Tea Time for the Traditionally Built

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. HOW WE WORRY

I AM GOING NOW,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, standing at the kitchen door the following morning. “It's a Lobatse day.”

“Of course,” said Mma Ramotswe. She had forgotten, but was now reminded, that this was one of the days when Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni went to help a friend who owned a garage in Lobatse. This friend, who had recently bought the business, was struggling to cope after an employee's premature retirement. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had stepped into the breach, offering to spend a day every two weeks-taking Charlie with him-helping to get through the backlog of work. It was typical of him, thought Mma Ramotswe fondly, that he should come to the rescue in this way. But inevitably there was more work than he and Charlie could manage, and the Lobatse days were long ones.

“I'll try to be back in time for my dinner,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But you know how it is.”

Mma Ramotswe did know. He would not be back until ten that night, perhaps even later, and she would worry about him until she saw the lights of his truck at the front gate. That journey could be perilous at night, what with bad drivers and with animals straying onto the road. She knew of so many people who had collided with cattle at night; one moment the road was clear and then, with very little or no warning at all, a cow or a donkey would nonchalantly wander out in front of the car. But you could worry too much about these things, thought Mma Ramotswe, and she knew that worrying about things was no help at all. Of course you were concerned for those you loved; it would be impossible not to be so. She worried about Motholeli; about the sort of future that lay ahead for a girl in a wheelchair. It helped if such a girl was as plucky as Motholeli, but would pluck be enough to get her through the disappointments that must surely lie ahead? What if she wanted to marry and have a family? Would there be a young man ready to take on the responsibility of a handicapped wife? And Mma Ramotswe was not even sure whether it would be possible for Motholeli to have a child, even if there was a husband to hand. She had not really given it much thought, but the time would come when she would have to do so.

And Puso, what about him? He was a strange boy-a little bit distant, which was to be expected, perhaps, from a child who had had such a difficult start in life. She felt now that they were getting through to him, but sometimes she wondered how he would turn out. Had he been the natural son of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, then she might have said that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni's gentle breeding would come through; but he was not, he was the son of a man whom they would never know anything about.

Such doubts were only to be expected, and it would be strange if foster parents never thought of these things. Yet there was no point in allowing niggling doubts to flower into consuming worries. The important thing was to get on with life and to give the children the love they deserved. She did that, and she knew that in their hearts they loved her back.

As she watched Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni walk out to his truck that morning, Mma Ramotswe felt herself overcome by a sudden feeling of vulnerability, by a fear that her familiar world was hanging by a thread. We were tiny creatures, really; tiny and afraid, trying to hold our place on the little platform that was our earth. So while the world about us might seem so solid, so permanent, it was not really. We were all at the mercy of chance, no matter how confident we felt, hostages to our own human frailty. And that applied not only to people, but to countries too. Things could go wrong and entire nations could be led into a world of living nightmare; it had happened, and was happening still. Poor Africa; it did not deserve the things that had been done to it. Africa, which could stand for love and happiness and joy, could also be a place of suffering and shame. But that suffering was not the only story, thought Mma Ramotswe. There was a story of courage and determination and goodness that could be told as well, and she was proud that her country, her Botswana, had been part of that.

Before getting into the truck Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni turned and waved. She waved back from the window and suddenly, inexplicably, felt an urge to rush out into the yard to speak to him before he left, to tell him something. She stood quite still; the urge was a strong one, but there was a part of her that said that she should not be silly, that she should stay where she was. She was holding a kitchen towel in her hand and found herself twisting it in her anxiety. Now she flung it aside and made for the door.

He had started his truck and was reversing down the driveway. When she appeared round the side of the house, he spotted her and waved again, thinking that she was on her way out to the garden. But then he saw that she was waving to him as if she had forgotten to tell him something, some message, no doubt, about picking up something from the shops in Lobatse before he came home. There was a butcher there who was a distant relation of Obed Ramotswe and gave them good cuts of meat at a special price. It would be about that, he thought.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni wound down his window. “Yes, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “I'll go to the butcher. What do we need this time?”

