He glanced at his watch again. He would have to go off shortly for a meeting with a man who was thinking of selling his inspection ramp. Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors already had one of these, but Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought that it would be useful to have a second one, particularly if he could get it at a good price. But if he went off on this errand, then the apprentices would be left in sole charge of the garage until Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi arrived. That might be all right, but it might not, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni was worried about it.
He looked at the car which was being slowly raised on the ramp. It was a large white car which belonged to Trevor Mwamba, who had just been appointed Anglican Bishop of Botswana. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni knew the new bishop well—it was he who had married Mma Ramotswe to him under that tree at the orphan farm, with the choir singing and the sky so high and empty—and would not normally have let the apprentices loose on his car, but it seemed that there was very little choice now. The bishop wanted his car back that afternoon if at all possible, as he had a meeting to attend in Molepolole. There was nothing seriously wrong with the car, which had been brought in for a routine service, but he always liked to check the brakes of any vehicle before he returned it, and there might be some work to be done there. Brakes were the most important part of a car, in Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s view. If an engine did not work at all, then admittedly that was annoying, but it was not actually dangerous. You could hardly hurt yourself if you were stationary, but you could certainly hurt yourself if you were going at fifty miles an hour and were unable to stop. And the Molepolole road, as everybody knew, had a problem with cattle straying onto it. The cattle were meant to stay on the other side of the fence—that was the rule—but cattle were a law unto themselves and always seemed to think that there was better grass to be had on the other side of the road.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni decided that he would have to leave the bishop’s car to the mercies of the apprentices but that he would check up on their work when he came back just before lunchtime. He called the older apprentice over and gave him instructions.
“Be very careful now,” he said. “That is Bishop Mwamba’s car. I do not want slapdash work done on it. I want everything done very carefully.”
Charlie stared down at the ground. “I am always careful, Boss,” he muttered resentfully. “When did you ever see me being careless?”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. It was no use engaging with these boys, he decided. Whatever he said would be no use; they simply would not take it in. He turned away and tore off a piece of paper towel on which to wipe his hands.
“Mma Ramotswe will be here soon,” he said. “She and Mma Makutsi are off on some business or other. But until they come in, you are in charge. Is that all right? You look after everything.”
Charlie smiled. “A-one, Boss,” he said. “Trust me.”
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni raised an eyebrow. “Mmm,” he began, but said no more. Running a business involved anxieties—that was inevitable. It was bad enough worrying about two feckless young employees; how much more difficult it must be to run a very large company with hundreds of people working for you. Or running a country—that must be a terribly demanding job, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wondered how it was possible for people such as prime ministers and presidents to sleep at night with all the problems of the world weighing down upon them. It could not be an easy job being President of Botswana, and if Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had a choice between living in State House or being the proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, he was in no doubt about which one of these options he would choose. That is not to say that it would be uncomfortable occupying State House, with its cool rooms and its shaded gardens. That would be a very pleasant existence, but how difficult it must be for the President when everybody who came to see you, or almost everybody, wanted something: please do this, sir; please do that; please allow this, that, or the next thing. Mind you, his own existence was not all that different; just about everybody he saw wanted him to fix their car, preferably that very day. Mma Potokwane was an example of that, with her constant requests to attend to bits and pieces of malfunctioning machinery out at the orphan farm. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni thought that if he could not resist Mma Potokwane and her demands, then he would not be a very good candidate for the presidency of Botswana. Of course, the President had probably not met Mma Potokwane, and even he might find it a bit difficult to stand up to that most forceful of ladies, with her fruit cake and her way of wheedling things out of people.
The apprentices did not have long to themselves that morning. Shortly after Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had left, they had found themselves comfortable seats on two old upturned oil drums from which they were able to observe the passers-by on the road outside. Young women who walked past, aware of the eyes upon them, might look away or affect a lack of interest, but would hear the young men’s appreciative comments nonetheless. This was fine sport for the apprentices, and they were disappointed by the sudden appearance of Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van only ten minutes or so after the departure of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.
“What were you doing sitting about like that?” shouted out Mma Makutsi, as she climbed out of the passenger seat. “Don’t think we didn’t see you.”
Charlie looked at her with an expression of injured innocence. “We are as entitled to a tea break as much as anybody else,” he replied. “You don’t work all the time, do you? You drink tea too. I’ve seen you.”
“It’s a little bit early for your tea break,” suggested Mma Ramotswe mildly, looking at her wrist-watch. “But no matter. I’m sure that you have lots of work to do now.”
“They’re so lazy,” muttered Mma Makutsi, under her breath. “The moment Mr J.L.B. Matekoni goes anywhere, they down tools.”
Mma Ramotswe smiled. “They’re still very young,” she said. “They still need supervision. All young men are like that.”
“Especially useless ones like these,” said Mma Makutsi, as they entered the office. “And to think that when they finish their apprenticeships—whenever that will be—they will be let loose on the public. Imagine that, Mma. Imagine Charlie with his own business. Imagine driving into a garage and finding Charlie in control!”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing. She had tried to persuade Mma Makutsi to be a bit more tolerant of the two young men, but it seemed that her assistant had something of a blind spot. As far as she was concerned, the apprentices could do no right, and nothing could be said to convince her otherwise.
The two went into the office. Mma Ramotswe walked over to the window behind her desk and opened it wide. It was a warm day, and already the heat had built up in the small room; the window at least allowed the movement of air, even if the air itself was the hot breath of the Kalahari. While Mma Ramotswe stood before the window, gazing up into the cloudless sky, Mma Makutsi filled the kettle for the first cup of tea of the morning. She then turned round and began to pull her chair out from where she had tucked it under her desk. And that was the point at which she screamed—a scream that cut through the air and sent a small white gecko scuttling for its life across the ceiling boards.
Mma Ramotswe spun round, to see the other woman standing quite still, her face frozen in fear.
“Sn … ,” she stuttered, and then, “Snake, Mma Ramotswe! Snake!”
For a moment Mma Ramotswe did nothing. All those years ago in Mochudi, she had been taught by her father that with snakes the important thing to do was not to make sudden movements. A sudden movement, only too natural of course, could frighten a snake into striking, which most snakes, he said, were reluctant to do.
“They do not want to waste their venom,” he had told her. “And remember that they are as frightened of us as we are of them—possibly even more so.”