The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine (11 page)

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni held up a finger—his signal for silence and a sign, too, that a good idea was in the offing.

“The point is, Mma,” he began. “The point is that she will have no grounds to think you are trying to take the case away from her—in fact, quite the opposite. You will be encouraging her to fulfill her obligations rather than to try to offload them onto that poor, harmless Polopetsi.” He paused. “Putting Mr. Polopetsi in charge of the investigation is like putting a rabbit in charge of the airport.”

She was surprised by the analogy. Who would think of putting a rabbit in charge of the airport? And why was Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni so dismissive of Mr. Polopetsi? But she wanted to be sure. “I should tell her to carry out her promise to look after things?”

He looked at his plate again. “Of course, Mma. You tell her that—just that.”

She ladled a helping of stew onto his plate.

“Very good stew,” muttered Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

She did not hear the compliment—or not fully, as she was still thinking of his advice. Although she entirely understood the argument in favour of openness, there were limits to the extent to which one should speak frankly. She did not agree with the custom that was sometimes followed in Africa of avoiding direct confrontation with those with whom one disagreed—that led to all sorts of failures, she knew—but one should still be careful to avoid hurting feelings by challenging others too openly. Often it was better to be gentle—to say something in such a way that the person criticised did not feel too humiliated. It was all a question of face, she decided: you had to leave room for face to be saved.

She decided to speak to Mma Makutsi, but she would be careful to be gentle. After all, an acting head of anything could well be upset if openly censured.

She sighed. “Being on holiday is not as easy as I imagined,” she said, half to herself, half to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, should he be listening.

He looked up from his stew. “Mma Ramotswe,” he said, “you can do anything. Nothing is too hard for a person like you—nothing. You are very good at doing everything, Mma, and anything you do, Mma—anything at all—will always be the right thing as far as I am concerned.”

She gazed at her husband. Being loved and admired by a man like that—and she knew that this man, this mechanic, this fixer of machines with their broken hearts, did indeed love and admire her—was like walking in the sunshine; it gave the same feeling of warmth and pleasure to bask in the love of one who has promised it, publicly at a wedding ceremony, and who is constant in his promise that such love will be given for the rest of his days. What more could any woman ask? None of us, she thought, not one single one of us, could ask for anything more than that.

T
HE NEXT DAY
was a Saturday, when businesses other than shops would be closed. That applied, at one end of the spectrum, to Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors and to the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, and at the other to Debswana Diamonds, the Standard Bank, and the Office of the President of Botswana. For the Double Comfort Furniture Store, of which Mma Makutsi's husband, Phuti Radiphuti, was the owner and managing director, Saturday was an extremely important trading day, as it was then that young couples setting up home together, older couples thinking of home improvements, and even those who simply had nothing better to do would flock to the furniture showroom to view the displays of tables, chairs, sofas, cupboards, and beds.

Mma Ramotswe knew that Mma Makutsi often spent a large part of Saturday in the store, helping her husband with paperwork, or sometimes paging through catalogues and offering her advice on new lines they might order. She took with her the nursemaid she had employed to help with their baby, and this young woman would push Itumelang round the store in a small pram, encouraging and accepting admiring comments from shoppers.

“She is very happy for people to think he is her baby,” Mma Makutsi had confided in Mma Ramotswe. “But I don't mind, Mma. It gives her pleasure and she has no children of her own. I can share.”

Mma Ramotswe thought it would be easier to speak to Mma Makutsi about Mr. Polopetsi on the neutral ground of the Double Comfort Furniture Store. She could have waited until Monday, of course, and called in at the office of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, but this could have been far more likely to result in an accusation of interference. To raise the issue on a casual visit to the store would be a different matter altogether.

It was almost midday when she arrived at the store. The car park to the front of the large yellow building was already almost full and such shady parking places as there were had long been filled. A vacant spot appeared near the door, and she took that, leaving her window open to prevent heat building up in the cab. There was nothing of any value inside and no thief with any ambition would think of stealing the van itself. Indeed, when she had last filled in the insurance form, she had been asked to declare the van's value, and had simply written “Sentimental value” in the relevant box. And that was true, she thought; she loved that van, but she knew nobody else would—to others it was just a rather tired, now dented, piece of increasingly ancient machinery, capable of getting from A to B, but not much further, and not with any dispatch. But to her it was a friend, her faithful companion on more adventures than she could readily remember, the mute witness to hours spent watching some place of interest, to long conversations between herself and Mma Makutsi, to periods of quiet reflection on long drives through the country. All of that was part of the tiny white van's history, and that was why she would never replace it and, when it would finally go no more, would ask for it to be left somewhere in the bush, some private place, where it might return in due course to the earth from which it had once been created—metal to metal, glass to glass…

As she entered the building she felt, with some relief, the cool touch of the air-conditioning on her skin. Phuti Radiphuti had recently installed a new system that had proved very popular with the customers in the hot season and inclined them, he claimed, to make larger purchases.

