On the morning after she and Mr Polopetsi had paid their visit, one of those glorious mornings in which the sun is not too fierce, when the air is clear, and when even the doves in their leafy kingdoms seem to be more alert and alive than usual; on that morning Mma Makutsi announced that she could see a woman standing outside the door of the agency, hesitant about knocking.
“There is a lady wanting to come in,” she said to Mma Ramotswe. “I think that she is one of the ones who are embarrassed to come to us.”
Mma Ramotswe craned her neck to see. “Go and invite her in,” she said. “Poor woman.”
Mma Makutsi rose from her desk. Adjusting her glasses, those big, round glasses that she wore, she made her way to where she had seen the woman standing.
She greeted their caller politely. Then she asked, “Are you wanting to come in, Mma? Or are you just standing?”
“I’m looking for Mma Ramotswe,” said the young woman. “Are you that lady?”
Mma Makutsi shook her head. “I am a different lady,” she said. “I am Mma Makutsi. I am the assistant detective.”
The young woman glanced at her, and then looked away. Mma Makutsi noticed that she was fiddling with a handkerchief that she was holding in her hands, twisting it in her anxiety. I used to do the same thing, she thought. I used to do exactly the same thing with my handkerchief when I was anxious. I twisted it at interviews; I twisted it in examinations. And the thought made her feel a rush of sympathy for this woman, whoever she was, and for the problem that had brought her to their doorstep. It would be a man problem, of course; it so often was. She would have been treated badly by some man, perhaps by a man to whom she had lent money. Perhaps she had taken the money from her employer and then lent it to some worthless man. That happened so often that it was hardly a matter of remark. And now here was another case.
Mma Makutsi reached out and touched the young woman lightly on the arm. “If you come with me, my sister,” she said, “I will take you to Mma Ramotswe. She is sitting inside.”
“I do not want to trouble her,” said the woman. “She is very busy.”
“She is not busy right now,” said Mma Makutsi. “She will be happy to see you.”
“How much does …”
Mma Makutsi put a finger to her lips. “We do not need to talk about that just yet,” she said. “It is not as expensive as you think. And we charge according to how much people can afford to pay. We do not charge very much.”
The reassuring words had their effect, and as she entered the office with Mma Makutsi, the young woman was visibly more relaxed. And seeing Mma Ramotswe sitting behind her desk, beaming at her encouragingly, seemed to allay her fears even more.
“Mma Makutsi will make us some tea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I believe we have some doughnuts too! Are there doughnuts this morning, Mma Makutsi?”
“There are doughnuts,” said Mma Makutsi. “I bought three, just in case.” She had bought the third one for herself, to eat on the way home, but she would happily give it to this young woman who was now settling into the chair in front of Mma Ramotswe’s desk.
“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What is it, Mma? What can the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency do for you?”
“I am a nurse,” began the young woman.
Mma Ramotswe nodded. This did not surprise her. There was something about nurses that she could always pick up—a neatness, a clinical carefulness. She could always tell.
“It is a good job,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But you have not told me your name yet.”
The young woman stared down at her hands, which she had folded across her lap. “Do I have to tell you who I am? Do I have to?”
Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi exchanged glances across the room.
“It would be better if you did,” said Mma Ramotswe gently. “We do not speak to other people about what we hear in this room, do we, Mma Makutsi?”
Mma Makutsi confirmed that they did not. But there was still some hesitation from the young woman.
“Look, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We have heard everything that there is to be heard. There is no need to be ashamed.”
The young woman gave a start. “But I am not ashamed, Mma,” she protested. “I have done nothing wrong. I am not ashamed.”
“Good,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“You see, I am frightened,” said the young woman. “I am not ashamed; I am frightened.”
For a few moments, the young woman’s words hung in the air. Mma Ramotswe sat at her desk, her elbows resting comfortably on its surface, her shoes slipped off, allowing the cool of the polished concrete floor to chill the soles of her feet. She thought:This is the second time in two days in which I have heard these words . First there was her cousin at Mokolodi, and now there was this woman. Fear might be talked about in the clear light of day, when people were going about their business, and when the sun was strong in the sky, and yet it was nonetheless chilling for that. She looked at the woman before her, this nurse who worked in a world of white walls and disinfectant, and who was, in spite of that, preyed upon by something dark and dangerous. Fear was like that; it worked from the inside and was indifferent to what was going on outside.
Mma Ramotswe signalled to Mma Makutsi. The kettle needed to be switched on and tea made. Whatever was troubling this young woman, the making and drinking of tea would help to take her mind off her fears. Tea was like that. It just worked.
“You need not be frightened here,” said Mma Ramotswe gently. “We are your friends here. You need not be frightened.”
The young woman looked at her for a moment and then she spoke. “My name is Boitelo,” she said. “I am Boitelo Mampodi”
Mma Ramotswe nodded encouragingly. “I am glad that you have told me,” she said. “Now, Mma, we can have some tea together and you can tell me what is frightening you. You can take your time. Nobody is in a hurry in this place. You can take as long as you like to tell me what this trouble is. Do you understand?”
Boitelo nodded. “I’m sorry, Mma,” she said. “I hope that you did not think that I distrusted you.”
“I did not think that,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“It’s just that you are the first person I have talked to about … about this thing.”
“It is not easy,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not easy to talk about things that are worrying you. Sometimes we cannot even talk to our friends about these things.”
From the back of the room there came the hissing sound of the kettle as it began to bring the water to the boil. Outside, in the branches of the acacia tree that shaded the back wall of the building, a grey dove cooed to its mate.They mate for life , thought Mma Ramotswe inconsequentially. Those doves For life.
“Do you mind if I start from the beginning?” asked Boitelo.
This was more than most people did, thought Mma Ramotswe. Most people started at the end, or somewhere around the middle. Very few people put events in order and explained clearly to others what happened. But Boitelo, of course, was a nurse, and nurses knew how to take a history from people, separating unrelated facts from each other and getting to the bottom of a matter that way. She gestured to Boitelo to begin, while Mma Makutsi spooned red bush tea into one tea-pot and black tea into another (for herself). It is important to give the client a choice, thought Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe, by contrast, imagined that everybody would like bush tea, and not everybody did. She, for one, preferred ordinary tea, and so did Phuti Radiphuti. Phuti Radiphuti! Just the thought of him made her feel warm and contented. My man, she thought; I have a man. I have a fiancé. And soon I shall have a husband. Which is more, I suspect, than this poor Boitelo has.
“I AM FROM A SMALL VILLAGE,” began Boitelo. “Over that way. Near Molepolole. You will not have heard of it, I think, because it is very small. I trained at the hospital in Molepolole—you know the one? The one they used to call the Scottish Livingstone Hospital. The one where Dr Merriweather worked.”