Miracle at Speedy Motors (13 page)

“
PHUTI!”
exclaimed Mma Makutsi, when she saw her fiancé’s car, with its distinctive red stripe along the side, drawing up in front of the garage.

“Oh yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He is back. That’s nice for you, Mma. You can ask him about driving you.”

As she spoke, it occurred to her that Phuti’s car was not very well suited to detective work, as it was impossible to miss a white car which had a curious red stripe on its side. She had assumed that this was the livery of the Double Comfort Furniture Shop, but had been told that it was not, that Phuti himself had painted it as a decoration. But whatever the origin of the stripe, it was a very noticeable feature and people being followed by a car with a red stripe would probably notice the fact. And Clovis Andersen, she thought, author of
The Principles of Private Detection,
would undoubtedly agree.

This line of thought, though, was interrupted by Mma Makutsi, who was clearly agitated by the unexpected arrival. “He’ll see the bed,” she hissed. “He’ll see it!”

“But he has to,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Just tell him. Tell him what happened.”

“Tell him?”

Mma Ramotswe was calm. “Yes, or I will, if you like. I promised you that I would tell him about the other bed. I’m still happy to do that. It will not be hard for me.”

“No,” said Mma Makutsi, her voice full of alarm. “We cannot do that, Mma. We cannot give Phuti a shock.”

“Nonsense,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It will not be a shock. Look, here he comes. I’ll tell him.”

“No,” implored Mma Makutsi. “Please, Mma. Leave it. Leave it.”

Mma Ramotswe was silenced. There was no mistaking the passion, and urgency, in Mma Makutsi’s words. She would not say anything in those circumstances, but she wondered how Mma Makutsi would explain the new bed. Some explanation would be required—it must be—as Phuti could not but see the bed as he came into the office. It was all very strange.

The door opened, tentatively. Just like Mr. Polopetsi, Phuti Radiphuti was not one to barge into a room, and certainly not without the necessary
Ko, Ko.

Phuti appeared, and greeted Mma Ramotswe politely before turning to smile at his fiancée.

“I was passing by,” he said. “I don’t want to disturb you. You ladies are always so busy.”

“But we always have time for you, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You have been up in Serowe?”

Phuti nodded. “We do business with a store up there. They sell our chairs and—” He broke off and turned to Mma Makutsi. “I see it has arrived, Grace. The new bed has been delivered here rather than to your house. Is that all right with Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni? Maybe they don’t want our new bed cluttering up their place.”

“They don’t mind at all,” said Mma Makutsi hurriedly. “That is fine, Phuti.”

Phuti frowned. “I thought that they were going to deliver it to your house,” he said. “Sometimes these people can’t get things straight. A simple request like that and they get all mixed up.”

Mma Makutsi said nothing. Across her desk, Mma Ramotswe looked at her assistant. If Mma Makutsi remained silent now, then she would be deliberately misleading Phuti. It would be as bad as telling a direct lie; there could be no other way of looking at it.

The silence continued. Outside, on the branches of the acacia tree, a grey lourie, the go-away bird, fluttered its wings, and Phuti, distracted, looked out of the window. “That tree always has birds in it,” he said. “Whenever I come here there are birds.”

Mma Makutsi would have to speak now, thought Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “Birds.”

There was a further silence. Then Mma Ramotswe rose from her chair. “I shall make you some tea, Rra,” she said. “After that drive down from Serowe, you must be ready for tea.”

The moment to discuss the bed had passed. The seed of the lie, contained in the first tiny hesitation on Mma Makutsi’s part, had sprouted quickly, like a ground vine suddenly sending out its shoots after the first rain. So untruth grows, thought Mma Ramotswe; so easily, so easily. She looked at her assistant as she made her way towards the kettle, but Mma Makutsi looked away.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE WEDDING OF THE BABOONS

M
MA RAMOTSWE
had her misgivings, and these were profound—but they were not expressed. She could have pointed out to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni yet again that medical opinion had been united, and unequivocal. Much as everybody wanted Motholeli to be cured of her disability, that was simply not going to happen. Dr. Moffat had spelled it out for them, gently, of course, but very clearly, confirming the diagnosis that had been reached in the Princess Marina Hospital. It might have been hard for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to accept—Mma Ramotswe understood that—but it would have been better for him to do that rather than to harbour hope that really should not be there at all.

Ever since his meeting with Dr. Mwata, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had seemed preoccupied. He had told Mma Ramotswe roughly what had transpired at the consultation, but he had not gone into any detail. In response to her questions as to what precise treatment the doctor had mentioned, he had merely pointed in the direction of the border and said that there was a clinic in Johannesburg where they tackled these things. “With success,” he added.

“And who will go with her?” asked Mma Ramotswe. It would be difficult for her to leave the business, but she doubted if Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had thought of that. He was a considerate man, and a kind one, but, like many men, his head was filled with details of gearboxes and driveshafts and the like.

He did not take long to answer. “I shall go,” he said simply. “I have made arrangements.”

