The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine (12 page)

Again she was interrupted. “Exactly, Mma. We shall leave Mr. Polopetsi to deal with this. He will do very well, I'm sure.”

Mma Ramotswe bit her tongue. It really was too bad; Mma Makutsi owed her position as Acting Head—owed everything, in fact—to her, as she had admitted more than once, and here she was refusing even to consider a perfectly reasonable request to relieve Mr. Polopetsi of his anxiety. Could she not remember what it was like to be in a new job and out of one's depth? Some people, it seemed, forgot that feeling rather quickly.

“There's just one thing,” Mma Ramotswe ventured. “The client in this case…I was very surprised when I heard that she was called Potokwane. At first I thought it was our Mma Potokwane looking for help.”

Mma Makutsi laughed. “That would be the day, Mma. No, it's not our Mma Potokwane at all—it is the wife of her husband's cousin. He has the same name—Potokwane.”

Mma Ramotswe wondered whether Mma Potokwane—the matron—knew that a relative of her husband's had approached the agency. “I would have expected her to be in touch with me about it if she knew,” she said. “Even just a telephone call—something like that.”

Mma Makutsi agreed. “I think that she doesn't know,” she said. “They are keeping the whole thing quiet, I think. And I can see why they should do this. People do not like it when rumours begin to spread. You know how it is, Mma. One person says one thing and then the next person adds a little bit—just to make it a bit more interesting. And soon the story is all over town and everybody is shaking their heads.”

Mma Ramotswe knew what Mma Makutsi meant. For all that it had grown, Gaborone was still an intimate place where people were aware of the business of others. Such a town was fertile territory for gossip and the spread of rumours.

“Fortunately,” continued Mma Makutsi, “there has not been any talk about this matter. So far, nothing about the council's change of mind has been in the papers. I imagine that they want it to remain like that.”

Mma Makutsi now became silent, but only for a very short time. It seemed to Mma Ramotswe that the other woman was weighing up something, and now, with a rather abrupt change of tone, she announced her decision. “I do not think that anything will be discovered,” she said. “So even if Mr. Polopetsi gets nowhere—and I think you may be right, Mma: he will get nowhere—even if that happens, then that will not matter too much. The whole thing will go away.”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. She found it difficult to grasp what was happening. This was not the Mma Makutsi whom she knew. This was not the tenacious, sometimes prickly, often argumentative, but ultimately determined person she had employed when the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency first opened its doors.

“I'm not sure…,” she began, but did not finish. Mma Makutsi had put down her mug and reached for one of the trade catalogues.

“I need your advice, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “It is on a furniture matter.”

Phuti Radiphuti had been listening to their conversation but had not joined in. Mma Ramotswe had watched him, and had decided that he was unhappy about something; now he looked at his watch and made an apologetic gesture. “I hope you won't mind if I leave you, Mma Ramotswe. We have taken on some new members of staff, and I have to check up on them.”

Mma Ramotswe replied that she would not take offence. “Your wife has things to discuss with me,” she said, adding mentally,
even if she won't talk about the things that need to be talked about.

Mma Makutsi nodded to Phuti Radiphuti and then turned back to the catalogue. “We are thinking of taking a new line in sofas,” she said. “These are for what we call the larger market.”

“What is that, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi licked a finger to turn the pages of the catalogue. “I'll show you, Mma. The larger market is for larger people. Some furniture is too small for these people. So we need to have a section of furniture for traditionally built customers.” She paused. “Perhaps for people like yourself, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe did not take offence. There were those who would resent being described as traditionally built, but she was not one of them. She was proud of her build, which was in accordance with the old Botswana ideas of beauty, and she would not pander to the modern idea of slenderness. That was an importation from elsewhere, and it was simply wrong. How could a very thin woman do all the things that women needed to do: to carry children on their backs, to pound maize into flour out at the lands or the cattle post, to cart around the things of the household—the pots and pans and buckets of water? And how could a thin woman comfort a man? It would be very awkward for a man to share his bed with a person who was all angles and bone, whereas a traditionally built lady would be like an extra pillow on which a man coming home tired from his work might rest his weary head. To do all that you needed a bit of bulk, and thin people simply did not have that.

Mma Makutsi found the relevant section of the catalogue and pointed out to Mma Ramotswe pictures of sofas spread across two pages. “You see all these, Mma? This is what they call the Karoo Range. The sofas here are named after that place they have down south.”

