Miracle at Speedy Motors (14 page)

From laughter to tears: it happened so quickly, and inexplicably; just those memories were enough. Mma Potokwane immediately sprang to her feet. “Mma Ramotswe. Mma Ramotswe. I am sorry, Mma. I am very sorry.” She had not imagined that there would be tears for that old white van, but she must love it; of course she loves it, and oh, I am a very tactless person, thought Mma Potokwane. This is my friend and I tell her that her van is dying. I am a very tactless person indeed.

“I should not have said that about your van,” she said, moving over to place her arm round Mma Ramotswe’s shoulder. “Even if it is making a noise—and it is not a very loud noise—it can surely be fixed. You’re married to the best mechanic in Botswana by far. By far, Mma. If anybody can fix that van, it is Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”

Mma Ramotswe wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I am the one who should say sorry, Mma. I have come to your office and I am crying. I am sorry.”

“Your van will be fine,” said Mma Potokwane soothingly.

“But it is not my van,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is because I was remembering some things. That song that the children were singing—the one about the wedding of the baboons—made me cry. I was remembering how I heard it when I was in Mochudi, a long time ago, when my daddy was still alive. And I thought that all that was gone now. That Mochudi. That lady who sang the song.” She paused, and looked up at Mma Potokwane. “Sometimes I feel that our whole country has gone, Mma.”

Mma Potokwane thought about this for a moment. Then she shook her head. “No, it has not gone, Mma. Some of it, maybe. But not the heart that beats right inside the country. Right inside. That is still there.”

“And I feel so sorry for the baboons,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I know that it is silly to say that. But I suddenly felt very sorry for them. They are just baboons, but they are dressing up for the wedding. Why is that so sad, Mma?”

“Because it is always sad when people try to do things that they cannot do,” said Mma Potokwane. “The baboons are very sad for that reason.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Mma Potokwane asked, “Are you feeling better now, Mma Ramotswe?”

And Mma Ramotswe replied, “Yes, I am, Mma. That was silly of me.”

Mma Potokwane evidently did not agree. “No, it was not, Mma Ramotswe. Sometimes I sit here and I think about things. I think about the stories of these children and what some of them have seen in their short lives. And then I find myself crying a bit, Mma. Nobody sees me, but I cry too. The children think, and the housemothers too, they all think: Oh, that matron, that Mma Potokwane, she is very strong. But they do not know. They do not know, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. Mma Potokwane was right. We all had our moments, and they could descend at any time. It was not just the baboons and their wedding, she thought; it was everything: Motholeli going off to Johannesburg, to face inevitable disappointment; the troubles of Mma Makutsi; Charlie; everything, really. Sometimes everything could just seem too much.

“I have some fruit cake,” said Mma Potokwane suddenly. “I think that fruit cake is often very good on these occasions.”

“Yes, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Yes, you are right. It is.” Fruit cake and tea; sometimes more powerful, in such circumstances, than any words of comfort could be.

MMA POTOKWANE
listened intently as Mma Ramotswe began to tell her of Mma Sebina and her search. Normally she would interrupt Mma Ramotswe as she spoke, not with any rude intent, but merely because she had thought of something that she imagined Mma Ramotswe would like to know and needed to speak about it before it went out of her head; with so much to deal with, constant demands from children and never-ending requests from housemothers, Mma Potokwane had a lot on her mind, and things could easily slip out of it. On this occasion, though, she simply listened, allowing Mma Ramotswe to give an account of her trip to Otse, her meeting with the woman who kept a chair in a tree, and the breakthrough conversation with Mma Mapoi.

At first Mma Potokwane said nothing when Mma Ramotswe finished. One of the young women who worked in the kitchen had brought in a pot of tea and a plate of cake, and now Mma Potokwane reached forward to pour them each a cup of tea. “We must not let the tea get cold,” she said, passing a cup to Mma Ramotswe. “There is nothing worse than being given cold tea. Do you know, Mma Ramotswe, I have heard that in America they even drink it with ice. Have you heard that?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded sadly. “I have, Mma. At first I could not believe it, then somebody told me that it was true. It is a very serious thing.” She paused, throwing a discreet glance at the untouched fruit cake.

