The Miracle at Speedy Motors tn1lda-9

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Mma Potokwane held her guest’s gaze. Mma Ramotswe was her friend—an old friend, moreover, and there were not many subjects one could not raise with an old friend. But there were some. One thing one should never do is to criticise, even in the gentlest of manners, the spouse of a friend; nor their children; nor their taste in music, their dogs, their possessions in general, their choice of clothes in particular, their children’s choice of clothes (or spouses), or their cooking. Apart from that, one could talk about anything.

  But could she talk to Mma Ramotswe about the noise that her tiny white van was undoubtedly making? The problem here, thought Mma Potokwane, might be one of simple denial; people denied things, pretended that they did not exist; wished noises, and other things, out of existence. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had confessed to the matron that he thought it was high time that Mma Ramotswe got rid of the van and bought a more modern and indeed more commodious vehicle—one more suited to a person of her standing in society, which was, of course, that of the owner of a small, but nonetheless moderately successful, business. Mma Potokwane had agreed with this view, but had expressed the reservation that Mma Ramotswe appeared inordinately attached to her tiny white van and might be difficult to prise out of the driver’s seat. She had intended this as a metaphor, but that did not stop her imagining a scene in which a struggling Mma Ramotswe, tenaciously hanging on to the steering wheel, was being pried out of the seat by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Charlie, each wielding one of those levers that they used to take tyres off the wheels of cars.

  Mma Potokwane decided that she could—indeed should—mention the noise. Friendship required this, if nothing else did. After all, we might not hear the noises made by our own cars, since we generally travelled away from them, leaving them to be heard by those behind us. And if friends did not refer to the fact that one was making a noise, then who would? At this point Mma Potokwane remembered the delicate situation she had found herself in when she had felt herself obliged to draw the attention of one of the orphan farm housemothers to the fact that her stomach was constantly making noises which, on occasion, frightened the smaller children. That had been a delicate interview in which the subject of diet had been raised; beans, suggested Mma Potokwane, were not the ideal food for one in that position, and perhaps the housemother should try eating something less voluble. That had led to an icy silence, ended only by the housemother’s stomach.

  “It’s a sort of rattle,” said Mma Potokwane. “Or shall I say it’s a knocking sound. Like this.” She tapped on the surface of her desk.

  “But that is the sound that any engine makes,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Potokwane smiled. “I don’t think so, Mma. Engines normally go like this…” Here she imitated an engine. “That is how they go, Mma. They do not make a knocking sound…” She paused, and then concluded, “Unless there is something wrong.”

  For a while nothing was said, either by Mma Ramotswe or by Mma Potokwane. Through the window in the office, the same window through which Mma Potokwane had shouted her welcome, came the sound of children singing. Mma Ramotswe tried to make out the words of the song; it was one of those tunes one knew but did not know, and for a moment she put Mma Potokwane’s comment out of her mind.

  “Such a funny little song, that,” said Mma Ramotswe, her head tilted to the side, as if the better to catch the words as they drifted in. “About the baboons. Yes, it is. I remember it now.”

  “It is about the wedding of the baboons,” said Mma Potokwane. “It’s about what the baboons were wearing to their wedding. What the guests were wearing too. A pair of overalls and an old maternity dress.”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. She was trying to remember when she had heard that song last; it must have been when she was a girl, quite a small girl, in Mochudi. The aunt of one of her friends had sung those songs, and they had sat at her feet. It was so long ago and she could not remember any of the details; the face of the aunt was a blur, and even her recollection of her friend herself was hazy. But there was warmth, and sun, the memory of sun; and the aunt’s voice came back to her like the sound of a scratchy old recording of the sort that they played on Radio Botswana when they were talking about things that had happened a long time ago, the voices of old chiefs discussing the things that were important then but now were nothing very much.

