The Miracle at Speedy Motors

CHAPTER THREE MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI IS GIVEN A CAKE

NOTHING MORE WAS SAID about the anonymous letter that day, and by the time Mma Ramotswe left the office that evening she had almost forgotten it. It crossed her mind briefly, though, as she turned her car into Zebra Drive. Mma Sebina’s earlier remark about her visit to the fabric shop—one of her favourite places, one of her few self-indulgences—had made her wonder how many other people knew details of her private life. Mma Sebina herself was not in the least bit threatening, and it did not matter what she knew, but what if the writer of that letter, that clearly unpleasant person, was aware of where she lived? She felt a sudden discomfort. What if that person, whoever he was, was watching her right now? She glanced into the mirror as she turned the corner. There was a car not far behind her, a nondescript white car of the sort that streamed out of office car parks in their hundreds come five o’clock in the afternoon; just as she started to turn, it signalled its intention of doing the same thing, and made to enter Zebra Drive.

Mma Ramotswe put her foot down on the accelerator. The tiny white van was not powerful; in fact, its engine, valiant though it might once have been, found great difficulty in coping even with normal demands. Now, with the encouragement of its driver, the van struggled to put on a bit of speed, and succeeded—to an extent. Mma Ramotswe again looked in her rear-view mirror and saw that the car behind her had also speeded up. That, she felt, settled the matter: she was being followed.

Her first thought, which was a resolution really, was not to panic. She had been a private detective for some years now, and she had never considered herself to be in any real danger. Only once had she felt that she was in the presence of real evil, and that was when she had encountered Charlie Gotso BA. She had realised then that she was face-to-face with one who could deliberately dispose of somebody without a second thought. The realisation had appalled her, but she had not felt threatened herself. Now, though, she was being followed, and she felt fear. It was a taste in her mouth, a sound in her ears, a feeling on her skin.

She thought quickly. She was now not far from her driveway, and her first inclination was to steer straight in and shut the gate firmly behind her. Her house was her sanctuary and there were people about—neighbours who were always watching what was going on and would answer any call for help. But then it occurred to her that if she did this, she would be showing whoever it was who was following her that this was where she lived. That would not do, and indeed Clovis Andersen said something about this in The Principles of Private Detection; his words came back to her, as they often did in a crisis. If you find you are being followed, never take the tail to your original destination; that is exactly what he wants! Go somewhere public. Stop. Get out of the car.

It was good advice and she did not even slow down as she passed her house. The car behind her was keeping its distance, she noticed, and it kept that distance while she tried to decide what to do when she reached the end of Zebra Drive. If she turned left, she would end up driving past the hospital and the cathedral, and could eventually head back to the Tlokweng Road; if she opted to go right, she would come out on the road that led to the flyover and the Francistown Road. There was always a great deal of traffic on that road and there was a chance that she could throw the other car off there, but she would have to stop sometime, and she felt more at home on this side of town. She could even stop outside Mma Makutsi’s house, if need be, and invoke the help of her assistant and Phuti Radiphuti, if he was there. Not that Phuti would be much good, she thought; he was a kind man, and a gentle one, but she doubted whether he would be able to deal with the situation if it turned nasty.

She decided to go to the left. As she approached the end of the road, she slowed down; the car behind her did not, and Mma Ramotswe had to move swiftly off to avoid being bumped into. She hardly dared look in her mirror as, hunched over the steering wheel, the ancient engine of the tiny white van straining every metal sinew, she careered down the road in the direction of the hospital. At the roundabout, she threw the vehicle with vigour into the circling traffic, narrowly missing a truck, which sounded its horn angrily. “I’m very sorry, Rra,” she muttered under her breath. “I am being chased. That is the only reason why I’m driving like this.”

She had now passed the Anglican cathedral and was alongside the piece of ground used as a school playing field; hardly a field, just a large square of level red earth, kicked into dust here and there by the feet of the children. Mma Ramotswe noticed that there were small boys running about; two teams in identical khaki trousers and blue shirts, mostly barefoot, were pursuing a dusty football. A match was in progress. She saw the parents, lined up along the edge, shouting support for their sons.

She saw her chance, and turned the tiny white van sharply off the road, pointing it at a parking place between two parental vehicles on the verge. She would be perfectly safe here, amongst all these people, some of whom she was bound to know. Clovis Andersen, she thought, would approve.

The car behind her stopped halfway off the road. Mma Ramotswe watched in her mirror as it drew level with her. She held her breath; she had not expected such effrontery, not from somebody described in The Principles of Private Detection as a tail. Tails, surely, would be more discreet, fading off into the background when one stopped and looked at them.

