CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THE MOTHER OF MPHO.

WITH MMA MAKUTSI out of the office now, on leave for the final preparations for her wedding, Mma Ramotswe had no excuse for putting off that which she knew she had to do. It was not that Mma Makutsi made it impossible for her to get on with her work; it was really just that if she and her a.s.sistant were in the office together, then there always seemed to be something to talk about, some office ch.o.r.e that could be tackled together, or a letter that needed to be dictated. out of the office now, on leave for the final preparations for her wedding, Mma Ramotswe had no excuse for putting off that which she knew she had to do. It was not that Mma Makutsi made it impossible for her to get on with her work; it was really just that if she and her a.s.sistant were in the office together, then there always seemed to be something to talk about, some office ch.o.r.e that could be tackled together, or a letter that needed to be dictated.

She thought about dictation. Mma Makutsi was, of course, proud of her skills in this respect, having learned shorthand at the Botswana Secretarial College, where her average speed was one hundred and twenty-eight words per minute.

"I cannot speak at that rate," Mma Ramotswe had said when Mma Makutsi revealed this fact to her. "One hundred and twenty-eight words per minute is very fast, Mma. I am not sure if I can even think at that speed."

Mma Makutsi laughed-the relaxed laugh of one who knows that her secretarial skills are beyond question. "It's true, Mma, that most people cannot write shorthand at even one hundred words per minute. Take Violet Sephotho, for example: she managed forty-two words per minute, and probably couldn't even do that these days. Forty-two words, Mma! It would take all day to write one letter at that rate." She paused; there are some remarks, like some temptations, that simply cannot be resisted-at least by those of us who are made of ordinary human stuff. "Of course, Violet was always much faster in some other matters..."

Mma Ramotswe smiled. "I see," she said. "Well, there we are. There are all sorts of people, aren't there?"

It was not a remark with which one could disagree, but Mma Makutsi felt that it did not convey convey very much. Of course there were all sorts of people-surely that went without saying. If there were not all sorts of people then life would be remarkably dull, and indeed she felt that she and Mma Ramotswe would be out of a job. But she did not wish to say anything further about Violet Sephotho: her point had been made, and it was clear enough. very much. Of course there were all sorts of people-surely that went without saying. If there were not all sorts of people then life would be remarkably dull, and indeed she felt that she and Mma Ramotswe would be out of a job. But she did not wish to say anything further about Violet Sephotho: her point had been made, and it was clear enough.

"Typing speed is important too," Mma Makutsi had continued. "I have been known to type at just under one hundred words per minute, Mma. There are some typists who are quicker than that, but I have not met one yet-personally, that is. I have read about these people, but have not met them."

"They will type many pages, those people," said Mma Ramotswe.

"I think so, Mma."

That sort of conversation could go on for hours, and sometimes did. That meant tasks which had been put off would remain undone, and that was exactly what had happened with the Moeti case. Mma Ramotswe knew what she had to do: she had to make a journey out to Mr. Moeti's place and speak to Mpho's mother. This woman, she felt, somehow held the key to what had happened. She was now inclined to discount Mpho's confession, but she would still have to raise with his mother the possibility that the boy was responsible for the attack. She was not looking forward to this, as no mother likes to hear of the delinquency of her son, especially when, as Mma Ramotswe imagined would be the case here, the son was one of the few things she had in this world. People lived for their children, and she could imagine how difficult must be the realisation that your child has done something terrible. What would you do if you discovered that a member of your family-a husband or a son, perhaps-was wanted by the police? Would you have to give him up? Surely no mother would do that.

Her mind wandered. What if she were to discover that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni were a car thief-that all those cars sitting around the garage were in fact stolen? But that was something she found it impossible to contemplate: Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was incapable of doing anything underhand or unkind, and if anybody were ever to accuse him of such a thing, she would simply not believe it. And that, she thought, might be how Mpho's mother would react. She remembered now how she had looked when she first met her at Mr. Moeti's house. She looked guilty, and Mma Ramotswe had thought that she might well have been responsible for the attack on the cattle. Now, of course, that guilt made sense: a mother who knows that her son has something to answer for will of course look guilty.

