The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine

by Alexander McCall Smith

  She sighed. There were arguments against having that voice within you that told you what to do. That voice had many forms: it could be the voice of a teacher or a parent; it could be the voice of an old friend; it could be the voice of an aunt or an uncle; or it could be a voice that one knew was oneself—one’s own inner voice. And it knew how to choose its words: Really? Do you really think you should do that? Aren’t you being just a little bit selfish? If you had no such voice, or if you knew how to ignore it, you would have no moments like this when you realised that what you said was not absolutely true and you had to retract your words.

  Taking a deep breath, she began afresh. She had not heard the voice, but she knew what it would say. “Actually, Mma, the truth of the matter is that I need to talk to you about Mr. Polopetsi.”

  Mma Makutsi waited for her to continue.

  “He came to see me,” Mma Ramotswe said. “He came to Zebra Drive yesterday and told me about this Potokwane case.”

  Mma Makutsi’s eyes narrowed with disapproval. “But you are on holiday, Mma. Mr. Polopetsi has no business disturbing you like that.”

  Mma Ramotswe was quick to say that she did not mind. “It was not a disturbance at all, Mma. I was not doing anything at the time.”

  “But that is what a holiday is for,” interjected Phuti Radiphuti. “So if you stop a person on holiday from doing nothing, then that is a disturbance—I would have thought.”

  Mma Ramotswe needed a moment to work out the meaning of this. But then she said briskly, “It did not matter. I was pleased to see Mr. Polopetsi—I always am.”

  Mma Makutsi looked impatient. “Leaving all that aside, Mma, the question is: Why did he come to speak to you about the Potokwane case?”

  There was a short silence before Mma Ramotswe answered. “He was concerned, Mma. He said that you had asked him to take over the investigation—”

  Mma Makutsi interrupted her. “Yes, I did. I decided to give him some responsibility.” She paused, looking challengingly at Mma Ramotswe. “What is the point of having an assistant like Mr. Polopetsi if you give him no responsibility?”

  It occurred to Mma Ramotswe that there might be a further barb behind this question—a suggestion that Mma Makutsi, in her days as assistant, had not been given enough responsibility. But this was not the time to rake over those ancient coals.

  “Responsibility is a good thing,” Mma Ramotswe said evenly. “I would never say that it was a bad thing to give others the chance to prove their ability.”

  “Well, then,” said Mma Makutsi. “That answers that, I think.”

  She rose to her feet to make the tea.

  “I am not sure,” said Mma Ramotswe hesitantly. “There is a difference between a challenge and a burden. One is something you can carry on your shoulders easily enough—the other is something, a big sack, that bends you double.”

  Mma Makutsi poured the hot water into the teapot. She did not look at Mma Ramotswe as she replied. “There is no heavy sack here. It is a simple case that even Charlie could handle, if we gave it to him. Do you think I should hand it over to Charlie, Mma? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” said Mma Ramotswe. “All I’m saying is that Mr. Polopetsi feels out of his depth. I thought that perhaps you did not know that, and that is why I’m telling you now. He needs help.”

  Mma Makutsi returned with two mugs of tea. She handed one to Mma Ramotswe and put the other one down on the table. “We all need help, Mma. We could all do with a hand.”

  “But some more than others,” Mma Ramotswe said quickly. “Especially if, like Mr. Polopetsi, you are a bit rusty when it comes to the work we do.”

  She watched for the effect of her words, but Mma Makutsi seemed unmoved, even if Phuti Radiphuti had started to nod enthusiastically. Now was the time to draw on whatever wells of courage she possessed. “I think you should take the weight off him,” she went on. “Take over the case once more. You are very experienced, Mma—you are a director of the agency…”

  Flattery had worked with Mma Makutsi before; indeed, she seemed particularly susceptible to a compliment. With that in mind, Mma Ramotswe now threw caution to the wind. “After all, Mma, remember that you are…how shall I put it? Remember that you are confident—with your ninety-seven per cent behind you—whereas Mr. Polopetsi, well, his confidence was destroyed by that unfortunate business with the prescription.”