She looked about her. The store was busier than she had ever seen it, even in the few days before Christmas, when shopping fever seemed to grip the nation. Immediately in front of her a young couple was inspecting a bedside table, opening each of its three drawers and whispering comments to one another. Beyond them a family was trying out the chairs around a large and highly polished dining-room table. The three children sat at the table wide-eyed with wonder at the momentous nature of the anticipated purchase—could such a table really be for
them
? The mother ran her fingers over the glossy surface, as one might touch an object of great religious or artistic significance, while the father examined the mechanism by which the table might be extended or folded in upon itself.

She smiled at the sight, remembering how proud she had once been of her father's purchase of a fine white Brahmin bull. A bull was not a table, but the feeling of satisfaction that a parent could buy something big like that was surely the same. She did not linger, though, and made her way towards the office at the back of the showroom, where Mma Makutsi, if she was in the shop, might be found.

The office door was slightly ajar, allowing Mma Ramotswe to see Phuti Radiphuti standing inside. As she approached, the door opened wider and Mma Makutsi appeared, a clipboard in her hand. She gave a start when she saw Mma Ramotswe, frowned in momentary confusion, but then gave her visitor a welcoming smile.

She spoke warmly. “I did not expect you, Mma, but this is very good timing on your part. I was just about to make tea, and here you are.”

“I can always tell when there is a possibility of tea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is a very odd thing, but there it is. I can
feel
the onset of tea.”

Mma Makutsi beckoned her into the office, but as she did so her smile faded. “Oh, Mma, there is a big problem—a very big problem.”

Mma Ramotswe was quick to say that if they were busy she could return later on. “I know that Saturday is your busy day,” she said. “I can come back, Mma, when you have finished selling sofas and whatnot. It will be no trouble.”

“Oh, it's not that,” Mma Makutsi reassured her. “There are plenty of assistants to do the selling. It's just that…”

Phuti Radiphuti, who had been standing beside his desk, now came forward. “I think I can guess what the trouble is,” he said. “There is no red bush tea. Is that the problem, Grace?”

Mma Makutsi nodded. “We did have it, but one of the people in the office drank it all and I forgot to get some more. It is my fault entirely, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “That is no problem, Mma Makutsi. I am perfectly happy to drink ordinary tea. Five Roses tea? That will be fine with me.”

“There!” exclaimed Phuti Radiphuti. “That is one problem solved.
Nobody makes better tea than you and Five Roses!
” He sang the line of the advertising jingle in a slightly croaky voice, causing Mma Makutsi to look at him with undisguised embarrassment.

“Phuti would like to be a singer,” she said to Mma Ramotswe. “But unfortunately…”

“He has a fine voice,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps he will teach Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to sing a bit better. He is always trying to sing something, but I cannot tell what it is. Perhaps it is the national anthem. Perhaps it is a hymn. Perhaps it is just something he heard on the radio. It is a very great mystery, this unknown song of his.”

Mma Makutsi gestured for Mma Ramotswe to sit down. With the kettle switched on, she joined her guest round a table on which a selection of trade catalogues was stacked. “So,” she began, “what brings you to the store, Mma? Are you thinking of new furniture?”

“I was driving past,” said Mma Ramotswe. That was, strictly speaking, true; she had inadvertently driven past the turning into the Double Comfort Furniture Store and had been obliged to go back. “I was driving past and I thought I might pop in and say hello.”

“That is very kind of you,” said Phuti Radiphuti.

Mma Makutsi said nothing, and for a moment Mma Ramotswe entertained the disturbing thought that she had seen through her claim. “Actually,” she said, “I had been thinking of coming to see you.” This, too, was true—as far as it went. But then she thought: I must be honest with my friend; and, after she had told herself that, the further thought occurred: I must be honest with
everybody.

She sighed. There were arguments against having that voice within you that told you what to do. That voice had many forms: it could be the voice of a teacher or a parent; it could be the voice of an old friend; it could be the voice of an aunt or an uncle; or it could be a voice that one knew was oneself—one's own inner voice. And it knew how to choose its words:
Really? Do you really think you should do that? Aren't you being just a little bit selfish?
If you had no such voice, or if you knew how to ignore it, you would have no moments like this when you realised that what you said was not absolutely true and you had to retract your words.

Taking a deep breath, she began afresh. She had not heard the voice, but she knew what it would say. “Actually, Mma, the truth of the matter is that I need to talk to you about Mr. Polopetsi.”

Mma Makutsi waited for her to continue.