She shook her head. He saw that she was looking at him intently, as if she were expecting a message or waiting for him to say something.

“What is it, Mma Ramotswe?”

She shook her head. “I don't know, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. I suppose I just wanted to say something to you. And now I don't really know what it is.”

He began to smile, and was on the point of chiding her for being forgetful, when he stopped. There was something in her demeanour that suggested concern; it was almost as if she were frightened; as if she wanted to be reassured by him. He reached out of the window and touched her arm gently, then took her hand in his, awkwardly, as his position inside the cab of the truck did not make it easy. “What is it, Mma Ramotswe? Is there anything wrong?”

She answered no, there was nothing wrong. Did he know how sometimes you felt horribly anxious; you felt that something was going to happen? He thought about that for a moment; yes, he understood that feeling, but nothing bad was going to happen. And then he asked her whether she was upset about her van. She shook her head to that.

“Then what is it?”

She gave his hand a squeeze. “I wanted to thank you,” she said.

He was puzzled. “For what? Thank me for what?”

“For everything that you've given me, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”

He looked away. He was not one for displays of emotion; he never had been, but it made his heart swell to be thanked by this woman who stood for so much in his eyes; who stood for kindness and generosity and understanding; for a country of which he was so proud; who stood for Africa and all the love that Africa contained.

“I am the one who should say thank you, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “You are the one who has given everything.”

She gave his hand a last, fond squeeze and then stood back. “I mustn't hold you up,” she said. “Lobatse.”

He sighed. “Yes, Lobatse.”

He put the truck into gear and she watched him drive out onto the road. In the background, she heard the neighbour's dogs start to bark at the sound of the truck's engine. Those dogs, she thought; they lay in wait for anything that passed, human or mechanical, ready to defend their tiny patch of territory against whatever incursion, as do we all.

IT HAD BEEN a very unsettling feeling, but she had largely recovered from it by the time she herself left the house half an hour later. The children had been dispatched to school, Puso pushing Motholeli's wheelchair for the short journey. He was old enough to do that now, and did it without complaint; it was lodged in his mind somewhere, thought Mma Ramotswe, that his sister had looked after him, had saved his life, in fact, when he was very small. He did not remember that, of course, but he had been told about it, and he knew.

She drove down Zebra Drive in her new van. There were no mysterious, unidentifiable rattles as there had been in the old van, nor bumps as she drove over parts where the road surface had been inexpertly repaired. All was smoothness, like being in a canoe, a mokoro, on the untroubled waters of the Okavango. For many people, that would have been perfect, but not for Mma Ramotswe. One could go to sleep in such a van, she thought, as one was driving along. It was not unlike being in bed.

For a few moments she felt herself becoming drowsy, and had to blink and shake her head to wake herself up, such was the power of auto-suggestion. I must not think such thoughts, she told herself; it was just like those occasions when one thought of doughnuts and immediately became hungry. Doughnuts. And in the pit of her stomach she felt a sudden pang of hunger, even though it was less than an hour since she had enjoyed a good breakfast of maize porridge and slices of bread spread thick with apricot jam. Apricot jam… The hunger pangs returned.

Mma Makutsi was already in the office when Mma Ramotswe arrived.

“There is a lady,” she said, nodding in the direction of the garage. “She is out there at the side. She would not come in.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. Had she forgotten that somebody was coming, or had Mma Makutsi made an appointment without telling her?

It was as if Mma Makutsi had read her mind. “She has no appointment. She just turned up.”

People sometimes turned up; it was not unusual. They saw the sign and came to take a closer look. Sometimes they were shy and stood under the tree for a while, plucking up the courage to go into the office. Mma Ramotswe was always reassuring to such people. “You must not be ashamed,” she said. “Anybody can need a private detective-even a private detective.”

She settled herself behind her desk. “You may fetch her, Mma. Tell her that I am here.”

