The Full Cupboard of Life

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MMA RAMOTSWE was hoping that Mma Potokwane would forget all about the parachute jump which Charlie, the older apprentice, had agreed to take over from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. Unfortunately, neither Mma Potokwane nor Charlie himself forgot, and indeed Charlie had actively been seeking sponsorship. People were generous; a parachute jump was a considerably more exciting project than a sponsored walk or run-anybody could do those. A parachute jump required courage and there was always the possibility that it could go badly wrong. This made it difficult to refuse a donation.

The jump was planned for a Saturday. The plane would take off from the airport, out near the ostrich abattoir, would circle the town and would then fly out towards Tlokweng and the orphan farm. At the appropriate moment the apprentice would be given the signal to jump and would land, it was hoped, in a large field at the edge of the orphan farm. All the children would be there, waiting to see the parachute come down, and the ranks of the children would be swelled by several press photographers, an official from the Mayor’s office-the Mayor himself would be away at the time-a colonel from the Botswana Defence Force (invited by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni) and the Principal of the Botswana Secretarial College (invited by Mma Makutsi). Mma Ramotswe had invited Dr Moffat, and had asked him whether he could possibly bring his medical bag with him-just in case anything went wrong, which she was certain it would not. She had also invited Mma Holonga, not only because she was something of a public figure who might be expected to attend a charity event as a matter of course, but also because she wanted to speak to her. Apart from these people, the public at large could attend, if it wished. The event had been given wide publicity in the papers, and even Spokes Spokesi had mentioned it on his show on Radio Gabs. He claimed to have done a parachute jump himself, and that it was nothing, “as long as you were brave enough.” But things could go wrong, he warned, although he did not propose to say anything more on that subject just then.

Charlie himself seemed very calm. On the day before the jump, Mma Ramotswe had a private word with him at the garage, telling him that there would be no dishonour in his withdrawing, even at this late stage.

“Nobody will think the less of you if you phone Mma Potokwane right now and tell her that you have changed your mind. Nobody will think that you are a coward.”

“Yes, they will,” said Charlie. “And anyway, I want to do it. I have been practising and I know everything there is to know about parachutes now. You count ten-or is it fifty?-and then you pull the cord. So. Like that. Then you keep your feet together and you roll over on the ground once you land. That is all there is to it.”

Mma Ramotswe wanted to say that it was not so simple, but she kept her own counsel.

“You could come with me, Mma Ramotswe,” said Charlie, jokingly. “They could make an extra big parachute for you.”

Mma Ramotswe ignored this. He could be right, of course; perhaps you needed an especially large parachute if you were of traditional build, or perhaps you just came down faster. But then parachutists of traditional build would land more softly and comfortably, being better padded, and those of particularly traditional build might just roll over when they landed, as barrels do when you drop them.

“Well,” she said, after a while, “in your case you must be hoping to land on your bottom, which is much bigger than normal. That will be the best place for you to land. Put your feet up when you get close to the ground and sit down.”

The apprentice looked annoyed, but he did not say anything. Instead, he looked in a small mirror which he had hung on a pin near the door that led from the garage into the office. He could often be found standing before this mirror, preening himself, or doing a small, shuffling dance while he looked at his reflection.

ON THE day in question, they all met at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors: Mma Ramotswe; the two children, Motholeli and Puso; Mr J.L.B. Matekoni; Mma Makutsi; and the younger apprentice. Charlie himself had been collected from his home several hours earlier and driven to the airfield by the pilot of the light aircraft from which he was to jump.

They drove out to the orphan farm in Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van and in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s truck, Mma Makutsi travelling in the van with Mma Ramotswe and the children sitting in the back. Motholeli’s wheelchair was secured in the back of the van by a system of ropes which Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had devised, and this gave her a very good view of the passing countryside. People waved to her, and she waved back, “like the Queen,” she said. Mma Ramotswe had told her all about the Queen Elizabeth and about how she had been a friend of Sir Seretse Khama himself. She loved Botswana, explained Mma Ramotswe, and she did her duty all the time, all the time, visiting people and shaking their hands and being given flowers by children. She had been on duty for fifty years, Mma Ramotswe said, just like Mr Mandela, who had given his whole life for justice and had never once thought of himself. How unlike these people were modern politicians, who thought only of power and tricks.

By the time they drew up at the orphan farm, the trees outside the office already had cars under them, and they were obliged to leave the tiny white van out on the road. People had obviously already begun to arrive, and some of the children were on duty at the gate, standing smartly and greeting the guests, telling them where they should go for tea and cake before the jump took place. Some of the younger children were wearing cardboard aeroplane badges which they had cut out and coloured themselves, and some of these were on sale for two pula at a small table under a tree.