The car had slightly tinted windows, which made it difficult to see the face of the person at the wheel. But now, directly behind the tiny white van, preventing it from returning to the road had Mma Ramotswe wished to do so, the car revealed its driver.

“Mma Ramotswe,” shouted a voice. “I was trying to catch you! I’ve got something for you.”

She glanced in the mirror and then turned round in shock. Through the driver’s window, now fully wound down, she could make out the familiar figure of Mma Potokwane, matron of the orphan farm, gesticulating frantically.

Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. She knew that in a moment or two she would see the humour in the situation, but not just yet. A good minute had passed by the time she opened the door of the van and made her way towards Mma Potokwane’s car.

“My goodness, Mma,” shouted Mma Potokwane. “You were driving like one of those young men from the garage. What was the hurry?”

Mma Ramotswe did not answer; she had her own questions to ask, and they came tumbling out. “And why are you driving that car, Mma Potokwane? How was I to know it was you? I thought that I was being followed by some…some…” She faltered. Some Tsotsi? Kidnapper? Writer of anonymous letters?

Mma Potokwane let out a hoot of laughter. “Followed? Of course I was following you. I saw you just before you turned into Zebra Drive. I saw your van. I wanted to give you something that I’ve made for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. And this car—it belongs to one of the volunteers. They let me use it whenever I like.”

Mma Ramotswe forced a smile. “It was silly of me,” she said. “I just thought…You know, with my work, Mma, I sometimes get threats.”

Mma Potokwane frowned. “People threaten you, Mma Ramotswe? Why would anybody want to threaten you?”

It was difficult to explain, particularly standing there in the late afternoon heat. And Mma Ramotswe thought that Mma Potokwane had little idea of what was involved in running a detective agency. She knew everything there was to know about managing an orphan farm, about getting things for the children, about cajoling supporters into donating, about making do with whatever she could purloin, but she knew nothing about the world of a detective agency.

“Sometimes I have to look into the affairs of people who don’t want me to do so,” she explained. “People can get angry.”

Mma Potokwane shrugged. “We all get angry. I get angry with my husband from time to time, but I don’t follow him.” She laughed. “Perhaps wives should follow their husbands occasionally, though, just to see what they get up to. Perhaps it’s a good idea, Mma Ramotswe.”

The matron now reached over the back of her seat to retrieve a large tin from the back of the car. “This is for your husband, Mma. You can guess what it is.”

Mma Ramotswe could. And she knew too that the large, heavy fruit cake that the tin would contain would be more than a mere present: it would be a cake with a purpose. Mma Potokwane had always relied on Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni for help with mechanical problems at the orphan farm—particularly with the old pump, but also with vehicles, cookers, water systems, and indeed anything that involved moving parts. He had always given this help without complaint, even if the tasks that he was called upon to perform took up a great deal of his spare time. But that was what he was like, and Mma Ramotswe was proud of him for it.

She knew that this present of a cake was a prelude to a major imposition on her husband. Really! One would have thought that Mma Potokwane would grasp that others could see through her obvious tricks, but she seemed utterly impervious to any hints along these lines.

“He will be very pleased,” she said. “He loves your fruit cake. I wish I could make it as well as you do, Mma.”

Mma Potokwane clearly appreciated the compliment. “You could learn, Mma. Maybe one day I shall teach you.” She passed the tin through the open window. “Well, there you are, Mma. And perhaps, after he’s eaten the cake, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni might like to bring the tin back to me. It’s an old tin, but at least I could refill it for him if he brought it out.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. That would be the way in which Mma Potokwane ensnared him; it was so obvious. “Yes, of course,” she said. “And he could take a look at things while he’s out there…”

Mma Potokwane lost no time in seizing the opportunity. “That’s very kind of you, Mma. As a matter of fact, there are some things that could do with a bit of attention. There is a washing machine that we bought second-hand but paid good money for—two hundred pula, in fact. It seems to have given up now, but I’m sure it’s just a little thing. And then there’s the tractor, the small one. One of the men has done something to it and it will only go backwards now. I’m sure that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would be able to sort that out in no time at all…”

“I’m sure he would,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall tell him.”

Mma Potokwane gave a cheerful wave and began to drive off. There was a terrible grinding of gears as she did so; a noise like that which would be produced if a knife or a fork were to be put into a mincing machine. Mma Potokwane, though, seemed unconcerned. She waved again from the car and crashed the gears once more before moving off down the road in the direction of Tlokweng and the waiting orphans.