Mma Potokwane understood. “We must not forget the fruit cake,” she said, slipping a slice onto a plate and passing it to her guest. “That is another thing I have heard. I have been told that some people these days have stopped eating fruit cake. Have you heard that?”

Mma Ramotswe popped half of the fruit cake into her mouth. It was very good. “No,” she mumbled. “I have not heard that rumour.”

“Not Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, of course,” Mma Potokwane continued. “He would never give up fruit cake, would he, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I think that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would do anything for a piece of your fruit cake, Mma Potokwane.”

“That is good to hear,” said Mma Potokwane, “because we have a small mechanical problem at the moment with the automatic irrigation system for the vegetables. If you wouldn’t mind, Mma…”

“I shall mention it to him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I was wondering, Mma, what you made of what Mma Mapoi said to me. About those two children and their mother who became late in prison?”

Mma Potokwane reached for the teapot. “I remember them well,” she said. “It was shortly after I came here. I was deputy matron then. I only became matron five or six years later.”

“And the children?” Mma Ramotswe pressed. “What about those two children?”

“Well,” said Mma Potokwane, “as you know, the girl went down to that lady in Otse. I do not remember her name, but it will be that Mma Sebina. That must be right. I am glad to hear that the daughter is doing well.”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. She was so close now to the object of her search that she hardly dared ask the question, fearing a disappointing answer. Things happened to people in this life. They went away. Became late. Disappeared. “And the boy? The brother of that girl?”

Mma Ramotswe knew immediately that the answer was going to be a positive one. You can always read the signs, she thought; the clues are there, and you only have to be moderately observant to notice them.

Mma Potokwane reached for the teapot again; their third cup. “The boy? Yes, I saw him the other day.” She poured the tea. “I bump into him from time to time in the bank. The Standard Bank. That is where he works, you see.”

“Still? He’s there now?”

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “Unless he’s at another branch. They move them around, I think. But that man always seems to be there. He is quite senior now. He is a sort of deputy-assistant-under-manager, or something like that. You know how they give themselves long titles. I’m just
matron
but in these big offices they have very big titles.”

Mma Ramotswe thought of Mma Makutsi and her desire to have an impressive-sounding title. And why should people not be allowed a little boost like that, if it made them feel a bit better about themselves? Mma Potokwane should be allowed to call herself matron-general if she liked; in fact, Mma Ramotswe thought, it would rather suit her.

“Can you tell me the name of this man?” she asked. Even if she did not get this information out of Mma Potokwane, she would be able to find him now. But a name would be useful.

Mma Potokwane closed her eyes for a moment. “I know it, Mma. I know it. Se…something or other. Se…Sekape. That’s it. Sekape. I think that was the name. It is not the name that they came here with, but it is the same man.”

They talked for another half an hour before Mma Ramotswe left. Now that she had the information she needed, Mma Ramotswe was able to relax and enjoy the conversation, which covered a wide range of topics. One of the housemothers had been unwell and had undergone an operation. The operation had been successful and the details were given. Mma Ramotswe mentioned that she knew somebody who had benefited from a similar operation and was now the manager of a large café. Mma Potokwane nodded. Operations could set one up very nicely—in some cases.

Charlie was mentioned. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is too soft with those boys,” said Mma Potokwane. “He is too kind.”

“He has always been a kind man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is what he is like. And Charlie will turn out all right in the end.” Then she added, “I do not know when the end will be, though.”

The subject of Bishop Mwamba was raised. The bishop had been to visit the orphan farm and the children had sung very nicely for him, Mma Potokwane reported. Mma Ramotswe replied that she had heard him give a sermon in the Anglican cathedral that had been very impressive and that even Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who was known to sleep through sermons, had remained awake.