  It did not work. “Mr. Polopetsi has had a long time to recover from all that,” said Mma Makutsi dismissively. “And you should remember, Mma, that his wife is an important lady these days. He is quite capable of looking after himself.”

  Mma Ramotswe decided to try again. “Yes, he is better these days, Mma. But just because he is feeling better, that does not mean he will know much more. And that’s the problem, I think. He just doesn’t know what to do.”

  “Oh, I think he does, Mma Ramotswe,” said Mma Makutsi. “He can easily make the necessary enquiries in this Potokwane business. I cannot treat him as if he were a small boy.”

  “I’m not asking you to do that.”

  “But you are, Mma. You’re asking me to tell him that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. You’re asking me to hold his hand. That sounds as if he is being treated as a small boy.”

  Phuti Radiphuti came to her defence. “I don’t think she’s doing that, Grace,” he began. “Mr. Polopetsi asked her, after all…”

  He did not finish. A glance from Mma Makutsi, as eloquent as it was unambiguous, brought his intervention to an end. Noticing this, Mma Ramotswe decided to desist. She had no desire to provoke an argument between husband and wife, especially where the wife, as was the case here, was a woman of some mettle; Mma Makutsi was not one to cede ground easily.

  “Well,” she said breezily, “we don’t need to talk about this any more, Mma Makutsi. I am on holiday, as you know, and you are—”

  “Acting Head of the agency,” supplied Mma Makutsi.

  “Yes, that is what you are. So I won’t discuss it any further. You are the one to decide, and then—”

  Again she was interrupted. “Exactly, Mma. We shall leave Mr. Polopetsi to deal with this. He will do very well, I’m sure.”

  Mma Ramotswe bit her tongue. It really was too bad; Mma Makutsi owed her position as Acting Head—owed everything, in fact—to her, as she had admitted more than once, and here she was refusing even to consider a perfectly reasonable request to relieve Mr. Polopetsi of his anxiety. Could she not remember what it was like to be in a new job and out of one’s depth? Some people, it seemed, forgot that feeling rather quickly.

  “There’s just one thing,” Mma Ramotswe ventured. “The client in this case…I was very surprised when I heard that she was called Potokwane. At first I thought it was our Mma Potokwane looking for help.”

  Mma Makutsi laughed. “That would be the day, Mma. No, it’s not our Mma Potokwane at all—it is the wife of her husband’s cousin. He has the same name—Potokwane.”

  Mma Ramotswe wondered whether Mma Potokwane—the matron—knew that a relative of her husband’s had approached the agency. “I would have expected her to be in touch with me about it if she knew,” she said. “Even just a telephone call—something like that.”

  Mma Makutsi agreed. “I think that she doesn’t know,” she said. “They are keeping the whole thing quiet, I think. And I can see why they should do this. People do not like it when rumours begin to spread. You know how it is, Mma. One person says one thing and then the next person adds a little bit—just to make it a bit more interesting. And soon the story is all over town and everybody is shaking their heads.”

  Mma Ramotswe knew what Mma Makutsi meant. For all that it had grown, Gaborone was still an intimate place where people were aware of the business of others. Such a town was fertile territory for gossip and the spread of rumours.

  “Fortunately,” continued Mma Makutsi, “there has not been any talk about this matter. So far, nothing about the council’s cha
nge of mind has been in the papers. I imagine that they want it to remain like that.”

  Mma Makutsi now became silent, but only for a very short time. It seemed to Mma Ramotswe that the other woman was weighing up something, and now, with a rather abrupt change of tone, she announced her decision. “I do not think that anything will be discovered,” she said. “So even if Mr. Polopetsi gets nowhere—and I think you may be right, Mma: he will get nowhere—even if that happens, then that will not matter too much. The whole thing will go away.”

  Mma Ramotswe hesitated. She found it difficult to grasp what was happening. This was not the Mma Makutsi whom she knew. This was not the tenacious, sometimes prickly, often argumentative, but ultimately determined person she had employed when the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency first opened its doors.