Mma Potokwane saw them from her office, and she rushed out to meet them just as Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and the younger apprentice arrived in the truck. Then Dr Moffat arrived, with his wife, in his pick-up truck, and Mma Potokwane immediately seized him and led him off to look at one of the children who had developed a high fever and was being watched over by her housemother. Mrs Moffat stayed with Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi and together they made their way to the spot under a wide jacaranda tree where two of the housemothers were dispensing heavily-sugared tea from a very large brown tea-pot. There was cake too, but it was not free. Mma Ramotswe bought a slice for all of them and they sat down on stools and drank the tea and ate the cake while further spectators arrived. Then, after half an hour or so, they heard the distant drone of an aircraft engine and the children began to squeal with excitement, pointing at the sky to the west. Mma Ramotswe looked up, straining her eyes; the sound was clear enough now, and yes, there it was, a small plane, white against the great empty sky, much higher than she had imagined it would be. How small we must all look from up there, she thought; and poor Charlie, for all his faults, now just a tiny dot in the sky, a tiny dot that would come tumbling down to the hard earth below.

“I shouldn’t have asked him to do this,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “What if he’s killed?”

Mma Makutsi put a reassuring hand on Mma Ramotswe’s forearm. “He won’t be,” she said. “These things are very safe these days. They check everything two or three times.”

“But it still might not open. And what if he freezes with shock and doesn’t pull the cord? What then?”

“His instructor will be jumping with him,” soothed Mma Makutsi. “He would dive down and pull the cord for him. I saw a picture in theNational Geographic of that being done. It is very easy for these people.”

They became silent as the plane passed overhead. Now they could see the markings underneath the wings and the undercarriage, and then the opening door and a figure and a blur of shapes. Suddenly there were two little packages, but packages with arms and legs flailing about in the rushing wind, and some of the children shrieked and pointed upwards. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked up too, and gulped, imagining that it could have been him up there, and remembering that disturbing dream. Mma Ramotswe closed her eyes, and then opened them again, and still the figures were falling against the empty sky, and she thought: his parachute is not going to open, and she clutched at Mma Makutsi who had muttered something under her breath, a prayer perhaps.

But the parachutes did open, and Mma Ramotswe let out her breath and felt weak at the knees. Mrs Moffat smiled at her and said, “I was worried then. It seemed such a time,” and Mma Ramotswe was too overcome to say anything in response, but vowed to herself that she would make it up to this boy in the future; she would be kind to him and not be so impatient at the irritating things he said and did.

As they drifted down, floating beneath the great white canopies, the two figures separated. One of them waved to the other, and seemed to be gesturing, but the other did nothing and continued to float away. The gesturing one was now getting fairly close to the ground, and within seconds he had landed in the field, scarcely a few hundred yards from the spectators. There was a cheer, and the children ran forward, in spite of the calls from the housemothers to stay where they were until the second parachutist had landed safely.

They need not have worried. The other parachutist, now revealed to be Charlie, had so drifted off course that he did not land in the field at all, but disappeared behind the tree tops of the scrub bush on the other side. The spectators watched silently as this happened, and then people turned to one another in uncertainty.

“He will be dead,” cried out one of the smaller children. “We must fetch a box.”

IT WAS Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, Mma Potokwane’s husband, and the instructor (not freed of his equipment) who discovered Charlie. He was hanging a few feet above the ground, his parachute covering the upper branches of a large acacia tree, snagged and snared by the thorny limbs of the tree. He shouted out to them as they approached, and the instructor soon had him out of the harness and down on the ground.

“That was a soft landing,” said the instructor. “Well done. You were just a bit off target, that’s all. I think you were pulling on the wrong side of the canopy. That’s why you sailed off here.”

The apprentice nodded. He had a curious expression on his face, half way between sheer relief and pain.

“I think that I am injured,” he said.

“You can’t be,” said the instructor, dusting down the green parachute suit. “The tree completely broke your fall.”

The apprentice shook his head. “There is something hurting me. It is very sore. It is there. Please see what it is.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at the seat of Charlie’s trousers. There was a large rip in the fabric and a very nasty-looking acacia thorn, several inches long, embedded in the flesh. Deftly he took this between his fingers and extracted it with one swift movement. The apprentice gave a yelp.

“That was all,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “A big thorn…”

“Please do not tell them,” said the apprentice. “Please do not tell them where it was.”

“Of course I will not,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “You are a brave, brave young man.”

The apprentice smiled. He was recovering from his shock now. “Are the newspaper people there?” he asked. “Did they come?”

“They are there,” said Mma Potokwane’s husband. “And many girls too.”