Then Mma Ramotswe left. As she drove away, she listened carefully to the noise that her van made. It was difficult to tell, as the road was bumpy and cars always squeaked and protested on bumpy roads, but she thought that she could hear it. It was, as Mma Potokwane had suggested, a knocking sound. For a moment she imagined that the engine was sending her a signal, as prisoners will knock on the wall of a cell to make contact with unseen others. But what was the tiny white van trying to tell her with its knocking? That it was tired? That it had had enough?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN THE COLOUR OF THE NATIONAL FLAG

M
MA RAMOTSWE
could not contain herself, but had to. The moment she arrived back at the office after her meeting with Mma Potokwane, she picked up the telephone and dialled Mma Sebina’s number. All the way back from the orphan farm she had wondered whether she should tell her on the telephone, and had decided that it would be better for her to meet her client and give her the news in person, face-to-face; there were, after all, delicate aspects to this case. Although the news of her brother’s existence, right here in Gaborone, was undoubtedly good news, there was also the issue of the mother and her unfortunate fate. She had told Mma Mapoi that the daughter need not know what had happened to the mother, and that she would not raise it with her. But what if she asked? Mma Ramotswe was not sure whether it would be right to keep this knowledge from her, even though it might be difficult for her to accept that her mother had been sent to prison and had died there. And how much more difficult would it be to accept the reason for her having been sent to prison in the first place? All of that, thought Mma Ramotswe, would have to be handled tactfully.

The telephone call was a disappointment. Another voice answered and informed Mma Ramotswe that she was a neighbour of Mma Sebina and was looking after the house while Mma Sebina was up in Maun on business. She would be back, Mma Ramotswe was told, in a couple of days, and yes, Mma Ramotswe could certainly see her there if she came round to the house before she left for work in the morning.

“And are you the same Mma Ramotswe who has that detective agency on the Tlokweng Road?” asked the voice. “Are you that lady, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe confessed that she was.

“Do you know where that man who built new roofs is?” the voice went on. “The one who built three new roofs round here—all of which let in the rain when it rained so hard the other day? Can you answer that for me, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe was patient. “I do not know everything, Mma,” she said. “Did your roof—”

“It did,” said the voice. “The rain came in everywhere. The holes in the corrugated iron were too big for the bolts. So the rain came straight in.”

“I wish I could help you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I’m afraid I can’t help everybody. I have not heard of this roof man. I’m sorry.”

The voice seemed to accept this and rang off, leaving Mma Ramotswe smiling. Really, people imagined that just because she was a detective she knew, or could find out, everything. It was an enviable reputation for a private detective to have, but it did mean that Mma Ramotswe was buttonholed in all sorts of unlikely circumstances and asked to come up with the solution to some often insoluble problem. If people had an issue to raise with a roofing man and had no other means of contacting him, then the answer seemed simple…

She picked up the telephone and redialled the number.

“I have thought of a possible solution,” she said. “If this man fixes roofs, then why not drive around Gaborone and look for people fixing roofs. It is always very obvious whose roof is being fixed, because you will see a man standing on it. That is the way to find this man.”

The voice was silent for a moment. Then it let out a chuckle. “What they say about you is obviously true, Mma,” said the voice. “They say that you are a very clever lady—and you obviously are.”

It was a nice compliment to receive, and Mma Ramotswe thought about it again that evening, when she prepared the evening meal for herself and Puso. It was strange there just being the two of them in the house, but it gave her an opportunity to talk more to Puso and find out what was going on at school. He was playing football, he said, and learning sums. He liked both of those, but he did not like the hours they spent practising their handwriting. Having to do things like that when one was young, explained Mma Ramotswe, was necessary for when one was older.

