The Miracle at Speedy Motors

CHAPTER FOURTEEN IN THE COLOUR OF THE NATIONAL FLAG

MMA RAMOTSWE could not contain herself, but had to. The moment she arrived back at the office after her meeting with Mma Potokwane, she picked up the telephone and dialled Mma Sebina’s number. All the way back from the orphan farm she had wondered whether she should tell her on the telephone, and had decided that it would be better for her to meet her client and give her the news in person, face-to-face; there were, after all, delicate aspects to this case. Although the news of her brother’s existence, right here in Gaborone, was undoubtedly good news, there was also the issue of the mother and her unfortunate fate. She had told Mma Mapoi that the daughter need not know what had happened to the mother, and that she would not raise it with her. But what if she asked? Mma Ramotswe was not sure whether it would be right to keep this knowledge from her, even though it might be difficult for her to accept that her mother had been sent to prison and had died there. And how much more difficult would it be to accept the reason for her having been sent to prison in the first place? All of that, thought Mma Ramotswe, would have to be handled tactfully.

The telephone call was a disappointment. Another voice answered and informed Mma Ramotswe that she was a neighbour of Mma Sebina and was looking after the house while Mma Sebina was up in Maun on business. She would be back, Mma Ramotswe was told, in a couple of days, and yes, Mma Ramotswe could certainly see her there if she came round to the house before she left for work in the morning.

“And are you the same Mma Ramotswe who has that detective agency on the Tlokweng Road?” asked the voice. “Are you that lady, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe confessed that she was.

“Do you know where that man who built new roofs is?” the voice went on. “The one who built three new roofs round here—all of which let in the rain when it rained so hard the other day? Can you answer that for me, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe was patient. “I do not know everything, Mma,” she said. “Did your roof—”

“It did,” said the voice. “The rain came in everywhere. The holes in the corrugated iron were too big for the bolts. So the rain came straight in.”

“I wish I could help you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I’m afraid I can’t help everybody. I have not heard of this roof man. I’m sorry.”

The voice seemed to accept this and rang off, leaving Mma Ramotswe smiling. Really, people imagined that just because she was a detective she knew, or could find out, everything. It was an enviable reputation for a private detective to have, but it did mean that Mma Ramotswe was buttonholed in all sorts of unlikely circumstances and asked to come up with the solution to some often insoluble problem. If people had an issue to raise with a roofing man and had no other means of contacting him, then the answer seemed simple…

She picked up the telephone and redialled the number.

“I have thought of a possible solution,” she said. “If this man fixes roofs, then why not drive around Gaborone and look for people fixing roofs. It is always very obvious whose roof is being fixed, because you will see a man standing on it. That is the way to find this man.”

The voice was silent for a moment. Then it let out a chuckle. “What they say about you is obviously true, Mma,” said the voice. “They say that you are a very clever lady—and you obviously are.”

It was a nice compliment to receive, and Mma Ramotswe thought about it again that evening, when she prepared the evening meal for herself and Puso. It was strange there just being the two of them in the house, but it gave her an opportunity to talk more to Puso and find out what was going on at school. He was playing football, he said, and learning sums. He liked both of those, but he did not like the hours they spent practising their handwriting. Having to do things like that when one was young, explained Mma Ramotswe, was necessary for when one was older.

“When you are big,” she said, “and you write with very nice, neat handwriting, then you will thank that teacher who forced you to spend so much time practising. You will say, ‘He was a very good teacher and I am very grateful to him.’”

“Never,” said Puso.

THE NEXT MORNING, when Mma Ramotswe came into the office after dropping Puso off at the school, she found Mma Makutsi already at her desk. On the way to school Puso had talked about football, and Mma Ramotswe had listened with only half an ear—if that. But at the end of the trip, as they approached the school gate, he had turned to her and said, “What is that knocking sound, Mma? Is there somebody in the engine?”

“I think there is something loose,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Maybe a nut and a bolt need to be tightened up. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni will do that in two minutes.”

“It is getting louder,” said Puso. “Soon people will be shouting out, ‘Come in!’ as you drive past.”

