The House of Unexpected Sisters

by Alexander McCall Smith

  —

  “BLACKMAIL?” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni as he sat at the table that evening and waited for Mma Ramotswe to cut him a slice of fine Botswana beef. “Why should it be blackmail if you’re telling the truth?”

  Mma Ramotswe cut a slice off the joint on the plate before her. There were those who said that beef should be sliced as thin as possible, but she did not subscribe to that view, and neither, she knew, did Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He, in fact, took the opposite view, and liked his roast beef to be cut as thickly as possible, so that it resembled more than anything else a piece of steak. And he liked it to be juicy, too, red in the middle, and soft in the mouth.

  “I think it’s blackmail if you threaten to tell somebody’s secret unless they do something,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And this is what I’d be doing if I went to see Gopolang and told him that I’d tell his wife about his affair unless he reinstated Charity.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was not convinced, but he trusted Mma Ramotswe’s moral sense, and if she had misgivings about a particular course of action, then there was usually a very good reason for that. “All right,” he conceded. “But then why don’t you go to the wife?”

  “And tell her?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  He sniffed appreciatively; the smell of freshly cut beef was making his gastric juices run. “Yes, tell her. But don’t tell her outright; first you should say: ‘Mma, I know something that I shall tell you on one condition: that you agree to do something for me afterwards.’ She will be very anxious to know, and so she will agree. Then, when you’ve told her, you ask her to make sure that Charity gets her job back.” He paused, giving her an enquiring look to confirm that she understood. “No wife would let her husband give a job to his girlfriend. So it would suit her very well if he were forced to give the job back to a woman who is definitely not his girlfriend.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought about this. There was something unpleasant, something underhand about going to a wife and informing on her husband, but then there were circumstances when one had to do something one felt uncomfortable about because it was the only way of preventing an injustice. This, she thought, might be just such a case.

  “Do you really think that’s what I should do?” she asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.

  He sniffed again. “Yes,” he said. “But first, Mma, I am very keen to try this beef. Could we please have dinner and then we can talk about these big things?”

  “I have already made up my mind,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  It was clear to her what she needed to do, and she would do it. The world could be an unjust place, and you had to get your hands dirty from time to time if you were to do anything about it. Nobody liked having dirty hands, but it was dirty hands that cleared things up. Clovis Andersen himself might have said something just like that, she thought—had it occurred to him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SOME PEOPLE SAY SHE COULD STOP AN ELEPHANT

  SHE WENT BY HERSELF. She had toyed with the idea of taking Mma Makutsi with her, and even Mr. Polopetsi, but had decided against it. This was not going to be an easy meeting, and it would be simpler, she thought, if she did not have to worry about Mma Makutsi’s sometimes inappropriate interventions. As for Mr. Polopetsi, he was usually innocuous enough, and would be too timid to say anything awkward or embarrassing, but this was women’s business, and the presence of a man could change the atmosphere. Women said things to one another that they would not say if a man was listening, and she imagined that the same applied to the conversation of men among themselves.

  Of course, she could not be absolutely sure of what men talked about when there were no women present—she had her views about it, but she could not be certain. She knew, though, that Fanwell and Charlie were no kind of guide. She had heard them talking in the garage; they thought they were out of earshot, but she sometimes heard parts of their conversations and had never been able to make much sense of them. If she were to try to summarise, it would be something like this: girls, girls, football, girls, fast cars, beer, girls. That was mostly Charlie; Fanwell would listen and make the occasional interjection, but he was more serious and spoke about other things too. He was interested in global warming and conservation and sometimes talked at length about the endangerment of Africa’s elephants. But apart from these occasional insights, Mma Ramotswe had to admit that the conversation of males was a closed book.

  She had found out where the Gopolangs lived. Mma Gopolang, as it happened, was friendly with a former client of the agency, a woman with whom Mma Ramotswe kept in touch and occasionally met for lunch at the President Hotel. She called on this friend and was readily given the address. “You can’t go wrong,” said the friend. “It’s one of those new houses up at Phakalane. Its roof is the colour of the blue of the national flag. You can’t miss it.”

  She chose her time carefully. Her friend had told her that Mma Gopolang did not work, and that she was always in the house in the morning. “She usually goes out in the afternoon—she’s on the committee of some church somewhere, but I’ve never found her out when I’ve called in before noon.”

  Mma Ramotswe had thanked her for the information. “But there’s one further question, Mma,” she said. “What sort of woman is this Mma Gopolang?”

  The friend had hesitated, a smile playing about her lips. It was the look of one who wanted to say something, but who was restrained by considerations of friendship, or possibly even simple charity: there were some people, Mma Ramotswe reminded herself, who were unwilling openly to speak ill of others, and these people could be indirect in their comments.

  “She is an unusual woman,” said the friend.

  Mma Ramotswe waited.