“He came to see me,” Mma Ramotswe said. “He came to Zebra Drive yesterday and told me about this Potokwane case.”

Mma Makutsi's eyes narrowed with disapproval. “But you are on holiday, Mma. Mr. Polopetsi has no business disturbing you like that.”

Mma Ramotswe was quick to say that she did not mind. “It was not a disturbance at all, Mma. I was not doing anything at the time.”

“But that is what a holiday is for,” interjected Phuti Radiphuti. “So if you stop a person on holiday from doing nothing, then that is a disturbance—I would have thought.”

Mma Ramotswe needed a moment to work out the meaning of this. But then she said briskly, “It did not matter. I was pleased to see Mr. Polopetsi—I always am.”

Mma Makutsi looked impatient. “Leaving all that aside, Mma, the question is: Why did he come to speak to you about the Potokwane case?”

There was a short silence before Mma Ramotswe answered. “He was concerned, Mma. He said that you had asked him to take over the investigation—”

Mma Makutsi interrupted her. “Yes, I did. I decided to give him some responsibility.” She paused, looking challengingly at Mma Ramotswe. “What is the point of having an assistant like Mr. Polopetsi if you give him no responsibility?”

It occurred to Mma Ramotswe that there might be a further barb behind this question—a suggestion that Mma Makutsi, in her days as assistant, had not been given enough responsibility. But this was not the time to rake over those ancient coals.

“Responsibility is a good thing,” Mma Ramotswe said evenly. “I would never say that it was a bad thing to give others the chance to prove their ability.”

“Well, then,” said Mma Makutsi. “That answers that, I think.”

She rose to her feet to make the tea.

“I am not sure,” said Mma Ramotswe hesitantly. “There is a difference between a challenge and a burden. One is something you can carry on your shoulders easily enough—the other is something, a big sack, that bends you double.”

Mma Makutsi poured the hot water into the teapot. She did not look at Mma Ramotswe as she replied. “There is no heavy sack here. It is a simple case that even Charlie could handle, if we gave it to him. Do you think I should hand it over to Charlie, Mma? Is that what you're suggesting?”

“I'm not suggesting anything,” said Mma Ramotswe. “All I'm saying is that Mr. Polopetsi feels out of his depth. I thought that perhaps you did not know that, and that is why I'm telling you now. He needs help.”

Mma Makutsi returned with two mugs of tea. She handed one to Mma Ramotswe and put the other one down on the table. “We all need help, Mma. We could all do with a hand.”

“But some more than others,” Mma Ramotswe said quickly. “Especially if, like Mr. Polopetsi, you are a bit rusty when it comes to the work we do.”

She watched for the effect of her words, but Mma Makutsi seemed unmoved, even if Phuti Radiphuti had started to nod enthusiastically. Now was the time to draw on whatever wells of courage she possessed. “I think you should take the weight off him,” she went on. “Take over the case once more. You are very experienced, Mma—you are a director of the agency…”

Flattery had worked with Mma Makutsi before; indeed, she seemed particularly susceptible to a compliment. With that in mind, Mma Ramotswe now threw caution to the wind. “After all, Mma, remember that you are…how shall I put it? Remember that you are confident—with your ninety-seven per cent behind you—whereas Mr. Polopetsi, well, his confidence was destroyed by that unfortunate business with the prescription.”

It did not work. “Mr. Polopetsi has had a long time to recover from all that,” said Mma Makutsi dismissively. “And you should remember, Mma, that his wife is an important lady these days. He is quite capable of looking after himself.”

Mma Ramotswe decided to try again. “Yes, he is better these days, Mma. But just because he is feeling better, that does not mean he will know much more. And that's the problem, I think. He just doesn't know what to do.”

“Oh, I think he does, Mma Ramotswe,” said Mma Makutsi. “He can easily make the necessary enquiries in this Potokwane business. I cannot treat him as if he were a small boy.”

“I'm not asking you to do that.”

“But you are, Mma. You're asking me to tell him that he doesn't know what he's doing. You're asking me to hold his hand. That sounds as if he is being treated as a small boy.”

Phuti Radiphuti came to her defence. “I don't think she's doing that, Grace,” he began. “Mr. Polopetsi asked her, after all…”

He did not finish. A glance from Mma Makutsi, as eloquent as it was unambiguous, brought his intervention to an end. Noticing this, Mma Ramotswe decided to desist. She had no desire to provoke an argument between husband and wife, especially where the wife, as was the case here, was a woman of some mettle; Mma Makutsi was not one to cede ground easily.

“Well,” she said breezily, “we don't need to talk about this any more, Mma Makutsi. I am on holiday, as you know, and you are—”

“Acting Head of the agency,” supplied Mma Makutsi.

“Yes, that is what you are. So I won't discuss it any further. You are the one to decide, and then—”