She had laughed the comment off, but it had worried her. If even Puso was beginning to notice that something was wrong with the tiny white van, then matters were indeed becoming serious. Sooner or later she would have to speak to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni about it, but she could not think about that now, particularly since a development of an altogether more interesting stripe had occurred: there was something very different about Mma Makutsi.

It took Mma Ramotswe a moment or two to realise what had happened. As she entered the office, Mma Makutsi looked up from her desk and smiled at her, exchanging the normal, polite greeting. Mma Ramotswe returned the greeting and put the bag she was carrying down on her own desk. Then she stopped. It was Mma Makutsi, was it not? One takes so much for granted, in familiar surroundings at least, that one might quite easily enter a room and not take in the fact that an entirely unexpected person was there. Mma Makutsi’s chair was occupied, but could it be somebody other than Mma Makutsi in it, some Mma Makutsi– looking person, but not the real Mma Makutsi; some relative or friend, perhaps, of the same general conformation?

She turned round slowly. “Mma Makutsi?”

Again Mma Makutsi smiled broadly. “Yes, Mma Ramotswe? How was Mma Potokwane yesterday? Still very bossy?”

It was well known that Mma Potokwane and Mma Makutsi, although civil enough to one another, did not see eye to eye on everything. In fact, they saw eye to eye on nothing. But now was not the time to go into that particular issue; now was the time to work out what it was that was so different about Mma Makutsi.

“Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe. “New glasses!”

Mma Makutsi reached up self-consciously and took off her glasses, examined them, polished them quickly on a small piece of cloth which she had taken out of a drawer, and then donned them again. “Yes,” she said.

Mma Ramotswe was initially at a loss for words, her emotions mixed. Her assistant had several defining characteristics. One was the fact that she had achieved that ninety-seven per cent mark in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College—an unequalled achievement in the annals of the college. Another was the fact that she came from Bobonong, which was in the middle of nowhere from the perspective of those who lived in Gaborone, if not of those who lived in Bobonong. And a further characteristic was that she wore extremely large, round glasses. All of these characteristics were quintessentially Mma Makutsi, to the extent that Mma Ramotswe felt that if the police were ever to need to issue a wanted description of Mma Makutsi—for some unimaginable secretarial offence—they would say, “Wanted: woman from Bobonong, average height, ninety-seven per cent, large round glasses.” That would say everything and surely lead to her rapid detention. But now, without her round glasses, Mma Makutsi could walk with impunity through any police roadblock.

The new glasses were small. As Mma Ramotswe peered across the room at them she saw that whereas the previous glasses had reflected the surrounding light, this pair seemed to absorb it. And the frames were as different as could be imagined. The old frames had been made of a mock-tortoiseshell, predominantly brown; these were light blue, not far from the colour of one panel of Botswana’s national flag, the blue which appeared on government buildings, at the gates of schools, or on the walls of more patriotically minded citizens.

“They are blue, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe, struggling to find something to say. “Botswana blue.”

“That is why I like them,” said Mma Makutsi. “Or one of the reasons. The other reason is that they are very fashionable.”

Mma Ramotswe was quick to agree. She was uncertain what the current mode in glasses might be, but given that the requirements of fashion seemed to dictate that everything should become smaller, then these glasses were definitely following the trend. But the old glasses had character; they made Mma Makutsi what she was.

“I liked your old glasses, of course, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They served you very well, I thought.”

Mma Makutsi gave a nonchalant wave of her hand. “You have to move on, Mma. That is well known.”

Mma Ramotswe found herself agreeing. “Of course,” she replied. “People are always moving on. You can’t stand still.” It was true, she supposed: people did move on and often used that expression to justify all sorts of questionable conduct. Husbands, in particular, had a tendency to move on when they reached a certain age and felt their youth slipping away from them. They movedon from their wives. And disloyal employees moved on too, to better-paid jobs, even when they had been trained at the expense of their existing employer. There was, indeed, a lot of moving on.

And although she had glibly remarked that you could not stand still, was this actually true, or was it a hollow axiom, as false and misleading as any other trite saying? Why should one not stand still, if the position in which one found oneself standing was a satisfactory and comfortable one? She felt no need, no need at all, to move on from being Mma Ramotswe, of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, wife of that great mechanic, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. And Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni himself had never moved on from anything, as far as she could ascertain, and would have been horrified were it to be suggested that he might do so. She imagined saying to him over the breakfast table, “We must move on, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. We really must.” He would look at his watch and say, “Yes, my goodness, Mma Ramotswe, look at the time. I must get to the garage.”