She glanced at her desk and pushed a few papers to the middle. A tidy desk might create a good impression in the eyes of some, but a desk that was quite bare could send quite the wrong message. Not that this was likely to be a client who would need impressing; a woman who came on foot and who was shy about waiting inside was unlikely to be the sort of client who would notice these things.

Mma Makutsi brought her in.

“Dumela, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, Good morning, and reached out to shake the woman's hand. “O tsogile jang?” How are you?

Her greeting was returned. “Ke tsogile senile, wena o tsogile jang?” I am fine, and how are you?

Mma Ramotswe gestured for her visitor to sit down, and as she did so she realised where she had seen this woman before. She had looked familiar; now she knew. “You and I have met before, haven't we, Mma?”

The visitor inclined her head. “We have, Mma. That morning. You were walking to work.”

“Yes. I remember.”

There was silence. Mma Ramotswe waited a few moments before she spoke. “I said to you, Mma, that you could come and speak to me. I am glad that you have come.”

The woman looked up, surprised. “Why?”

“Why am I glad that you have come?” Mma Ramotswe spread her hands. “Because that is why we're here, Mma. It is our job to help people. That is what we do.”

The woman looked uncertain and Mma Ramotswe added, gently, “We do not want your money, Mma. We help everyone. You do not need to pay.”

“Then how do you eat, Mma?” asked the woman.

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “As you can tell, Mma, I am not one who does not get enough food. We eat because there are some rich people who come to us. They pay us. Rich people can be very unhappy, you know, Mma.”

The woman did not look as if she believed this. “Rich people must be very happy, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, who had settled herself back at her desk and was following the conversation with interest.

“What Mma Ramotswe says is true,” Mma Makutsi interjected. “We have many rich people who come into this office and sit where you are sitting, Mma, in that very chair, and cry and cry, Mma. I'm telling you. Many tears-many, many tears.”

Mma Ramotswe thought this a bit of an exaggeration but did not contradict her assistant. There were people who cried in the office-that was only to be expected when people were discussing their problems-but not all of these were rich, and they generally did not cry quite the volume of tears implied by Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. “So, Mma, you are here now and we are here too. I think this would be a good time for us to talk. You must not be afraid of talking to us.”

“We tell nobody,” chipped in Mma Makutsi. “You need not worry about that.”

The woman nodded. “I know that,” she said. “Somebody told me that you people are like priests. They said that a person can tell you anything, and you will not talk about it.”

Mma Ramotswe was patient, but in the ensuing silence she glanced discreetly at her watch. She wondered whether a priest was what this woman needed; on occasion, people came into the office simply because they needed to unburden themselves of some secret. She listened, of course, to these people and she felt that it probably helped. But often she was unable to provide the thing that they needed: forgiveness. She could point them in the right direction for that, but she could not provide it. She had a feeling that this was one of those cases.

“There is something troubling you, Mma, isn't there? Something you have done?”

The woman stared at the floor. “Something I have done?” Her voice was flat-without salience. “No, Mma. It is something I am doing.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing. At the other side of the room she saw Mma Makutsi watching, her large glasses catching the morning light from the windows.

She probed gently. “Something you are still doing? A bad thing?”

The woman moved her head so slightly that it would have been easy to miss the acknowledgement. “I did not think about it,” she said quietly. “I did not think about it at all. It just happened.”

Mma Makutsi leaned forward at her desk. It was difficult for her, with the client's chair facing Mma Ramotswe, and she always found herself addressing the back of the client's head, as she did now. But it gave her a certain advantage, she found, to speak from behind somebody; it was like interrogating a person under a strong light. Clovis Andersen disapproved of that, of course. Never use third-degree methods, he wrote. It does not get to the truth. What was this third degree? Mma Makutsi wondered. And what were the first and second degrees? Were they worse, or in some way better?

“You did not know what you were doing, Mma?” she prompted. “Or you did not know that what you did was bad?”

Mma Ramotswe gave Mma Makutsi a discouraging look.

