The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine (19 page)

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I see. At least, I think I see.”

“I wanted to keep you from finding out about Mma Sylvia Potokwane's husband. I wanted to protect you from this information about your friend's husband. I wanted to protect Mma Sylvia Potokwane too. Even when I realised that it was a lie, I didn't want anybody to hear about it. Lies can sometimes be as powerful as the truth, Mma. A lie about somebody can hurt that person even if everybody knows it's a lie.”

“So you thought you could keep the whole thing from coming out into the open?”

“Yes. I thought that I would deal with it myself. I would keep the client Potokwane quiet. I would protect the reputation of an innocent man. And nobody would be upset.”

Now Mma Ramotswe understood. If Mma Makutsi had concealed things from her, it had been done for the very best of reasons: to protect her—and her close friend too—from distress. It had been selfless; it had been kind.

“It was very difficult for me,” Mma Makutsi continued. “I was very stressed by the knowledge that I was hiding things from you. That is why I haven't been myself, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of reassurance. “I noticed that. Now I understand. And I can see why you felt you needed to use Mr. Polopetsi in all this.”

“I had to, Mma, but I shall apologise to him. I shall tell him that he did very well—which I think he did.”

“He is a very good man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “If I were ever to make a list of the good men in Botswana, then he would be on it, I think.”

Mma Makutsi liked the idea of a list of good men. “We could publish an annual list, Mma: ‘The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency Official List of Good Men in Botswana.' It would be a very important list.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “And it would be led by two names,” she said. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Mr. Phuti Radiphuti.”

“Naturally, Mma. Then the other names would come.”

Mma Ramotswe continued the fantasy. “And Charlie?”

Mma Makutsi made a face. “Poor Charlie. He would have to work to get on that list. Perhaps there would be a secondary list of young men who might grow up to be good men but who are not there quite yet.”

That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was a very sound idea. “It is always helpful to give people something to aim for,” she said, and then added, “But here's another thing, Mma. I am going to take a proper holiday now. I am going to go up to Mochudi for a few days, just by myself. I promise that I shall not interfere with the agency.” She shook her head, as if in incredulity that she could ever have done anything to the contrary. “I promise you that.”

Mma Makutsi now got up and crossed the room to sit beside Mma Ramotswe. She put her arm on her friend's shoulder briefly, and squeezed it in a gesture of wordless but unambiguous reconciliation.

They sat together in silence for a while. In the background, somewhere deep within the house, they heard a baby's cry.

“That's Itumelang,” said Mma Makutsi. “He's sometimes difficult to settle once he has been up. He is tired, but he does not want to get back to sleep.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “It is good that you have such a hands-on husband, Mma. Some men just walk away when the child cries.”

“Not Phuti,” said Mma Makutsi. “He's so…” She waved a hand in the air. “He's so…” She dropped her hand. “What is the time, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe, glancing at her watch, told her.

Mma Makutsi rose to her feet. “I have an appointment, Mma,” she said. “And I think you might like to come with me. I know you're meant to be on holiday, but this is a very tricky issue and I would like to have you with me.”

Mma Ramotswe indicated that she was willing. “I take it that it's a client, Mma; but who is it?”

Mma Makutsi hesitated for a moment. Then she smiled as she answered the question. “In a sense it is you, Mma.”

MMA MAKUTSI
seemed to take pleasure in keeping Mma Ramotswe on tenterhooks. Rather than reveal where she was going, she merely told her friend to follow her in the white van. Mma Makutsi had a newish car, a white car with a red stripe down the side, and it was considerably more powerful than Mma Ramotswe's van; she drove slowly, though, to allow Mma Ramotswe to keep up with her as they made their way along the road leading from the block of plots around the Radiphuti house. Mma Ramotswe was vaguely irritated by Mma Makutsi's reticence, but any feelings of this sort were outweighed by her surprise—and, to an extent, relief—over the resolution of the Keboneng affair. She felt real pleasure that the other woman had managed to deal with what could otherwise have been an unusually messy investigation.