And here was Mma Makutsi moving on from her old glasses and wearing this rather disconcertingly small, if highly fashionable, pair of blue ones. It was a very disorientating start to the day. She would get used to her assistant’s new appearance, but for the time being she would ask Mma Makutsi to put on the kettle and make the first morning cup of tea. Or the second, if one counted the cup of bush tea that Mma Ramotswe always enjoyed when she rose and walked around her garden while the sun floated gently above the horizon with its smiling; its benediction.

Mma Makutsi got up from her desk to put on the kettle. Mma Ramotswe saw—could not help spotting—that when Mma Makutsi spooned the tea into the teapot she missed, or partly missed, and some of the tea fell onto the floor. The ants would remove that; a tiny tea party for them, down in their miniature world. But Mma Ramotswe noticed it, and became thoughtful.

THERE WERE A FEW SIGNS later on, but nothing that Mma Ramotswe could put her finger on. At mid-morning tea time, she watched closely, but Mma Makutsi delivered the tea with no difficulty and their attention, anyway, was focused on dealing with comments on the new glasses. Mr. Polopetsi, of course, was polite, merely muttering, “New spectacles, Mma,” but Charlie, hooting with laughter, said, “Such small glasses, Mma! Does that make us all look very small? Are you sure you can see me, Mma? Look, here I am—over here. That tiny thing is me! And Mr. Polopetsi, here, must be invisible—he’s very small. Can you see him at all, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe tended to ignore this sort of thing, and Mma Makutsi tried to do the same, but failed. She flashed an angry glance at Charlie and turned her back on him. Then a suitable retort occurred to her and she turned round to deliver it, but found herself face-to-face with Mr. Polopetsi, who now became almost effusive in his remarks. “Those are very nice glasses, Mma,” he said. “Extremely pretty, in fact. There was a very small girl at the shops the other day wearing glasses just like those.”

Mma Makutsi acknowledged the compliment with a nod of her head, although she was not sure whether she should be pleased or annoyed with the last part of what Mr. Polopetsi said. The rest of the tea break passed in a somewhat strained manner and Mma Ramotswe felt relieved when it was over and they could all get back to work. She had a few letters to dictate—and was Mma Makutsi hunched over her notebook more markedly than usual? She could not tell.

Then, half an hour or so later, Charlie came into the office. “Letter for you, Mma Ramotswe,” he said. “Somebody has just left it.”

People left notes for Mma Ramotswe, and she thought little of it. But when she took the envelope in her hands and began to slit open the flap, she felt a flush of foreboding. The letter was from that person; she could tell.

She read it carefully, aware of the fact that Mma Makutsi was watching her. So, fat woman, you think you know everything! You and that assistant of yours, with her stupid glasses—you know nothing about what you don’t know!

Mma Makutsi was about to say something, but Mma Ramotswe anticipated her. “Yes,” she said. “It is another one.” And she thought: Which stupid glasses? The original stupid glasses, or the new stupid glasses?

Mma Makutsi came over to take the letter. She peered at it, the paper close to her nose. The glasses don’t work! Mma Ramotswe said to herself. But any satisfaction she might have experienced on having her earlier suspicions confirmed was eclipsed by the gravity of the moment.

Mma Makutsi walked over to the door that led into the garage. “Charlie,” she shouted. “Please come through here.”

Charlie appeared at the door, an adjustable wrench in his hand. “I am very busy, Mma,” he said. “What is it?”

“This letter, Charlie. You said that somebody left it. Who left it?”

Mma Ramotswe frowned. She knew the answer to Mma Makutsi’s question; the letter would have been found on a surface somewhere in the garage, slipped there by Mr. Polopetsi, so that it might be thought that somebody had dropped in unobserved. As a detective, even if only an assistant detective, Mma Makutsi should have realised that one could not assume that the letter had come from outside.

Charlie shrugged. “Some woman,” he said. “It was while we were dealing with that car under the tree—all of us. I came back to get something and I saw her coming out of the garage. I asked her what she wanted, but she just muttered something about making a mistake. Then she went off.”

