The House of Unexpected Sisters

by Alexander McCall Smith

  —

  KEEYA SERVED a lunch of casseroled chicken, rice, pumpkin, and green beans. This was followed by custard with a drizzling of jam, and a pot of tea. Here were small rectangular biscuits too—those odd little biscuits with animals traced out in relief on a background of hard coloured icing.

  Mma Ramotswe need not have worried about the conversation, which ranged over so many subjects that she lost track of its direction. That did not matter: there was much to be said between sisters. Then, towards the end, Mingie said, “Keeya and I have lived together here for some years now, Mma. We are very happy in this house.”

  Mma Ramotswe reached out across the table. Keeya’s hand was resting on the tablecloth, and she placed her own hand over it, gently, and with love.

  “Good,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  That was all she needed to say, but there was something she wanted to add, and so she said, “I have two sisters now.” And then she added, “That is very good.”

  Now she said to herself: I have a family. I have a husband, two children, and two sisters. Families come in different ways, she thought: sometimes they are given to you, but sometimes you find them yourself, unexpectedly, as you go through life. That is perhaps not all that well known, but it is still true.

  —

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY, while Mma Makutsi was preparing the tea for the first tea break, Charlie appeared in the office to say that there was a woman asking to see Mma Ramotswe and should he show her in?

  “What is her name?” asked Mma Makutsi. “And, Charlie, I am the person who makes the appointments. If there is somebody who wants to see Mma Ramotswe, you must first speak to me, and then I’ll speak to Mma Ramotswe.”

  Charlie shrugged. “But what’s the point? If all of us are in the room, then what does it matter if I speak directly to Mma Ramotswe? You’ll hear what I have to say anyway.”

  Mma Makutsi bristled. “There are procedures, Charlie, and they must be followed. Imagine if you could just walk into State House and speak to the President directly? Imagine that. It would never work.”

  “But this is not State House,” said Charlie. “This is the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, and that is quite different, Mma Makutsi. State House runs the country, this place runs…well, runs nothing, really.”

  Mma Makutsi hissed. “That sort of talk, Charlie—”

  Mma Ramotswe felt it was time to intervene. “Show this lady in, Charlie. I am happy to speak to her.”

  “I’d be a bit careful of her, Mma,” warned Charlie. “She is a very strong lady, this one. I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her.”

  “Ah,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It will be Mma Gopolang, I think.”

  She was right. Charlie brought Mma Gopolang into the office.

  “So this is your place,” the visitor said, looking around her. “It is not very big, is it?”

  Mma Ramotswe ignored the tactless remark. “This is Mma Makutsi,” she said. “She is my associate director.”

  “Co-director,” corrected Mma Makutsi.

  Mma Gopolang turned to survey Mma Makutsi. “Ah,” she said. “You are also Mma Radiphuti, I believe. Is that so, Mma?”

  “I am,” said Mma Makutsi. “Makutsi is my professional name, you see.”

  Mma Gopolang nodded. “I admire ladies who carry on with their careers. Otherwise men would get all the jobs, I think. They’d just wait for us to get married, and then they’d pounce on our jobs. We women must stick together, mustn’t we, Mma?”

  Before the wisdom of this could be commented upon, Mma Gopolang, spotting the client’s chair, asked if she might sit down. Once comfortable, she launched directly into an explanation of why she was there.

  “You did me a great service, Mma Ramotswe,” she said. “I had made a mistake, you see, and I was able to rectify it.”

  Mma Ramotswe noticed that Mma Makutsi looked confused. She had not had the opportunity yet to tell her about her visit to the Gopolang house and the extraordinary facts that had come to light. She hoped that she would not be offended at hearing about this from another quarter, her being the Principal Investigating Officer, after all.

  “Mma Charity has her job back?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Gopolang nodded. “Yes, she is reinstated as from tomorrow. I spoke to my husband, you see. And I spoke to him about many other matters.”

  “I see,” said Mma Ramotswe. She was imagining the meeting. She would not have liked to be in Mr. Gopolang’s position.

  “We talked about how this sad business had come about,” continued Mma Gopolang. “We left no stone unturned. And there were certain stones, Mma—certain stones of a very suspicious nature. I discovered that his cousin, Violet, had been interfering in the business rather a lot—and I put an end to that, I can assure you.”

  Mma Ramotswe glanced across the room to where Mma Makutsi sat at her desk, electrified by the mention of the name Violet.

  “Violet Sephotho?” interjected Mma Makutsi. “Is that the Violet you’re talking about, Mma?”

  Mma Gopolang turned round. “It is, Mma,” she said.

  “Violet is Rra Gopolang’s cousin,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “I was informed of that on Friday.”