Back under the trees he received a hero’s welcome. The children ran round him, tugging at his sleeves, the housemothers fussed over him with mugs of tea and large slices of cake, and the girls looked on admiringly. Charlie basked in the glory of it all, smiling at the photographers when they approached with their cameras, and patting children on the head, just as an experienced hero might do. Mma Ramotswe watched with amusement, and considerable relief, and then went off to talk to Mma Holonga, whom she had spotted arriving rather late, when the jump had already taken place. She took her client a mug of tea and led her to a private place under a tree, where they could both sit in privacy and talk.

“I have started making enquiries for you,” she began. “I have spoken to two of the men on your list and I can give you a report on what I have found out so far.”

Mma Holonga nodded. “Well, yes. I must say that there have been developments since I saw you. But tell me anyway. Then I shall tell you what I have decided to do.”

Mma Ramotswe could not conceal her surprise. What was the point of consulting her if Mma Holonga was going to make a decision before receiving even a preliminary report?

“You’ve decided something?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mma Holonga, in a matter-of-fact voice. “But you go ahead and tell me what you found out. I’m very interested.”

Mma Ramotswe began her account. “A few days ago I met your Mr Spokesi,” she said. “I had a conversation with him and in the course of this conversation I realised that he was not being honest with you. He is a man who likes younger ladies and I do not think that he is serious about marrying you. I think that he would like to have a good time using your money, and then he would go back to the other ladies. I’m sorry about that, Mma, but there it is.”

“Of course,” said Mma Holonga, tossing back her head. “That man is very vain and is interested only in himself. I think I knew that all along. You have confirmed my views, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe was slightly taken aback by this. She had expected a measure of disappointment on Mma Holonga’s part, an expression of regret, instead of which Mr Spokes Spokesi, who must have been a lively suitor, was being consigned to oblivion quite insouciantly.

“Then there is the teacher,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “Mr Bobologo. He is a much more serious man than that Spokesi person. He is a clever man, I think; very well-read.”

Mma Holonga smiled. “Yes,” she said. “He is a good man.”

“But a very dull one too,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And he is interested only in getting hold of your money to use for his House of Hope. That is all that interests him. I think that…”

Mma Ramotswe tailed off. Her words were having a strange effect on Mma Holonga, she thought. Her client was now sitting bolt upright, her lips pursed in disapproval of what Mma Ramotswe was telling her.

“That is not true!” Mma Holonga expostulated. “He would never do a thing like that.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I am sorry, Mma. In my job I often have to tell people things that they do not want to hear. I think that you might not want to hear what I have to say, but I must say it nonetheless. That is my duty. That man is after your money.”

Mma Holonga stared at Mma Ramotswe. She rose to her feet, dusting at her skirts as she did so. “You have been very good, Mma,” she said coldly. “I am very grateful to you for finding out about Spokesi. Oh yes, you have done well there. But when it comes to my fiance, Mr Bobologo, you must stop talking about him in this way. I have decided to marry him, and that is it.”

Mma Ramotswe did not know what to say and for a few moments she struggled with herself. Clovis Andersen, as far as she could remember, had never written about what to do in this precise situation and she was thrown back on first principles. There was her duty to her client, which was to carry out the enquiries which she had been asked to conduct. But then there was her duty to warn-a simple human duty which involved warning somebody of danger which they were courting. That duty existed, of course, but at the same time one should not be paternalistic and interfere in matters in which another person wished to choose for themselves. It was not for Mma Ramotswe to make Mma Holonga’s decisions for her.

She decided to be cautious. “Are you sure about this, Mma?” she asked. “I hope that you do not think I am being rude in asking, but are you sure that you wish to marry this man? It is a very major decision.”

Mma Holonga seemed to be pacified by Mma Ramotswe’s tone, and she smiled as she replied. “Well, Mma, you are right about its being a very major decision. I am well aware of that. But I have decided that my destiny lies with that man.”

“And you know all about his… his interests?”

“You mean his good works? His work for others?”

“The House of Hope. The bar girls…”

Mma Holonga looked out over the orphan farm field, as if searching for bar girls. “I know all about that. In fact, I am very much involved in that good work. Since I came to see you, he has shown me the House of Hope and I have been doing work there. I have started hair-braiding classes for those bad girls and then they can come and work in my salons.”

“That is a very good idea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And then there is the possible extension…”

“That too,” interrupted Mma Holonga. “I shall be paying for that. I have already talked to a builder I know. Then, after that is done, I am going to build a House of Hope out at Molepolole, for bad girls from that region. That was all my idea, not Bobologo’s.”

Mma Ramotswe listened to all this and realised that she was in the presence of a woman who had found her vocation. So there was nothing more for her to say, other than to congratulate her on her forthcoming marriage and to reflect on the truth that when people ask for advice they very rarely want your advice and will go ahead and do what they want to do anyway, no matter what you say. That applied in every sort of case; it was a human truth of universal application, but one which most people knew little or nothing about.