Mma Ramotswe stared at her friend. “I can tell that you are disappointed, Mma. It shows.”
Mma Mateleke made a dismissive gesture, but said nothing.
Mma Ramotswe thought of what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said to her about the man he had met on the Lobatse Road, the man who appeared to have driven out to rescue Mma Mateleke when her car broke down. He had wondered whether that man was Mma Mateleke’s lover, but Mma Ramotswe had rather dismissed the suggestion. He had mentioned the man’s name, though, and it came back to her now. “So tell me, Mma,” she said. “How long have you been having an affair with that man-with Mr. Ntirang?”
Mma Mateleke’s eyes narrowed. “Ntirang?” And her voice, small and strained, provided further confirmation.
“I cannot help you in this matter,” said Mma Ramotswe wearily. “All I can say is this: I believe that your husband is very fond of you. I believe that he is anxious because I suspect that he knows. So you must now decide what to do. I cannot make that decision for you. You must choose.”
Mma Mateleke said nothing. She stood up, hesitated for a moment, and then left the room without saying goodbye. Mma Ramotswe sat down and closed her eyes. The long drive had tired her to the extent of being incapable of making tea. But Mr. Polopetsi came in, saw the state she was in, and made tea for her. He did not ask her why she looked so despondent, so defeated, but sat there, silently, sharing her tea, until she was ready to gather herself and go home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. A DAM OF HEALING WATERS
THREE DAYS LATER, with everything back to normal after the Maun trip, they were sitting in the office when Mma Ramotswe noticed that it was time, as it so often seemed to be, for morning tea. Mma Makutsi put on the kettle, her accustomed task, and lined up the two teapots at the ready.
“Be sure to use the big one for the ordinary tea,” said Mma Ramotswe from the other side of the room. “That would be best.”
Mma Makutsi hesitated. “But it is the one you have always used,” she ventured. “I do not want to change things…”
Mma Ramotswe was insistent. “No, Mma. We have already discussed this. I am happy with that small teapot for my red bush tea. I am happy to change.”
The words I am happy to change made Mma Makutsi think. What Mma Ramotswe said about herself was probably true: when change came along, she often seemed to welcome it, or at least accept it. There were many people who did not-who harped on about the past and how things used to be, who never understood that some things have to be different as time passes. Mma Ramotswe was not one of these… Mma Makutsi stopped. No, perhaps she was. She always said that the old Botswana morality should not be changed; she always went for midmorning tea at the President Hotel on Saturdays and did not want that changed; and she had been very reluctant indeed to change her van. And yet, there were many novel things that Mma Ramotswe seemed to accept. Perhaps she was a mixture, as most of us were; we accepted some changes-changes we liked-and resisted others-changes we did not like. Yes, that must be it.
She made the tea as her employer instructed. That was a good thing, as that morning not only did Mr. Polopetsi come in with his mug ready for filling, but also Charlie and Fanwell, and, last of all, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He did not linger, but poured himself a large cup and then returned to the garage, where there was a tricky repair being made to an important car. And as well as the entire staff, there was a visitor who wanted tea that morning: Mma Potokwane. She arrived just as Charlie and Fanwell were draining the last drops from their mugs, and caused their rapid departure. Even Charlie, who held few people in awe, was wary of Mma Potokwane, who seemed to remind him of all that was most powerful and daunting in Botswana womanhood.
It was not that Mma Potokwane had ever said very much to Charlie. It was true that she had once asked him what his long-term plans were, and asked the question in such a way as to imply that she at least could tell at a glance that he had none. It was true that she had once said to Mma Ramotswe-in his hearing-that he reminded her of a young man at the orphan farm who had turned out very badly and was now living in a cardboard box outside Lobatse. These comments were hardly confidence-building, and Charlie resented them. Yet it was not so much what she said that he objected to-it was the look that Mma Potokwane gave him. Normally Charlie could face down any look from a woman; after all, he had received many such looks from former girlfriends-looks of pure, distilled reproach-and knew how to deal with them. One simply looked the other way. But with Mma Potokwane it was different; her look, as Fanwell had once suggested, could stop the Mafikeng train in its tracks, and probably had.
If Mma Potokwane had a difficult relationship with Charlie, the same could be said of her dealings with Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe was aware of this, and had attempted to reassure her assistant that the matron surely had no real objection to her; it was just the way that she looked, a question of manner, really. “It is difficult running an orphan farm,” she said. “All those children. All those house mothers, all wanting this, that, and the next thing. And you know that Mma Potokwane would do anything for her people-anything.”
That was certainly true. Mma Potokwane would stop at nothing to secure some benefit for the children in her care. She would cajole and wheedle until people gave the children what they needed, and when it came to dealings with officialdom, she would give no quarter. She always won, and the children benefited.
That morning when Mma Potokwane called out a cheerful Ko! Ko! and came into the room, Mma Makutsi exchanged a concerned glance with Mma Ramotswe, quickly thinking of reasons why she might have to leave the office on unspecified, but urgent, business. Her concern, though, was misplaced: it soon became apparent that Mma Potokwane had come on an errand of sympathy, and that sympathy was directed at Mma Makutsi herself.
“Mma Makutsi,” she began, “I have heard of Mr. Radiphuti’s accident. I am very sorry, Mma. And I am so sad for you, Mma, so sad.”
Mma Makutsi looked up. Only two people so far had said anything like this to her-Mma Ramotswe herself and the woman she had met on the bench outside the hospital. But here was a third.
“That is very kind of you, Mma. Thank you.”
“I am always telling the drivers who deliver things to our place to watch out when they reverse. They do not listen, do they?”
Mma Makutsi nodded. “I think that is probably true. They are busy. They forget.”
“Yes,” said Mma Potokwane. “They probably think: This is just another woman talking to me. And now your poor Phuti has had this terrible injury. I am so sorry, Mma.”
“Thank you, Mma.”
Mma Potokwane sat down. “He is a lucky man to have you, Mma. When he comes out of hospital you can nurse him back to health. He will soon be up and about.”
Mma Ramotswe now got up from her desk to pour tea for their visitor. “Actually, he is already out, Mma. He has made very good progress.”
Mma Potokwane clapped her hands together. “That is very good news! So you are already looking after him. Give him plenty of meat, Mma. Breakfast, lunch, supper-good Botswana beef. That will make him strong. And vegetables. Also at breakfast, lunch and supper. Vegetables. Vitamin C.” She paused. “You’ve got somebody at your house to help you?”
It was Mma Ramotswe who answered. She looked round and saw Mma Makutsi staring down at her hands, clasped together on the desk. “Well, Mma, it is rather difficult. You see, Mma Makutsi would like to look after Phuti, but he has an aunt, and this aunt has somehow managed to-”