The Good Husband of Zebra Drive (15 page)

Further out, a kingfisher hovered and then plummeted, stone-like, into the water; a splash of white spray, and then up again to a vantage point in the air. She watched this for a few moments, and smiled. Everything has its place, she thought; everything. And then she turned round and made her way slowly back up the track towards the van, to await the arrival of Mma Potokwane and the children. She thought she could hear an engine now, straining somewhere not too far away. That would be one of the orphan farm's minibuses, nursed and kept alive by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, officially retired by Derek James, who ran the orphan farm office, and replaced with something newer, but brought back by Mma Potokwane, who could not bear to waste anything. The old minibuses were now used for work like this, since Mma Potokwane did not like the thought of the newer vehicles destroying their suspension on these bumpy roads.

There were two familiar old blue minibuses. The first one, driven somewhat erratically by Mma Potokwane, drew up close to where Mma Ramotswe was standing and the matron herself got out. She opened the rear door and a chattering group of children spilled forth.

Mma Ramotswe made a quick mental count. There had been nineteen children in a vehicle made for twelve.

Mma Potokwane guessed Mma Ramotswe's thoughts. “It was perfectly all right,” she said. “Children are smaller. There's always room for one or two more children.” She turned and clapped her hands. “Now, children, nobody is to go in the water. Play up here. Look, there used to be some swings over there. And a slide. So there's lots to do.”

“Be careful of crocodiles,” warned Mma Ramotswe. “You don't want to be eaten.”

A small boy with wide eyes looked up at Mma Ramotswe. “Would a crocodile eat me, Mma?” he asked politely. “Even me?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. Even me. None of us thinks that we will be eaten; no child thinks that he will die. “Only if you weren't careful,” she said. “Careful boys are never eaten by crocodiles. That is well known.” As she spoke, she realised that this was not true: that farmer had been careful. But children could not be told the unvarnished truth.

“I'll be careful, Mma.”

“Good.”

Mma Potokwane had brought two of the housemothers with them, as well as a couple of volunteers from Maru-a-Pula School. The children flocked round the teenage volunteers while the housemothers set out the picnic on small trestle tables. Mma Potokwane and Mma Ramotswe found a small section of wall, shaded by a tree, and sat down on that.

Mma Potokwane drew a deep breath. “I am always happy when I am in the bush,” she said. “I think everybody is.”

“I certainly am,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I live in a town, but I do not think my heart lives there.”

“Our stomachs live in towns,” said Mma Potokwane, patting the front of her dress. “That is where the work is. Our stomachs know that. But our hearts are usually somewhere else.”

They were silent for a while. Above them, in the branches of the acacia, a small bird hopped from twig to twig. Mma Ramotswe watched the children exploring the abandoned playground. Two boys were kicking at the fallen swing posts, causing the dried mud of the termites' activity to puff up in little clouds of dust.

She pointed to the boys. “Why do boys destroy things?”

Mma Potokwane sighed. “That is just what they do,” she said. “When I first started to work with children, years ago, I used to ask myself questions like that. But then I realised that there was no point. Boys are the way they are and girls are the way we are. You might as well ask why those dassies sit on the top of rocks. That's just the way they are.”

It was true, thought Mma Ramotswe. She liked doing the things that she liked doing, and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was the same. She watched the children. “They seem very happy,” she said.

“They are,” she said. “Most of them have had a bad start. Now things are going well for them. They know that we love them. That is all they need to know.” She paused, and looked out over the water. “In fact, Mma Ramotswe, that's really all that a child needs to know—to know that it is loved. That is all.”

Again, thought Mma Ramotswe, that was true.

“And if there's bad behaviour,” Mma Potokwane went on. “If there's bad behaviour, the quickest way of stopping it is to give more love. That always works, you know. People say that we must punish when there is wrongdoing, but if you punish you're only punishing yourself. And what's the point of that?”

“Love,” mused Mma Ramotswe; such a small, powerful word.

Mma Potokwane's stomach grumbled. “We must eat very soon. But, yes, love is the answer, Mma. Let me tell you about something that happened at the orphan farm. We had a child who was stealing from the food cupboard. Everybody knew that. The housemother in charge of that cupboard had seen the child do it. The other children knew.

“We talked to the child and told him that what he was doing was wrong. But still the stealing went on. And so we tried something different. We put a lock on the cupboard.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed. “That seems reasonable enough, Mma.”

“You may laugh,” said Mma Potokwane. “But then let me tell you what we did next. We gave the key to that child. All the children have little tasks that they must do. We put that boy in charge of the cupboard.”

“And?”

“And that stopped the stealing. Trust did it. We trusted him, and he knew it. So he stopped stealing. That was the end of the stealing.”