  From laughter to tears: it happened so quickly, and inexplicably; just those memories were enough. Mma Potokwane immediately sprang to her feet. “Mma Ramotswe. Mma Ramotswe. I am sorry, Mma. I am very sorry.” She had not imagined that there would be tears for that old white van, but she must love it; of course she loves it, and oh, I am a very tactless person, thought Mma Potokwane. This is my friend and I tell her that her van is dying. I am a very tactless person indeed.

  “I should not have said that about your van,” she said, moving over to place her arm round Mma Ramotswe’s shoulder. “Even if it is making a noise—and it is not a very loud noise—it can surely be fixed. You’re married to the best mechanic in Botswana by far. By far, Mma. If anybody can fix that van, it is Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.”

  Mma Ramotswe wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I am the one who should say sorry, Mma. I have come to your office and I am crying. I am sorry.”

  “Your van will be fine,” said Mma Potokwane soothingly.

  “But it is not my van,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is because I was remembering some things. That song that the children were singing—the one about the wedding of the baboons—made me cry. I was remembering how I heard it when I was in Mochudi, a long time ago, when my daddy was still alive. And I thought that all that was gone now. That Mochudi. That lady who sang the song.” She paused, and looked up at Mma Potokwane. “Sometimes I feel that our whole country has gone, Mma.”

  Mma Potokwane thought about this for a moment. Then she shook her head. “No, it has not gone, Mma. Some of it, maybe. But not the heart that beats right inside the country. Right inside. That is still there.”

  “And I feel so sorry for the baboons,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I know that it is silly to say that. But I suddenly felt very sorry for them. They are just baboons, but they are dressing up for the wedding. Why is that so sad, Mma?”

  “Because it is always sad when people try to do things that they cannot do,” said Mma Potokwane. “The baboons are very sad for that reason.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Mma Potokwane asked, “Are you feeling better now, Mma Ramotswe?”

  And Mma Ramotswe replied, “Yes, I am, Mma. That was silly of me.”

  Mma Potokwane evidently did not agree. “No, it was not, Mma Ramotswe. Sometimes I sit here and I think about things. I think about the stories of these children and what some of them have seen in their short lives. And then I find myself crying a bit, Mma. Nobody sees me, but I cry too. The children think, and the housemothers too, they all think: Oh, that matron, that Mma Potokwane, she is very strong. But they do not know. They do not know, Mma.”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. Mma Potokwane was right. We all had our moments, and they could descend at any time. It was not just the baboons and their wedding, she thought; it was everything: Motholeli going off to Johannesburg, to face inevitable disappointment; the troubles of Mma Makutsi; Charlie; everything, really. Sometimes everything could just seem too much.

  “I have some fruit cake,” said Mma Potokwane suddenly. “I think that fruit cake is often very good on these occasions.”

  “Yes, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Yes, you are right. It is.” Fruit cake and tea; sometimes more powerful, in such circumstances, than any words of comfort could be.

  MMA POTOKWANE listened intently as Mma Ramotswe began to tell her of Mma Sebina and her search. Normally she would interrupt Mma Ramotswe as she spoke, not with any rude intent, but merely because she had thought of something that she imagined Mma Ramotswe would like to know and needed to speak about it before it went out of her head; with so much to deal with, constant demands from children and never-ending requests from hou
semothers, Mma Potokwane had a lot on her mind, and things could easily slip out of it. On this occasion, though, she simply listened, allowing Mma Ramotswe to give an account of her trip to Otse, her meeting with the woman who kept a chair in a tree, and the breakthrough conversation with Mma Mapoi.

  At first Mma Potokwane said nothing when Mma Ramotswe finished. One of the young women who worked in the kitchen had brought in a pot of tea and a plate of cake, and now Mma Potokwane reached forward to pour them each a cup of tea. “We must not let the tea get cold,” she said, passing a cup to Mma Ramotswe. “There is nothing worse than being given cold tea. Do you know, Mma Ramotswe, I have heard that in America they even drink it with ice. Have you heard that?”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded sadly. “I have, Mma. At first I could not believe it, then somebody told me that it was true. It is a very serious thing.” She paused, throwing a discreet glance at the untouched fruit cake.

