“Your dress, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s very smart. That colour suits you well. You are a person who can wear red. I have always thought that.”
Mma Makutsi beamed with pleasure. She was not used to compliments on her appearance; that difficult skin, those too-large glasses—these made such remarks only too rare. “Thank you, Mma,” she said. “I am very pleased with it.” She paused. “You could wear red too, you know.”
Mma Ramotswe thought: Of course I can wear red. But she did not say this, and simply said instead, “Thank you, Mma.”
There was a silence. Mma Ramotswe was wondering where the money for the dress came from, and whether it had been bought during that unauthorised absence from work. She thought that she might know the answer to the first question: Phuti Radiphuti was obviously giving Mma Makutsi money, which was quite proper, as he was her fiancé, and that was part of the point of having a fiancé. And as for the second question, well, she would be able to find that out readily enough. Mma Ramotswe strongly believed that the simplest way to obtain information was to ask directly. This technique had stood her in good stead in the course of countless enquiries. People were usually willing to tell you things if asked, and many people moreover were prepared to do so even if unasked.
“I always find it so hard to make up my mind when I’m choosing clothes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That’s why Saturday is such a good time for clothes-shopping. You have the time then, don’t you? Unlike a working day. There’s never time for much shopping on a work day, don’t you find, Mma Makutsi?”
If Mma Makutsi hesitated, it was only for a moment. Then she said, “No, there isn’t. That’s why I sometimes think that it would be nice not to have to work. Then you could go to the shops whenever you wanted.”
Silence again descended on the office. For Mma Ramotswe, the meaning of Mma Makutsi’s comment was quite clear. It had occurred to her before now that her assistant’s engagement to a wealthy man might mean her departure from the agency, but she had quickly put the idea out of her mind; it was a possibility so painful, so unwelcome, that it simply did not bear thinking about. Mma Makutsi might have her little ways, but her value as a friend and colleague was inestimable. Mma Ramotswe could not imagine what it would be like to sit alone in her office, drinking solitary cups of bush tea, unable to discuss the foibles of clients with a trusted confidante, unable to share ideas about difficult cases, unable to exchange a smile over the doings of the apprentices. Now she felt ashamed of herself for having begrudged Mma Makutsi her shopping trip during working hours. What did it matter if a conscientious employee slipped out of the office from time to time? Mma Ramotswe herself had done that on numerous occasions, and had never felt guilty about it. Of course, she was the owner of the business and had nobody to account to apart from herself, but that fact alone did not justify having one rule for herself and one for Mma Makutsi.
Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “Of course, one might always take a few hours off in the afternoon. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. One cannot work all the time, you know.”
Mma Makutsi was listening. If she had intended her remark to be a warning, then it had been well heeded. “Actually, I did just that the other day, Mma,” she said casually. “I knew that you wouldn’t mind.”
Mma Ramotswe was quick to agree. “Of course not. Of course not, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi smiled. This was the response she had hoped for, but Mma Ramotswe could not be let off that easily. “Thank you.” She looked out of the window for a moment before continuing. “Mind you, it must be a very nice, free feeling not to work at all.”
“Do you really think so, Mma?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “Don’t you think you’d become bored rather quickly? Particularly if you left a job like this, which is such an interesting one. I would miss it very badly, I’m afraid.”
Mma Makutsi appeared to give the matter some thought. “Maybe,” she said, non-committedly. And then added, as if to emphasise the doubtfulness of Mma Ramotswe’s proposition, “Perhaps.”
The matter was left at that. Mma Makutsi had made her point—that she was now a woman who did not actually need the job she occupied, and who would go shopping if she wished; and for her part, Mma Ramotswe had been made to understand that there had been a subtle shift in power, like a change in the wind, barely noticeable, but nonetheless there. She had always been a considerate employer, but her seniority in age, and in the business, had lent her a certain authority that Mma Makutsi had always recognised. Now that things appeared to be changing, she wondered if it would be Mma Makutsi, rather than herself, who decided when tea break was to be. And would it stop at that? There was always Mr Polopetsi to be considered. He was the exceedingly mild man to whom Mma Ramotswe had given a job—of sorts—after she had knocked him off his bicycle and had heard of his misfortunes. He had proved to be a keen worker, capable of helping Mr J.L.B. Matekoni in the garage as well as taking on small tasks for the agency. He was both unobtrusive and eager to please, but she had already heard Mma Makutsi referring to him as “my assistant” in a tone of voice that was distinctly proprietorial, even though there had never been any question but that she was herself an assistant detective. Mma Ramotswe wondered whether Mma Makutsi might now claim to be something more than that, a co-detective, perhaps, or better still an associate detective; there were many ways in which people could inflate the importance of their jobs by small changes to their titles. Mma Ramotswe had met an associate professor from the university, a man who brought his car to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni for repair. She had reflected on his title, imagining that this would be appropriate for one who was allowed to associate with professors, without actually being allowed to be one himself. And when they had tea, these professors, did the associate professors drink their tea while sitting at the edge of the circle, or a few yards away perhaps—of the group but not quite of it? She had smiled at the thought; how silly people were with their little distinctions, but here she was herself thinking of some way of bringing Mma Makutsi forward, but not too far forward. That, of course, would be a way of keeping her assistant. It would be easy enough to give her a nominal promotion, particularly if no salary increase was required. This would be an exercise in window-dressing, in tokenism; but no, she would do this because Mma Makutsi actually deserved it. If she was to become an associate detective, with all that that implied—whatever that was—it would be because she had earned the title.
“Mma Makutsi,” she began. “I think that it is time to have a review. All this talk of jobs and not working and such matters has made me realise that we need to review things…”
She got no further. Mma Makutsi, who had been looking out of the window again, had seen a car draw up to park under the acacia tree.
“A client,” she said.
“Then please make tea,” said Mma Ramotswe.
As Mma Makutsi rose to her feet to comply, Mma Ramotswe breathed a discreet sigh of relief. Her authority, it seemed, was intact.
“SO, WE’RE COUSINS!” said Mma Ramotswe, her voice halfway between enthusiasm and caution. One had to be careful about cousins, who had a habit of turning up in times of difficulty—for them—and reminding you of cousinship. And the old Botswana morality, of which Mma Ramotswe was a stout defender, required that one should help a relative in need, even if the connection was a distant one. There was nothing wrong with that, thought Mma Ramotswe, but at times it could be abused. It all depended, it seemed, on the cousin.