Mma Ramotswe was thinking. At the back of her mind there was something that she thought she might say to Mma Makutsi about this. But her thoughts were interrupted by one of the housemothers bringing them a large tin plate on which several pieces of fruit cake had been laid, along with a number of syrup sandwiches. The housemother handed the plate to Mma Ramotswe and went back to the children.

Mma Potokwane glanced at her friend. “I think that is for both of us, Mma,” she said anxiously.

“Of course,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Of course.”

They ate in silence, and contentment. The children, their mouths filled with syrup sandwiches, were quiet now, and again they could hear the birds.

“What we are trying to do with these children,” said Mma Potokwane suddenly, “is to give them good things to remember. We want to make so many good memories for them that the bad ones are pushed into a corner and forgotten.”

“That is very good,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Potokwane licked a small trace of syrup off a finger. “Yes,” she said. “And what about you, Mma Ramotswe? What are your favourite memories? Do you have any that are very special?”

Mma Ramotswe did not have to think about that. “My Daddy,” she said. “He was a good man, and I remember him. I remember walking with him along a road—I don't remember where it was—but I remember how we did not have to talk to one another, we just walked together, and were perfectly happy. And then…and then…”

“Yes?”

She was uncertain if she should tell Mma Potokwane about this, but she was her old friend, and she did. “Then there's another memory. I remember Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni asking me to marry him. One evening at Zebra Drive. He had just finished fixing my van and he asked me to marry him. It was almost dark, but not quite. You know that time of the evening? That is when he asked me.”

Mma Potokwane listened gravely to the confidence. She would reciprocate, she thought.

“Funny,” she said. “I think it was the other way round with me. I asked my husband. In fact, it was definitely me. I was the one.”

Mma Ramotswe, recalling her discussion with Mma Makutsi, suppressed a smile.
That's two things I need to tell her,
she said to herself.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A SHORT CHAPTER ABOUT TEA

T
HE TEA REGIME
at the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency was, by any standard, a liberal one. There was no official slot for the first cup of tea, but it was nonetheless almost always brewed at the same time, which suggested that it had a
de jure
slot in the day. This was at eight o'clock, when work had already been going on for half an hour or so—in theory at least—although Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi often only arrived a few minutes before eight. The turning on of the kettle had become part of the ritual of opening the office for the day, alongside the moving of the client's chair away from the corner where it was placed at night and its positioning back into the middle of the floor, where it faced Mma Ramotswe's desk, ready for use. Then the window was opened the correct amount, and the doorstop put in such a position that it would allow for some circulation of air without admitting too much noise from the garage, a finely judged calculation which Mma Ramotswe herself undertook. After this there was a brief period for the exchange of information between Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi—what Phuti Radiphuti had eaten for dinner the previous night, what Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said about the bed he had dug for his beans, what Radio Botswana had announced on its early morning broadcasts, and so on. Once these snippets had been shared, the electric kettle would be boiling and the first, unofficial cup of tea would be served.

Official tea came two hours later, at ten o'clock. It was Mma Makutsi's responsibility to fill the kettle with water, which she did from the tap just outside the door that led to the garage. The sight of her holding the kettle under the tap was a signal to Mr. Polopetsi that tea was about five minutes away, and he would then walk over to the sink on the other side of the workshop and begin to wash his hands free of grease. This, in turn, would be a signal to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni to reach a decision on whether he would carry on with whatever he was doing, and have tea later, or whether he was at a point in the mechanical operation to set his tools to one side and take a break.

Mma Makutsi made the tea in two pots. One was her own pot, rescued from disaster some time ago when one of the apprentices had used it as a receptacle for drained diesel oil; astonishingly, it was none the worse for that experience. That had been one of the more serious points of conflict between her and the two young men, and had resulted in an exchange of insults and a storming-out by Charlie. Now, as she poured the hot water into the tea-pots, she remembered that difficult occasion and wondered how Charlie was faring with his new business. It was undoubtedly quieter without him; there were none of the sudden shouts that used to emanate from the garage when something was dropped or when an engine proved recalcitrant. He had a tendency to shout at engines, using colourful insults, and although Mma Ramotswe had instructed him never to do this when she had a client in the office, the exclamations still came. And now all was silence; the young apprentice, whom Mma Makutsi had seen when she came into work, had a hang-dog expression on his face and seemed to be listless and unhappy. It would be no fun for him, she thought, now that Charlie had gone, and she wondered whether he too might hand in his notice to go off and do something else. That would inevitably provoke a crisis for Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who would never be able to cope with just himself and Mr. Polopetsi to do all the work.

Mma Makutsi filled her own tea-pot and then reached for the small tin caddy in which Mma Ramotswe kept her supplies of red bush tea. She opened it, looked in, and then shut it again.

“Mma Ramotswe.”