  Mma Makutsi gasped. “I saw her…”

  She did not finish. “You saw her having a meeting with Mr. Gopolang,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Gopolang turned back to face Mma Ramotswe. “I might have told you that I was never one hundred per cent happy with Violet’s influence on my husband,” she said. “Now I discovered that she deliberately misled me as to the relationship between my husband and that poor innocent Charity woman. I asked myself: Why did she do this? And the answer I worked out was that she wanted Charity out of the office because she had never liked her. Ever since their days at some secretarial college.”

  A cry came from Mma Makutsi. “I knew it! I knew it was her! And that college, Mma, I can tell you what it was: it was the Botswana Secretarial College. And I am a graduate of that college too.”

  “With ninety-seven per cent,” muttered Mma Ramotswe under her breath.

  “Well, there you are,” said Mma Gopolang. “That was the reason why she did it. And I also found out that she had put my husband up to some ridiculous deal with a furniture factory to pay far too much money for some beds and dining-room tables and such things. I put an end to that nonsense too.”

  Mma Ramotswe heaved a sigh of relief. She had done nothing about the threat to the Phuti Radiphuti business—and now it seemed that the competent and effective Mma Gopolang had sorted that out too.

  But Mma Makutsi had been unaware of it, and she now exclaimed, “Beds? You people sell office furniture. It’s my husband who sells beds—we always have.”

  Mma Gopolang made a placatory noise. “Don’t worry, Mma. It was a very expensive deal for us and I have torn it all up. It will not happen.” She paused. “I shall be playing a much more active part in the business in future—I shall see that everything is above board. And we shall not be selling house furniture.”

  “Good,” said Mma Makutsi. “And we will not sell filing cabinets.”

  Mma Ramotswe now signalled to Mma Makutsi to serve tea. The main purpose of the meeting, it seemed, had been very satisfactorily settled and any remaining issues could be tied up over a cup of tea. It was a very happy outcome, she felt: Charity had her job back, Violet had been put in her place, and the threat to Phuti Radiphuti’s business had been conclusively disposed of. There was, however, the question of Mr. Gopolang’s affair: Was he having one with somebody else even if it was not with Violet Sephotho? This she raised—as tactfully as possible—as Mma Makutsi poured and served tea.

  “Your husband, Mma,” she said. “I take it that there is no evidence of his…his straying?”

  Mma Gopolang raised her cup to her lips. “This is very good tea,” she said.

  Mma Ramotswe waited, wondering whether that was all they would hear.

  There was more. “I think he might have b
een seeing some other lady,” said Mma Gopolang. “But I imagine that this will not be happening any more. I made that quite clear.”

  “I’m sure you did, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And I’m equally sure that he will not try anything like that again.”

  “I don’t think he will,” agreed Mma Gopolang. “My husband does not defy me, Mma Ramotswe. I have made that a fundamental rule of my marriage: my husband does not defy me.”

  “Very wise,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Perhaps they should put that in the marriage ceremony. The husband should say to the reverend: ‘And I promise not to defy my wife.’ ”

  Mma Gopolang nodded her approval. “A very sound suggestion,” she said. “But there is one other thing, Mma—and that is why I am here, actually.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at her expectantly. “Anything we can do to help, Mma. That is why we are here.”

  Mma Gopolang took another sip of tea. “If, as I think, there was some other lady—and of course he denies it—but if, as I am sure is the case, such a lady existed, I am very keen to know her name…and address.”

  The menace, the unstated threat to the unknown woman, could not have been clearer had it been written in capital letters and then illuminated with spotlights. Mma Ramotswe waited, as did Mma Makutsi.

  “So I’d like to engage your agency to find that out for me,” said Mma Gopolang. “I can pay whatever fee is required.”

  Mma Ramotswe shifted in her seat. “But why would you want to know that, Mma? If it’s over—as it sounds as if it is—then is there any point in trying to find the identity of this woman?”

  “Revenge,” said Mma Gopolang in an even tone. It was as if she were stating something so obvious as not to require mentioning.

  “I beg your pardon, Mma?”

  “I want to speak to that lady and impress upon her that what she has done has been noticed.”

  “And get your revenge?” said Mma Ramotswe.

  “Yes, that too.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mma. We cannot possibly assist you in that.”

  Mma Gopolang looked surprised. “Why not? Isn’t that what you do?”

  “No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is not what we do—not at all. And I do not believe in revenge. We have to forgive, you see.”

  “I have forgiven my husband,” said Mma Gopolang.

  “Then you must forgive that lady too.” Mma Ramotswe stared at Mma Gopolang. “You have to, Mma. You have to.”

  Mma Gopolang puffed up her cheeks and then expelled the air from her mouth in a complex gesture—a mixture of irritation and doubt. “Oh well,” she said. “I shall say no more about it, but if there is ever any other instance of straying, then…”

  “Then we shall be at your service,” said Mma Ramotswe firmly. “But only then.”

  —

  THAT AFTERNOON Mma Ramotswe drove out to see Mma Potokwane. She had plenty of time at her disposal—hours if necessary—and she was looking forward to a long session of tea and cake with her old friend. It was a warm afternoon, but not too hot, and the land, in flush after the recent rains, was looking content. Brown had become green; hard, baked surfaces had become soft; the cattle by the side of the road were plump from good grazing, no ribs on display. This was Botswana as she remembered it from her childhood, when the rains had always seemed to be so much better.