She decided that she would go out to the Moeti farm in the late afternoon. She wanted to speak to Mpho's mother without Mr. Moeti himself being present, and she felt that her best chance of doing that would be when she had finished her work for the day. A domestic helper might return later on to make dinner, serve it, and then wash up, but round about five or six she would probably be allowed to be in her own quarters. She would go there, talk to the woman, and then go to Mr. Moeti and speak to him. She was not yet sure what she would say; there were still matters needing to be resolved, and what she said to him would be dependent on how these worked out.

The trip itself was an unalloyed pleasure. The white van was running quietly and contentedly; the terrible knocking sound was nowhere to be heard, the brakes were responsive and silent, and the suspension was comfortable and evenly balanced. That could change, of course, and the van could resume its list to starboard, but that would be a minor irritation and one that traditionally built people were well accustomed to. The old van, of course, was slower than the new one, but that did not bother Mma Ramotswe in the slightest; she was not the sort of detective-or person, indeed-who needed to get anywhere fast. In her experience, the places one set off for were usually still there no matter when one arrived; it would be different, naturally enough, if towns, villages, houses moved moved-then one might have a real reason to hurry-but they did not. Nor did people themselves move very much, in Mma Ramotswe's experience; she remembered how in Mochudi, in what people fondly called the old days, there were people who could be seen standing or sitting in one place for days on end. If one wanted to see a certain man-an expert in goats-then it was well known that he could be found sitting under a particular tree, and that was where advice on goats could always be obtained. Her father told her that this man had once been accused of stock theft by somebody from a neighbouring village. The police at Mochudi had listened to the complaint but had dismissed it out of hand-and quite rightly too. They had explained that the man in question never went anywhere, as everybody knew very well, and that it was quite out of the question that he could have partic.i.p.ated in a stock theft elsewhere. "That shows, Precious," Obed Ramotswe had said, "that if you do one thing all the time, then people will know that is what you do."

The old days: people sometimes laughed at those who talked about the old days, but Mma Ramotswe was not one of them. She knew that all of us, even the youngest, had some old days to remember. Children of ten remember how it was when they were five, just as men or women of fifty remember the way things were when they were twenty; and if those distant pasts are coated with sweetness and longing, then that might be because people indeed felt happier then. She did not think that people now were any worse worse than they used to be, but it was very clear to her that they had less time. In the old days Botswana people were rarely in a rush to get somewhere else-why should they be? Nowadays, people were always thinking of getting somewhere-they travelled around far more, rushing from here to there and then back again. She would never let her life go that way; she would always take the time to drink tea, to look at the sky, and to talk. What else was there to do? Make money? Why? Did money bring any greater happiness than that furnished by a well-made cup of red bush tea and a moment or two with a good friend? She thought not. than they used to be, but it was very clear to her that they had less time. In the old days Botswana people were rarely in a rush to get somewhere else-why should they be? Nowadays, people were always thinking of getting somewhere-they travelled around far more, rushing from here to there and then back again. She would never let her life go that way; she would always take the time to drink tea, to look at the sky, and to talk. What else was there to do? Make money? Why? Did money bring any greater happiness than that furnished by a well-made cup of red bush tea and a moment or two with a good friend? She thought not.

I'M SORRY, Mmampho. You never told me your name." Mmampho. You never told me your name."

Mma Ramotswe felt that it was her fault. People ignored domestic helpers-presences in the background-and rarely asked their names. She usually did, but had forgotten to do so when she first met this woman; addressing her as Mother of Mpho Mother of Mpho was perfectly polite in such circ.u.mstances, of course, but using her real name would be even better. was perfectly polite in such circ.u.mstances, of course, but using her real name would be even better.

The courtesy had its effect. "I am Pelenomi, Mma. Thank you."