Mma Ramotswe looked up from her papers. She had received a letter from somebody who wanted her to look for a missing person, but the writer of the letter had signed it indecipherably, neglected to give a proper address, and had not mentioned the name of the missing person. She held the letter up to the light in the vain hope of some clue, and sighed. This was not going to be an easy case.

“Mma Ramotswe,” said Mma Makutsi.

“Yes, Mma? Is the tea ready?”

Mma Makutsi held up the empty caddy and shook it demonstratively. “We have run out of bush tea,” she announced. “Empty.”

Mma Ramotswe put down the letter and glanced at her watch. It was shortly after ten o'clock. “But this is ten o'clock tea,” she said. “When we had tea earlier this morning, there was bush tea.”

“Yes, there was,” said Mma Makutsi. “But that was the last bag. Now there is nothing left. The tin is quite empty. Look.”

She opened the caddy and tipped it up. Only a few flecks of tea, the detritus of long-vanished bags, floated down towards the ground.

Mma Ramotswe knew that this was just a minor inconvenience; fresh supplies of tea could easily be obtained, but this could not be done in time for morning tea—unless she left the office and drove to the supermarket. If only Mma Makutsi had told her earlier on that they were down to the last bag, then she could have done this before ten o'clock. She wondered if she should say something about this to Mma Makutsi, but decided that she would not. She was still concerned that Mma Makutsi might suddenly revisit her decision to resign, and an argument over tea was exactly the sort of issue to precipitate that.

“It is my fault,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I should have checked to see if we needed new tea. It is my fault, Mma.”

Mma Makutsi peered into the tin again. “No,” she said. “I think it is my fault, Mma. I should have pointed out to you earlier on that we were down to the last bag. That is where I failed.”

Mma Ramotswe made a placatory gesture with her hand. “Oh no, Mma. Anybody can make that sort of mistake. One can be thinking of something else altogether and not notice that the tea is getting low. That has happened many times before.”

“Here?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Are you saying that it has happened here? That I have forgotten many times before?”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly. “Not you. I'm just saying that it has happened elsewhere. Everybody makes that sort of mistake. It is easily done. I cannot remember a single time when you have done this before. Not one single time.”

This seemed to satisfy Mma Makutsi. “Good. But what are we going to do now? Will you have ordinary tea, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe felt that she had no alternative. “If there is no bush tea, then I cannot very well sit here and not drink any tea. It would be better to drink a cup of ordinary tea rather than to have no tea to drink.”

It was at this point that Mr. Polopetsi came in. Greeting Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi politely, he made his way to the tea-pot which Mma Makutsi had placed on top of the filing cabinet. He was about to reach for the pot to pour his tea but stopped. “Only one tea-pot,” he said, looking at Mma Makutsi. “Is this bush tea or ordinary tea?”

“Ordinary,” Mma Makutsi muttered.

He looked surprised. “Where is the bush tea, Mma?”

Mma Makutsi, who had been looking away, turned and faced him. “What is it to you, Rra? You drink ordinary tea, do you not? The pot is full of that. Go on, pour. There is plenty there.”

Mr. Polopetsi, a mild man—even milder than Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni—was not one to argue with Mma Makutsi. He said nothing as he picked up the pot and began to pour. Mma Ramotswe, though, had been watching.

“It's all right, Rra,” she said soothingly. “Mma Makutsi did not mean to be rude. Unfortunately we have run out of bush tea. It is my fault. I should have seen this coming. It is not a big thing.”

Mr. Polopetsi put down the tea-pot and picked up his mug, which he cupped with his hands, as if warming them. “Perhaps we should have a system,” he said. “When the number of tea-bags in the tin drops down to five, then it is time for us to get more tea. When I worked in the pharmacy, we had a stock control system like that. When there was only a certain number of boxes of a drug on the shelves, we would automatically order more.” He paused, and took a sip of his tea. “It always worked.”

Mma Ramotswe listened in some discomfort. She glanced at Mma Makutsi, who had returned to her desk with her cup of tea and was tracing an imaginary pattern on her desk with a finger.

“Yes,” Mr. Polopetsi went on. “A system is a very good idea. Did they teach you about systems at the Botswana Secretarial College, Mma Makutsi?”

It was a moment of electric tension, thrilling in retrospect, but at the time it was dangerous to a degree. Mma Ramotswe hardly dared look at Mma Makutsi, but found her eyes drawn inexorably to the other side of the room, where the gaze of the two women met. Then Mma Ramotswe smiled, out of nervousness perhaps, but a smile nonetheless, and to her immense relief Mma Makutsi returned the smile. This was a moment of conspiracy between women, and it drew all the tension from the situation.

“We shall have to put you in charge of tea, then, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi evenly. “Since you know all about systems.”

Mr. Polopetsi, flustered, mumbled a non-committal reply and left the room.

“Well, that sorts that out,” said Mma Ramotswe.