  Mma Potokwane understood. “We must not forget the fruit cake,” she said, slipping a slice onto a plate and passing it to her guest. “That is another thing I have heard. I have been told that some people these days have stopped eating fruit cake. Have you heard that?”

  Mma Ramotswe popped half of the fruit cake into her mouth. It was very good. “No,” she mumbled. “I have not heard that rumour.”

  “Not Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, of course,” Mma Potokwane continued. “He would never give up fruit cake, would he, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I think that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would do anything for a piece of your fruit cake, Mma Potokwane.”

  “That is good to hear,” said Mma Potokwane, “because we have a small mechanical problem at the moment with the automatic irrigation system for the vegetables. If you wouldn’t mind, Mma…”

  “I shall mention it to him,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I was wondering, Mma, what you made of what Mma Mapoi said to me. About those two children and their mother who became late in prison?”

  Mma Potokwane reached for the teapot. “I remember them well,” she said. “It was shortly after I came here. I was deputy matron then. I only became matron five or six years later.”

  “And the children?” Mma Ramotswe pressed. “What about those two children?”

  “Well,” said Mma Potokwane, “as you know, the girl went down to that lady in Otse. I do not remember her name, but it will be that Mma Sebina. That must be right. I am glad to hear that the daughter is doing well.”

  Mma Ramotswe hesitated. She was so close now to the object of her search that she hardly dared ask the question, fearing a disappointing answer. Things happened to people in this life. They went away. Became late. Disappeared. “And the boy? The brother of that girl?”

  Mma Ramotswe knew immediately that the answer was going to be a positive one. You can always read the signs, she thought; the clues are there, and you only have to be moderately observant to notice them.

  Mma Potokwane reached for the teapot again; their third cup. “The boy? Yes, I saw him the other day.” She poured the tea. “I bump into him from time to time in the bank. The Standard Bank. That is where he works, you see.”

  “Still? He’s there now?”

  Mma Potokwane shrugged. “Unless he’s at another branch. They move them around, I think. But that man always seems to be there. He is quite senior now. He is a sort of deputy-assistant-under-manager, or something like that. You know how they give themselves long titles. I’m just matron but in these big offices they have very big titles.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought of Mma Makutsi and her desire to have an impressive-sounding title. And why should people not be allowed a little boost like that, if it made them feel a bit better about themselves? Mma Potokwane should be allowed to call herself matron-general if she liked; in fact, Mma Ramotswe thought, it would rather suit her.

  “Can you tell me the name of this man?” she asked. Even if she did not get this information out of Mma Potokwane, she would be able to find him now. But a name would be useful.

  Mma Potokwane closed her eyes for a moment. “I know it, Mma. I know it. Se…something or other. Se…Sekape. That’s it. Sekape. I think that was the name. It is not the name that they came here with, but it is the same man.”

  They talked for another half an hour before Mma Ramotswe left. Now that she had the information she needed, Mma Ramotswe was able to relax and enjoy the conversation, which covered a wide range of topics. One of the housemothers had been unwell and had undergone an operation. The operation had been successful and the details were given. Mma Ramotswe mentioned that she knew somebody who had benefited from a similar operation and was now the manager of a large café. Mma Potokwane nodded. Operations could set one up very nicely—in some cases.

  Charlie was mentioned. “Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni is too soft with those boys,” said Mma Potokwane. “He is too kind.”

  “He has always been a kind man,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is what he is like. And Charlie will turn out all right in the end.” Then she added, “I do not know when the end will be, though.”

  The subject of Bishop Mwamba was raised. The bishop had been to visit the orphan farm and the children had sung very nicely for him, Mma Potokwane reported. Mma Ramotswe replied that she had heard him give a sermon in the Anglican cathedral that had been very impressive and that even Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who was known to sleep through sermons, had remained awake.

