In the Company of Cheerful Ladies

CHAPTER TEN THERE IS ALWAYS TIME FOR TEA AND CAKE (IF AVAILABLE)

IT WAS TIME for Mma Ramotswe to visit Mma Silvia Potokwane, the redoubtable matron of the orphan farm. There was no particular reason for Mma Ramotswe to pay a visit; she had received no summons from the matron, and there was no request to borrow Mr J.L.B. Matekoni for some maintenance task that needed doing. This was purely a social visit, of the sort that Mma Ramotswe liked to make when she felt that it was time to sit and talk. People did not spend enough time sitting and talking, she thought, and it was important that sitting and talking time be preserved.

The two women had known one another for many years, and had moved into that most comfortable of territories, that of an old friendship that could be picked up and put down at will without damage. Sometimes several months would go by without the two seeing one another, and this would make no difference. A conversation left unfinished at the beginning of the hot season could be resumed after the rains; a question asked in January might be answered in June, or even later, or indeed not at all. There was no need for formality or caution, and the faults of each were known to the other.

What were the faults of Mma Potokwane? Well, Mma Ramotswe might list those quite readily, were she to put her mind to it. Everybody knew that Mma Potokwane was pushy; she had pushed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni around for years, and he had meekly submitted to such treatment. There had been innumerable requests for help in keeping that water pump alive, well beyond the limits of its natural life, and then there had been the unreliable minibus, which should have been scrapped years before but which was still on the road thanks to the unsurpassed mechanical skills of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. At least the pump had been disposed of when he had eventually stood up to her and told her that its time had come, but he had yet to make a similar stand over the minibus.

But the worst instance of all had been that business with the sponsored parachute jump, when Mma Potokwane had cajoled Mr J.L.B. Matekoni into agreeing to jump from an aeroplane to raise money for the orphan farm. That had been a dreadful thing to do, and Mma Ramotswe had found herself quite cross over the whole episode. Although she had managed to arrange for Charlie to jump in his employer’s stead—and she would never forget how Charlie had landed on a large acacia thorn—the whole matter had caused great anxiety to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. One had to watch Mma Potokwane, then, so that she did not manoeuvre people into positions in which they felt uncomfortable. This was always the case with pushy people; their pushy schemes were sometimes put into effect without one’s being aware of what was going on. And then suddenly one would discover that one had agreed to do something one had no wish to do.

Of course, let she who is without pushiness cast the first stone. Mma Ramotswe would have to admit that she herself was not above the occasional attempt to get people to do things. She would not have called that pushiness; she would rather have described it as … Well, it was difficult for her to think of an exact word to express the mixture of psychology and determination which one had to be able to invoke if one was to get anything done. And it should always be borne in mind that even if Mma Potokwane was pushy, she never pushed for things for herself. She used her undoubted talents in this direction for the benefit of the orphans, and there were many of them who had a great deal to thank her for.

There was that small boy with the club foot, for example. Mma Ramotswe remembered when she had first seen him at the orphan farm four or five years ago. He had been taken in at the age of six, having been sent down from Selibi Pickwe, or somewhere in those parts. Mma Potokwane had explained the background to her, and had told her how the boy had been deserted by his mother, who had gone off with a man and had left him with an aunt who was an alcoholic. This aunt had let a fire get out of control, and the small traditional house in which they lived, with its walls of brushwood, had gone up in flames while the boy was inside it. The aunt had staggered off, and nobody had been aware of the fact that the boy was inside until the fire had died down. He had spent months in hospital and had then been given a home at the orphan farm.

Mma Ramotswe had seen him playing with the other boys, running after a ball with them in one of those strange spontaneous games which boys will make up for themselves. And she had seen his efforts to keep up, in vain because he had to drag his misshapen left foot behind him.

“That is a brave boy, that one,” Mma Potokwane had said. “He is always trying to do things. He tries to climb trees, but he cannot because of that foot. And he would like to play football, but he cannot kick the ball. He is a brave boy.”

Mma Ramotswe had noticed that look in Mma Potokwane’s eyes as she spoke, that look of determination; and it was no surprise to her to hear some months ago that the matron had packed the boy onto a bus with her and had made the long journey to Johannesburg. There she had taken him to the surgery of a doctor she had heard about and had insisted that he see the boy. It was an act of breathtaking bravery. She had later heard, from Mma Potokwane herself, who related the story with frequent chuckles, how she had taken the boy into the waiting room of this doctor, a waiting room in a glittering tall building, and had ignored the protestations of the receptionist that the doctor would never be able to see her.

“The doctor can decide that,” Mma Potokwane had announced. “You cannot speak for the doctor. He can look at this boy and then he can tell me, himself, whether he will see him or not.”

She had waited and waited, and at last the doctor had poked his head round the door and this had been the signal for Mma Potokwane to leap to her feet and take from her bag a large fruit cake that she had prepared. This was thrust into the astonished man’s hands, while the boy, hanging on to Mma Potokwane’s skirts, had followed her into the doctor’s office.