  “But a very fine person,” the friend added. “She cleaned up that church of hers. Apparently the pastor was dipping into church funds—the collection plate had been going straight into his pocket for years. Once she was elected to the committee, she began to sort it all out. The pastor was furious.”

  “I can just imagine it,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Yes,” agreed the friend. “He preached a sermon against her. From the pulpit. He called her all sorts of things and suggested she was in league with the Devil himself. This didn’t go down well with the congregation, though, and most of them walked out. Apparently the preacher resigned the next day.”

  Mma Ramotswe wondered what had happened to him.

  “He said he was going off to do the work of the Lord elsewhere,” said the friend.

  They both laughed.

  “If only the Lord knew,” said Mma Ramotswe, shaking her head, “what is done by some of the people who claim to be working on his behalf.”

  The friend laughed again. “I’m sure he does,” she said.

  “But tell me,” pressed Mma Ramotswe. “Tell me, Mma—what sort of person is she?”

  The friend gazed into her teacup. Then, looking up, she said, “Very bossy, Mma. In fact, some people say—and I’m just reporting what I’ve heard—some people say she could stop an elephant.”

  Mma Ramotswe’s eyes widened. “She’s that forceful, Mma?”

  The friend nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mma. I don’t want to be unkind, but I think that her husband is kept right there.” She made a gesture with her thumb, pushing it down on the tablecloth.

  “It’s that bad?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “Yes, Mma, it’s that bad. Even worse, perhaps.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought for a moment. “So you would say that her husband is frightened of her?”

  The friend replied that she would say that. “And I’d say something more: if that man ever stepped out of line, I wouldn’t give much for his chances.”

  It was exactly what Mma Ramotswe had wanted to hear. “This is all very interesting,” she said. “And who would know it? There’s this Rra Gopolang, a big, tall man, and all the time he’s a little boy inside—looking over his shoulder in case his wife disapproves.”

  “Many men are like that,” said the friend. “They are littl
e boys.”

  Mma Ramotswe liked men, though; she was not one of those who belittled them, as some women did. And so she observed, “Not all men, Mma. We must remember that there are many fine men.”

  “I suppose so,” conceded the friend, perhaps a touch reluctantly. “But it’s a pity, isn’t it, that so many men are still hanging on to power, when there are excellent ladies waiting to run things much better than the men have been doing.” She sighed. “But there we are, Mma. One day—one day maybe not too far off—we shall have women running all the governments of the world, and the United Nations, and even a woman pope.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked doubtful. “There is no chance of a woman pope, Mma. The men have got that job.”

  “I suppose so,” said the friend. “But there’s no reason why they should have it forever.”

  “It will be a very difficult battle,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And it will not happen tomorrow.”

  Armed with this advance knowledge of Mma Gopolang, and satisfied that her strategy had at least some chance of success, Mma Ramotswe negotiated her way slowly along the streets of Phakalane, an affluent suburb on the edge of the town that had once been a farm belonging to a well-known citizen, David Magang. Her father had known him, and had spoken highly of him—one good judge of cattle recognising another—and this was in her mind as she drove past the house where his family had lived. But she did not allow the thought to linger, because she wanted to wean herself off such memories. Her father was no longer there to talk to, as he had been until only a few days ago. Things were different now—or so she told herself.

  Some of the houses were very substantial—far bigger than anybody could reasonably want—but this was not so of the Gopolang house. Although it was by any standards comfortable, it was not showy in any way, and indeed seemed modest by comparison with some of the mansions on display. As her friend had predicted, it was impossible to miss, its light blue roof standing out among the predominantly red roofs of the houses around it.

  She parked her van outside the perimeter fence, and then made her way up the short drive towards the front door. The garden was dry, the grass of what had once been a lawn discouraged and brittle. Although water had not been rationed since the good rains, there were many who were reluctant to waste it on their gardens, particularly on lawns, that were just wrong in this part of Africa, Mma Ramotswe thought. Planting a lawn in Botswana was like planting a cactus at the North Pole: it did not make sense. Botswana was a country of dry plains and scrub bush; of plants that had long memories of droughts and dryness, and that knew every trick for surviving in such conditions. Green lawns were easy on the eye—and comfortable underfoot—but there was just as much beauty in an acacia tree or a mogotlho, a camel thorn, as there was in a lush growth of kikuyu grass tamed into a lawn.

  If you could judge people by their front yards—and Mma Ramotswe felt that often you could do just that—then this was a front yard with a clear message: a sensible woman lived here; not a showy woman, nor an ambitious woman, but a woman who knew what she wanted in life and was not to be trifled with.

  Mma Ramotswe reached the front door and called out, as was the custom. From within the house, a voice replied quite quickly: “I am coming.”