Yes, she thought, everything had worked out as Mma Makutsi had hoped, but even so there had been an extraordinary number of misunderstandings. She had misunderstood what Mma Makutsi had been up to, and Mma Makutsi had not only misinterpreted what she herself had been trying to do but had also been unaware of what she knew. Mr. Polopetsi had likewise been under a misapprehension about Mma Makutsi's inability to handle things. It was a web of misunderstanding and deceit, but ultimately it was truth that had come to the fore. Which so often happened, thought Mma Ramotswe. Truth had a way of coming out on top—and it was just as well for everybody that it did. If there ever came a day when truth was so soundly defeated that it never emerged, but sank, instead, under the sheer volume of untruth that the world produced, then that would be a sad day for Botswana, and for the people who lived in Botswana. It would be a sad day for the whole world, that day.

AT FIRST SHE THOUGHT
that they were going to the office, but instead of turning off as Mma Ramotswe expected her to do, Mma Makutsi continued along the Tlokweng Road before taking a right turn into the area of the town known as the Village. Perhaps, thought Mma Ramotswe, the mysterious appointment was with somebody who lived in one of the older houses there, but if it was, why should Mma Makutsi have been so coy about telling her? And what did she mean by the tantalising remark that she—Mma Ramotswe herself—was, in a sense, the client?

For a moment she allowed herself to imagine that Mma Makutsi was preparing a surprise present for her. It was her birthday in a few days and Mma Makutsi always gave her a present. In the days when she had been a secretary pure and simple, the present had of necessity been modest, but it had always been chosen with thought and worked with love—a crocheted cover to keep flies out of her teacup, a set of table napkins made from salvaged squares of material, a shoe horn fashioned from a cow's horn. After her marriage to Phuti Radiphuti, it had been possible for her to buy rather than make presents, and these had sometimes been so generous as to cause Mma Ramotswe a tinge of anxiety. Now she looked down the road on which they were travelling—there was a dressmaker who lived in one of the flats round the corner; Mma Makutsi knew that she occasionally had dresses made by this woman, and she wondered if perhaps her birthday surprise was a fitting. It was just the sort of gift that Mma Makutsi liked to give, she thought; yes, that was where they were heading. And what a pleasant surprise it would be; she did not think she was entitled to a new dress, and to get it as a present would remove all the guilt that a fresh outfit would otherwise have spawned.

But no, they passed the turning to the three-storey block in which the dressmaker lived and were now headed for the university and the golf club. And that route, of course, took them past the sign that had caught Mma Ramotswe's attention a few days earlier but that had been forgotten about with everything else that was happening.

When Mma Makutsi slowed down and turned on her indicator, Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. Of course it was possible that there was something else altogether taking her down that particular road, but it now occurred to Mma Ramotswe that their destination was, indeed, the so-called No. 1 Ladies' College of Secretarial and Business Studies.

They parked a short distance from the building housing the college. Mma Makutsi stopped her car, climbed out of the driver's seat, and waited for Mma Ramotswe to finish parking and emerge from her van.

“This is where you have your appointment, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe, nodding in the direction of the college building, now with a freshly painted sign.

Mma Makutsi took off her glasses and polished them as she replied. “Do you know about this place?” she asked.

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “I was going to talk to you about it, Mma. I saw it a few days ago. I spoke to a man who was doing some painting. He said that—”

Mma Makutsi cut her short. “Violet Sephotho,” she said. “It's her, you know.”

“I'd worked that out. My suspicions were aroused and I thought,
There can be only one person who would do this sort of thing.
”

“Your suspicions were right,” said Mma Makutsi, grimly. “I have made further enquiries and it is all confirmed, Mma. This is Violet Sephotho's place.”

They looked at one another, unspoken thoughts of disapproval going through their minds. What could anyone expect of somebody like Violet Sephotho? To what depths would she not sink? And although Mma Makutsi did not think this, Mma Ramotswe did:
Poor woman—what unhappiness must Violet have felt to want to share it with others…

Mma Ramotswe glanced in the direction of the college; a door was open and she could make out a light on somewhere inside in spite of the brightness of the morning. “Is your appointment in there, Mma?” she asked.

