“So, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe to her visitor after they had greeted one another. “So, you have come to see me. This is very good, because I was sitting here with nobody to talk to. Now that has changed.”
Mma Potokwane laughed. “But you are a great lady for thinking,” she said. “It does not matter to you if there is nobody around, you can just think.”
“And so can you,” replied Mma Ramotswe. “You have a head too.”
Mma Potokwane rolled her eyes upwards. “My poor head is not as good as yours, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “Everybody knows that. You are a very clever lady.”
Mma Ramotswe made a gesture of disagreement. She knew that Mma Potokwane was astute, but, like all astute people, the matron was discreet about her talents. “Come and sit with me on the verandah,” she said. “I shall make some tea for us.”
Once her guest was seated, Mma Ramotswe made her way into the kitchen. She was still smiling to herself as she put on the kettle. Some people never surprised one, thought Mma Ramotswe. They always behave in exactly the way one expects them to behave. Mma Potokwane would talk about general matters for ten minutes or so, and then would come the request. Something would need fixing at the orphan farm. Was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni by any chance free—she was not expecting him to do anything immediately—just to take a look? She thought about this as the kettle boiled, and then she thought: And I’m just as predictable as Mma Potokwane. Mma Makutsi can no doubt anticipate exactly what I’m going to do or say even before I open my mouth. It was a sobering thought. Had she not said something about how I liked to quote Seretse Khama on everything? Do I really do that? Well, Seretse Khama, Mma Ramotswe told herself, said a lot of things in his time, and it’s only right that I should quote a great man like that.
Mma Makutsi, in fact, cropped up in the conversation after Mma Ramotswe had returned to the verandah with a freshly brewed pot of red bush tea.
“That secretary of yours,” said Mma Potokwane. “The one with the big glasses …”
“That is Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Ramotswe firmly. There had been a number of minor clashes between Mma Potokwane and Mma Makutsi—she knows her name, thought Mma Ramotswe; she knows it.
“Yes, of course, Mma Makutsi,” said Mma Potokwane. “That is the lady.” There was a pause before she continued, “And I hear that she is now engaged. That must be sad for you, Mma, as she will probably not want to work after she is married. So I thought that perhaps you would like to take on a girl who comes from the orphan farm but who has now finished her training at the Botswana Secretarial College. I can send her to you next week …”
Mma Ramotswe interrupted her. “But Mma Makutsi has no intention of giving up her job, Mma,” she said. “And she is an assistant detective, you know. She is not just any secretary.”
Mma Potokwane digested this information in silence. Then she nodded. “I see. So there is no job?”
“There is no job, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’m sorry.”
Mma Potokwane took a sip of her tea. “Oh well, Mma,” she said. “I shall ask some other people. I am sure that this girl will find a job somewhere. She is very good. She is not one of those girls who think about boys all the time.”
Mma Ramotswe laughed. “That is good, Mma.” She looked at her visitor. One of the attractive things about Mma Potokwane was her cheerfulness. The fact that she had failed in her request did not seem to upset her unduly; there would be plenty of other such chances.
The conversation moved on to other things. Mma Potokwane had a niece who was doing very well with her music—she played the piano—and she was hoping to get her a place in David Slater’s music camp. Mma Ramotswe heard all about this and then she heard about the troubles that Mma Potokwane’s brother was having with his cattle, which had not done well in the dry season. Two of them had also been stolen, and had appeared in somebody’s herd with a new brand on them. That was a terrible thing, did Mma Ramotswe not agree, and you would have thought that the local police would have found it easy to deal with such a matter. But they had not, said Mma Potokwane, and they had believed the story offered up by the man in whose herd they had been found. The police were easy to fool, Mma Potokwane suggested; she herself would not have been taken in by a story like that.
Their conversation might have continued for some time along these lines had it not been for the sudden arrival of another van, this time a large green one, which drove smartly through the open gate and drew to a halt in front of the verandah. Mma Ramotswe, puzzled by this further set of visitors, rose to her feet to investigate as a man got out of the front of the van and saluted her cheerfully.
“I am delivering a chair,” he announced. “Where do you want me to put it?”
Mma Ramotswe frowned. “I have not bought a chair,” she said. “I think that this must be the wrong house.”
“Oh?” said the man, consulting a piece of paper which he had extracted from his pocket. “Is this not Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s house?”
“It is his house,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But …”
“Then this is the right place after all,” said the man. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni bought a chair the other day. Now it is ready. Mr Radiphuti told me to bring it.”
So, thought Mma Ramotswe, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has been shopping, and she could hardly send the chair back. She nodded to the man and gestured to the door behind her. “Please put it through there, Rra,” she said. “That is where it will go.”
As the chair was carried past them, Mma Potokwane let out a whistle. “That is a very fine chair, Mma,” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has made a very good choice.”
Mma Ramotswe did not reply. She could only imagine the price of such a chair, and she wondered what had possessed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni to buy it. Well, they could talk about it later, when he came back. He could explain himself then.
She turned to Mma Potokwane and noticed that her friend was studying her, watching her reaction. “I’m sorry,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s just that he did not consult me. He does that sort of thing from time to time. It is a very expensive chair.”
“Don’t be hard on him,” said Mma Potokwane. “He is a very good man. And doesn’t he deserve a comfortable chair? Doesn’t he deserve a comfortable chair after all that hard work?”
Mma Ramotswe sat down. It was true. If Mr J.L.B. Matekoni wanted a comfortable chair, then surely he was entitled to one. She looked at her friend. Perhaps she had been too hard in her judgement of Mma Potokwane; here she was selflessly supporting Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, praising his hard work. She was a considerate woman.
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You are right, Mma Potokwane. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has been using an old chair for a long time. He deserves a new chair. You are quite right.”
There was a brief silence. Then Mma Potokwane spoke. “In that case,” she said, “do you think that you could give his old chair to the orphan farm? We would be able to use a chair like that. It would be very kind of you to do that, Mma, now that you no longer need it.”
There was very little that Mma Ramotswe could do but agree, although she reflected, ruefully, that once again the matron had managed to get something out of her. Well, it was for the orphans’ sake, and that, she felt, was the best cause of all. So she sighed, just very slightly, but enough for Mma Potokwane to hear, and agreed. Then she offered to pour Mma Potokwane a further cup of tea, and the offer was quickly accepted.
“I have some cake here,” said Mma Potokwane, reaching for the bag she had placed at her feet. “I thought that you might like a piece.”
She opened the bag and took out a large parcel of cake, carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper. Mma Ramotswe watched intently as her visitor sliced the slab into two generous portions and laid them on the table, two pieces of paper acting as plates.