The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Now that she had made up her mind to visit the office, she was able to enjoy the next couple of hours at home, cleaning and tidying—taking up where she had left off the previous morning when she had made such progress with the kitchen cupboard. She decided to sort out Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s clothes. There were several shirts that had lost buttons, and she suspected that lurking in his sock drawer were socks that had long since lost their partner and could be thrown away. Men, she thought, were odd about their clothes: they liked to wear the same things until they became defeated and threadbare. For this reason, it was up to wives and girlfriends to weed out the old and outdated. The men would complain, of course, but they did not care enough about clothes to make too much of a fuss, and if you replaced a favourite item with something new, they would very quickly forget about the whole matter. Sometimes, Mma Ramotswe suspected, men did not even see clothes.

  —

  SHE TIMED HER ARRIVAL PERFECTLY, as they were all there when she reached the agency. She did not knock before she entered—and why should one knock at one’s own door?—but went straight into the office.

  The first thing she noticed was that Mma Makutsi was sitting at her desk—not her own, but Mma Ramotswe’s. That was a shock, and it took her a moment or two to compose herself. Had she given her permission to occupy her place? She did not think she had, but on the other hand, if there was an unoccupied desk, then why should somebody not sit at it?

  She struggled with her feelings. No, she would not say anything. Now she took in the rest of the scene. Mr. Polopetsi was sitting at Mma Makutsi’s desk, engrossed in some stationery-related task, while Charlie was leaning against the filing cabinet on which Mma Makutsi kept the kettle. Three mugs were standing ready for tea.

  Mma Makutsi looked up sharply. For a moment she looked blank, as if she had suddenly found herself in the wrong place, but then she pulled herself together and managed to reply to Mma Ramotswe’s greeting. “This is a big pleasure, Mma,” she said. “Charlie is making tea and can make another cup for you, Mma. Your visit is very well timed.”

  “Oh,” said Mma Ramotswe casually. “There was no timing, Mma. I have just dropped in to pick up my address book. I think I have left it in my drawer. I want to write some letters while I am on holiday.”

  “Very wise,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “When you are on holiday you can do many things that you do not have time to do when you are working. But—”

  “But you should not do too much,” interjected Mma Makutsi. “When you take a holiday, it is important not to fill your time with all sorts of things because then you’ll never have a real holiday.”

  “No,” said Charlie. “When you are on holiday you must be careful not to do the things you normally do.”

  “Charlie is quite right,” said Mma Makutsi. “You must be careful not to go into the office—for example.”

  When Mma Makutsi used the expression “for example” it was usually to make a strong point, and that was how Mma Ramotswe read her remark.

  “I’m not intending to come in here every day,” she said hurriedly. “Oh no, that would not be a very sensible thing to do.”

  “Good,” said Mma Makutsi, looking at her watch—rather pointedly, thought Mma Ramotswe. She turned to address Charlie. “Now, then, Charlie, let’s have this tea you’ve been talking about.”

  “Mma Makutsi says I make very good tea,” said Charlie proudly.

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I’m sure you do.” Her eye moved to the three mugs already laid out on top of the filing cabinet. One of them was hers, and she wondered whether Mma Makutsi had been using it regularly in her absence; to take over somebody’s desk and her cup was a bit much, she felt.

  “I see my mug over there,” she said. “I shall be able to have tea out of my own mug, which is very good—even when you are on holiday.”

  Mma Makutsi looked slightly shifty, which answered that question. “Get another one, Charlie.”

  Now Mma Makutsi said something about the desk. “I’m just using this while you are on holiday,” she muttered. “Mr. Polopetsi over there needed somewhere to sit down. You cannot have a man like him not sitting down.”

  “Of course not,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I do not mind if you use my desk, Mma—it is the sensible thing to do.”

  Charlie now poured the tea and passed a mug to each of them in turn. Then he dusted off the client’s chair, inviting Mma Ramotswe to sit down. She noticed that Mma Makutsi shifted uncomfortably in her seat, occupying, as she was, Mma Ramotswe’s rightful place, but she made no comment on that. She was not one to make another feel awkward, and so she said instead, “I’m glad that you are at my desk, Mma. It is good to think that there is somebody in your place when you are on holiday.”

  It was the right thing to say, as Mma Makutsi visibly relaxed. “You will be back before too long, Mma. You must enjoy your holiday.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Polopetsi from Mma Makutsi’s desk. “If anyone deserves a holiday, Mma Ramotswe, it is you. Nobody would argue with that.”

  Mma Ramotswe took a sip of her tea. “So, what’s going on?” she asked. “Anything important?”

  There was complete silence. Then Charlie said, “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Fanwell have gone out to Mokolodi to collect a truck. It has a broken axle. Big problem.”

  Mma Ramotswe digested this information. “That will keep them busy. But what about the agency?”

  Mma Makutsi adopted a serious expression. “We are busy with the usual sort of thing, Mma. We have some new work, and some old work. We are doing both.”

