Morality for Beautiful Girls

CHAPTER ELEVEN MMA POTOKWANE OBLIGES

THE GOVERNMENT Man had given Mma Ramotswe a telephone number which she could use at any time and which would circumvent his secretaries and assistants. That afternoon she tried the number for the first time, and got straight through to her client. He sounded pleased to hear from her, and expressed his pleasure that the investigation had begun.

“I would like to go down to the house next week,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Have you contacted your father?”

“I have done that,” said the Government Man. “I have told him that you will be coming to stay for a rest. I told him that you have found many votes for me amongst the women and that I must repay you. You will be well looked after.”

Details were agreed, and Mma Ramotswe was given directions to the farm, which lay off the Francistown Road, to the north of Pilane.

“I am sure that you will find evidence of wickedness,” said the Government Man. “Then we can save my poor brother.”

Mma Ramotswe was noncommittal. “We shall see. I can’t guarantee anything. I shall have to see.”

“Of course, Mma,” the Government Man said hurriedly. “But I have complete confidence in your ability to find out what is happening. I know that you will be able to find evidence against that wicked woman. Let’s just hope that you are in time.”

After the telephone call, Mma Ramotswe sat at her desk and stared at the wall. She had just taken a whole week out of her diary, and that meant that all the other tasks on her list were consigned to an uncertain future. At least she need not worry about the garage for the time being, nor indeed need she worry about dealing with enquiries at the agency. Mma Makutsi could do all that and if, as was increasingly often the case these days, she was under a car at the time, then the apprentices had been trained to answer the telephone on her behalf.

But what about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni? That was the one really difficult issue which remained untouched, and she realised that she would have to do something quickly. She had finished reading the book on depression and she now felt more confident in dealing with its puzzling symptoms. But there was always a danger with that illness that the sufferer might do something rash—the book had been quite explicit about that—and she dreaded the thought of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni being driven to such extremes by his feelings of lowness and self-disesteem. She would have to get him to Dr Moffat somehow, so that treatment could begin. But when she had told him that he was to see a doctor, he had flatly refused. If she tried again, she would probably get the same response.

She wondered whether there was any way of getting him to take the pills by trickery. She did not like the idea of using underhand methods with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but when a person’s reason was disturbed, then she thought that any means were justified in getting them better. It was as if a person had been kidnapped by some evil being and held ransom. You would not hesitate, she felt, to resort to trickery to defeat the evil being. In her view, that was perfectly in line with the old Botswana morality, or indeed with any other sort of morality.

She had wondered whether she could conceal the tablets in his food. This might have been possible if she had been attending to his every meal, but she was not. He had stopped coming round to her house for his evening meal, and it would look very strange if she suddenly arrived at his house to cater for him. Anyway, she suspected that he was not eating very much in his state of depression—the book had warned about this—as he appeared to be losing weight quite markedly. It would be impossible, then, to administer the drugs to him in this way, even if she decided that this was the proper thing to do.

She sighed. It was unlike her to sit and stare at a wall, and for a moment the thought crossed her mind that she, too, might be becoming depressed. But the thought passed quickly; it would be out of the question for Mma Ramotswe to become ill. Everything depended on her: the garage, the agency, the children, Mr J.L.B Matekoni, Mma Makutsi—not to mention Mma Makutsi’s people up in Bobonong. She simply could not afford the time to be ill. So she rose to her feet, straightened her dress, and made her way to the telephone on the other side of the room. She took out the small book in which she noted down telephone numbers. Potokwane, Silvia. Matron. Orphan Farm.

MMA POTOKWANE was interviewing a prospective foster parent when Mma Ramotswe arrived. Sitting in the waiting room, Mma Ramotswe watched a small, pale gecko stalk a fly on the ceiling above her head. Both the gecko and the fly were upside down; the gecko relying on minute suction pads on each of its toes, the fly on its spurs. The gecko suddenly darted forward, but was too slow for the fly, which launched itself into a victory roll before settling on the windowsill.

Mma Ramotswe turned to the magazines that littered the table. There was a Government brochure with a picture of senior officials. She looked at the faces—she knew many of these people, and in one or two cases knew rather more about them than would be published in Government brochures. And there was the face of her Government Man, smiling confidently into the camera, while all the time, as she knew, he was eaten up by anxiety for his younger brother and imagining plots against his life. “Mma Ramotswe?”

Mma Potokwane had ushered the foster parent out and now stood looking down on Mma Ramotswe. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mma, but I think I have found a home for a very difficult child. I had to make sure that the woman was the right sort of person.”

They went into the matron’s room, where a crumb-littered plate bore witness to the last serving of fruitcake.

“You have come about the boy?” asked Mma Potokwane. “You must have had an idea.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “Sorry, Mma. I have not had time to think about that boy. I have been very busy with other things.”