Mma Ramotswe held out her hands in greeting. She was pleased that she had found the woman at home, as she had hoped to do, and that Mpho did not appear to be there.

"Your little boy?" she asked. "Is he looking after the cattle?"

Pelenomi nodded. "He must count them each night before it gets dark. Then he comes home for his food."

"He has a busy day," said Mma Ramotswe. "School, and then the cattle."

"Yes. He is a good boy, Mma. He works hard." She looked at her visitor. "You have children yourself, Mma?"

Mma Ramotswe explained about the fostering of Puso and Motholeli. "I am their mother now," she said. "Their own mother is late." She paused. "And I have a late baby, Mma. It is a long time ago now."

"But it is never long ago when that happens," said Pelenomi. "I have a late child too, Mma. Mpho had a sister. She was never well. G.o.d took her back."

There was a silence-a moment of shared loss. Then Pelenomi asked why Mma Ramotswe had come to see her. "It is something to do with that cattle business?" she asked.

Mma Ramotswe nodded. "It is very difficult, Mma. I am not sure how to talk to you about this."

They were standing outside the entrance to her single-roomed servants' quarters-not much more than a whitewashed shack. Pelenomi now invited Mma Ramotswe inside and sat down-with the natural grace of one accustomed to sitting on the floor. Mma Ramotswe lowered herself to the ground. One should not forget how to sit on the floor, she thought-never, no matter what happened in one's life, no matter where one's life journey took one. A president, she believed, should be able to sit on the floor with as much ease as the humblest herdsman.

"What have you found, Mma?" asked Pelenomi.

"I was at the school, Mma."

Pelenomi stiffened. "At the school? Why?"

"I wanted to speak to Mpho. I didn't want adults to be around him when we spoke. I'm sorry, Mma, I didn't ask your permission-I hope you don't mind. I thought he was a witness, you see."

"He did not see anything. He is just a boy."

Mma Ramotswe said nothing for a moment. Then she said, "He told me that he did it, Mma."

There was no mistaking Pelenomi's surprise. "Mpho told you that, Mma? Oh, that is just a child speaking, Mma. A child says the first thing that comes into his mind. You should not listen to a child. My son did not do anything, Mma. Nothing."

Her voice had risen towards the end of this, as her indignation grew. It was as Mma Ramotswe had imagined-the loyal mother refusing to accept that her son could have done something like that. But what was said next was less than expected.

"No, it is not my son, Mma. It is...it is another person altogether." She paused. "I know who it is, Mma. I know."

Mma Ramotswe watched her carefully. This woman was not lying.

"Who then, Mma? Mr. Fort.i.tude Seleo?"

Pelenomi's lip curled. "Not that man. He could not do a thing like that. He is too busy walking around smiling at people."

There was bitterness in this last remark.

"That is better than scowling at them, I think, Mma. But that is neither here nor there. If it is not Seleo, then who is it?"

"It is another man altogether. I cannot name him, Mma. I'm sorry."

"But why did Mpho say that it was him? I saw his face when he told me, Mma. I could tell that he was very upset. A child does not make these things up."

The answer came quickly. "Because he thought it was me, Mma. He thought that his mother had done it. He was frightened for his mother. That is why he told you it was him. A child does not want his mother to go to prison."

"Why did he think it was you?"

"Because he saw something. And I told him. I had to tell him something."

"What did he see?"

Pelenomi was now becoming fl.u.s.tered, and was clearly regretting allowing herself to be pushed into a corner by Mma Ramotswe's questions. "There are some things that children see..."

"What did he see, Mma?"

"He saw some blood. He saw a handkerchief with blood on it."

A small insect moved slowly across the floor, a spider perhaps, making Mma Ramotswe move her legs slightly. Pelenomi watched the movement.

"I keep this house clean, Mma," she muttered.

"I'm sure you do. There are ants everywhere. It is not your fault. But what about this handkerchief, Mma?"

The misery came through Pelenomi's voice. "It was the handkerchief of the man who had done that thing to the cattle. He was in this house after he had done it. Mpho was asleep-he never wakes up. He saw the cloth in the morning."

