The Full Cupboard of Life

CHAPTER EIGHT

MMA RAMOTSWE swept up to the premises of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, bringing her tiny white van to a halt under the acacia tree. She had been thinking as she drove in, not of work, but of the children, who were proving such surprising people to live with. Children were never simple-she knew that-but she had always assumed that brothers and sisters had at least something in common in their tastes and behaviour. Yet here were these two orphans, who were children of the same mother and same father (or so Mma Potokwane had told her) and yet who were so thoroughly different. Motholeli was interested in cars and trucks, and liked nothing better than to watch Mr J.L.B. Matekoni with his spanners and wrenches and all the other mysterious tools of his calling. She was adamant that she would be a mechanic, in spite of her wheelchair and in spite of the fact that her arms were not as strong as the arms of other girls of her age. The illness which had deprived her of the use of her legs had touched at other parts of her body too, weakening the muscles and sometimes constricting her chest and lungs. She never complained, of course, as it was not in her nature to do so, but Mma Ramotswe could tell when a momentary shadow of discomfort passed over her face, and her heart went out to the brave, uncomplaining girl whom Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, almost by accident, had brought into her life. Puso, the boy, whom Motholeli had rescued from burial with their mother, scraping the hot sand from his face and breathing air into his struggling lungs, shared none of his sister’s interest in machinery. He was indifferent to cars, except as a means of getting around, and he was happiest in his own company, playing in the patch of scrub bush behind Mma Ramotswe’s house in Zebra Drive, throwing stones at lizards or tricking those minute creatures known as ant lions into showing themselves. These insects, small as ticks but quicker and more energetic, created little conical wells in the sand, snares for any ants that might wander that way. Once on the edge of the trap, the ant would inevitably trigger a miniature landslide, tumbling down the sides of it. The ant lion, hidden under grains of sand at the bottom, would burrow out and seize its prey, dragging it back underground to provide a tasty meal. If you were a boy, and so minded, you could tickle the edge of the trap with a blade of grass and create a false alarm to bring the ant lion out of its lair. Then you could flip it out with a twig and witness its confusion. That was an entertaining pastime for a boy, and Puso liked to do this for hours on end.

Mma Ramotswe had imagined that he would play with other boys, but he seemed to be quite happy on his own. She had invited a friend to send her sons over, and these boys had arrived, but Puso had simply stared at them and said nothing.

“You should talk to these boys,” Mma Ramotswe admonished him. “They are your guests, and you should talk to them.”

He had mumbled something, and they had gone off into the garden together, but when she had looked out of the window a few minutes later, Mma Ramotswe had seen the two visiting boys entertaining themselves by climbing a tree while Puso busied himself with a nest of white ants which he had found underneath a mopipi tree.

“Leave him to do what he wants to do,” Mr J.LB. Matekoni had advised her. “Remember where he comes from. Remember his people.”

Mma Ramotswe knew exactly what he meant. These children, although not pure-bred Masarwa, had at least some of that blood in their veins. It was easy to forget that, because they did not look like bushmen, and yet here was the boy taking this strange, almost brooding interest in the bush and in creatures that most other people would not ever notice. That, she imagined, was because he had been given the eyes to see these things; as we are given the eyes of those who have gone before us, and can see the world in the way in which they saw it. In her case, she knew that she had her father’s eye for cattle, and could tell their quality in an instant, at first glance. That was something she just knew-she just knew it. Perhaps Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could do the same with cars; one glance, and he would know.

She got out of the tiny white van and walked round the side of the building to the door that led directly into the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. She could tell that they were busy in the garage, and she did not want to disturb them. In an hour or so it would be time for tea-break, and she could chat to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni then. In the meantime there was a letter to sign-Mma Makutsi had started to type it yesterday-and there might be new mail to go through. And sooner or later she would have to begin the investigation of Mma Holonga’s list of suitors. She had no idea how she was going to tackle that, but Mma Makutsi might be able to come up with a suggestion. Mma Makutsi had a good mind-as her ninety-seven per cent at the Botswana Secretarial College had demonstrated to the world-but she was inclined to unrealistic schemes. Sometimes these worked, but on other occasions Mma Ramotswe had been obliged to pour cold water on over-ambitious ideas.

She entered the office to find Mma Makutsi polishing her large spectacles, staring up at the ceiling as she did so. This was always a sign that she was thinking, and Mma Ramotswe wondered what she was thinking about. Perhaps the morning post, which Mma Makutsi now picked up from the post office on her way into work, had contained an interesting letter, possibly from a new client. Or perhaps it had brought one of those anonymous letters which people inexplicably sent them; letters of denunciation which the senders thought that they would be interested to receive, but which were no business of theirs. Such letters were usually mundane, revealing nothing but human pettiness and jealousy. But sometimes they contained a snippet of information which was genuinely interesting, or gave an insight into the strange corners of people’s lives. Mma Makutsi could be thinking about one of these, thought Mma Ramotswe, or she could just be staring at the ceiling because there was nothing else to do. Sometimes, when people stared, there was nothing else in their minds, and all they were doing was thinking of the ceiling, or of the trees, or of the sky, or of any of the things that it was so satisfying just to stare at.