“When you are big,” she said, “and you write with very nice, neat handwriting, then you will thank that teacher who forced you to spend so much time practising. You will say, ‘He was a very good teacher and I am very grateful to him.’”

“Never,” said Puso.

THE NEXT MORNING,
when Mma Ramotswe came into the office after dropping Puso off at the school, she found Mma Makutsi already at her desk. On the way to school Puso had talked about football, and Mma Ramotswe had listened with only half an ear—if that. But at the end of the trip, as they approached the school gate, he had turned to her and said, “What is that knocking sound, Mma? Is there somebody in the engine?”

“I think there is something loose,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Maybe a nut and a bolt need to be tightened up. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will do that in two minutes.”

“It is getting louder,” said Puso. “Soon people will be shouting out, ‘Come in!’ as you drive past.”

She had laughed the comment off, but it had worried her. If even Puso was beginning to notice that something was wrong with the tiny white van, then matters were indeed becoming serious. Sooner or later she would have to speak to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about it, but she could not think about that now, particularly since a development of an altogether more interesting stripe had occurred: there was something very different about Mma Makutsi.

It took Mma Ramotswe a moment or two to realise what had happened. As she entered the office, Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk and smiled at her, exchanging the normal, polite greeting. Mma Ramotswe returned the greeting and put the bag she was carrying down on her own desk. Then she stopped. It was Mma Makutsi, was it not? One takes so much for granted, in familiar surroundings at least, that one might quite easily enter a room and not take in the fact that an entirely unexpected person was there. Mma Makutsi’s chair was occupied, but could it be somebody other than Mma Makutsi in it, some Mma Makutsi–looking person, but not the real Mma Makutsi; some relative or friend, perhaps, of the same general conformation?

She turned round slowly. “Mma Makutsi?”

Again Mma Makutsi smiled broadly. “Yes, Mma Ramotswe? How was Mma Potokwane yesterday? Still very bossy?”

It was well known that Mma Potokwane and Mma Makutsi, although civil enough to one another, did not see eye to eye on everything. In fact, they saw eye to eye on nothing. But now was not the time to go into that particular issue; now was the time to work out what it was that was so different about Mma Makutsi.

“Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “New glasses!”

Mma Makutsi reached up self-consciously and took off her glasses, examined them, polished them quickly on a small piece of cloth which she had taken out of a drawer, and then donned them again. “Yes,” she said.

Mma Ramotswe was initially at a loss for words, her emotions mixed. Her assistant had several defining characteristics. One was the fact that she had achieved that ninety-seven per cent mark in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College—an unequalled achievement in the annals of the college. Another was the fact that she came from Bobonong, which was in the middle of nowhere from the perspective of those who lived in Gaborone, if not of those who lived in Bobonong. And a further characteristic was that she wore extremely large, round glasses. All of these characteristics were quintessentially Mma Makutsi, to the extent that Mma Ramotswe felt that if the police were ever to need to issue a wanted description of Mma Makutsi—for some unimaginable secretarial offence—they would say, “Wanted: woman from Bobonong, average height, ninety-seven per cent, large round glasses.” That would say everything and surely lead to her rapid detention. But now, without her round glasses, Mma Makutsi could walk with impunity through any police roadblock.

The new glasses were small. As Mma Ramotswe peered across the room at them she saw that whereas the previous glasses had reflected the surrounding light, this pair seemed to absorb it. And the frames were as different as could be imagined. The old frames had been made of a mock-tortoiseshell, predominantly brown; these were light blue, not far from the colour of one panel of Botswana’s national flag, the blue which appeared on government buildings, at the gates of schools, or on the walls of more patriotically minded citizens.

“They are blue, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, struggling to find something to say. “Botswana blue.”

“That is why I like them,” said Mma Makutsi. “Or one of the reasons. The other reason is that they are very fashionable.”

Mma Ramotswe was quick to agree. She was uncertain what the current mode in glasses might be, but given that the requirements of fashion seemed to dictate that everything should become smaller, then these glasses were definitely following the trend. But the old glasses had character; they made Mma Makutsi what she was.

