She corrected herself quickly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was thinking of something else.”
Mr Polopetsi shifted in his chair. “It must have been funny,” he muttered.
Mma Ramotswe looked away. “Funny things come to mind,” she said. “You can be thinking of something serious, and then something very funny comes to mind. But look, Rra, what about a car? Would it not be possible now to buy a car—now that you’re earning here; and your wife has a job, doesn’t she? Could you not afford a cheap car, an old one, which is still going? Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would be able to find something for you.”
Mr Polopetsi shook his head vehemently. “I cannot afford a car,” he said. “I would love one, and it would solve all my troubles. I could give people a ride in with me and pay for the petrol that way. My neighbour works not far away—he could come in with me, and he has a friend too. They would love to come by car. My brother has a car. He is lucky.”
The tea was now ready, and Mma Makutsi brought over Mr Polopetsi’s mug and placed it on the edge of Mma Ramotswe’s desk in front of him.
“You are very kind, Mma Makutsi,” said Mr Polopetsi. “There are not many ladies as kind as you and Mma Ramotswe. That’s the truth.”
Mma Ramotswe lowered her head briefly to acknowledge the compliment. “This brother of yours, Mr Polopetsi,” she said. “Is he a wealthy man?”
Mr Polopetsi took a sip of his tea. “No,” he answered. “He is not a rich man. He has a good job, though. He works in a bank. But that is not how he managed to get the car. He was given a loan by my uncle. It was one of those loans that you can pay off in such small installments that you never notice the cost. My uncle is a generous man. He has a lot of money in the bank.”
“A rich uncle?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Could this rich uncle not lend you money too? Why should he prefer your brother? Surely an uncle …” She tailed off. It occurred to her that there was a very obvious reason why this uncle would prefer one brother to another, and she saw, from the embarrassment in his demeanour, that she was right.
“He has not forgiven me,” said Mr Polopetsi simply. “He has not forgiven me for … for being sent to prison. He said that it brought shame on the whole family when I was sent to that place.”
Mma Makutsi, who had poured her own tea now and had taken it to her desk, looked up indignantly. “He should not think that,” she expostulated. “What happened was not your fault. It was an accident.”
“I tried to tell him that,” said Mr Polopetsi, turning to address Mma Makutsi, “but he would not listen to me. He refused. He just shouted.” He hesitated. “He is an old man, you know. Old men sometimes do not want to listen.”
There was silence as Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi digested this information. Mma Ramotswe understood. There were some older people in Botswana—men in particular—who had very strong ideas of what was what and who were notoriously stubborn in their attitudes. Her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, had not been like that at all—he had always had an open mind—but she remembered some of his friends being very difficult to persuade. He had even spoken of one of them who had been hostile to independence, who had wanted the Protectorate to continue. This man had said that it would be better to have somebody to protect the country against the Boers, and had continued to say this even when Obed had asked him: “Where are these troops you say will protect us? Where are they?” And, of course, there were none. He could understand, though, loyalty to Queen Elizabeth. She was a friend of Africa, Obed said; she had always been, for she understood all about loyalty and duty, and about how, during the war, there had been many men from the Protectorate who had gone to fight. They had been brave men, who had seen terrible things in Italy and North Africa, and now most people had forgotten about them. We should not forget these things, he had said; we should not forget.
“I understand,” she said to Mr Polopetsi. “Sometimes when somebody makes up his mind, it is difficult to shift him. The elders are sometimes like that.” She paused. “What is the name of this uncle of yours, Mr Polopetsi? Where does he live?”
Mr Polopetsi told her. He drained the rest of the tea from his mug and rose to his feet; he did not see Mma Ramotswe reaching for a pencil and writing a note on a scrap of paper. And then this scrap of paper she tucked in her bodice, the safest place to keep anything. She never forgot to do anything filed in that particular place, and so she would not forget the details on that piece of paper: Mr Kagiso Polopetsi, Plot 2487, Limpopo Drive. After which she had scrawled — mean old uncle.
MMA MAKUTSI WENT BACK to the house early that afternoon. She had told Mma Ramotswe that she would be cooking a meal for Phuti Radiphuti that evening and wanted to make it a special one. Mma Ramotswe had told her that this was a very good idea and that it would also be a good idea to talk to him about feminism.
“Set his mind at rest,” she said. “Tell him that you are not going to be one of those women who will give him no peace. Tell him that you are really quite traditional at heart.”
“I will do that,” agreed Mma Makutsi. “I will show him that he need not fear that I will always be criticising him.” She stopped and looked at Mma Ramotswe. There was misery in her expression, and Mma Ramotswe felt an immediate rush of sympathy for her. It was different for her. She was married to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and felt quite secure; if Mma Makutsi lost Phuti Radiphuti she would have nothing—just the prospect of hard work for the rest of her life, making do with the small salary she earned and the little extra she made from the Kalahari Typing School for Men. The typing school was a valuable source of extra funds, but she had to work so hard keeping that going that she had very little time to herself.
Back at her house, Mma Makutsi made the evening meal with care. She boiled a large pot of potatoes and simmered a thick beef stew into which she had put carrots and onions. The stew smelled rich and delicious, and she dipped a finger into the pot to taste it. It needed a little bit more salt, but after that it was perfect. She sat down to wait for Phuti Radiphuti, who normally arrived at seven o’clock. It was now six thirty, and she flicked through a magazine, only half-concentrating, for the remaining half hour.
At seven thirty she looked out of the window, and at eight o’clock she went out to stand at her gate and peer down the road to see if he was coming. It was a warm evening and the air was heavy with the smell of cooking and dust. From her neighbour’s house she heard the sound of a radio, and laughter. Somebody coughed; she felt the brush of insect wings against her leg.
She walked back up the path to her front door and into her house. She sat down on her sofa and stared up at the ceiling. I am a girl from Bobonong, she said to herself. I am a girl from Bobonong, with glasses. There was a man who was going to marry me, a kind man, but I frightened him away through my foolish talk. Now I am alone again. That is the story of my life; that is the story of Grace Makutsi.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A MEETING IN THE TINY WHITE VAN
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Mma Ramotswe went to see Mma Tsau, the cook for whom Poppy worked, the wife of the man who had grown prosperous-looking on government food. It was an auspicious day—a Friday at the end of the month. For most people, that was pay day, and for many it was the end of the period of want that always seemed to occur over the last few days of the month, no matter how careful one was with money for the other twenty-five days or so. The apprentices were a good example of this. When they had first started to work at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had warned them that they should husband their resources carefully. It was tempting, he pointed out, to view money as something to be spent the moment it came into one’s hands. “That is very dangerous,” he said. “There are many people whose bellies are full for the first fifteen days of the month who then have hungry stomachs for the last two weeks.”