  Mma Ramotswe seized her opportunity. “This new work—what exactly is it?”

  Mma Makutsi put down her teacup. “It is very hot again. Do you think there will be rain?”

  “There might be,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But this new case—what is it, Mma?”

  It was as direct a question as could be asked, and there was no escape for Mma Makutsi now. “We have been asked to look into a question of somebody’s past.”

  “Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. “An employment case, then. That’s a fairly common enquiry, isn’t it?”

  “Not employment,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “A personal past.”

  Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mma Makutsi shot Mr. Polopetsi a glance, and she could tell what her message was. She did not want too much divulged.

  “Is it matrimonial?” asked Mma Ramotswe. Very occasionally they had a client who wanted to find out something about the intended spouse of a son or daughter—usually a daughter. Those were difficult cases, as the motive for the enquiry was often simple dislike of the prospective spouse rather than any real suspicion that he (or she) may have something to hide.

  Mma Makutsi frowned. “No, it isn’t matrimonial. It’s a very straightforward case, really. The client wants to find out about her brother. It’s curiosity, Mma—that’s all.”

  Mma Makutsi looked at her watch. It was clear that she considered the matter closed and that she did not want any further discussion of the case. And Mma Ramotswe understood: had she been in Mma Makutsi’s shoes, then she too would have wanted to handle things on her own—anybody, particularly somebody who had always been an employee rather than an employer, would want a chance to do that. And the actual case, she decided, was probably not all that important. The remark made to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni that a well-known name was involved probably meant that it was a footballer or a radio announcer—nothing more glamorous than that.

  She finished her tea. “Well, Mma,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “I must leave you to get on with your work.”

  Mma Makutsi brightened. “Yes, of course. We must do that. We cannot sit about and drink tea all day, can we? We are not on holiday.”

  “No,” said Mma Ramotswe wryly. “I am the one who is on holiday.”

  “I have never had a holiday,” Charlie chimed in.

  Mma Makutsi made a strange sound—a sound of disbelief mixed with scorn.

  “But I work hard,” protested Charlie. “You’ve seen
me working hard, haven’t you, Mma Ramotswe?”

  Her tone was emollient. “Of course I have, Charlie. Everybody works hard.”

  “Not everybody,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “There is a teacher at the school who certainly doesn’t work hard. He is a man who knows nothing and therefore can’t teach anything to the pupils. He gets them to read out from a book while he sits in his chair and looks out of the window. He is a very ignorant man and he is making all his pupils ignorant too.” He paused. “There is a tidal wave of ignorance, Mma Ramotswe. It is a great tidal wave and it will drown all of us if we are not careful.”

  “You call a tidal wave a tsunami,” said Charlie. “Did you know that, Rra?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I have known that for a long time, Charlie.”

  “People say there is no excuse for ignorance,” observed Mma Ramotswe. “But I don’t think I agree with that. Not in every case. There are some people who are ignorant because they have never had the chance to find out what is what. That is not their fault. Then there are people who have the chance to be taught things but refuse to learn. That is inexcusable ignorance, I think.”

  “I agree with that,” said Mma Makutsi. “Those people have nothing in their heads.”

  “That is called a vacuum,” said Charlie.

  Mma Ramotswe remembered the other matter she had to raise. “There’s another thing,” she said. “I was driving in the van yesterday and something caught my eye. There’s a new college.”

  Mma Makutsi did not seem particularly interested. “There are new schools all over the place. They’re thinking of building one near us. Phuti said that he saw the plans. He thinks it looks as if it’s been drawn upside down. He is very rude about some new buildings, you know.”

  “I don’t think this one is a school,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Well, not a school for children. I think this is a college for—”

  “The thing I wonder about,” interjected Mma Makutsi, “is where they get the money to build all these new places. That’s what I wonder about, Mma.”

  “I think that Violet Sephotho—”

  Mma Ramotswe did not finish. Mma Makutsi had raised a hand. “Oh, don’t talk to me about that woman. Please don’t talk to me about her. I do not want to hear about her, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe frowned. “But this—”

  “No, Mma, please. I have too much to think about and I cannot think about her too.”

  “But this is something that—”

  “No, Mma, please. I cannot think about her. I am far too busy running the office while you are away.”

  Mma Ramotswe decided not to press the matter. She would have to try again, but she thought that this was clearly not the right time. “Very well, Mma,” she said. “I must go now. You are obviously very busy.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled sweetly. “You go off and enjoy yourself, Mma Ramotswe. Put your feet up. Sit in your garden. Go to tea. There are many things you can do, Mma—many, many relaxing things.”

  —

  MR. POLOPETSI accompanied Mma Ramotswe to her van. He was a very courteous man, and he opened the door for her. She liked that. People could say that such manners were a thing of the past, but even those who expressed such a view appreciated it if a door was opened for them; you could not go wrong, thought Mma Ramotswe, in opening a door for somebody.

  “Thank you, Rra,” she said. “You are very kind.”