“You will drive over there in your truck?”

He nodded gravely. “That is all planned. It is five hours to Johannesburg in a truck.” He looked at her almost reproachfully, as if he imagined that she was trying to sabotage the venture. “The doctor said that we would be away for about a week to begin with. We might have to go back.”

“If it doesn’t work?”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni gazed out of the window; there was still that air of preoccupation. “Maybe. He didn’t put it that way.”

He pulled himself together. “Anyway,” he continued, “while I am away the garage will be looked after by Charlie. I have spoken to him about it. He is quite happy to be in charge.”

Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. “Charlie?”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. “He will have to learn how to be in charge. When he finishes his apprenticeship, he could be in charge of a whole workshop himself. I have to give him some experience.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She agreed that Charlie should be given experience—in theory, at least—but she could not imagine him being in charge of the garage.

She would be tactful. “Are you sure? Charlie hasn’t finished his apprenticeship yet…” And would never finish it, she thought.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni now showed a rare degree of determination. “It’s all arranged,” he said. “We shall go tomorrow.”

And now, packing Motholeli’s suitcase for the trip to Johannesburg, she found herself folding the young girl’s clothes, wondering what would be necessary for whatever lay ahead. Would she spend the time at the clinic in bed? In which case more than two nightgowns would be necessary—the one with flowers on it, the one she liked, and the plain blue one which she liked rather less. And the stiff brush with which she liked to tease out the tight curls of her hair, not that Mma Ramotswe approved of that; braiding would have been better. And the Setswana Bible that she had been given by Mma Potokwane when she had left the orphan farm, which had become a memento of that part of her life, now some years away; of the childhood, really, that had been so hard and empty of love until her arrival, with Puso, at the orphan farm. That Bible was a talisman, in a way, and she kept it prominently on the table in her room, alongside a piece of deep-blue crystalline rock from the north of Botswana, a piece of a country that was predominantly composed of browns and yellows but had these veins of startling green and blue just beneath the skin of the land.

Motholeli herself seemed to be taking the trip in her stride. Mma Ramotswe had been concerned that her hopes would be raised unnecessarily—indeed, that was one of her grounds of objection to the whole idea—but the girl herself was calm.

“You do know what the doctors have told us?” Mma Ramotswe said. “They always try to help, but sometimes…”

She faltered. It was not easy to explain the hard side of things to a child, or to anybody really. Mma Ramotswe would have wished the world to be otherwise, but it was not. She would have wished for the suffering of Africa to be relieved, to be legislated out of existence, but it seemed that this would never be, for fundamental unfairness seemed to be a condition of human life. There were rich, there were poor; and whilst one might rail against the injustices which kept people poor, it seemed that these were stubborn to the point of entrenchment. And in the meantime, whilst waiting for justice, or just for a chance, what could one say to the poor, who had only one life, one brief spell of time, and were spending their short moment of life in hardship? And what could she say to Motholeli?

Children are resilient. “I know, Mma,” said Motholeli. “I know that the doctors have said they cannot help me. I do not mind if this new doctor tries. Maybe there are clever doctors in Johannesburg who can do this thing. But I will not mind if they cannot.”

Mma Ramotswe reached out and took her hand. “You are a brave girl. I am very proud of you.”

THE NEXT MORNING,
Mma Ramotswe awoke early, before the sun had risen, but at that point when the sky was beginning to go from the dark velvet of night to the lighter cobalt of day. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was still asleep, and she shook his shoulder; he was a deep sleeper and would be impervious to an alarm clock or a lesser touch than this.

“I will make you tea, Rra,” she said. “I will bring it to you in bed, and then you can get up and have a good breakfast. You have a long drive ahead of you.”

He grunted his acknowledgement, and she moved through to the kitchen. Light under a door had told her that Motholeli was already awake; she would get herself out of bed and dressed without any prodding from Mma Ramotswe. She was like that, even on a normal day, whereas her brother, Puso, resisted every imprecation to stir, and would hide under the blanket rather than emerge one minute earlier than absolutely necessary. Such contrasts, thought Mma Ramotswe, in two children who are from the same mother and father; recipes of the blood differed so much, made one lazy and another energetic, made one like pumpkin and another like beans; made one—like Mma Makutsi—methodical and good at filing, and another—like Charlie—slipshod and untidy. Not, of course, that Charlie and Mma Makutsi were brother and sister; they had crossed her mind merely as types.

Charlie and Mma Makutsi as brother and sister: the delicious thought begged to be explored. What if such a relationship were to be discovered, through some long-ignored error in the maternity hospital, or through the confession of some wicked midwife who had switched babies? Would Mma Makutsi, who had often said after the death of her poor brother, Richard, that she would relish the thought of another brother, accept Charlie as that new brother? Or would she feel about him in exactly the same way as she felt about him now, unrelated? And as for Charlie, would he in such circumstances regret that he had once famously called Mma Makutsi a warthog? For that, surely, would make him the brother of a warthog, and therefore a warthog himself! We should be careful, thought Mma Ramotswe, of the insults we fling at others, lest they return and land at our own feet, newly minted to apply to those who had first coined them.

