he slipped down again and the sequence was repeated. Pom, like Passion, tended to move off without first gathering her infant; but unlike Passion, Pom almost always hurried back at his first whimper of distress. It seemed that she always expected Pan would be able to follow, but was instantly concerned when she found that he could not. Pom, like Passion, was not a playful mother, but Pan did not suffer as a result since Pom continued to spend most of her time with Passion and her new infant, Pax. And Pax, just a year older than Pan, was the perfect playmate.
    Pom, for all that she was a far better mother than I had expected, lost this first child. I was there to witness the horrifying accident that led to his death. It was one of those violently blustery mornings in August when the wind roars down the valley in great gusts, tossing the tree tops and sweeping on to wreak havoc over the lake. For about half an hour I had been lying on my back watching Pom and Pan as they fed on oil nuts forty-five feet above me. Pan was almost three years old, able to poke the occasional fruit from its horny case though preferring to beg for a half-chewed one from his mother. For a while he clung tightly to Pom's hair, made nervous, as most chimps are, by the violent wind. But then he got bold and ventured further afield despite the gale. Suddenly a really fierce gust lashed savagely at the fronds and Pan,