  “I was hoping you would come to see me,” said Mma Potokwane. “And now, here you are.”

  “I have been meaning to come for some time,” said Mma Ramotswe, sinking into the chair she always occupied in Mma Potokwane’s office. “But I have been very busy and…” She hesitated. “Busy—and unhappy too.”

  Mma Potokwane raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never known you to be unhappy, Mma Ramotswe.”

  “Well, I have been.”

  “Why?”

  She told Mma Potokwane about the shock of her discovery—her false discovery—that Obed had been involved with another woman while still married to her mother. “I could not believe it of him,” she said. “Oh, I know it’s not too big a thing—that it happens a lot and that marriages recover. But I had always thought of him as…” She trailed off.

  “As your daddy,” said Mma Potokwane simply.

  “Yes. He was my daddy.”

  Mma Potokwane waved a hand. “That’s the trouble: we don’t see our parents as people. Your daddy was also a man—a very good man too—but he was a man.”

  Mma Ramotswe thought about what Mma Potokwane had said. It was true. “You’re right,” she said. “But the important thing is, what I feared was true, was not true.”

  “Then that is very good,” said Mma Potokwane.

  Tea was poured, and a tin was opened. The tin contained fruit cake.

  “And I have found a very good sister,” said Mma Ramotswe as she took her first sip of tea.

  “That lady in Lobatse?”

  “Yes. She is my new sister and I am very happy with her.” She paused. “And she came with another sister too. A friend of hers. She lives there too, and so I have now got two new sisters. Two, Mma! Both unexpected.”

  “An unexpected sister is good,” said Mma Potokwane. “To have two unexpected sisters is even better.”

  “Twice as good,” said Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Potokwane helped them both to a generous slice of fruit cake. “I have some news for you,” she said. “I’ve seen Note Mokoti—not just seen him, but talked to him.”

  Mma Ramotswe had been about to take a bite of her cake. She put it back on the plate.

  “But you have no need to worry,” continued Mma Potokwane. “I bumped into Note in town. He told me why he was here. He’s getting married.”

  Mma Ramotswe stared at her plate. She was not sure what she felt, nor how to react.

  “And he sent a message,” went on Mma Potokwane. “He said that he has met a very good lady. He met her over on that side, but she is from Gaborone originally. He came over here to talk to her people and to make arrangements. They will be getting married over in Johannesburg.”

  “I am happy for him,” muttered Mma Ramotswe.

  Mma Potokwane was watching her. “He said something else. He said that his life has changed. He said that he is a different man now that he has met this lady. He has come to understand that until now he has been very selfish. And he wants you to know that he is sorry.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked up. “He wants to say sorry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why can’t he say it to my face?”

  “Because you told him last time that you never wanted to see him again. And there’s something else, Mma.”

  “Yes?”

  “It is this: sometimes it’s not easy to say the things we need to say. It is not easy—maybe even impossible—because we are weak. All of us. We try to be strong, but we are weak.” She paused. “If I may say so, Mma—that is well known.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked at her friend and smiled. “Mma Potokwane,” she said, “you are always right.”

  “Not always, Mma Ramotswe. Sometimes, perhaps, but not always.”

  Mma Ramotswe fingered her plate. “Did he leave an address?”

  “No, but he told me the name of his future in-laws. They live in town here.”

  “So I can send a wedding present there?”

  Mma Potokwane nodded. “I have written it down. And let me say this, Mma: that is the right thing to do. That gives him your blessing—and that, I think, is something he really wants. I know how to tell these things, and I am sure of that. He wants your blessing.”

  “Then I will give it to him.”

  Mma Ramotswe picked up her plate again. “This is very good cake, Mma Potokwane,” she said.

  “There is more,” said Mma Potokwane. “After you have finished that piece, there will be more.”

  —

  SHE DROVE BACK just as the sun was beginning to sink behind the trees. The road was quiet, and she could hear the tinkling of cattle bells. It was a sound that al
ways reminded her of her daddy because that had been his favourite sound of all. When he arrived in that other place, she knew that this is what would have greeted him: the sound of cattle bells. She stopped the van, drawing into the side of the road, under a tree. The dust behind her settled. A small breeze came up, brushed gently against the land, and then faded away. She looked up at the sky. She thought of her father, of her country, of the people she loved so much. She thought of her bean plants and the trees in her yard. She thought of Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni and Motholeli and Puso, of Mma Makutsi, of all her friends; she thought of all the children and all the people in Botswana, and of her love for all of them, which was greater than the Kalahari itself, and wider than the sky above.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency novels and of a number of other series and stand-alone books. His works have been translated into more than forty languages and have been best sellers throughout the world. He lives in Scotland.

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