“He could not say no after that,” said Mma Potokwane. “I cut a piece of the cake straightaway and told him that he could eat it while the boy took his shoes and socks off. So he did. He ate the cake and then he could not say that he would not look at the boy. And once he had done that, I asked him when he could do the operation, and while he was trying to think of something to say I cut another piece of fruit cake for him. So that boy had his foot repaired and now it is not too bad at all. He still limps, but not nearly so badly. He can play football. He can even run. That was a very good doctor. And he did not charge anything either. He said that the fruit cake was payment enough.”

Achievements like that, Mma Ramotswe thought, were more than enough to make up for the occasional irritation that one might feel over Mma Potokwane’s pushiness, and anyway, on this occasion, Mma Ramotswe was not minded to think of her friend’s faults. She wanted, rather, to hear her views on several difficult issues with which she was confronted. At least one of these issues was serious—the question of what to do about Charlie—and others merely needed to be aired, to see what insights Mma Potokwane might bring to them.

She spotted the matron on the verandah outside her office, engaged in conversation with one of the groundsmen. These men were important members of the orphan farm staff; they attended to all the minor tasks which cropped up on an orphan farm, problems with blocked drains, or the broken boughs of trees, or the chasing away of a snake or a stray dog.

She waited in the tiny white van until the business between the two appeared to be finished, and then she got out and walked over the dusty car park towards the matron’s verandah.

“So, Mma,” Mma Potokwane called out. “You have arrived at exactly the time I was thinking that it would be a good time to make some tea. You are very good at that.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed, and raised a hand in greeting. “And you always arrive at my office at exactly the same time,” she responded. “We are both good at that.”

Mma Potokwane called out to a young woman who was standing in the doorway of a neighbouring office, asking her to make tea for both of them, and then she gestured for Mma Ramotswe to follow her inside. Once seated, they looked at one another to see who would begin the conversation.

It was Mma Ramotswe who broke the silence. “I have been very busy, Mma,” she began, shaking her head. “We have had a lot of work in the agency, and the garage is always busy, as you know. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni takes on too much.”

She had not intended this to be a reference to the fact that some people—principally Mma Makutsi—thought that Mma Potokwane shamelessly added to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s burdens in this life. Fortunately Mma Potokwane did not appear to interpret her remark in this way.

“He is a good, kind man,” said Mma Potokwane. “And such men are often too busy. I have noticed that round here too. That man I was talking to just then—one of our groundsmen—he is like that. He is so kind that everybody asks him to do everything. We had a bad-tempered man working here once and he had nothing to do because nobody, apart from myself, of course, had the courage to ask him to do anything.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed that this was the way that people sometimes behaved, and further agreed with Mma Potokwane when she went on to say that people never really changed. It was almost impossible to get a busy man to do less; that was not the way they were made.

“Are you worried about him?” asked Mma Potokwane bluntly. “After that illness he had, maybe you should watch him. Didn’t Dr Moffat say that he should not work too hard?”

“He did,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But then when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was told this, he said: ‘And what about Dr Moffat himself? He is the hardest worker of them all. I have seen him. He is always rushing off to the hospital and looking after people. If he thinks that I should not work so hard, why is he working so hard himself?’ That is what he said, Mma, and I found it difficult to answer that.”

Mma Potokwane snorted. “That is no answer,” she said. “Doctors are allowed to tell us things which they might not do themselves. They know what the right thing is, but they may not be able to do it themselves. That does not mean that their advice is bad advice.”

This was an interesting observation, and Mma Ramotswe thought carefully about it before she replied.

“I must think about what you have said, Mma,” she said. “Should we really go around telling other people what not to do?”

The question was asked and hung heavily in the air while the tea tray was brought in and laid on Mma Potokwane’s desk. Mma Ramotswe looked discreetly at its contents; yes, there was cake—two large slices of fruit cake of the sort that she always hoped for when she visited the orphan farm. The absence of cake from the tray could have meant that she was for some reason in disfavour or disgrace; but fortunately that was not the case today.

Mma Potokwane reached forward and placed the larger slice of cake on her friend’s plate. Then she placed the other piece on her own plate and began to pour the tea.

“The question you have asked is a very important one, Mma,” she pronounced, picking up her slice of cake and taking a bite. “I must think about it. Maybe there are people who would say that I eat too much cake.”

“But you do not eat too much, do you?” observed Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane’s response came quickly. “No, I do not. I do not eat too much cake.” She paused, and looked wistfully at her now emptying plate. “Sometimes I would like to eat too much cake. That is certainly true. Sometimes I am tempted.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “We are all tempted, Mma. We are all tempted when it comes to cake.”

“That is true,” said Mma Potokwane sadly. “There are many temptations in this life, but cake is probably one of the biggest of them.”

