Miracle at Speedy Motors (12 page)

“I leave it up to you,” Mma Mapoi said. “You can decide. But do not tell her until you have thought about it very carefully, Mma. You do not want her to be unhappy, do you?”

“No. Of course not.” Mma Ramotswe waited. Mma Mapoi had poured the tea now and was cradling her cup in her hands. Then she looked up at Mma Ramotswe.

“The mother—the real mother—was a very young woman, Mma. She was just sixteen, I think. And she already had one child before she had this girl. Her first-born was a boy. Then she had a daughter.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded her encouragement. “I see. Two children.”

“Yes, two children. And then…then, Mma, this young woman killed her husband with a hoe. That is what happened.”

Mma Ramotswe had not been prepared for this. Botswana was a peaceful place, and people did not kill their husbands, or not very often. That happened elsewhere, she thought.

Mma Mapoi was watching her intently. “I can see that you are shocked, Mma,” she said quietly. “It was a terrible thing. I think that he was a very bad man, that husband—he beat her, I think, and she decided that she had had enough. That sometimes happens.”

Yes, thought Mma Ramotswe, it did. And she understood. There were men who beat women; she had been married to one, to Note Mokoti, all those years ago. Had she stayed with him, might she have ended up disposing of him? It seemed inconceivable, but in a moment of utter desperation anybody, she imagined, might do anything.

Mma Mapoi continued with her story. “The police came and took her away. She did not deny that she had killed this man, and they took her to the High Court in Lobatse. Mma Sebina—the mother—told me all about this. They knew why she had done it, and I think that the judge felt sorry for her, but she still had to go to prison. But she became late there after a year, I think—she was ill. And that made those children orphans.”

“Where did they go? Was there a grandmother?”

Mma Mapoi shook her head. “No. There was nobody. Nobody knew where that woman was from, and the late husband’s family would have nothing to do with the children of the woman who had killed their son.”

Mma Ramotswe made a sympathetic clicking with her tongue. Without a grandmother, children in that position would be the responsibility of a village—if they had a village.

“So they took them to that place at Tlokweng,” said Mma Mapoi. “That is where they went. Then Mma Sebina took the girl. She could not take the brother. She could not feed two more mouths, she said.”

Mma Mapoi went on to say something about the cost of food and how difficult it was to feed growing children, with their appetites. Boys were worse than girls, she said, and they always wanted meat, and meat was so expensive these days, unless you had your own chickens, of course…But Mma Ramotswe had stopped listening. The orphan farm at Tlokweng; and there was a boy. I’ve found your brother, she thought.

“Thank you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You have told me something very important. And I don’t think we need to tell Mma Sebina about what her mother did. We can keep that a secret, as long as we can tell her that she has a brother.”

Mma Mapoi seemed relieved. “It would be better that way,” she said. “My friend never wanted her daughter to know. I am sure of that.”

“Then we can respect her wishes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is always better to respect the wishes of somebody who is late.”

“Oh yes,” said Mma Mapoi. “That is much better. Otherwise they might punish us from up there.”

Mma Ramotswe sipped at her tea. “Possibly,” she said. But there was disbelief in her voice; she did not think that those who were late, or the ancestors themselves, would wish punishment upon us, no matter what our transgressions. It was far more likely that there would be love, falling like rain from above, changing the hearts of the wicked; transforming them.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ABOUT A BED

I
T WAS NOT UNTIL
the following morning that it became apparent what Mma Makutsi had been up to while Mma Ramotswe had been on her mission to find Mma Mapoi. Mma Ramotswe had forgotten the conversation with Charlie, and the sudden expression of interest on Mma Makutsi’s face when he had remarked on the cheapness of the bed he had seen. That attention became something more than interest once Mma Ramotswe had left the office. Mr. Polopetsi, who had been sitting idly in the garage, had been called in and left in charge of the agency, while Mma Makutsi prepared to go to the bank.

“Answer the phone, Rra,” he had been instructed. “Don’t do anything. Just answer the phone and take any messages.”

“And if a client comes in? What then? Am I to send that person away? Away to the competition?”

Mma Makutsi had looked at him in astonishment. “Competition? What competition are you talking about?”

“Somewhere else,” said Mr. Polopetsi, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the window. “You cannot send customers away. No business can.”

Mma Makutsi knew what he was driving at. Ever since he had been taken on at the garage—and Mma Makutsi regarded Mr. Polopetsi as working for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and not for Mma Ramotswe—it had been his ambition to have his own clients. But that could not be allowed, or certainly not at this stage, because he could not be trusted to get things right. And there was another reason that, for Mma Makutsi at least, was a very powerful one for keeping Mr. Polopetsi in the background. This was the simple fact that the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency was, as the name so clearly spelled out, an agency run by
ladies.
Mr. Polopetsi, for all his modesty and keenness, was a
man,
and if he were to be given substantial authority, could the business still in good faith be called a ladies’ detective agency? Mma Makutsi thought not.