Mma Ramotswe knew about the Karoo. “It is like our Kalahari,” she said. “But it has sheep.”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “There are many sheep.” She put a finger on one of the photographs. “I think that sofa would be good,” she said. “What do you think, Mma? Would you want to sit on that one?”

Mma Ramotswe studied the picture. “I am not sure,” she said. “It is a bit close to the ground. You see there? Its legs are very short.”

“That is to save space,” said Mma Makutsi. “These days they're making furniture with short legs to save space. And materials too. If you have short legs on furniture, then you save wood.”

Mma Ramotswe saw difficulties with that. “But then if you sit on a sofa like that, Mma, your knees will go up in the air because you are so low down. And there will be some traditionally built people—not all, but some—who will find it difficult to get up if they are at that angle. They may have to call for help.” She peered at the picture again. “Perhaps a sofa like that should have some sort of alarm button, Mma. If you got stuck, then you could press it and an alarm would sound.”

Mma Makutsi looked at her disapprovingly. “They do not make such things, Mma.”

“I was just thinking aloud,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi closed the catalogue. “I think that I should get back to work, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe took the hint. “And I must get over to the supermarket. We have very little food in the house and I need to stock up.”

“That is because you have a man in the house,” said Mma Makutsi. “We women buy food, but men just come along and eat it. That is happening all the time. Women buy food and men eat it.”

“Very true,” mused Mma Ramotswe. “Now that one comes to think about it.”

But she was not thinking about the purchase and consumption of food. She was not thinking about men and their little ways. Rather she was thinking of why Mma Makutsi was behaving so strangely. Was something wrong? She remembered Clovis Andersen saying something about this in
The Principles of Private Detection,
and as she left the store his words came back to her.
If a person acts out of character, then there's one thing you can be sure of: there is something wrong. I have seen this so many times I have lost count.

S
HE DID NOT SPEND LONG
in the supermarket at Riverwalk, confining her purchases to supplies she would need for the next few days. There was beef for a stew, a large pumpkin, a packet of beans, a dozen eggs, and two loaves of bread. The pumpkin looked delicious—almost perfectly round and deep yellow in colour, it sat on the passenger seat beside her so comfortably as she drove out of the car park, so pleased to be what it was, that she imagined conducting a conversation with it, telling it about the Orphan Farm and Mma Potokwane and her concerns over Mma Makutsi. And the pumpkin would remain silent, of course, but would somehow indicate that it knew what she was talking about, that there were similar issues in the world of pumpkins.

She smiled. There was no harm, she thought, in allowing your imagination to run away with you, as a child's will do, because the thoughts that came in that way could be a comfort, a relief in a world that could be both sad and serious. Why not imagine a talk with a pumpkin? Why not imagine going off for a drive with a friendly pumpkin, a companion who would not, after all, answer back; who would agree with everything you said, and would at the end of the day appear on your plate as a final gesture of friendship? Why not allow yourself a few minutes of imaginative silliness so that you could remember what it was like when you believed such things, when you were a child at the feet of your grandmother, listening to the old Setswana tales of talking trees and clever baboons and all the things that made up that world that lay just on the other side of the world we knew, the world of the real Botswana.

She did not drive home, but joined the flow of traffic going east on the Tlokweng Road, her destination the Orphan Farm and her friend Mma Potokwane. It being a Saturday, she did not expect to find Mma Potokwane in her office, but her house was on the premises and she would almost certainly be there.

The road was busy, with cars going in both directions. Mma Ramotswe wondered where everybody was going, but then remembered that there was a football match on at the stadium, where the Zebras were playing against a team from Zambia. Charlie would be there, she imagined, and Fanwell too. Over the years she and Mma Makutsi had been obliged to listen to so much chatter about the Zebras and their doings, none of which had meant very much, and very little of which had remained in her memory. Last year, she recalled, the Zebras had scored an important goal in a crucial game against a traditional rival, and that had brought great pleasure to both young men. Charlie had breathlessly explained how one of their players, a man with a ridiculous nickname she could not remember, picked up the ball in his own half and dribbled past half the opposition, before placing it in the top corner from twenty-five yards. The keeper, he said, had had no chance at all. She and Mma Makutsi had just smiled indulgently at this account, but Charlie and Fanwell had performed a spontaneous dance of joy, although Mma Makutsi had somewhat spoiled the celebration by remarking, “Those poor people who lost—I wonder what they're doing now.”

