The Miracle at Speedy Motors

MMA POTOKWANE listened intently as Mma Ramotswe began to tell her of Mma Sebina and her search. Normally she would interrupt Mma Ramotswe as she spoke, not with any rude intent, but merely because she had thought of something that she imagined Mma Ramotswe would like to know and needed to speak about it before it went out of her head; with so much to deal with, constant demands from children and never-ending requests from housemothers, Mma Potokwane had a lot on her mind, and things could easily slip out of it. On this occasion, though, she simply listened, allowing Mma Ramotswe to give an account of her trip to Otse, her meeting with the woman who kept a chair in a tree, and the breakthrough conversation with Mma Mapoi.

At first Mma Potokwane said nothing when Mma Ramotswe finished. One of the young women who worked in the kitchen had brought in a pot of tea and a plate of cake, and now Mma Potokwane reached forward to pour them each a cup of tea. “We must not let the tea get cold,” she said, passing a cup to Mma Ramotswe. “There is nothing worse than being given cold tea. Do you know, Mma Ramotswe, I have heard that in America they even drink it with ice. Have you heard that?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded sadly. “I have, Mma. At first I could not believe it, then somebody told me that it was true. It is a very serious thing.” She paused, throwing a discreet glance at the untouched fruit cake.

Mma Potokwane understood. “We must not forget the fruit cake,” she said, slipping a slice onto a plate and passing it to her guest. “That is another thing I have heard. I have been told that some people these days have stopped eating fruit cake. Have you heard that?”

Mma Ramotswe popped half of the fruit cake into her mouth. It was very good. “No,” she mumbled. “I have not heard that rumour.”

“Not Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, of course,” Mma Potokwane continued. “He would never give up fruit cake, would he, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I think that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would do anything for a piece of your fruit cake, Mma Potokwane.”

“That is good to hear,” said Mma Potokwane, “because we have a small mechanical problem at the moment with the automatic irrigation system for the vegetables. If you wouldn’t mind, Mma…”

“I shall mention it to him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I was wondering, Mma, what you made of what Mma Mapoi said to me. About those two children and their mother who became late in prison?”

Mma Potokwane reached for the teapot. “I remember them well,” she said. “It was shortly after I came here. I was deputy matron then. I only became matron five or six years later.”

“And the children?” Mma Ramotswe pressed. “What about those two children?”

“Well,” said Mma Potokwane, “as you know, the girl went down to that lady in Otse. I do not remember her name, but it will be that Mma Sebina. That must be right. I am glad to hear that the daughter is doing well.”

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. She was so close now to the object of her search that she hardly dared ask the question, fearing a disappointing answer. Things happened to people in this life. They went away. Became late. Disappeared. “And the boy? The brother of that girl?”

Mma Ramotswe knew immediately that the answer was going to be a positive one. You can always read the signs, she thought; the clues are there, and you only have to be moderately observant to notice them.

Mma Potokwane reached for the teapot again; their third cup. “The boy? Yes, I saw him the other day.” She poured the tea. “I bump into him from time to time in the bank. The Standard Bank. That is where he works, you see.”

“Still? He’s there now?”

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “Unless he’s at another branch. They move them around, I think. But that man always seems to be there. He is quite senior now. He is a sort of deputy-assistant-under-manager, or something like that. You know how they give themselves long titles. I’m just matron but in these big offices they have very big titles.”

Mma Ramotswe thought of Mma Makutsi and her desire to have an impressive-sounding title. And why should people not be allowed a little boost like that, if it made them feel a bit better about themselves? Mma Potokwane should be allowed to call herself matron-general if she liked; in fact, Mma Ramotswe thought, it would rather suit her.

“Can you tell me the name of this man?” she asked. Even if she did not get this information out of Mma Potokwane, she would be able to find him now. But a name would be useful.

Mma Potokwane closed her eyes for a moment. “I know it, Mma. I know it. Se…something or other. Se…Sekape. That’s it. Sekape. I think that was the name. It is not the name that they came here with, but it is the same man.”

They talked for another half an hour before Mma Ramotswe left. Now that she had the information she needed, Mma Ramotswe was able to relax and enjoy the conversation, which covered a wide range of topics. One of the housemothers had been unwell and had undergone an operation. The operation had been successful and the details were given. Mma Ramotswe mentioned that she knew somebody who had benefited from a similar operation and was now the manager of a large café. Mma Potokwane nodded. Operations could set one up very nicely—in some cases.

Charlie was mentioned. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is too soft with those boys,” said Mma Potokwane. “He is too kind.”

“He has always been a kind man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is what he is like. And Charlie will turn out all right in the end.” Then she added, “I do not know when the end will be, though.”

The subject of Bishop Mwamba was raised. The bishop had been to visit the orphan farm and the children had sung very nicely for him, Mma Potokwane reported. Mma Ramotswe replied that she had heard him give a sermon in the Anglican cathedral that had been very impressive and that even Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who was known to sleep through sermons, had remained awake.

Then Mma Ramotswe left. As she drove away, she listened carefully to the noise that her van made. It was difficult to tell, as the road was bumpy and cars always squeaked and protested on bumpy roads, but she thought that she could hear it. It was, as Mma Potokwane had suggested, a knocking sound. For a moment she imagined that the engine was sending her a signal, as prisoners will knock on the wall of a cell to make contact with unseen others. But what was the tiny white van trying to tell her with its knocking? That it was tired? That it had had enough?