“I liked your old glasses, of course, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They served you very well, I thought.”

Mma Makutsi gave a nonchalant wave of her hand. “You have to move on, Mma. That is well known.”

Mma Ramotswe found herself agreeing. “Of course,” she replied. “People are always moving on. You can’t stand still.” It was true, she supposed: people did move on and often used that expression to justify all sorts of questionable conduct. Husbands, in particular, had a tendency to move on when they reached a certain age and felt their youth slipping away from them. They moved on from their wives. And disloyal employees moved on too, to better-paid jobs, even when they had been trained at the expense of their existing employer. There was, indeed, a lot of moving on.

And although she had glibly remarked that you could not stand still, was this actually true, or was it a hollow axiom, as false and misleading as any other trite saying? Why should one not stand still, if the position in which one found oneself standing was a satisfactory and comfortable one? She felt no need, no need at all, to move on from being Mma Ramotswe, of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, wife of that great mechanic, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. And Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni himself had never moved on from anything, as far as she could ascertain, and would have been horrified were it to be suggested that he might do so. She imagined saying to him over the breakfast table, “We must move on, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. We really must.” He would look at his watch and say, “Yes, my goodness, Mma Ramotswe, look at the time. I must get to the garage.”

And here was Mma Makutsi moving on from her old glasses and wearing this rather disconcertingly small, if highly fashionable, pair of blue ones. It was a very disorientating start to the day. She would get used to her assistant’s new appearance, but for the time being she would ask Mma Makutsi to put on the kettle and make the first morning cup of tea. Or the second, if one counted the cup of bush tea that Mma Ramotswe always enjoyed when she rose and walked around her garden while the sun floated gently above the horizon with its smiling; its benediction.

Mma Makutsi got up from her desk to put on the kettle. Mma Ramotswe saw—could not help spotting—that when Mma Makutsi spooned the tea into the teapot she missed, or partly missed, and some of the tea fell onto the floor. The ants would remove that; a tiny tea party for them, down in their miniature world. But Mma Ramotswe noticed it, and became thoughtful.

THERE WERE A FEW SIGNS
later on, but nothing that Mma Ramotswe could put her finger on. At mid-morning tea time, she watched closely, but Mma Makutsi delivered the tea with no difficulty and their attention, anyway, was focused on dealing with comments on the new glasses. Mr. Polopetsi, of course, was polite, merely muttering, “New spectacles, Mma,” but Charlie, hooting with laughter, said, “Such small glasses, Mma! Does that make us all look very small? Are you sure you can see me, Mma? Look, here I am—over here. That tiny thing is me! And Mr. Polopetsi, here, must be invisible—he’s very small. Can you see him at all, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe tended to ignore this sort of thing, and Mma Makutsi tried to do the same, but failed. She flashed an angry glance at Charlie and turned her back on him. Then a suitable retort occurred to her and she turned round to deliver it, but found herself face-to-face with Mr. Polopetsi, who now became almost effusive in his remarks. “Those are very nice glasses, Mma,” he said. “Extremely pretty, in fact. There was a very small girl at the shops the other day wearing glasses just like those.”

Mma Makutsi acknowledged the compliment with a nod of her head, although she was not sure whether she should be pleased or annoyed with the last part of what Mr. Polopetsi said. The rest of the tea break passed in a somewhat strained manner and Mma Ramotswe felt relieved when it was over and they could all get back to work. She had a few letters to dictate—and was Mma Makutsi hunched over her notebook more markedly than usual? She could not tell.

Then, half an hour or so later, Charlie came into the office. “Letter for you, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “Somebody has just left it.”

People left notes for Mma Ramotswe, and she thought little of it. But when she took the envelope in her hands and began to slit open the flap, she felt a flush of foreboding. The letter was from that person; she could tell.