In the Company of Cheerful Ladies (16 page)

Violet stared at her for a moment, and then looked away. Nothing more was said, and Mma Makutsi went about her business.

“Well done, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe’s voice. “You did just

the right thing there. Just the right thing!” “It was very hard,” replied Mma Makutsi. “It often is,” said Mma Ramotswe.

WITHOUT A SOLUTION

MMA POTOKWANE had mentioned it so casually, as if it had been no more than a piece of unimportant gossip. But the news that Note Mokoti had been seen in Gaborone was much more than that, at least to Mma Ramotswe. She had put Note out of her mind and very rarely thought of him, although there were times when he came to her in dreams, taunting her, threatening her, and she would wake up in fright and have to remind herself that he was no longer there. He had gone to South Africa, she understood, and had pursued his musical career in Johannesburg,

apparently with some success, as she had seen the occasional

magazine photograph featuring him.

I’m a forgiving lady, Mma Ramotswe told herself. I see no point in keeping old arguments alive when it is so simple to lay them to rest. She had made a deliberate attempt to forgive Note, and she thought that it had worked. She remembered the day on which she had done this, when she had gone for a walk in the bush and had looked up at the sky and emptied her heart of its hatred. She had forgiven him on that day: she had forgiven him the physical cruelty, the beatings which she had endured when he had taken drink; she had forgiven him the mental torment

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which he had inflicted on her when he had promised her something

or other and had immediately torn up the promise. And when it came to the money which he had taken from her, she forgave

him that too, saying to herself that she did not want it back.

When Mma Potokwane had made her disclosure about having

seen Note Mokoti, Mma Ramotswe had not shown much of a reaction. Indeed, Mma Potokwane felt the news was of little importance to her friend, so uninterested did she appear, and so she said nothing more about it. They continued their conversation

about Charlie and his worrying behaviour; Mma Potokwane had a great deal to say about this, and made some valuable suggestions,

but later, when Mma Ramotswe tried to remember what she had said, she could recall very little. Her mind had been almost completely occupied by the sheer awfulness of the news that had been broken to her so casually. Note was back.

As she drove back from Tlokweng that day, Charlie was far from her mind. If Note Mokoti had been seen in Gaborone, then this could mean that he had returned to live there—and that raised certain very obvious difficulties—or it could mean no more than that he had come back for a visit. If he was on a visit, then he might already have gone back to Johannesburg, and she need worry no more. If, however, he had moved back to Gaborone, then it would be inevitable that she herself would see him sooner or later. The town was bigger these days, and it was possible that two people might live in it without ever seeing one another, but there was a very good chance that their paths would cross. After all, there were not all that many supermarkets and she was always bumping into people at such places. And then there was the mall, the centre of the town, where everybody went sooner or later; what if she were to be walking down the mall and she saw Note walking towards her? Would she turn round and walk in the opposite direction, or would she just walk past him as if he were any other stranger?

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She thought about this, as she drove the tiny white van back along the Tlokweng Road. Presumably there were many who felt that they had to avoid somebody or other. People were always having arguments with one another, feuds about land and cattle, family scraps over inheritance—which were rich sources of dispute

wherever one went in this world. Some of these people made it up with one another and talked again; others never did this, and kept their anger and resentment alive. Then there were people who split up from a lover or a spouse. If you left your wife for another woman, and your wife failed to see this as a good thing, then what if you were walking down the road with your new woman, holding hands, as those who are newly in love might do, and you saw your old wife coming towards you? This must happen a great deal, thought Mma Ramotswe, and presumably people faced it and coped, as they usually end up doing. People got by in life in spite of all these social pitfalls.

She tried to imagine what she might say to Note if she were to find herself with no alternative but to talk to him. Perhaps it would be best to speak in a very ordinary way and ask him how he was and how life had been treating him. Then she could say something about how she hoped that his music was going well and how she imagined what an exciting life he was leading in Johannesburg. Yes, that would be all. With that she would have shown that she wished him no evil, and even Note, even that unkind man who had treated her so badly, might leave her alone after that.

She turned the tiny white van into Odi Drive to cut through the Village. As she did so, she saw Mrs Moffat walking back along the side of the road, a heavy bag of shopping in her hand. It was not far to the Moffat house, and it would not have taken Mrs Moffat long to walk, but nobody drove past a friend in Botswana, and she drew up alongside and reached over to open the passenger

door.

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“Your bag looks very heavy,” she said. “I will take you back.”

Mrs Moffat smiled. “You are very kind, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “And sometimes I feel very lazy. I’m feeling very lazy now.”

She climbed into the van and they resumed the short journey back up the road to the Moffat house. Samuel, who worked in the Moffat garden once a week, was standing near the gate, and he opened it for the tiny white van to sweep through.

“Thank you,” said Mrs Moffat, turning to her friend. “This bag was getting rather heavy, I’m …” She did not finish her sentence,

for she had seen the expression on Mma Ramotswe’s face.

“Is something wrong, Mma Ramotswe?”

Mma Ramotswe looked away before she gave her reply. “Yes. There is something wrong. I did not want you to know, but there is something wrong.”

Mrs Moffat’s first thought was of the obvious. Mma Ramotswe

and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had recently married. Their wedding, which she and the doctor had attended, had been a surprise to everybody as they had all decided that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, fine man though he was, would never make up his mind to get to the altar. Perhaps he had not been ready after all; perhaps the seemingly

interminable engagement had been his way of saying that his heart was not really in marriage, and perhaps she was now discovering

this. The thought of this appalled her. She knew that Mma Ramotswe had been married before, a long time ago; she had heard a little about this marriage—that it had been one of those awful violent marriages which so many women had to put up with—and it seemed so unfair that things should be going wrong again, if that is what was happening. It would be impossible, though, that they would be going wrong in the same way: Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was incapable of being violent—at least that was certain.