  “I’m not sure…,” she began, but did not finish. Mma Makutsi had put down her mug and reached for one of the trade catalogues.

  “I need your advice, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “It is on a furniture matter.”

  Phuti Radiphuti had been listening to their conversation but had not joined in. Mma Ramotswe had watched him, and had decided that he was unhappy about something; now he looked at his watch and made an apologetic gesture. “I hope you won’t mind if I leave you, Mma Ramotswe. We have taken on some new members of staff, and I have to check up on them.”

  Mma Ramotswe replied that she would not take offence. “Your wife has things to discuss with me,” she said, adding mentally, even if she won’t talk about the things that need to be talked about.

  Mma Makutsi nodded to Phuti Radiphuti and then turned back to the catalogue. “We are thinking of taking a new line in sofas,” she said. “These are for what we call the larger market.”

  “What is that, Mma?”

  Mma Makutsi licked a finger to turn the pages of the catalogue. “I’ll show you, Mma. The larger market is for larger people. Some furniture is too small for these people. So we need to have a section of furniture for traditionally built customers.” She paused. “Perhaps for people like yourself, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe did not take offence. There were those who would resent being described as traditionally built, but she was not one of them. She was proud of her build, which was in accordance with the old Botswana ideas of beauty, and she would not pander to the modern idea of slenderness. That was an importation from elsewhere, and it was simply wrong. How could a very thin woman do all the things that women needed to do: to carry children on their backs, to pound maize into flour out at the lands or the cattle post, to cart around the things of the household—the pots and pans and buckets of water? And how could a thin woman comfort a man? It would be very awkward for a man to share his bed with a person who was all angles and bone, whereas a traditionally built lady would be like an extra pillow on which a man coming home tired from his work might rest his weary head. To do all that you needed a bit of bulk, and thin people simply did not have that.

  Mma Makutsi found the relevant section of the catalogue and pointed out to Mma Ramotswe pictures of sofas spread across two pages. “You see all these, Mma? This is what they call the Karoo Range. The sofas here are named after that place they have down south.”

  Mma Ramotswe knew about the Karoo. “It is like our Kalahari,” she said. “But it has sheep.”

  “Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “There are many sheep.” She put a finger on one of the photographs. “I think that sofa would be good,” she said. “What do you think, Mma? Would you want to sit on that one?”

  Mma Ramotswe studied the picture. “I am not sure,” she said. “It is a bit close to the ground. You see there? Its legs are very short.”

  “That is to save space,” said Mma Makutsi. “These days they’re making furniture with short legs to save space. And materials too. If you have short legs on furniture, then you save wood.”

  Mma Ramotswe saw difficulties with that. “But then if you sit on a sofa like that, Mma, your knees will go up in the air because you are so low down. And there will be some traditionally built people—not all, but some—who will find it difficult to get up if they are at that angle. They may have to call for help.” She peered at the picture again. “Perhaps a sofa like that should have some sort of alarm button, Mma. If you got stuck, then you could press it and an alarm would sound.”

  Mma Makutsi looked at her disapprovingly. “They do not make such things, Mma.”

  “I was just thinking aloud,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Makutsi closed the catalogue. “I think that I should get back to work, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe took the hint. “And I must get over to the supermarket. We have very little food in the house and I need to stock up.”

  “That is because you have a man in the house,” said Mma Makutsi. “We women buy food, but men just come along and eat it. That is happening all the time. Women buy food and men eat it.”

  “Very true,” mused Mma Ramotswe. “Now that one comes to think about it.”