THAT EVENING, in the house on Zebra Drive, Mma Ramotswe and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sat out on the verandah after dinner, reviewing the events of the day. The two foster children, Motholeli and Puso, were safely in bed. Motholeli, being older, was allowed to turn her own light out after she had finished reading, provided that it was off by half past nine; Puso’s light had to be out an hour earlier than that, not that this was ever an issue with him. Like most boys, he spent his days in the relentless expenditure of energy, with the result that even by seven o’clock, when Mma Ramotswe placed the family meal on the table, he was tired to the point of exhaustion. Often Mma Ramotswe would go into his room a few minutes after the evening meal, drawing in her breath to deliver a homily on the need to tidy up the mess, only to discover the small boy lying, fully clad, on top of his blankets, already asleep.

She would gaze at him, at the perfection of his features—for he was an attractive child, with the honey-coloured skin of the Bushman side of his family, his mother and her people, but the taller build of his Motswana father. It was a good combination, a happy mixture. His Kalahari ancestors had bequeathed him eyes that shone with light, and the quick, darting manner of those who lived by their wits in a harsh land. He could spot things from a great distance—she had noticed him doing it when they were out in the bush. He could see a bird on a branch of an acacia tree when others could barely see the tree, and he could make out the light brown smudge of a nervous impala where others would think there was just grass and thorn bushes and sand.

“You could be a great tracker,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni said to him once. “You have that gift from your people.”

But Puso had turned away and said nothing. He is ashamed, thought Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; he is ashamed of what he is. He had tried to talk to him about it, but Puso had simply run away, out into the garden.

“What do we do, Mma Ramotswe?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “What do we say to him? Can you…”

“I’ll try,” she said.

And she did, having waited for her moment, which came when she was sitting with Puso in her tiny white van. She was driving to Mochudi and he had come to keep her company, and she brought up the subject of his past.

“We took you and Motholeli in because we loved you,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

He looked down at his hands, folded on his lap in front of him. His voice was small when he replied. “Yes. I know that.”

“And the only reason why you needed a new home was because your mother was late. She would have kept you if she had not become late. You know that too?”

This time there was not even a murmur. She persisted, though. “You can be proud of your mummy, you know, and of your daddy. The two peoples of this country. You are lucky to belong to both of them.”

He reached for the door handle, suddenly and without warning. He was so quick that she hardly saw it happen before the door was open and the wind was rushing in. Outside, the side of the road was a flash; the dusty brown of the verge, the black of the tar. She shouted out in alarm, and reached for him with one hand, her other hand remaining on the wheel, but slipping. At the same time, she braked sharply, sending the tiny white van sliding off the road. Puso, jolted forward by the braking motion, fell against the dashboard. He struggled to free himself from Mma Ramotswe’s grip, but she held him tightly. He cried out.

For a few moments after the van had come to a halt, there was complete silence. The engine had stalled and there was just that odd, irregular ticking noise that comes from hot machinery, a settling down, a contracting of overheated parts.

“Are you all right?”

He did not answer her question, but sobbed. He turned his head away.

“You cannot jump out of a car,” stuttered Mma Ramotswe. The shock of what had happened had hit her, and she felt herself trembling.

Puso opened his eyes and looked at her briefly, as if to take her in for the first time. Then his gaze slid away. “I don’t want to be…that,” he said. “I don’t want to.”

Her heart went out to him. She reached forward and tried to hug him to her, but he wriggled out of her embrace.

“There is nothing wrong…nothing wrong with being what you are, Puso! Nothing.” She paused. The boy was still sobbing, his hands over his face, his frame shaking. She bent down to draw him close, overcoming his resistance, holding him to her. She had held her own child, had hugged the tiny figure, all those years ago, during those brief few hours of motherhood; and since then she had hardly done it. Now she did. It was an embrace that drew on the love which had somehow been stifled when she lost her child, drew on those wells of affection and feeling. Had she failed this little boy? Of course she had, and the realisation of this was painful to her. Why had she not given him the love that he so very much needed and that she, in turn, needed to give?

It was an effort for her not to cry too. But she could not cry, because she had to tell him something, and she could not talk and weep at the same time. “Puso, I haven’t spoken to you about this, and I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it. I just didn’t. Don’t be cross with Mummy for that. Don’t be cross with me.”

She stopped herself. She had said it. She had called herself his mother. She had not done that before; she had been Mma Ramotswe to the children, just as she was Mma Ramotswe to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. She had not wanted to be their mother because she had been a mother, once, and was no longer. But that was wrong, so wrong. Of course she was a mother. We could all be a mother, all of us; even a man could be a mother.