“Mma Makutsi is just trying to help,” she said.

The woman looked anxiously over her shoulder. “I do not know, Mma,” she said. “I am not an educated woman.”

Mma Ramotswe spoke soothingly. “That is not important, Mma. There are many people who have not had an education who are very clever people indeed. It is not their fault that they have not been to school.”

“People laugh at people like me,” said the woman. “These days, when everybody is so educated.”

“If they laugh at you, then they are fools themselves,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Big fools.” She paused. “But, Mma, you must tell me what is making you unhappy. What is this thing?”

The woman looked up and met Mma Ramotswe's gaze. “I am a lady with two husbands,” she said. “That is me.”

There was a sound from the back of the room-a form of hissing from Mma Makutsi-an exhalation, really, not a hiss of disapproval. “Two husbands,” she muttered.

The woman sighed. “I do not approve of women who have two husbands,” she said. “But now I am one myself.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “It is against the law, you know, Mma, to get married twice. You do know that, don't you?”

The woman looked surprised. “Oh, I am not married,” she said. “These men are just boyfriends. But they are very good ones. They are like husbands. I call one my weekday husband and the other my weekend husband.”

Mma Ramotswe looked up at the ceiling. What could she do? People treated her like one of those agony aunts in the newspapers-they expected her to make their decisions for them. This woman was obviously troubled, but she did not see what she could do for her, other than advise her to give one boyfriend up. But presumably other people would have told her that, and she expected something more from her and Mma Makutsi.

“Choose,” said Mma Makutsi. “Choose one of them.”

“That is not easy,” said the woman.

Mma Makutsi laughed. “No, it never is. But you have to, Mma. You cannot have two husbands. You will be punished for that one day. One of them will find out about the other, and then you will be finished.”

This brought a sharp reprimand from Mma Ramotswe. “Mma Makutsi!” It did not help if the assistant detective said to the client that she would be finished. It was unprofessional.

“I am only telling her the truth, Mma,” Mma Makutsi protested.

Unexpectedly, the woman sided with Mma Makutsi. “Yes,” she said. “You are right, Mma. I will be finished big time-and very soon. I have a very big problem-one of the husbands has gone to work for the other in his business. It is a very small business-just three men. Now one husband-the weekend husband-says that he wants to invite the other husband to have dinner at our house. He asked me to cook for them.” She paused, watching Mma Ramotswe, who was staring at her in anticipation. “And the second husband-the one who has been invited-has now asked me to come with him to this dinner. I will be the lady cooking for that dinner, in the house of my other husband.”

“You see!” broke in Mma Makutsi. “You see where lies and cheating get you, Mma? You see!”

“Thank you, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. She quickly went over possibilities in her mind. People got themselves into the most uncomfortable situations, and one could not always rescue them. She could not take on the emotional problems of all Gaborone, much as she would like to help. No, she would have to get this woman to shoulder responsibility for the fix she had created for herself. “Now, Mma, I'm very sad that you find yourself in this unhappy position. I would love to be able to solve it for you, but what can anybody do? Some problems we have to solve ourselves-and this is one of them.”

From the other side of the room came Mma Makutsi's verdict. “Yes.”

“You are going to have to speak to these men,” Mma Ramotswe continued. “That is all you can do. I cannot solve this problem for you, you know. I'm very sorry but I cannot.”

The woman looked crestfallen. “Oh, Mma Ramotswe, I'm so frightened…”

“Frightened?”

“Yes, I'm frightened of what these men will do. You know how angry men can become.”

Mma Ramotswe did. For a moment she saw her first, abusive husband, Note Mokoti. She saw his hand raised. She saw the anger in his eyes.

“I have an idea,” said Mma Makutsi.

They both turned to look at her. She was smiling-with the air of one to whom a sudden revelation has come.

“Speak to both of them,” said Mma Makutsi. “Separately, of course. Tell each husband that you have been weak and have been seeing another man. Then ask each man to forgive you.”

The woman started to protest. “But how…?”