Mrs Moffat reached across and touched Mma Ramotswe lightly on the forearm. “Come,” she said. “You can talk to me. We can sit in the garden, or on the verandah if you prefer.”

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Mma Ramotswe nodded, and turned off the engine. “I do not want to burden you,” she said. “It is not a big thing.”

“Tell me about it,” said Mrs Moffat. “Sometimes it’s good just to talk.”

They decided to sit on the verandah, where it was cool, and where they could look out over the garden that Mrs Moffat had spent so much time in creating. There was a towering jacaranda tree directly adjacent, and its great canopy of leaves gave shade to the house. It was a good place to sit and reflect.

Mma Ramotswe came straight to the point and told Mrs Moffat about the news which Mma Potokwane had given her. As she spoke, she saw her friend’s expression change from one of concern to one of what appeared to be relief.

“So that’s all,” said Mrs Moffat. “That’s all it is.”

Mma Ramotswe managed a smile. “I said it was not a big thing.”

Mrs Moffat laughed. “It certainly isn’t a big thing,” she said. “I imagined that there was something wrong with your marriage. I was busy thinking that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had run away, or something like that. I was wondering what I would be able to say.”

“Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would never run away,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is enjoying all the good food that I am putting on the table for him. He would never run away.”

“That is a good way to keep a man,” said Mrs Moffat. “But, going back to this other man, to Note Mokoti, so what if he’s back? You needn’t worry about that. Just be polite to him if you see him. You don’t have to engage further than that. Tell him you’re married …”

Mma Ramotswe had been looking at Mrs Moffat as she spoke, but when her friend said Tell him you’re married, she looked away sharply and Mrs Moffat hesitated. Her words appeared to have upset Mma Ramotswe for some reason and she

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wondered what it was. Could it be that Mma Ramotswe did not want Note to know this, that for some reason she retained feeling for this man and that she would not want him to know about her marriage to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni?

“You will tell him,” she said, “if he shows up, that is. You will tell him that you’re married?”

Mma Ramotswe was holding the hem of her dress between her fingers, worrying at it. She looked up and met Mrs Moffat’s gaze.

“I am still married to him,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am still married to that man. We did not get a divorce.”

In the ensuing moments of silence, a grey African dove moved delicately along a branch of the jacaranda tree, looking down, with quick movements, at the two women below. On a rock just outside

the penumbra of shade cast by the tree, a small lizard, tinted blue along its flanks, lifted its head towards the late afternoon sun.

Mrs Moffat said nothing. She was not waiting for Mma Ramotswe to continue; it was just that she had nothing to say.

“So you see, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am very unhappy.

Very unhappy.”

Mrs Moffat nodded. “But why did you not get a divorce? He left you, didn’t he? You could have got a divorce.”

“I was very young,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That man frightened me. When he left I just put him out of my mind and tried to forget

that we were ever married. I made myself not think about it.”

“But surely you remembered later?”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I should have done something about it, but I could not bring myself to face it. I just couldn’t. I’m sorry, Mma …”

“You don’t have to apologise to me!” exclaimed Mrs Moffat. “It’s just that this is a bit complicated, isn’t it? You’re not meant to get married again until you’re divorced.”

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“I know that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have done a very silly thing, Mma.”

They sat together for a short time longer. Mrs Moffat tried to think of something to say, of some advice to give, but she simply could not think of any way out of the situation in which Mma Ramotswe found herself. Friends sometimes behaved in a foolish way—she knew that very well—and this was a good example of that happening. It was not as if Mma Ramotswe had done anything

morally reprehensible—it was more a case of being careless about a legal formality. But this was a legal formality which was really rather important, and she simply could not think of any way out of it.

After a few minutes, Mma Ramotswe sighed and stood up. She straightened her blouse and brushed some dust off the side of her skirt, dust more imaginary than real.

“This is my problem, Mma,” she said to Mrs Moffat. “I cannot

expect you to help me with this. I shall have to do something myself to sort it all out.” She paused, before continuing, “Although

I cannot think of anything that I can do, Mma. I cannot think of anything at all!”

MMA MAKUTSI AND MR J.L.B. MATEKONI

VISIT MR J.L.B. MATEKONI’S HOUSE

MMA MAKUTSI realised the next day that Mma Ramotswe’s mind was on other things. Her employer was rarely moody, but there were occasions when it seemed as if some problem was preventing her from giving her full attention to the affairs of the agency. It was usually something domestic—one of the children might be experiencing difficulty at school or Rose, her maid, might have told her of the hardship being endured by a relative or friend. There was so much need, even in a fortunate country such as Botswana; it seemed as if the reservoirs of suffering were never empty, and no matter what progress was made there would always be people for whom there was no job, or no place to live, or not enough food. And when you became aware of these needs, especially if they were being felt by those who had a claim on you, then it was hard to put them out of your mind.

Everybody knew somebody in need. Mma Makutsi herself had just heard of a young girl whose parents had both died. This girl, who lived with an aunt, was clever. She had done well in her examinations, but now there was no money to pay her school fees and she would have to give up her education if this money were not found. What could one do? Mma Makutsi could not help her;

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although she had a bit of spare money now from the Kalahari Typing School for Men, she had her own people to look after up in Bobonong. So there was nobody to help this child, and she would lose her chance to make something of her life.

Of course you could not allow yourself to think too much about these issues. One had to get on and to attend to the day-to-day business of living. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was there to solve the problems in people’s lives—that’s what they did, as Mma Ramotswe often pointed out—but they could not solve all the world’s problems. And so you had to turn away from so much that you would like to do something about, and hope that things would work out somehow for those who were in need. That was all you could do.