“You’re thinking of something, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Whenever I see you polishing your glasses like that, I know that you are thinking of something.”

Mma Makutsi looked round sharply, disturbed by the sudden sound of her employer’s voice. “You surprised me, Mma,” she said. “I was sitting here and I suddenly heard your voice. It made me jump.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni says that I creep up on him too. But I do not mean to do that.” She paused. “So what were you thinking about, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi replaced her glasses and adjusted their position on the bridge of her nose. She had been thinking about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and his parachute drop and about how Mma Ramotswe would react to the news, that is assuming that she had not heard it already.

“Have you seen the paper today?” she asked.

Mma Ramotswe shook her head as she walked over to her desk. “I have not seen it,” she said. “I have been busy taking the children here and there. I have had no time to sit down.” She threw Mma Makutsi a quizzical glance. “Is there something special in it?”

So she does not know, thought Mma Makutsi. Well, she would have to tell her, and it would probably be a shock for her.

“Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is going to jump,” she said. “It is in the paper this morning.”

Mma Ramotswe stared at Mma Makutsi. What was she talking about? What was this nonsense about Mr J.L.B. Matekoni jumping?

“Out of a plane,” went on Mma Makutsi quickly. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni is going to do a parachute jump.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “What nonsense!” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would never do something like that. Who has put such nonsense in the newspapers?”

“It’s true,” said Mma Makutsi. “It’s one of these charity jumps. Mma Potokwane…”

She had to say no more. At the mention of Mma Potokwane’s name, Mma Ramotswe’s expression changed. “Mma Potokwane?” she said sharply. “She has been forcing Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to do things again? A parachute jump?”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “It is in the paper,” she said. “And I have spoken to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni myself. He has confirmed that it is true.”

Mma Ramotswe sat quite still. For a moment she said nothing, as the implications of Mma Makutsi’s revelations sank in. Then she thought, I shall be a widow. I shall be a widow before I am even married.

Mma Makutsi could see the effect the news was having on Mma Ramotswe and she searched for words that might help.

“I don’t think he wants to do it,” she said quietly. “But now he is trapped. Mma Potokwane has told the newspapers.”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing, while Mma Makutsi continued. “You must go into the garage right now,” she said. “You must put a stop to it. You must forbid him. It is too dangerous.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I do not think that it is a good idea. But I’m not sure that I can forbid him. He is not a child.”

“But you are his wife,” said Mma Makutsi. “Or you are almost his wife. You have the right to stop him doing something dangerous.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. “No, I do not have that right. I can talk to him about it, but if you try to stop people from doing things they can resent it. I do not want Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to think that I am telling him what to do all the time. That is not a good start for a marriage.”

“But it hasn’t started yet,” protested Mma Makutsi. “You are just an engaged lady. And you’ve been an engaged lady for a long time now. There is no sign of a wedding.” She stopped, realising that perhaps she had gone too far. What she said was quite true, but it did not help to draw attention to their long engagement and to the conspicuous absence of any wedding plans.

Mma Ramotswe was not offended. “You are right,” she said. “I am a very engaged lady. I have been waiting for a long time. But you cannot push men around. They do not like it. They like to feel that they are making their own decisions.”

“Even when they are not?” interjected Mma Makutsi.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We all know that it is women who take the decisions, but we have to let men think that the decisions are theirs. It is an act of kindness on the part of women.”

Mma Makutsi took off her glasses and polished them on her lace handkerchief, now threadbare but so loved. This was the handkerchief that she had bought when she was at the Botswana Secretarial College, at a time when she had virtually nothing else, and it meant a great deal to her.

“So we should say nothing at the moment?” she said. “And then…”

“And then we find a chance to say something very small,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We shall find some way to get Mr J.L.B. Matekoni out of this. But it will be done carefully, and he will think that he has changed his mind.”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “You are very clever with men, Mma. You know how their minds work.”

Mma Ramotswe shrugged. “When I was a girl I used to watch little boys playing and I saw what they did. Now that I am a lady, I know that there is not much difference. Boys and men are the same people, in different clothes. Boys wear short trousers and men wear long trousers. But they are just the same if you take their trousers off.”

Mma Makutsi stared at Mma Ramotswe, who, suddenly flustered, added quickly, “That is not what I meant to say. What I meant to say is that trousers mean nothing. Men think like boys, and if you understand boys, then you understand men. That is what I meant to say.”

“I thought so,” said Mma Makutsi. “I did not think that you meant anything else.”

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe briskly. “Then let us have a cup of tea and think about how we are going to deal with this problem which Mma Holonga brought us the other day. We cannot sit here all day talking about men. We must get down to work. There is much to do.”

Mma Makutsi made the bush tea and they sipped on the dark red liquid as they discussed the best approach to the issue of Mma Holonga’s suitors. Tea, of course, made the problem seem smaller, as it always does, and by the time they reached the bottom of their cups, and Mma Makutsi had reached for the slightly chipped tea-pot to pour a refill, it had become clear what they would have to do.