Such thoughts reminded Mma Ramotswe that she was now dealing with precisely such a matter, or would be dealing with it, when she got back to the Mma Sebina case. So, as she stood at the gate and waved goodbye to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Motholeli as they set off on their journey to the clinic over the border in Johannesburg, she was thinking not only of the little girl, hunched so poignantly in the passenger seat of the cab, but also of the inquiry which she would make later that morning in the office of her friend Mma Potokwane, tireless defender of orphans, maker of the finest fruit cake in Botswana, or at least in their part of Botswana, and custodian, she hoped, of a secret that would bring great joy to Mma Sebina. That is, if her brother really was going to be a joy; some brothers were not. But let us just assume, she told herself, that this one will be.

“
AH, MMA RAMOTSWE,”
called Mma Potokwane, from the window of her office at the orphan farm. “Come inside. Come over here.”

And as Mma Ramotswe mounted the two low steps that led up to Mma Potokwane’s room, the matron, standing at the open door, remarked to her guest, “I can always tell that it is you, even before I see you. I hear that noise that your van makes and I know that it is you.”

“What noise does my van make?”

Mma Potokwane held her guest’s gaze. Mma Ramotswe was her friend—an old friend, moreover, and there were not many subjects one could not raise with an old friend. But there were some. One thing one should never do is to criticise, even in the gentlest of manners, the spouse of a friend; nor their children; nor their taste in music, their dogs, their possessions in general, their choice of clothes in particular, their children’s choice of clothes (or spouses), or their cooking. Apart from that, one could talk about anything.

But could she talk to Mma Ramotswe about the noise that her tiny white van was undoubtedly making? The problem here, thought Mma Potokwane, might be one of simple denial; people denied things, pretended that they did not exist; wished noises, and other things, out of existence. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had confessed to the matron that he thought it was high time that Mma Ramotswe got rid of the van and bought a more modern and indeed more commodious vehicle—one more suited to a person of her standing in society, which was, of course, that of the owner of a small, but nonetheless moderately successful, business. Mma Potokwane had agreed with this view, but had expressed the reservation that Mma Ramotswe appeared inordinately attached to her tiny white van and might be difficult to prise out of the driver’s seat. She had intended this as a metaphor, but that did not stop her imagining a scene in which a struggling Mma Ramotswe, tenaciously hanging on to the steering wheel, was being pried out of the seat by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Charlie, each wielding one of those levers that they used to take tyres off the wheels of cars.

Mma Potokwane decided that she could—indeed should—mention the noise. Friendship required this, if nothing else did. After all, we might not hear the noises made by our own cars, since we generally travelled away from them, leaving them to be heard by those behind us. And if friends did not refer to the fact that one was making a noise, then who would? At this point Mma Potokwane remembered the delicate situation she had found herself in when she had felt herself obliged to draw the attention of one of the orphan farm housemothers to the fact that her stomach was constantly making noises which, on occasion, frightened the smaller children. That had been a delicate interview in which the subject of diet had been raised; beans, suggested Mma Potokwane, were not the ideal food for one in that position, and perhaps the housemother should try eating something less voluble. That had led to an icy silence, ended only by the housemother’s stomach.

“It’s a sort of rattle,” said Mma Potokwane. “Or shall I say it’s a knocking sound. Like this.” She tapped on the surface of her desk.

“But that is the sound that any engine makes,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane smiled. “I don’t think so, Mma. Engines normally go like this…” Here she imitated an engine. “That is how they go, Mma. They do not make a knocking sound…” She paused, and then concluded, “Unless there is something wrong.”

For a while nothing was said, either by Mma Ramotswe or by Mma Potokwane. Through the window in the office, the same window through which Mma Potokwane had shouted her welcome, came the sound of children singing. Mma Ramotswe tried to make out the words of the song; it was one of those tunes one knew but did not know, and for a moment she put Mma Potokwane’s comment out of her mind.

“Such a funny little song, that,” said Mma Ramotswe, her head tilted to the side, as if the better to catch the words as they drifted in. “About the baboons. Yes, it is. I remember it now.”

“It is about the wedding of the baboons,” said Mma Potokwane. “It’s about what the baboons were wearing to their wedding. What the guests were wearing too. A pair of overalls and an old maternity dress.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. She was trying to remember when she had heard that song last; it must have been when she was a girl, quite a small girl, in Mochudi. The aunt of one of her friends had sung those songs, and they had sat at her feet. It was so long ago and she could not remember any of the details; the face of the aunt was a blur, and even her recollection of her friend herself was hazy. But there was warmth, and sun, the memory of sun; and the aunt’s voice came back to her like the sound of a scratchy old recording of the sort that they played on Radio Botswana when they were talking about things that had happened a long time ago, the voices of old chiefs discussing the things that were important then but now were nothing very much.