“Yes, it is with her, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe's eyes widened. “Are you sure, Mma?”

“I am very sure, Mma Ramotswe.”

Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. She had seen Mma Makutsi on the warpath several times before, and she wondered whether she was about to witness another such confrontation. Mma Ramotswe did not like conflict, and would avoid direct, head-to-head arguments if she could, but there was something irresistible about the thought of a Violet Sephotho–Grace Makutsi match; it would be not unlike that famous boxing match of all those years ago that she remembered her father talking about, when those two great boxers met for the Rumble in the Jungle and one of them—now, which one was it?—knocked the other out, against all expectation.

She saw Mma Makutsi looking at her quizzically.

“Why are you smiling, Mma Ramotswe?”

She pulled herself together. “I am just thinking, Mma. I was thinking of a famous boxing match a long time ago. My late daddy talked about it.”

Mma Makutsi looked over her shoulder in the direction of the college. “I did not give her my name,” she said. “I made the appointment without telling her who I was. I said that I wanted to discuss a course with her. She was very helpful.”

“Because she thought you were a potential student?”

“Yes. I could hear her thinking about the fees.” Mma Makutsi paused. “Sometimes, you know, Mma, you can hear what people are thinking. Don't you find that?”

As they walked towards the building, Mma Ramotswe asked Mma Makutsi what she planned to say to Violet.

“I am going to tell her that I am watching her,” Mma Makutsi replied. “I am going to tell her that if she is up to any tricks, she can expect me to find out. I shall be giving her a warning, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful. “She will not like that, Mma.”

“I know.”

They reached the door of the college. Immediately inside was the main classroom, a large space furnished with the desks that the painter had discussed. A portable blackboard, resting on an easel, had been placed at the head of the room, some sentences in white chalk written on it and underlined in blue. Beyond the classroom, through an open door, could be made out an office of some sort—the edge of a desk, a filing cabinet, a chair or two.

They walked through the empty classroom and knocked at the office door.

“Please come right in,” called a voice from within.

The effect of their entry was immediate. Seated behind her desk, Violet Sephotho, dressed in a low-cut purple dress, looked up sharply and, for a few moments, was clearly confused. She quickly regained her composure, though, and a forced smile appeared on her lips.

“Grace Makutsi…Well, well, what a pleasant surprise. And Mma…Mma…”

“Ramotswe,” supplied Mma Ramotswe. She knew that Violet was perfectly well aware of who she was—of course she was.

“Mma Ramotswe,” said Violet smoothly. “Of course; silly me for not remembering. You're the woman married to that man who works for that garage, aren't you?”

Mma Makutsi corrected her. “He is the owner of that garage, Mma. He is not just a mechanic.”

Violet made a dismissive gesture. “I'll remember that, Mma. Thank you for telling me about it. I shall remember—if anybody ever asks me who owns that place, I shall know what to reply.” She looked down at her desk, where a diary was open before her. “I have an appointment, I'm afraid. So I shall not be able to spend much time talking to you ladies.”

“The appointment is with me,” said Mma Makutsi. “I'm the one who made it.”

Violet Sephotho was unprepared for this, and faltered. “You did not…You didn't say that…”

“I didn't say anything,” said Mma Makutsi. “But I am here now, and we can have the talk for which I made that appointment. That is why I am here.”

Violet was marshalling her resources. “Impossible,” she said sharply. “I cannot sit around and talk about the old days. I have very important things to do.”

“But you told me on the phone,” countered Mma Makutsi, “that you would not be busy and that we would have plenty of time to talk.”

Violet's annoyance showed; as she replied, her voice rose noticeably. “I thought that you were a client,” she said. “Of course I have time to talk to clients—that is quite different from talking to any old person who comes in off the street for a chat.” She paused. “Even you should understand that, Grace Makutsi.”