"Where is this woman?" asked Mma Ramotswe. "I would like to talk to her."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked at his watch. "She should be here soon," he said. "She comes here every afternoon at about this time."
THEY WERE sitting in the living room when the maid arrived, announcing her presence with the slamming of the kitchen door.
"That is her," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "She always slams doors. She has never closed a door quietly in all the years she has worked here. It's always slam, slam."
"Let's go through and see her," said Mma Ramotswe. "I'm interested to meet this lady who has been looking after you so well."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni led the way into the kitchen. In front of the sink, where she was filling a kettle with water, stood a large woman in her mid-thirties. She was markedly taller than both Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and Mma Ramotswe, and, although rather thinner than Mma Ramotswe, she looked considerably stronger, with bulging biceps and well-set legs. She was wearing a large, battered red hat on her head and a blue housecoat over her dress. Her shoes were made of a curious, shiny leather, rather like the patent leather used to make dancing pumps.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni cleared his throat, to reveal their presence, and the maid turned round slowly.
"I am busy..." she started to say, but stopped, seeing Mma Ramotswe.
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni greeted her politely, in the traditional way. Then he introduced his guest. "This is Mma Ramotswe," he said.
The maid looked at Mma Ramotswe and nodded curtly.
"I am glad that I have had the chance to meet you, Mma," said Mma Ramotswe. "I have heard about you from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni."
The maid glanced at her employer. "Oh, you have heard of me," she said. "I am glad that he speaks of me. I would not like to think that nobody speaks of me."
"No," said Mma Ramotswe. "It is better to be spoken of than not to be spoken of. Except sometimes, that is."
The maid frowned. The kettle was now full and she took it from under the tap.
"I am very busy," she said dismissively. "There is much to do in this house."
"Yes," said Mma Ramotswe. "There is certainly a great deal to do. A dirty house like this needs a lot of work doing in it."
The large maid stiffened. "Why do you say this house is dirty?" she said. "Who are you to say that this house is dirty?"
"She..." began Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but he was silenced by a glare from the maid and he stopped.
"I say that because I have seen it," said Mma Ramotswe. "I have seen all the dust in the dining room and all the rubbish in the garden. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni here is only a man. He cannot be expected to keep his own house clean."
The maid's eyes had opened wide and were staring at Mma Ramotswe with ill-disguised venom. Her nostrils were flared with anger, and her lips were pushed out in what seemed to be an aggressive pout.
"I have worked for this man for many years," she hissed. "Every day I have worked, worked, worked. I have made him good food and polished the floor. I have looked after him very well."
"I don't think so, Mma," said Mma Ramotswe calmly. "If you have been feeding him so well, then why is he thin? A man who is well looked-after becomes fatter. They are just like cattle. That is well-known."
The maid shifted her gaze from Mma Ramotswe to her employer. "Who is this woman?" she demanded. "Why is she coming into my kitchen and saying things like this? Please ask her to go back to the bar you found her in."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni swallowed hard. "I have asked her to marry me," he blurted out. "She is going to be my wife."
At this, the maid seemed to crumple. "Aiee!" she cried. "Aiee! You cannot marry her! She will kill you! That is the worst thing you can do."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni moved forward and placed a comforting hand on the maid's shoulder.
"Do not worry, Florence," he said. "She is a good woman, and I shall make sure that you will get another job. I have a cousin who has that hotel near the bus station. He needs maids and if I ask him to give you a job he will do so."
This did not pacify the maid. "I do not want to work in a hotel, where everyone is treated like a slave," she said. "I am not a do-this, do-that maid. I am a high-class maid, suitable for private houses. Oh! Oh! I am finished now. You are finished too if you marry this fat woman. She will break your bed. You will surely die very quickly. This is the end for you."
Mr J.L.B. Matekoni glanced at Mma Ramotswe, signalling that they should leave the kitchen. It would be better, he thought, if the maid could recover in private. He had not imagined that the news would be well received, but he had certainly not envisaged her uttering such embarrassing and disturbing prophecies. The sooner he spoke to the cousin and arranged the transfer to the other job, the better.
They went back to the sitting room, closing the door firmly behind them.
"Your maid is a difficult woman," said Mma Ramotswe.
"She is not easy," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "But I think that we have no choice. She must go to that other job."
Mma Ramotswe nodded. He was right. The maid would have to go, but so would they. They could not live in this house, she thought, even if it had a bigger yard. They would have to put in a tenant and move to Zebra Drive. Her own maid was infinitely better and would look after both of them extremely well. In no time at all, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would begin to put on weight, and look more like the prosperous garage owner he was. She glanced about the room. Was there anything at all that they would need to move from this house to hers? The answer, she thought, was probably no. All that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni needed to bring was a suitcase containing his clothes and his bar of carbolic soap. That was all.
CHAPTER TWO
A CLIENT ARRIVES
IT WOULD have to be handled tactfully. Mma Ramotswe knew that Mr J.L.B. Matekoni would be happy to live in Zebra Drive-she was sure of that-but men had their pride and she would have to be careful about how she conveyed the decision. She could hardly say: "Your house is a terrible mess; there are engines and car parts everywhere." Nor could she say: "I would not like to live that close to an old graveyard." Rather, she would approach it by saying: "It's a wonderful house, with lots of room. I don't mind old engines at all, but I am sure you will agree that Zebra Drive is very convenient for the centre of town." That would be the way to do it.
She had already worked out how the arrival of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni could be catered for in her house in Zebra Drive. Her house was not quite as large as his, but they would have more than enough room. There were three bedrooms. They would occupy the biggest of these, which was also the qui-etest, being at the back. She currently used the other two rooms for storage and for sewing, but she could clear out the storage room and put everything it contained in the garage. That would make a room for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's private use. Whether he wished to use it to store car parts or old engines would be up to him, but a very strong hint would be given that engines should stay outside.
The living room could probably stay more or less unchanged. Her own chairs were infinitely preferable to the furniture she had seen in his sitting room, although he may well wish to bring the velvet picture of the mountain and one or two of his ornaments. These would complement her own possessions, which included the photograph of her father, her daddy, as she called him, Obed Ramotswe, in his favourite shiny suit, the photograph before which she stopped so often and thought of his life and all that it meant to her. She was sure that he would have approved of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. He had warned her against Note Mokoti, although he had not tried to stop the marriage, as some parents might have done. She had been aware of his feelings but had been too young, and too infatuated with the plausible trumpet player, to take account of what her father thought. And, when the marriage had ended so disastrously, he had not spoken of his presentiment that this was exactly what would happen, but had been concerned only about her safety and her happiness-which is how he had always been. She was lucky to have had such a father, she thought; today there were so many people without a father, people who were being brought up by their mothers or their grandmothers and who in many cases did not even know who their father was. They seemed happy enough, it seemed, but there must always be a great gap in their lives. Perhaps if you don't know there's a gap, you don't worry about it. If you were a millipede, a tshongololo, crawling along the ground would you look at the birds and worry about not having wings? Probably not.