  It was Mma Gopolang who answered. She was a well-shaped woman—even if not quite traditionally built—and she was wearing a neat housecoat of the sort that Mma Ramotswe immediately judged to be sensible rather than frivolous. There were many women who dressed in their best clothes in their own homes, but Mma Ramotswe had never been able to understand why anybody should want to do that. Such dress, she thought, indicated a wish to go out rather than stay in; and people who were always itching to go out wanted to do so because they were unhappy with where they were. The most contented people she knew were those who stayed more or less where they were, for much of the time, and never ventured forth unless there was a good reason to leave where they had been at the beginning. Such people often wore housecoats, and slippers too, because these were the right clothes for people who were not planning to go out.

  Mma Gopolang’s expression told Mma Ramotswe that she was trying hard to place her. It was a typical look of one who thought she might have met somebody, but could not be sure. And of course in Gaborone, which was still a fairly intimate town, it was always possible that you would have met somebody, even if you had no recollection of the meeting.

  “I don’t think we’ve met, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe after the necessary greetings had been exchanged. “I am Precious Ramotswe. I am from the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective—”

  Mma Gopolang interrupted her. “Oh, that place; I have seen it—it’s on the Tlokweng Road, isn’t it?”

  Mma Ramotswe nodded. “It is a detective agency, and I have been investigating something that concerns you, Mma. That is why I have come to see you.”

  Mma Gopolang looked surprised. “Me, Mma?”

  “We could speak if you invited me in.”

  Mma Gopolang looked embarrassed. “I’m very sorry, Mma—please come in.”

  She led Mma Ramotswe into a sitting room immediately off the small entrance hall. This was furnished with large, leather-covered chairs and a somewhat cumbersome sofa. Mma Gopolang signalled for Mma Ramotswe to sit on the sofa, while she chose one of the smaller chairs.

  There was a short, appraising silence before Mma Ramotswe spoke. “I shall get straight to the point, Mma,” she began. “We were asked to look into the wrongful dismissal of an employee. This person—the person who was dismissed—worked in your husband’s office furniture business.”

  The effect of this overture was immediate. Mma Gopolang, who had seemed relaxed, now sat up straight in her chair. “Oh yes?” she said, her interest clearly aroused.

  Mma Ramotswe spoke cautiously. “I don’t like to raise this matter, Mma, but I feel that I have to. I believe that your husband may be a…a sociable man.”

  Mma Gopolang stared at her, and then, without any warning, guffawed loudly. “Sociable? Oh, that’s very funny, Mma. All men are sociable, I think. Far too sociable for their own good.” She paused. The stiffness seemed to have gone now, to be replaced by a relaxed demeanour. “If you’re here to tell me that my husband is having an affair, then I have something to tell you, Mma: I know that he is. Men cannot hide these things.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought quickly. If she already knew, her job was going to be much easier. She could now move on to make her request. “I’m afraid that your husband has fired an innocent person in order to give her job to his girlfriend, and I wonder whether you would be able to persuade him to reverse that decision.”

  Mma Gopolang’s mouth opened, and then closed. It seemed to Mma Ramotswe that she was somehow confused; perhaps further explanation was required. She could tell her about how Charity had worked in the store for years and how, even if she was inclined to lose her temper from time to time, she was a conscientious employee. She might mention the children and the fact that there was no father.

  But what came next rendered all that unnecessary.

  Her composure recovered, Mma Gopolang leaned forward in her chair with the air of one about to impart a confidence. “Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “You’ve got it all wrong. Rra Gopolang—my husband—did not dismiss that lady. I did.” She smiled. “That was me.”

  Mma Ramotswe did not understand. She tried to remember what Charity had said: she was sure there had been no mention of any involvement of Mma Gopolang in her dismissal; nor had Mma Makutsi and Mr. Polopetsi reported anything of that nature.

  Mma Gopolang was now smiling. “It was very satisfactory,” she said. “I heard that my husband was carrying on with another woman. At first I had no idea who it was, and then one of my friends said that it was a woman who worked for him. She said that it was a certain Charity Mompoloki. I had met this woman, of course, even though I have very little to do with my husband’s business. I wasn’t going to stand by, though, and let her lead my husband astray, and so I arranged for a complaint to be
made about her.”

  “In order to get her out of the way?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  “Exactly, Mma. I arranged for a friend of mine who is a big client of the company to accuse her of being rude to him. He insisted that she be removed from her job—and my husband could not afford to lose his business.” She smiled with satisfaction at the recollection. “And it worked, Mma. It worked like a charm.”

  Mma Ramotswe took a deep breath. “Are you sure it achieved what you intended, Mma?” she asked.

  Mma Gopolang’s eyes narrowed. “Am I sure? Of course I am.” There was a note of defiance in her voice now. “And I was fully entitled to resort to such measures, Mma Ramotswe. That woman was stealing my husband. Are you allowed to do things like that to protect yourself from such women? I think you are, Mma—no question about it.”

  “But what if the person who told you that Charity was the girlfriend misunderstood the situation? What if the girlfriend is somebody else altogether?”

  Mma Gopolang, who had been comfortably in her stride, now looked confused. She asked Mma Ramotswe to explain.