“There is no competition, Rra,” she said patiently. “We are the only detective agency in town. If somebody doesn’t want to come to us, then that is just too bad. Their problems will remain unsolved.”

She waited for him to say something, but he did not. “So I think,” she went on, “that it’s best for you just to take the client’s name and explain that the
detectives
”—and she stressed the word
detectives—
“will be back later on. Make an appointment for anybody to see me tomorrow morning.”

Mr. Polopetsi looked at her. “But would it not be better to arrange an appointment with Mma Ramotswe herself? Why speak to the dog when you can speak to its master?”

Mma Makutsi stiffened. When she responded, her voice was icy. “I’m not sure that I understand what you’re saying, Rra. What is this about dogs?”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about real dogs,” Mr. Polopetsi said quickly. “I was talking about how it’s best to go directly to the top. That’s what some people think, Mma. I don’t, but they do.”

“That may be true, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi, picking up her handbag, “but we haven’t got time to talk about all that now. Just look after the phone, that’s all. Please don’t start any new cases. Thank you.”

She left the office and walked down to the place where the minibuses stopped. One of them, she knew, went past the bank and after she had done her business there—withdrawing the sum required—she could go on to the shop where Charlie claimed he had seen the bed. It pained her to think that she would have to withdraw almost half of her savings in order to make the purchase, but there was a lot at stake. She could not face Phuti and tell him that her carelessness had ruined the bed he had bought. Nor could she allow Mma Ramotswe to tell him on her behalf: the effect, she thought, would be much the same. Indeed, it might be worse, as Phuti might think the less of her for not having the courage to tell him herself. No, the simplest thing was surely to buy another bed and store it safely at the agency or in the garage until Phuti could transport it to his house. For the time being she would continue to sleep on her own old and somewhat uncomfortable mattress, until such time as, sanctified by custom and by the marriage laws of the Republic of Botswana, they sank into connubial bliss in a luxurious and commodious bed, under the protection of a large, heart-shaped headboard in red velvet.

THAT WAS WHAT
Mma Makutsi had done. The next morning, shortly after nine, while Mma Ramotswe was dictating a letter, Charlie knocked on the door and announced that a delivery van had arrived.

“It’s for you,” he said, looking at Mma Makutsi and pointing a greasy finger in her direction. “It’s a you-know-what!”

Mma Makutsi, flustered, looked down at her dictation notebook. Her pencil dropped to the floor.

“That sounds very exciting, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps somebody has sent you a present.”

“No,” said Charlie, shaking his head. “It’s a new bed. Just like the other one. She bought it. It’s not a present.”

Mma Ramotswe half rose to her feet to look out of the window but stopped herself and sat down again. It was not her business to criticise Mma Makutsi for buying a bed, or anything for that matter. There had been that business with her new blue shoes not all that long ago, when Mma Makutsi had purchased a totally unsuitable pair of new shoes
against
the specific advice of Mma Ramotswe, and where had that led? To disaster. We must remember, Mma, she had said to her assistant as they stood before that tempting shop window, we must remember that those of us with traditionally built feet need to buy traditionally built shoes. It had been good advice; for Mma Makutsi, although by no means as traditionally built as Mma Ramotswe herself, was nonetheless heading in that direction and would, when older, be of convincingly traditional build. But leaving that to one side, her feet were every bit size eight and these shoes, intended as they had been for some region of Italy where feet were small and slender, were, at the most, size six and a half. Mma Ramotswe’s advice on that occasion had been ignored, with the result that there had been a full day in which Mma Makutsi had suffered from considerable discomfort and disability. Indeed, those shoes had turned her head, thought Mma Ramotswe; to the extent that she had even resigned her job—on a temporary basis, as it turned out.

No, Mma Ramotswe would not interfere with any purchase that Mma Makutsi made. And as she merely sat down and said, “A bed. Well, that will be very useful, Mma,” the thought crossed her mind that perhaps the bed would be too small, just as the shoes had been. But she was not sure whether it was fashionable to have a bed that was too short and narrow; anything was possible in fashion, of course, as fashion and comfort, thought Mma Ramotswe, were inevitably mutually exclusive.

Mma Makutsi now affected nonchalance. “Yes, Mma. It will. I thought that I would get a new one, to replace the one that I…that I left out in the rain. Charlie was right: they were selling them very cheaply and I bought it…” Her words tailed off at the end, as if she was suddenly choking with emotion at the thought of what she had done. Half her savings. Half.

Mma Ramotswe sensed Mma Makutsi’s discomfort, and understood the reason. “Don’t worry about it, Mma. There are times when we have to buy very expensive things. It is always worthwhile. Always.” It was not, but out of kindness she said that it was.