Mma Ramotswe sat quite still. It was a woman. It was not Mr. Polopetsi.

“Are you sure that she left it?” she asked. “Are you sure it wasn’t there before?”

Charlie seemed surprised that such interest was being taken in the details of what he thought was a very unimportant matter. What did it matter who left a letter? It would be perfectly obvious who had written it—letters bore signatures, after all. “Yes, I am sure, Mma. It was on the petrol drum. I had been sitting on top of that before I went outside. There was no letter there. Then there was. It was that lady.”

“And you saw her face?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Yes,” said Charlie. “She was a very pretty woman. Big bottom too.”

“You think of nothing but bottoms,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “You are like a little boy.”

“Oh yes,” said Charlie hotly. “So there are lots of bottoms about. So that’s my fault, is it?”

“You must not fight about…about unimportant things,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not right.” She made a placatory gesture to Charlie. “Now listen, Charlie, you didn’t recognise this lady, did you? Had you seen her before?”

Charlie shook his head. “No. Never.” He cast an angry glance at Mma Makutsi. “Can I go now, Mma Ramotswe?”

“Of course you can, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe, adding, “and thank you. Thank you for helping me to avoid making a big mistake.”

After Charlie had left, Mma Makutsi returned to sit down at her desk. She looked at the letter once more, and then shifted her gaze over to Mma Ramotswe. “So, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “It was not Mr. Polopetsi after all.”

Mma Ramotswe looked down at her hands—the hands of one who was capable, she realised, of the most appalling mis-judgement. “I feel very bad, Mma,” she said. “I feel very bad to have thought those things about him. It was very unfair.”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “It was.”

Mma Ramotswe continued with her contemplation of her hands. She had made a mistake, but it was one which anybody might make in the face of the evidence that had been before her. And Mma Makutsi was not one to lecture her about making mistakes. Had she forgotten that bed left out in the rain? What about the new, unsuitable glasses?

She looked up. While she had been staring at her hands, Mma Makutsi, it seemed, had taken off her new glasses and slipped her old ones back on. Mma Ramotswe was momentarily taken aback by this, but recovered her composure. “Yes,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “We can all make mistakes, Mma. Even you.”

Nothing more was said. Mma Ramotswe’s potentially disastrous mistake—fortunately not communicated to the entirely innocent Mr. Polopetsi, whose embarrassment at forgetting he had a letter for her in his pocket she had taken for guilt—was cancelled out by Mma Makutsi’s purchase of the unsuitable glasses. Both looked foolish. There need be no further mention of either matter, apart, perhaps, from one final question.

“Were they expensive, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Those glasses. Did they cost a lot?”

Mma Makutsi pursed her lips. They must have been very expensive, thought Mma Ramotswe.

Then Mma Makutsi said, “I don’t know, Mma.”

So Phuti Radiphuti bought them for her, thought Mma Ramotswe. That will lead to difficulties, as he will surely expect her to wear them.

Mma Makutsi realised that further explanation was necessary, and she now provided it. “I found them, you see,” she said, her voice quiet, almost ashamed. “I found them by the side of the road.”

It took Mma Ramotswe a little time to speak. “You must—”

“Yes, I know,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “I will hand them in. I was going to, I suppose. It’s just that—”

“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe. “So that’s that.”

But it was not. Now came the thing that Mma Makutsi had not intended to tell Mma Ramotswe, but now it just tumbled out. “I think I know who wears glasses like this,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Violet Sephotho!”

Mma Ramotswe gasped. “Violet Sephotho! That horrid woman from the recruitment agency? The one who—”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “That man-eater from the dancing class. The one who was rude about Phuti. The one who—”

“You have told me all about her,” said Mma Ramotswe. She hesitated. An idea was coming to her; just the germ of an idea. But she knew from experience that in these tiny, incipient ideas, these hunches, there often lay the answer to a major question.

“When did you find them?” she asked.

“A week ago,” said Mma Makutsi. “Last Monday. I wasn’t going to wear them, you see, and then…”

Mma Ramotswe held up a hand. She was not interested now in Mma Makutsi’s struggles with her conscience. What she was interested in was finding out exactly where the glasses had been found. And the answer, when it came, confirmed what she had been thinking.