"And he thought it was yours?"

Pelenomi nodded. "I told him it was mine. I told him that Moeti had done some bad thing to me and that I had taken my revenge on his cattle. That is why he lied to protect me."

Unless, thought Mma Ramotswe, thought Mma Ramotswe, you are lying to protect him. you are lying to protect him.

There was a knock on the door, a voice muttering Ko! Ko! Ko! Ko!

Pelenomi looked up in alarm and began to scramble to her feet. Moeti? Moeti? wondered Mma Ramotswe. The door opened before she could reach it and a man stepped into the room. He stood for a moment, confused by the unexpected presence. It was not Moeti. Oreeditse Modise, the teacher at the school. wondered Mma Ramotswe. The door opened before she could reach it and a man stepped into the room. He stood for a moment, confused by the unexpected presence. It was not Moeti. Oreeditse Modise, the teacher at the school.

He'd come in with the confidence of one entering the house of his lover. And that, Mma Ramotswe decided at that moment, was exactly what he was. She did not have to think about it: the dwarf was the lover of Mpho's mother. And more than that: he was the man who had attacked the cattle. Of course he was; why else had he and his secretary exclaimed their outrage over the incident with such forcefulness? That had been an act: he was the perpetrator, and the secretary must somehow have come into that information. But why had he done it? Pelenomi had given a clue to that in saying that she had made up a story about her being a victim of Moeti. Well, she had not made it up; she was. And Modise had avenged her in the way they knew would cause maximum distress to Moeti.

They looked at each other wordlessly. Then Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet and dusted off her skirt. "I mustn't stay, Mma," she said. "Now that you have another visitor."

The teacher was staring at her. She met his gaze.

"I have been looking into this cattle problem," Mma Ramotswe said quietly. "Now I must go. But there are a few questions I would like an answer to. Please think carefully before you give me your reply."

Pelenomi and Modise exchanged glances. Then Modise nodded. "What are these questions, Mma?"

"My questions," began Mma Ramotswe, "are these ones, Rra. Would I be right in thinking that this very bad thing that has happened here will not happen again? Would I be right in thinking that if I were to tell Moeti that everything is over, that not one more of his cattle will suffer, then there would be no more of this sort of thing happening? Would I be right in thinking that the person who did this would realise that I could go to the police if I wanted to and insist that they sorted it all out? Would that person-whoever he might be-also understand that there is no excuse for settling one wrong with another?"

There was a further exchange of glances between Modise and Pelenomi. Then he spoke: "I think you would be right, Mma. I am sure of it."

"Good," said Mma Ramotswe. "Then that is the end of that, I think."

SHE LEFT THE VAN where it was and walked over to the Moeti farmhouse. She found him in his living room, listening to the Radio Botswana news. He greeted her cheerfully and offered her a cold beer, which she declined. where it was and walked over to the Moeti farmhouse. She found him in his living room, listening to the Radio Botswana news. He greeted her cheerfully and offered her a cold beer, which she declined.

"I hoped that you might have celebrated with me, Mma Ramotswe," he said. "But I can drink your beer too! A bigger celebration for me."

She was puzzled. "Celebrating, Rra?"

"Yes. Celebrating your solving the issue of my poor cattle." He reached for a beer from a tray on his side table. "Here goes, Mma Ramotswe. Here's to the top detective who sorts everything out one hundred per cent. Here's to you!"

"You are happy, Rra?" she said lamely.

"Happy? Yes, of course I am. Seleo came to see me. Not to complain this time but to tell me that he had arranged for the fencing work to start on Tuesday. So no more trespa.s.sing by his cattle. But he did something else-to make up for all my inconvenience. He has given me six months' supply of cattle-lick for my cattle."

Mma Ramotswe was at a loss as to what to say.

