The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party (17 page)

She found herself thinking of Mpho’s mother—the woman she had met in the Moeti house; of her subservient manner in the presence of her employer; of his dismissive manner towards her. She wished that she could do something about that—could release the woman in some way from the near-servitude in which she must live her life. But what could she do? This sort of oppression was nothing new; men did that to women everywhere, all the time, and there were some cases, less common perhaps, where women did it to men. Things had become better, of course, with the achievement by women of greater equality, but the news of all that would hardly have penetrated out there. A farm could be a little world, a law unto itself; even a house could be that too.

And then she thought of the boy. Her first reaction had been to believe him. His distress had clearly been genuine, and the words of his confession had come tumbling out unrehearsed. But children made things up, including confessions.

For the time being, though, she would act on the assumption that he had been telling the truth. One thing was clear: the confession did not put the matter to rest. She had her duty to Mr. Moeti to consider; she might not like him, but he was, after all, her client,
and she could hardly keep the truth from him. At the same time she realised that she could not go to him and reveal that Mpho was responsible for the attack. Not only was there her promise to the boy, but if she did identify him as having been responsible for the incident, then she would be accountable for whatever harm came to him, or indeed to his mother. Could she tell Mr. Moeti that she had discovered the culprit but that she would punish him herself? Mr. Moeti would hardly accept that, and he would have a point.

When she arrived back at the office, while Mma Makutsi made tea, Mma Ramotswe gave her an account of her visit to the school. She told her assistant about Mr. Modise, which interested Mma Makutsi a great deal; she had a cousin who was very short, she said, and had fallen into an anteater’s burrow. “He was too short to get out,” she explained. “And so he had to stay there until somebody came that way and pulled him out. But before that the anteater came back and was very cross that there was this short person in his burrow. Apparently he growled and tried to bite my cousin. It was a very dangerous situation.”

Mma Makutsi had several more stories to tell about this cousin, but Mma Ramotswe gently interrupted her after the second story—a rather long-winded and unfortunate tale about the cousin’s marriage to an unusually tall young woman. “Perhaps you could tell me the rest of the story some other time, Mma,” she said. “I need to talk to you about this Moeti business.”

“But it was very funny,” persisted Mma Makutsi. “You see, when a very short man marries a tall woman—”

“I can imagine,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I really have to make some sort of decision, Mma, and it would be helpful if you could advise me.”

Mma Makutsi put aside thoughts of short men and tall women and gave Mma Ramotswe her attention. She listened intently as Mma Ramotswe described the boy’s sudden confession, clicking
her tongue in disapproval. “Children do very bad things these days,” she said, “because they see television. If you turn on the television, what do you see, Mma? You see people being violent—that is all that there is. And if you were a child watching that, what would you think? You’d think that this is how we should behave—breaking things, breaking people.”

Mma Ramotswe understood that, but she wondered whether it applied in this case. “I doubt if that boy sees television,” she said. “He is a herd boy and his mother is a kitchen servant, second-class. I doubt if he has seen television.”

“Then he will have heard about these things, Mma. That is how it happens. And remember that all those violent television signals are all around us, in the air. How do you know that violence doesn’t spread that way?”

Mma Ramotswe did not wish to argue about this novel, and in her view highly dubious, theory. What she wanted to find out was what Mma Makutsi would
do
about this. “But what would you do, Mma?” she pressed.

Mma Makutsi thought for a moment. “I would tell Moeti that you have heard that he has brought this upon himself by behaving badly. Then I would tell him that it was unlikely to happen again. If you have stopped it, then I think that you have done him a good service.”

Mma Ramotswe was doubtful. “I don’t know if he’ll look on it that way,” she said.

“Well I don’t see how it would help him to punish that boy,” said Mma Makutsi.

“You’re right,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“You could go to the police,” said Mma Makutsi. “The police are always there.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “I promised the boy that I wouldn’t speak to anybody about what he said. Perhaps I shouldn’t have
made that promise, but I did. At that point I was thinking of him as a witness, you see, not as the person who did it.”

“But, why didn’t Moeti go to the police himself?” asked Mma Makutsi. “It’s up to him if he wants to make it a police matter. He didn’t—he came to you. So in fact it is not for you to go to the police, Mma. No.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Well then,” said Mma Makutsi, in a certain tone of satisfaction. “Well then, that solves that, doesn’t it? QED—as we were taught to say at the Botswana Secretarial College.”

“QED?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What does that stand for?”

Mma Makutsi looked uncomfortable. “QED? I’m not one hundred per cent sure. I think it might mean
There you are,
or maybe
I told you so …
”

Mma Ramotswe came to her rescue; she understood Mma Makutsi’s sensitivity, and she did not want to show her up. “You may not be one hundred per cent sure,” she said. “But I imagine that you’ll be at least ninety-seven per cent sure!”

It was a very good joke, and it enabled them both to leave the issue of the Moeti attack and start thinking of something else. But Mma Ramotswe remained less than satisfied. She felt vaguely guilty, as if she had embarked upon a plan to conceal a major crime. And that, she suddenly realised, was what she had almost done; it was not for her to decide whether or not to disclose what had happened. A crime had been committed, even if it was a crime by a child—something that should normally be dealt with by a stern talking-to and promises by parents. No, she would have to go and see the boy’s mother and hand the affair over to her. She would plead for the boy, but she could not protect him, nor his mother, completely; the world was not as she would like it to be, but there was very little she could do to
change that. Withholding the truth from Mr. Moeti was wrong, but it was also wrong to break a promise to a small, vulnerable child, who would never forget that an adult he trusted had let him down. So here she was faced with two evils, and the lesser one, she was sure, was unquestionably the one to choose.