Mma Potokwane smiled. “You are always a busy person.”

“I’ve come to ask you a favour,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Ah!” Mma Potokwane was beaming with pleasure. “Usually it is I who do that. Now it is different, and I am pleased.”

“Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is ill,” explained Mma Ramotswe. “I think that he has an illness called depression.”

“Ow!” interrupted Mma Potokwane. “I know all about that. Remember that I used to be a nurse. I spent a year working at the mental hospital at Lobatse. I have seen what that illness can do. But at least it can be treated these days. You can get better from depression.”

“I have read that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But you have to take the drugs. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni won’t even see a doctor. He says he’s not ill.”

“That’s nonsense,” said Mma Potokwane. “He should go to the doctor immediately. You should tell him.”

“I tried,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He said there was nothing wrong with him. I need to get somebody to take him to the doctor. Somebody …”

“Somebody like me?” cut in Mma Potokwane.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He has always done what you have asked him to do. He wouldn’t dare refuse you.”

“But he’ll need to take the drugs,” said Mma Potokwane. “I wouldn’t be there to stand over him.”

“Well,” mused Mma Ramotswe, “if you brought him here, you could nurse him. You could make sure that he took the drugs and became better.”

“You mean that I should bring him to the orphan farm?”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Bring him here until he’s better.”

Mma Potokwane tapped her desk. “And if he says that he does not want to come?”

“He would not dare to contradict you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He would be too scared.”

“Oh,” said Mma Potokwane. “Am I like that, then?”

“A little bit,” said Mma Ramotswe, gently. “But only to men. Men respect a matron.”

Mma Potokwane thought for a moment. Then she spoke. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has been a good friend to the orphan farm. He has done a great deal for us. I will do this thing for you, Mma. When shall I go to see him?”

“Today,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Take him to Dr Moffat. Then bring him right back here.”

“Very well,” said Mma Potokwane, warming to her task. “I shall go and find out what all this nonsense is about. Not wanting to go to the doctor? What nonsense! I shall sort all this out for you, Mma. You just trust me.”

Mma Potokwane showed Mma Ramotswe to her car.

“You won’t forget the boy, will you, Mma?” she asked. “You will remember to think about him?”

“Don’t worry, Mma,” she replied. “You have taken a big weight off my mind. Now I shall try to take one off yours.”

DR MOFFAT saw Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in the study at the end of his verandah, while Mma Potokwane drank a cup of tea with Mrs Moffat in the kitchen. The doctor’s wife, who was a librarian, knew a great deal, and Mma Potokwane had occasionally consulted her for pieces of information. It was evening, and in the doctor’s study insects which had penetrated the fly screens were drunkenly circling the bulb of the desk lamp, throwing themselves against the shade and then, singed by the heat, fluttering wing-injured away. On the desk were a stethoscope and a sphygmomanometer, with its rubber bulb hanging over the edge; on the wall, an old engraving of Kuruman Mission in the mid-nineteenth century.

“I have not seen you for some time, Rra,” Dr Moffat said. “My car has been behaving itself well.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni started to smile, but the effort seemed to defeat him. “I have not …” He tailed off. Dr Moffat waited, but nothing more came.

“You have not been feeling very well?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded. “I am very tired. I cannot sleep.”

“That is very hard. If we do not sleep, then we feel bad.” He paused. “Are you troubled by anything in particular? Are there things that worry you?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought. His jaws worked, as if he was trying to articulate impossible words, and then he replied. “I am worried that bad things I did a long time ago will come back. Then I shall be in disgrace. They will all throw stones at me. It will be the end.”

“And these bad things? What are they? You know that you can speak to me about them and I shall not tell anybody.”

“They are bad things I did a long time ago. They are very bad things. I cannot speak to anybody about them, not even you.”

“And is that all you want to tell me about them?”

“Yes.”

Dr Moffat watched Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He noticed the collar, fastened at the wrong button; he saw the shoes, with their broken laces; he saw the eyes, almost lachrymose in their anguish, and he knew.

“I am going to give you some medicine that will help you to get well,” he said. “Mma Potokwane out there says that she will look after you while you are getting better.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni nodded dumbly.

“And you will promise me that you will take this medicine,” Dr Moffat went on. “Will you give me your word that you will do that?”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s gaze, firmly fixed on the floor, did not move up. “My word is worth nothing,” he said quietly.

“That is the illness speaking,” Dr Moffat said gently. “Your word is worth a great deal.”

MMA POTOKWANE led him to her car and opened the passenger door for him. She looked at Dr Moffat and his wife, who were standing at the gate, and she waved to them. They waved back before returning to the house. Then she drove off, back to the orphan farm, passing Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors as she did so. The garage, deserted and forlorn in the darkness, got no glance from its proprietor, its begetter, as he rode past.