Mma Makutsi raised a finger. “Watch their reactions very closely, Mma. See how they behave. They will probably behave differently. Watch them and then choose the one who is prepared to forgive you the most. That one will be the kind one. Choose to stay with him and say to the other that you are sorry but you cannot stay with him.”

For a while nobody spoke. Outside in the garage, Fanwell and Mr. Polopetsi were hammering on metal. Fanwell said something and a peal of laughter drifted through the door.

The woman stared at Mma Ramotswe and then turned round and smiled at Mma Makutsi. “That is a very good idea, Mma. That is very wise.”

Mma Makutsi looked down modestly. “I am glad that you think so, Mma.”

“And so do I,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that even Sherlock Holmes would be proud of that suggestion.”

“Who is this Rra Holmes?” asked the woman.

“He was a very famous detective,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Over that way.” She waved a hand in the direction of north. “He lived in London. He is late now.”

“I will do what you have suggested,” said the woman. “My heart is lighter now.”

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And come back and let us know what happens, Mma-” She broke off. She realised that she did not know the woman's name and now it had become obvious. That was the trouble when everybody could be addressed as Mma or Rra; sometimes one did not get the name at the beginning and then it became embarrassing to ask for it.

“My name is Mma Sephotho,” said the woman. “Lily Sephotho.”

WELL!” expostulated Mma Makutsi after Mma Sephotho had left. “What can I say, Mma? I do not know. I do not know.”

It was rare for Mma Makutsi to profess speechlessness; indeed it had never happened. Her declaration of speechlessness, however, was accompanied by a flood of words, all of them expressing a mixture of astonishment and its opposite: she was astonished but not astonished-if Violet Sephotho was to have a mother, then her mother surely would be exactly the sort to have two husbands. Not that they were real husbands, of course: nothing quite so respectable as that in a household of loose women. Two men-that is what Mma Sephotho had-two men. And by her own admission-in her own so very apt words-these were a weekday man and a weekend man. Had Mma Ramotswe ever heard these matters put so crudely? And had the woman not talked about it as shamelessly as one might discuss having two pairs of shoes: one pair for weekdays and one for weekends?

Mma Ramotswe listened to all this without saying very much, other than punctuating Mma Makutsi's diatribe with a modest “Very strange” and a cautious “Rather unusual.”

“And she had the cheek to come in here and tell us,” Mma Makutsi fumed. “The mother of the woman who…”

She left the accusation unfinished but Mma Ramotswe knew exactly what charge was envisaged. That was a sensitive issue, of course, but there was a matter of principle here. The doors of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency had always been open to whosoever was in need. As Mma Makutsi well knew, they had sat and listened to the proud, the boastful, the arrogant, and even the moderately wicked. They had not condoned any of the human vices revealed to them, but they had always remembered that whatever the failings of the client, he or she was first and foremost a person in need of help. And there was still an element of doubt here. Sephotho was not a common name, but it was possible that this woman was nothing to do with Violet. They had not asked her, and she had offered no information that would have decided the matter one way or the other. Mma Ramotswe now raised this doubt, only to hear it being summarily swept aside by Mma Makutsi.

“Of course she is the mother,” she said. “Look at her. And what was her name, Mma? Lily. Lily and Violet-two flowers. She must be the mother. If a flower has a child, what is that child? It is another flower, Mma, as in this case. Violet is the daughter of Lily.”

Mma Ramotswe had to acknowledge that if somebody was called Lily, then it was not unreasonable for her to call a daughter Violet, and so she did not argue. But she did point out-even if very mildly-that the sins of the father should not be visited upon the child, and by the same token the sins of the child should not be a pretext to berate the father.

“We are not talking about fathers and sons here, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “We are talking about mothers and daughters.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. “Well, Mma, time is passing. It is already time for tea, and we have so much work to do.”

“I will put the kettle on,” said Mma Makutsi briskly. “We have had a very big shock this morning, and tea will help us to get over it. That is what tea does. That is well known.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed that it was.