  He acknowledged the compliment, but nonetheless seemed distracted. Mma Ramotswe had seen signs of that earlier on, and she sensed that he was under stress. “One thing, Mma Ramotswe,” he said hesitantly.

  She settled herself in the driving seat before she looked up at him. “Yes, Rra?”

  He lowered his voice although they were alone. There were the two doves, of course, that had made their home in the acacia tree beside the garage, but there was no human ear to overhear what he had to say.

  “Yes, Rra?” she repeated.

  “That case Mma Makutsi referred to…”

  She did not push him, but waited for him to continue.

  “That case, Mma, is a very difficult one. She…” He inclined his head in the direction of the office behind them. “She has no idea how to deal with it.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked studiously ahead. “Oh,” she said, and then added, “I see.”

  “Yes,” went on Mr. Polopetsi. “I am not being disloyal to Mma Makutsi, Mma. I have the greatest respect for that lady. You know that, I think.”

  “I do,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I have always known that you admired Mma Makutsi, even if—” She stopped herself.

  “Even if what, Mma?”

  “Even if I think you may be a little bit worried about what she’s going to say—or do. Not very worried, of course—just a little bit.”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgement of this truth. “Yes, maybe. She is very strong and she is very good at most things. But for some strange reason—and it is worrying me, Mma, this strange reason—she doesn’t know what to do with this case.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Yes—oh dear. And now she has said that I must sort it out. She says that she has too much filing to do and that I should handle this case with Charlie. And Charlie doesn’t have a clue, Mma. I do not want to be rude about Charlie, but there are very clear limits to what Charlie knows and can do.”

  “He is a good young man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But he has spent too much time thinking about girls. That is his problem.”

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I find the same thing with the students I teach at the secondary school. Teenage boys, in particular, will not concentrate on what they are meant to be doing. They are always thinking of how they can impress girls.”

  “It is very sad,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I think there must also be teenage girls who can’t stop thinking about boys.”

  Mr. Polopetsi agreed. “There are those too,” he said. “But be that as it may, Mma, I have no idea either about how to deal with this case. So I was wondering if you might help me.”

  She had not expected this, and she thought for a few moments before answering him. She did not want to undermine Mma Makutsi, but this was a direct plea for help from Mr. Polopetsi, who was, after all, an unpaid volunteer and who therefore deserved any help he wanted. “Come to my house this evening,” she said. “Come at six o’clock and tell me all about it. Then I will give you some advice—if I can think of any to give.”

  “You are very kind, Mma.”

  “No, Rra, you are the kind one. You are helping us out for nothing. That is a sign of a kind man. That is well known, Rra.”

  He looked visibly relieved as he closed the van door. “I’ll see you this evening, Mma.”

  She started the engine and began to make her way back to Zebra Drive. She was still resolved that she would not interfere with Mma Makutsi’s affairs, but she could hardly turn down somebody like Mr. Polopetsi. She would do it tactfully, she thought, so that Mma Makutsi would never find out that there had been an intervention. That, she thought, was the best way to interfere in anything: if you did it in such a way that nobody noticed your interference, then no possible harm was done. That was what distinguished a successful meddler from an unsuccessful one, and she was determined that she would be one of the former rather than one of the latter. And who wouldn’t?

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE LATE MR. GOVERNMENT KEBONENG

  MR. POLOPETSI did not live very far from Zebra Drive and so he walked rather than drove to see Mma Ramotswe that evening. It had looked as if more rain was due, but the clouds that had built up over the horizon had dispersed, leaving the cloudless sky a soft shade of blue. A cushion of cool air had floated in from the south-west, refreshing the land, providing at least some relief from the heat of the afternoon. Mr. Polopetsi, who had embarked on a programme of exercise, was trying to take ten thousand steps a day; so far that day he calculated that he had walked only one thousand, and some of those, he thought, had been very sma
ll steps.

  “I am walking for the sake of my heart,” he said to Mma Ramotswe as he arrived. “It is a very good thing for the heart if you do a lot of walking.”

  She had been standing on the verandah when she saw him arrive, and had gone out into the garden to greet him. “I should walk more,” she said. “But in this hot weather it is very difficult. It may be good for your heart to walk, but if you die of heatstroke, then that is not too good. The doctors would say, ‘A healthy heart, but now it has stopped because of heatstroke.’ ”

  Mr. Polopetsi laughed. “If it is not one thing that will kill you, Mma, it is another. There is no way round it. We all become late some day.”

  “I am planning to become late in my bed,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall be very old—I hope—and I shall be lying in my bed when they suddenly realise that I am late. Either that, or I shall be sitting under a tree and they will see that I have stopped moving. That is one of the best ways to become late, I think. You’re sitting under a tree looking out at the cattle and suddenly—whoosh—you go up.”

  “I hope that is not for a long time yet,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I cannot imagine Botswana without you, Mma Ramotswe.”

  She was touched by his remark. Mr. Polopetsi was not a flatterer—what he said was sincerely meant—and this was an example of the kind things he said.