Puso was looking at her. He began to say something, but did not; instead his eyes seemed to open wider and he stared at her in wonderment.

“Yes,” she said. “You mustn’t be cross with your mummy. I should have talked to you about these things that some people say. Unkind things about Masarwa. They’re not true, you know. We are all the same. All the same people. Bushmen, San, whatever you want to call them, and us, Batswana. White people too. Everybody. Inside us, we are exactly the same. You know that, don’t you? And we all come from the same mother, a long, long time ago, right here in Africa, up in East Africa somewhere. There was a lady who had some children, and they were the ancestors of every one of us, even of people who do not live in Africa. We are all the sons and daughters of that lady.”

He had stopped crying. His hand was resting on her wrist, lightly, but she felt the warmth. She looked down at the miracle, the sheer miracle of human flesh, so vulnerable, so valuable.

“Better now?” It was not a good idea, she thought, to talk about these things at too great length. A few words were all that was needed.

He nodded, and she eased herself back into her seat and started the engine again. He reached for the handle of the passenger door and closed it.

“What was that lady’s name?” he asked as they continued their journey.

“Which lady?”

“That lady who had the children. The one in East Africa.”

She laughed. “They didn’t have names in those days, Puso. It was a long, long time ago. Long before Botswana.”

He looked disappointed. “Makutsi, maybe.”

Mma Ramotswe bit her lip, suppressing a smile. For a moment she imagined an early woman, hirsute, half standing, half crouching, but wearing a large pair of glasses, like Mma Makutsi’s. She took a hand off the wheel and reached out to touch him gently on the shoulder. Then he took her hand and held it briefly, before she put it back on the wheel so that the tiny white van might not go off the road again.

“Or maybe she was called Mma Ramotswe,” Puso said.

NOW, sitting with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni on the verandah, she looked out into the dark of her garden. The light from the three-quarters moon was enough to reveal the shape of the shrubs, the outline of the mopipi tree, the flat umbrella of the acacia at the far end of her plot. By day her garden tended to reproach her, her eye always being drawn to the places where more watering was needed to keep things from wilting, or to those where the plants had withered and died; at night the bare patches were obscured, and forgiven.

“I had a letter today,” she said.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni inclined his head. “A letter?”

“Not a nice one.”

She told him of the contents, and he listened in silence. His voice was grave when he spoke. “That is just what I have been worried about, Mma Ramotswe. It’s what I’ve been fearing for a long time. Right from the beginning.”

“You’ve been worried that I would receive a letter like that?”

He shook his head. “No. No. I have been worried that sooner or later you would come up against some really wicked person—some dangerous person who would try to harm you. Now you have.”

She reached out to put a reassuring hand on his arm. She knew that he was given to fretting about all sorts of things: about the garage, about the apprentices, about the state of the world; and she knew, too, that this was exactly what Dr. Moffat had warned about. When Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had recovered from his depressive illness, Dr. Moffat had said that he should avoid too much anxiety. “You can’t take away all of life’s cares,” the doctor had said. “But you can at least make sure that he doesn’t worry too much. If he worries too much, the illness could return.”

I should not have told him about the letter, she thought. There was no point in burdening him with it when there was nothing that he could do about it and it would simply prey on his mind. But it was too late now; she had told him the exact contents of the letter and she could hardly take it back. Or could she?

“You know what I think, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni?” she said. “I think that it’s probably a joke. It’s the sort of letter schoolboys write. They think that it’s funny.”

For a moment he seemed to weigh this possibility, but then he shook his head again, more vigorously this time. “It is not a joke, Mma Ramotswe. Those words are not the words of a schoolboy. They are the words of a dangerous person. A maniac.”

She tried to be dismissive. “I don’t think such a person is dangerous! Ridiculous, maybe; not dangerous.”

But her levity had no effect. He was becoming animated now, emphasising his points with movements of his hands. “It makes me even more sure,” he said. “It makes me certain that you should give it up. Detective work is not for women. It is for men who can look after themselves.”

Mma Ramotswe looked out into the darkness. He spoke in this way, she knew, because he loved her, and was anxious about her safety. She had suspected from time to time that he did not want her to continue with the agency, but she had always ignored these suspicions. She felt that in the fullness of time he would get used to her profession and what it entailed; that he would accept her calling, even be proud of it, in the way in which a husband can be proud of a successful wife. But she knew that once Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni got an idea in his head, it could be difficult to dislodge it. And this notion, she thought, was one of those that would be difficult to move.