  Then Mma Ramotswe left. As she drove away, she listened carefully to the noise that her van made. It was difficult to tell, as the road was bumpy and cars always squeaked and protested on bumpy roads, but she thought that she could hear it. It was, as Mma Potokwane had suggested, a knocking sound. For a moment she imagined that the engine was sending her a signal, as prisoners will knock on the wall of a cell to make contact with unseen others. But what was the tiny white van trying to tell her with its knocking? That it was tired? That it had had enough?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IN THE COLOUR OF THE NATIONAL FLAG

  MMA RAMOTSWE could not contain herself, but had to. The moment she arrived back at the office after her meeting with Mma Potokwane, she picked up the telephone and dialled Mma Sebina’s number. All the way back from the orphan farm she had wondered whether she should tell her on the telephone, and had decided that it would be better for her to meet her client and give her the news in person, face-to-face; there were, after all, delicate aspects to this case. Although the news of her brother’s existence, right here in Gaborone, was undoubtedly good news, there was also the issue of the mother and her unfortunate fate. She had told Mma Mapoi that the daughter need not know what had happened to the mother, and that she would not raise it with her. But what if she asked? Mma Ramotswe was not sure whether it would be right to keep this knowledge from her, even though it might be difficult for her to accept that her mother had been sent to prison and had died there. And how much more difficult would it be to accept the reason for her having been sent to prison in the first place? All of that, thought Mma Ramotswe, would have to be handled tactfully.

  The telephone call was a disappointment. Another voice answered and informed Mma Ramotswe that she was a neighbour of Mma Sebina and was looking after the house while Mma Sebina was up in Maun on business. She would be back, Mma Ramotswe was told, in a couple of days, and yes, Mma Ramotswe could certainly see her there if she came round to the house before she left for work in the morning.

  “And are you the same Mma Ramotswe who has that detective agency on the Tlokweng Road?” asked the voice. “Are you that lady, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe confessed that she was.

  “Do you know where that man who built new roofs is?” the voice went on. “The one who built three new roofs round here—all of which let in the rain when it rained so hard the other day? Can you answer that for me, Mma?”

  Mma Ramotswe was patient. “I do not know everything, Mma,” she said. “Did your roof—”

  “It did,” said the voice. “The rain came in everywhere. The holes in the corruga
ted iron were too big for the bolts. So the rain came straight in.”

  “I wish I could help you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But I’m afraid I can’t help everybody. I have not heard of this roof man. I’m sorry.”

  The voice seemed to accept this and rang off, leaving Mma Ramotswe smiling. Really, people imagined that just because she was a detective she knew, or could find out, everything. It was an enviable reputation for a private detective to have, but it did mean that Mma Ramotswe was buttonholed in all sorts of unlikely circumstances and asked to come up with the solution to some often insoluble problem. If people had an issue to raise with a roofing man and had no other means of contacting him, then the answer seemed simple…

  She picked up the telephone and redialled the number.

  “I have thought of a possible solution,” she said. “If this man fixes roofs, then why not drive around Gaborone and look for people fixing roofs. It is always very obvious whose roof is being fixed, because you will see a man standing on it. That is the way to find this man.”

  The voice was silent for a moment. Then it let out a chuckle. “What they say about you is obviously true, Mma,” said the voice. “They say that you are a very clever lady—and you obviously are.”

  It was a nice compliment to receive, and Mma Ramotswe thought about it again that evening, when she prepared the evening meal for herself and Puso. It was strange there just being the two of them in the house, but it gave her an opportunity to talk more to Puso and find out what was going on at school. He was playing football, he said, and learning sums. He liked both of those, but he did not like the hours they spent practising their handwriting. Having to do things like that when one was young, explained Mma Ramotswe, was necessary for when one was older.

  “When you are big,” she said, “and you write with very nice, neat handwriting, then you will thank that teacher who forced you to spend so much time practising. You will say, ‘He was a very good teacher and I am very grateful to him.’”