For a few moments neither of them said anything. Mma Ramotswe looked out of the window, at the tree outside, and beyond that at the sky, which was an empty light blue, endless, endless. A large bird, a buzzard perhaps, was circling on high on a current of air, a tiny, soaring point of black, looking for food, of course, as all of us did, in one way or another.

She looked away from the sky and back towards Mma Potokwane, who was watching her, the faintest of smiles playing about her lips.

“Temptation is very difficult,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “I do not always resist it. I am not a strong woman in that respect.”

“I am glad you said that,” said Mma Potokwane. “I am not strong either. For example, right at the moment, I am thinking of cake.”

“And so am I,” confessed Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane stood up and shouted to the girl outside. “Two more pieces of cake, please. Two big slices.”

THE CAKE FINISHED and the tray tidied away, they settled down with their mugs of tea to continue the conversation. Mma Ramotswe thought that she would begin with the puzzle of the pumpkin, which had been rather forgotten about in all the recent excitement, but which was still something of a mystery. So she told Mma Potokwane about the disturbing experience of finding herself in the house with an intruder, and then the even more alarming discovery that the intruder was under her bed.

Mma Potokwane shrieked with laughter when Mma Ramo-tswe described how the intruder’s trousers had been caught on a bedspring.

“You might have crushed him, Mma,” she said. “You could have broken his ribs.”

Mma Ramotswe thought that the same might be said of any intruder who was unwise enough to hide under Mma Potokwane’s bed, but she did not point this out.

“But then the next morning,” she went on, “I found a beautiful pumpkin in front of the house. Somebody had taken the trousers and left a pumpkin in the place of the trousers. What do you make of that, Mma?”

Mma Potokwane frowned. “You have decided that the pumpkin was put there by the person who took the trousers, but are they connected? Might the pumpkin and the trousers be two quite separate matters? You have a pumpkin person, who brings the pumpkin—while the trousers are still there—and then you have a trousers person who takes the trousers and does not touch the pumpkin. That might be what happened.”

“But who would bring a pumpkin and leave it there without any explanation?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Would you do such a thing?”

Mma Potokwane scratched her head. “I do not think that I would leave a pumpkin at somebody’s house unless I told them why. You would leave a message with the pumpkin, or you would tell the person later: that was me who left that pumpkin there.”

“That is right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is what most people would do.”

“Mind you,” said Mma Potokwane, “we have had people leave gifts out here at the gate. Once I found a box of food just sitting there, with no note. Some kind person had left it for the children.”

“That is good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But then it is a bit different, isn’t it? I am not a charity. Nobody would leave a pumpkin because they felt that I was in need of pumpkins.”

Mma Potokwane saw the reason in this and was about to make an observation to this effect when she stopped herself short. Another possibility had occurred to her. Mma Ramotswe was assuming that the pumpkin had been intended for her, but what if somebody had placed it there by mistake? It was possible that somebody had intended the pumpkin for somebody else who lived on Zebra Drive but had delivered it to the wrong house. She was about to suggest this when she was stopped by Mma Ramotswe.

“Does it matter?” mused Mma Ramotswe. “Here we are talking about a pumpkin. There are plenty of pumpkins in this country. Is it sensible to spend one’s time talking about pumpkins when there are more important things to talk about?”

Mma Potokwane agreed with this. “You are quite right,” she said. “We have talked about this pumpkin for long enough. So let us talk about something more important.”

Mma Ramotswe did not waste time. “Well,” she said. “We have a very big problem with Charlie. I think that this problem is even bigger than the thorn that he got in the back of his trousers when he did that parachute jump.”

“It is to do with a woman?” prompted Mma Potokwane.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Now listen to this.”

Mma Potokwane settled back in her chair. She had had a soft spot for Charlie since he had done the parachute jump for the benefit of the orphan farm. She considered him something of a character, and the prospect of hearing some juicy bit of information about his amorous entanglements was an interesting one. But then she remembered that there was something that she had meant to mention to Mma Ramotswe. It would be important to bring this up before Mma Ramotswe got into full flow, otherwise she might forget. So she raised a hand to interrupt.

“Before you begin, Mma,” she said, “there’s something I thought I should tell you about.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her friend expectantly. She wondered whether Mma Potokwane perhaps already knew about Charlie’s affair and might even be able to tell her about the woman involved. Mma Potokwane knew so much about what was going on that it would not be at all surprising if she knew exactly who it was who had been at the wheel of that sleek silver Mercedes-Benz.

“You’ll never guess who I saw in town the other day,” said Mma Potokwane. “I could hardly believe it.”

“I cannot guess,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Was it somebody well-known?”

“A bit,” said Mma Potokwane enigmatically. “Well-known in the jazz world, perhaps.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing, waiting for Mma Potokwane to continue.

“Note,” she said simply. “Note Mokoti, your first husband. Remember him?”