By the time she had to turn off the Tlokweng Road the traffic had thinned to the point where there was now just the occasional car. The last section of the road was untarred, and vehicles would throw up a cloud of red dust, like the vapour trail of an aircraft. One of these red clouds came towards her now, enveloped her, and then passed, and shortly thereafter she was at the gate. The sign at the entrance portrayed a smiling child protected by two encircling adult hands, and underneath this picture were the words
This is an abode of love.
The letters were hard to read now because the paint had blistered from years of exposure to the sun; but the love was still there, she thought, like the sun.

Mma Potokwane's house was a short walk from her office, not far from the acacia tree under which Mma Ramotswe usually parked her van. It was not a large house, or a particularly attractive one, but it had about it that indefinable quality marking out places that are loved by those who live in them and that, in return, provide more than mere shelter. On one side there was a rain tank, painted green, and linked to the gutters of the house by a sloping pipe; on the other was a makeshift lean-to garage, sheltering the old blue minibus Mma Potokwane had been given by a local hotel company, a steadfast supporter of the children's home. This vehicle had been used to transport hotel employees to and from work before it was eventually replaced by something newer and smarter. When it had come to the Orphan Farm, the age and experience of the minibus had begun to show; it had been a poor starter and, indeed, a poor runner, and displayed a tendency to cut out at speeds above forty miles an hour. None of these weaknesses had been a match for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, though, who had spent the best part of three days renewing and revitalising the vehicle until it ran smoothly and reasonably reliably.

Mma Potokwane's husband was a keen gardener, and his touch was very much in evidence. Surrounding the house was a four-strand goat-proof fence, creating a protected yard in which he had planted vegetables, flowering shrubs, and the waxy desert plants that thrived so well in Botswana's climate. The visual interest provided by these plants was complemented here and there by small concrete ornaments, painted in white and blue, the national colours of Botswana—a kingfisher perching on one concrete leg, a hippo the size of a small dog, an indeterminate crouching creature that might have been a lion or a domestic cat, or something in between.

She made her way up to the front door, pausing briefly to examine the flowers on a round, cactus-like plant. The plant itself was ugly—like a turnip into which needles had been placed—but the flowers were tiny, delicate things, as beautiful as any expensive and exotic orchid.

She was disturbed by a voice from within the house. “That's very pretty, that one, Mma Ramotswe. If it has any children, I shall give you one or two for your own garden.”

She looked up to see Mma Potokwane standing in her doorway. It was a surprise to see her dressed in the way she was—not in the matron's outfit she always seemed to wear but in a pair of blue jeans and a white muslin top. The jeans were sufficiently voluminous—Mma Potokwane, like Mma Ramotswe, was traditionally built—but seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the pressures of the flesh, looking as if they might at any moment be shed like a snake's skin.

“They are very beautiful,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What are they called, Mma?”

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “I have forgotten, Mma. My husband knows their Setswana name, but he is probably the only one who does. Those names are going, Mma. We are all forgetting them. Soon we shall look about us and not be able to identify anything. Even the sky will have lost its name.”

“That will not happen. The sky will always be…” And for a dreadful moment, Mma Ramotswe forgot the name of the sky, until Mma Potokwane, laughing, came to her rescue.

They went inside, where Mma Potokwane said a pot of tea had just been brewed. Mma Ramotswe realised that she had been in Mma Potokwane's house only once before, and that had been some years ago. The two friends invariably met in the matron's office, which meant that it was there that Mma Ramotswe always imagined her. It was the same with her bank manager, her dressmaker, and the women who taught Puso and Motholeli. All of these people must have houses, but she could not envisage them in a domestic setting. Nor could she imagine the President in his house, although she had driven past its high white walls on many occasions and knew the colour of its roof. Even the greatest in the land must have a room that was just for them, where they kept personal things, where they could go barefoot or put their feet on the chairs.

Mma Potokwane's house was furnished simply. There were no shiny surfaces, no glass tables or expensive sitting-room suites; none of the furniture, she noticed, matched. But it was homely, and from the kitchen, and pervading the whole house, came a delicious smell of baking—a smell that was redolent of rich fruit, of molasses, of roasted almonds.

Mma Potokwane invited Mma Ramotswe into the sitting room. “I was baking,” she began, and then paused, waiting for her friend's reaction.

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “It is my job, Mma, to put two and two together. That is what I do.”

Mma Potokwane was already making for the kitchen. Over her shoulder she called, “So the only question is one slice or two?”

“There are some questions,” said Mma Ramotswe, “that do not really need to be asked.”