  But she was not thinking about the purchase and consumption of food. She was not thinking about men and their little ways. Rather she was thinking of why Mma Makutsi was behaving so strangely. Was something wrong? She remembered Clovis Andersen saying something about this in The Principles of Private Detection, and as she left the store his words came back to her. If a person acts out of character, then there’s one thing you can be sure of: there is something wrong. I have seen this so many times I have lost count.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT IS A COMPLICATED STORY. WE SHALL NEED MORE TEA

  SHE DID NOT SPEND LONG in the supermarket at Riverwalk, confining her purchases to supplies she would need for the next few days. There was beef for a stew, a large pumpkin, a packet of beans, a dozen eggs, and two loaves of bread. The pumpkin looked delicious—almost perfectly round and deep yellow in colour, it sat on the passenger seat beside her so comfortably as she drove out of the car park, so pleased to be what it was, that she imagined conducting a conversation with it, telling it about the Orphan Farm and Mma Potokwane and her concerns over Mma Makutsi. And the pumpkin would remain silent, of course, but would somehow indicate that it knew what she was talking about, that there were similar issues in the world of pumpkins.

  She smiled. There was no harm, she thought, in allowing your imagination to run away with you, as a child’s will do, because the thoughts that came in that way could be a comfort, a relief in a world that could be both sad and serious. Why not imagine a talk with a pumpkin? Why not imagine going off for a drive with a friendly pumpkin, a companion who would not, after all, answer back; who would agree with everything you said, and would at the end of the day appear on your plate as a final gesture of friendship? Why not allow yourself a few minutes of imaginative silliness so that you could remember what it was like when you believed such things, when you were a child at the feet of your grandmother, listening to the old Setswana tales of talking trees and clever baboons and all the things that made up that world that lay just on the other side of the world we knew, the world of the real Botswana.

  She did not drive home, but joined the flow of traffic going east on the Tlokweng Road, her destination the Orphan Farm and her friend Mma Potokwane. It being a Saturday, she did not expect to find Mma Potokwane in her office, but her house was on the premises and she would almost certainly be there.

  The road was busy, with cars going in both directions. Mma Ramotswe wondered where everybody was going, but then remembered that there was a football match on at the stadium, where the Zebras were playing against a team from Zambia. Charlie would be there, she imagined, and Fanwell too. Over the years she and Mma Makutsi had been obliged to listen to so much chatter about the Zebras and their doings, none of which had meant very much, and very little of which had remained in her memory. Last year, she recalled, the Zebras had scored an important goal in a crucial game against a traditional rival, and that had brought great pleasure to both young men. Charlie had breathlessly explained how one of their players,
a man with a ridiculous nickname she could not remember, picked up the ball in his own half and dribbled past half the opposition, before placing it in the top corner from twenty-five yards. The keeper, he said, had had no chance at all. She and Mma Makutsi had just smiled indulgently at this account, but Charlie and Fanwell had performed a spontaneous dance of joy, although Mma Makutsi had somewhat spoiled the celebration by remarking, “Those poor people who lost—I wonder what they’re doing now.”

  By the time she had to turn off the Tlokweng Road the traffic had thinned to the point where there was now just the occasional car. The last section of the road was untarred, and vehicles would throw up a cloud of red dust, like the vapour trail of an aircraft. One of these red clouds came towards her now, enveloped her, and then passed, and shortly thereafter she was at the gate. The sign at the entrance portrayed a smiling child protected by two encircling adult hands, and underneath this picture were the words This is an abode of love. The letters were hard to read now because the paint had blistered from years of exposure to the sun; but the love was still there, she thought, like the sun.

  Mma Potokwane’s house was a short walk from her office, not far from the acacia tree under which Mma Ramotswe usually parked her van. It was not a large house, or a particularly attractive one, but it had about it that indefinable quality marking out places that are loved by those who live in them and that, in return, provide more than mere shelter. On one side there was a rain tank, painted green, and linked to the gutters of the house by a sloping pipe; on the other was a makeshift lean-to garage, sheltering the old blue minibus Mma Potokwane had been given by a local hotel company, a steadfast supporter of the children’s home. This vehicle had been used to transport hotel employees to and from work before it was eventually replaced by something newer and smarter. When it had come to the Orphan Farm, the age and experience of the minibus had begun to show; it had been a poor starter and, indeed, a poor runner, and displayed a tendency to cut out at speeds above forty miles an hour. None of these weaknesses had been a match for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, though, who had spent the best part of three days renewing and revitalising the vehicle until it ran smoothly and reasonably reliably.