 
CHAPTER ELEVEN
 
 CHARLIE COMES TO ZEBRA DRIVE, BY NIGHT

T
HAT EVENING
Charlie came to the house on Zebra Drive. He came quietly, appearing at the back door like a wraith, startling Mma Ramotswe, who was washing up after dinner. She had been standing at the sink, her hands immersed in soapy water, when she noticed the movement outside, half in the darkness, half in the square of light thrown out from the window.

“Charlie!”

He did not hear her; he was staring in through the window now, as if searching the room. She waved a hand, signalling to him, and he glanced at her.

“I’ll let you in,” she mouthed.

He did not look as if he wanted to come in, as he now seemed to retreat back into the shadows.

“Wait. Don’t go away.”

She dried her hands perfunctorily before opening the door that led from the kitchen to the yard outside. The open door cast an oblong of light in the yard outside, revealing the figure of Charlie, standing awkwardly by one of the struggling shrubs that Mma
Ramotswe had planted in that difficult, rather sandy part of her garden.

She made an effort to appear natural, as if the arrival by night of an unannounced visitor lurking in the darkness was nothing unusual.

“So, Fanwell passed on my message,” she said. “I’m glad that you’ve come.”

He mumbled something that she did not catch.

“Why don’t you come into the kitchen?” she asked. “I can give you something to eat, if you like.”

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry. And I don’t want to see the boss.”

She made a gesture of acceptance. “You don’t have to see him. We can talk out here.” She moved towards him, taking his hand. “I often like to come out into the garden at night, you know. It’s a good time to smell the plants. They smell different at night, you see. They—”

“I cannot stay long,” he said.

“You don’t have to. You can go any time. But it would be better, don’t you think, to talk about this.”

She drew him towards the side of the house, to two old iron chairs they kept outside and rarely sat in, but he resisted.

“It is my business,” he said sullenly. “I am not a child.”

She squeezed his hand. “Of course it’s your business, Charlie. Of course it is.”

“Then why does she shout at me, that woman? Why does she—”

“Mma Makutsi?”

He sniffed. “She is like a cow. She is always talking like a cow.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “You two don’t see eye to eye, do you?” It was, she felt, putting it mildly; Mma Makutsi and Charlie
had sparred for as long as they had known each other—a personality thing, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said. Petrol and diesel, he had added; they don’t mix.

“She cannot tell me what to do,” continued Charlie. “Those babies …”

Mma Ramotswe waited for him to finish the sentence, but he fell silent. “Those babies,” she said gently. “Your children.”

“I did not tell her to have them,” he said. “It is her fault. She is a stupid girl.”

Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. Mma Makutsi, she felt, might have a point; she kept her voice from rising. “Nobody has to marry somebody they don’t want to marry,” she said evenly. “It is not a good idea to make people do that—they will only feel unhappy.”

“I don’t want to get married yet,” said Charlie.

“Then don’t,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And she may not want you to, anyway. Have you spoken to her about it?”

He had not, he said. He had not seen Prudence since she had told him that she was pregnant.

Mma Ramotswe was still trying to be gentle, but her question slipped out. “Why? Why did you do something like that, Charlie?”

She saw the effect of her question: there was pain in his expression; she could see that, even in the faint light from the window.

“What could I do, Mma? I cannot look after her children.”

“
Your
children, Charlie.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him. “But let’s not speak about that, Charlie. Would you like me to talk to her?”

She saw his eyes open wide.

“You, Mma?”

She sighed. “Yes, Charlie. I can go. Sometimes it is easier if you get somebody to talk to somebody else for you. They can explain.
They can tell the other person how you’re feeling. That makes it easier.”

She could tell that he was torn, and she pressed her advantage. “I could tell her that you feel you can’t get married, but that you would like to do something—even if it is not very much—to help with the babies. It’s not money, I think—not in this case. It’s maybe just enough for you to visit the babies so that as they grow up they have a father.”

He was listening, she thought.

“But what if she makes me marry her?”

“I don’t think she will. And I can tell her not to talk about that—if she’ll listen to me.”

Charlie was silent. “And Mma Makutsi?”

Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. “I’ll talk to her too. I don’t think she will say anything.” She hesitated. “Remember, I am her boss, after all. And I know that she can be a bit … a bit forceful at times.”

She had not anticipated it, but this remark seemed to change everything.

“You can tell her to shut up, Mma?” Charlie said. “That is very good. All the time I thought that everyone agreed with her. There were all these women. You. Her. Mma Potokwane too. All against me.”

“Well, I’m not against you, Charlie. I promise you that.” She paused. “And you’ll come back to work tomorrow? If you do, I’ll tell Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He won’t say anything.”

“Nothing?”

“I’ll talk to him too. He’ll understand.”

Charlie considered this. “He’s a good man.”

“Of course he is, Charlie, and so are you, you know.”

Had it not been quite so dark, Mma Ramotswe would have seen the effect of her words. Charlie, who had been slouching, as if
expecting some sort of physical blow, seemed to grow in stature. The furtiveness with which he had acted disappeared, and he stepped forward, as if putting the shadows, real and otherwise, behind him. “Thank you, Mma. Thank you …” His voice became choked.

She looked at her watch. “It’s getting late, Charlie. Would you like me to run you home in my van?”

“I am at Fanwell’s place.”

“I can take you there. Go to the van. I’ll fetch the key.”