“Yes,” said Charlie. “Get the well-known things. Go for the label every time.”

In normal circumstances, Mma Ramotswe would have felt obliged to refute this false philosophy, but not now. “Charlie,” she said, “why don’t you go and ask those men to put the bed safely in the garage? Just outside that door. It will be safe there.”

Mma Makutsi looked up in gratitude. “I won’t have to keep it there long, Mma,” she said. “Phuti will come and collect it in a few days.”

“Of course he will,” said Mma Ramotswe reassuringly. “In the meantime, you will get pleasure from seeing your fine purchase and thinking of how much money you saved—since it was a bargain. That’s the important thing. That will make you feel better.”

It did, immediately, and dictation was resumed. They had several letters to complete and a client was coming in half an hour. There would probably not even be time for tea before the client’s arrival, but the kettle could be put on once the client had arrived. People talked very freely and comfortably against the sound of a boiling kettle, Mma Ramotswe had found. And they talked even more willingly once they had been served a cup of tea, and the first sips had been taken, warming those regions of the heart that were burdened, that wanted to talk.

THE CLIENT’S PROBLEM,
as it turned out, was very straightforward—a matter of a tenancy agreement in which the tenant had been substituted in spite of a term in the contract that this should not happen. The owner of the house had not met the original tenant, since she had been away when the original agreement was drawn up by her attorney. Now she had returned and wanted the house back. She had been reconciled to having to let the lease run for another year, but then a neighbour had let drop a nugget of information. “Your tenant,” she had said, “says that he is called Moganana. You think he is called that too. But I think that he is the brother-in-law of that Moganana, and that he works over at one of those businesses on the Francistown Road. I can show you the place.”

Mma Makutsi had drawn in her breath audibly at the deception. “That is cheating,” she muttered.

The client was pleased to find her own outrage endorsed; she did not like the thought that some people might find her selfish for wanting the tenant out. “You’re very right, Mma,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Mma Makutsi. “That is why I am keen to get this worthless person out of the house. I cannot have a cheat under my roof.”

We all need somewhere to live, thought Mma Ramotswe; but she did not say it.

“It will be easy enough to find out,” she said. “I will follow this person, this person who is not Moganana, from the house in the morning. We shall see where he goes to work. Then it will be easy.” She paused. One would not want the client to imagine that it was too easy, or one’s entirely reasonable fee might be resented. “Or a bit easy,” she added. “In fact, difficult in parts and easy in others. Quite difficult, though.”

The client, however, was satisfied. “I’m sure that you will do it well, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “And then justice will again reign supreme.”

It was a rather impressive way of describing the hoped-for outcome, but Mma Ramotswe nodded in agreement. People should not lie about who they are, she thought. Even if they do need somewhere to live.

The client looked at her watch. “I must not stay long, Mma,” she said. “The tea, though, is very good.”

“It is red bush,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It comes from down there somewhere.” She pointed south. “They make it down there and they bring it up here.”

“I see,” said the client. She looked at her watch again. “Will you do this thing tomorrow? Will you follow that man very soon?”

“I will do it as soon as I can,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Give us a week to find all this out.”

There was always that moment after the client had left when Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi looked at one another and reached a view. Sometimes, after a difficult session, they looked at one another in sympathy and embarrassment; on other occasions, the client would barely have left the office before Mma Makutsi would start to giggle. On this occasion there was no such reaction.

“I would like to work on this, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “I feel very sympathetic towards that lady.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “She is entitled to her house,” she said. “If you let a house to one person another person should not come and live in it. That is definitely dishonest.” She paused for a moment. “But the problem is, Mma, that you would need to follow that person, and you do not drive. If he works out on the Francistown Road then he probably has a car.”

Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “Phuti could drive me,” she said. “Phuti has offered. He said that any time I needed to be driven anywhere, he would do it. Or he has drivers at the furniture store. He said that one of those men could be sent to drive me.”

Mma Ramotswe considered the offer. She still had to sort out the Mma Sebina matter, and it would be useful to delegate something to Mma Makutsi. It would also keep her assistant happy, which was a major consideration, since she would be in a position to leave once she married Phuti Radiphuti, and Mma Ramotswe did not want that—Mma Makutsi’s departure, that is. She was completely in favour of the marriage, of course, as Phuti Radiphuti was a very good man and…well, he was good for Mma Makutsi. Or so she thought; but Mma Makutsi herself had suddenly become agitated. She had seen something out of the window; Charlie, perhaps, was up to something. But it was not that. Phuti Radiphuti himself had arrived; as often happens, Mma Ramotswe thought, when we bring people to mind. We bring them to mind and then they turn up in the flesh, or telephone, or do something to remind us that we should be careful of what we think of in this life.