There were several framed photographs on the walls of the living room. Mma Ramotswe rose from her chair to study these while Mma Potokwane was out of the room. She felt justified in doing this: photographs on a wall were there for people to see and to examine if interested; an album is a different thing, and she would never have opened a photograph album without Mma Potokwane's permission, tempting though that might have been.

There was a wedding photograph: a slimmer, and younger, Mma Potokwane stood with a good-looking man in front of a doorway, a group of older people to the side. That was the family, she imagined, but she could not tell whose side it was. Sometimes physical appearance made that quite clear, but not in this case. Then there was a photograph of Mma Potokwane, again a younger version, in a nurse's uniform, smiling broadly. That must have been taken when she finished her training, Mma Ramotswe thought, perhaps on her first day as a fully qualified nurse, as there was a look of pride on her face and the uniform looked so pristine. And now that she came to examine the background, she could see that it was a hospital and, yes, it was the Princess Marina in Gaborone, as she could make out one of the buildings in the background, a ward with some patients looking out of the window. That building was still there, though now it was used as an office block for the hospital administration.

Then there was a photograph of a small group of children, with a middle-aged woman standing beside them. She recognised the surroundings as being the Orphan Farm, but she did not recognise the woman.

“That is one of the housemothers,” said Mma Potokwane, who had reappeared from the kitchen and was standing behind her. “She retired shortly after I came here, but she was very good to me when I was appointed. She showed me everything.”

“That must have been very helpful,” said Mma Ramotswe. “A new job can be very confusing.”

“Who did you have to help you?” asked Mma Potokwane, placing a low tray on the table in the middle of the room.

“I only had a book,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There is a book by a man called Mr. Clovis Andersen. I found a copy of that.”

“Then that would have helped,” said Mma Potokwane, pouring tea from a teapot.

“It did. And then, you know, I met him. Mr. Andersen came to Botswana. He called in at the office.”

Mma Potokwane looked impressed. “I have never met a person like that, although I did know Professor Tlou. He wrote a book on the history of Botswana. He was a very good man. He is late now, but many people remember him very fondly.”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We have had some very good people in this country…” She stopped, realising that the conversation had taken her naturally, and without any forcing, to precisely that point where she could talk about what she wanted to talk about. “I have come to see you, Mma…”

“Yes, Mma. I was wondering. You're always welcome to drop in any time—you know that—but I was wondering.”

Mma Ramotswe took a sip of her tea. “It is a delicate matter.”

Mma Potokwane made an expansive gesture. “I am used to delicate matters, Mma Ramotswe; they do not worry me one little bit. Not one little bit. All these children…their young lives are full of delicate matters.”

“Of course, of course. A matron knows about such things.”

“So, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe looked at Mma Potokwane. She knew that she could be as direct as she liked with her, and that anything she said would be treated confidentially. There were very few people, apart from her friend, of whom she could say that: Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, of course, who was always very discreet, and…The list petered out at that point.

“As you know, Mma, I am on holiday.”

“Well deserved, I must say.”

“Thank you. But of course business has to go on as usual, and I have left Mma Makutsi in charge of the office.” She paused. “This is very good cake, Mma.”

Mma Potokwane passed Mma Ramotswe her second slice. “She'll be quite capable, I should think.”

“Oh, she is certainly capable. We also have Mr. Polopetsi working with us—on a part-time basis, of course—and we have young Charlie.”

The mention of Charlie's name brought a smile to Mma Potokwane's face. “That young man will go far,” she said. “I don't know in what direction, but he will go far.”

They both laughed. Then Mma Ramotswe continued, “Now the problem is this, Mma. I have been dragged into a case they took on. I did not want to be involved, because I have not wanted Mma Makutsi to think that I am interfering, but Mr. Polopetsi came to talk to me, you see, and I did not really have much choice in the matter.”

“She's pushing him too hard?”

Mma Ramotswe was taken aback at the insight. “You're right. Yes.”

“And he feels he's out of his depth?”

“Yes.”

Mma Potokwane sat back in her chair. “I've seen that sort of thing. We've had it out here. You appoint a new foreman or whatever and then a few days later the first of the junior staff comes knocking at your door. It's a very familiar thing.”

Mma Ramotswe asked how Mma Potokwane handled such situations. The explanation was simple. “A quiet talk with the senior person. Not a dressing-down. Lots of compliments on efficiency and so on. Then you mention that the junior staff are so impressed that they are trying too hard to please their new superior. They are becoming exhausted, and they need to conserve their strength. Perhaps a little bit less pressure?”