"I think what happened was that you must have put the fear of G.o.d into him, Mma. Once he realised that the country's top detective was on to him, he must have caved in and decided to apologise. And there's another thing, Mma. He gave me the cash value of the cattle he did that terrible thing to. A good price. So I am happy now to say that it is all over. We can be good neighbours again. That is the Botswana way, and that is what I want."

Mma Ramotswe looked up at the ceiling. She had no idea what to make of this, but she knew that whichever way one looked at it, this was an entirely satisfactory outcome. She might not be completely certain who carried out the attack on the cattle, but the issue was well and truly put to bed. It was not Mpho, she thought; and although until a few moments ago she had thought it was the teacher, that conclusion had now been called into question. Pelenomi had effectively blamed Modise, but if he had done it, why had Seleo acted as he had? She had advised him to make some sort of friendly approach to Moeti and to give him a gift of cattle-lick. He had then gone further than that-much further-and had more or less acknowledged his guilt by compensating his neighbour for the loss of his cattle. Why would he do that? Unless, of course, he was trying to protect the real culprit-the teacher? But what possible reason could he have to do that?

She continued to stare up at the ceiling. Perhaps everybody is lying, she thought. And as she thought this, she remembered a pa.s.sage from Clovis Andersen. There are some cases where everybody tells lies, There are some cases where everybody tells lies, he wrote. he wrote. In these cases you will never know the truth. The more you try to find out what happened, the more lies you uncover. My advice is: do not lose sleep over such matters. Move on, ladies and gentlemen: move on. In these cases you will never know the truth. The more you try to find out what happened, the more lies you uncover. My advice is: do not lose sleep over such matters. Move on, ladies and gentlemen: move on.

She continued to think about it as she drove home. She was now inclined to acquit Mr. Seleo, who was exactly as the security guard had described him. He was a good man who had decided to see whether a generous approach to his neighbour would heal their rift. And it had. No, it was not him. It was the teacher, then-the jealous lover who resented the way Mr. Moeti had treated the woman he loved. Or-and she kept coming back to this possibility-it really had been Mpho, that poor little boy who was desperate for attention and filled with anger at the man who had harmed his mother in some unspoken way. And the mother had then so engineered things that Mma Ramotswe would think it was the teacher, in order to cover for her son...or for herself.

These questions occupied her mind all the way back to Gaborone. She was sure that it was one of the three: Mpho, his mother, or the teacher. The mother had been genuinely surprised at Mpho's confession, and that pointed to his innocence. If it was not the boy, then, it was the mother, or the teacher. Of the two, she favoured the teacher as the culprit; the attack itself did not seem to be the work of a woman. She was not sure why she felt that; she just did. A woman knows what another woman will do, she thought.

But then, as she reached the edge of the city, she suddenly smiled and said to herself: "Does it really matter? The milk is spilled. It will not be spilled again." There would be no further attacks-that was clear, and the damage had been set right by one who was not responsible for it. All that was lacking was the punishment of the one responsible. But punishment often did not do what we wanted it to do. If the teacher were to be denounced, he could lose his job and then Mpho and his mother could lose the man who was their one chance of something better. There was no reason for her to bring that about.

This thought of milk brought tea to her mind. She needed tea-a large cup of it-and that was what she would make when she returned home to Zebra Drive. She would say to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni: "A dreadfully difficult case, Rra, all sorted out now. But don't ask me to explain how it worked out, Rra. There are some things that are just too hard to explain, and I think that this is one of them."

Perhaps she would say that. Perhaps. But she was not sure whether she would think think that, as she was now reaching a firmer conclusion. The teacher did it. It that, as she was now reaching a firmer conclusion. The teacher did it. It was was him. Yes, definitely. Or perhaps... him. Yes, definitely. Or perhaps...

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

SHE CRIED FOR JOY.

WHEN HE READ ALOUD the wedding invitation Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said, "At long last the elder Mr. Radiphuti and the late Mrs. Radiphuti have pleasure in inviting you to the wedding of their beloved Phuti Edgar Radiphuti, to Grace Makutsi, Dip. Sec. RSVP." the wedding invitation Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said, "At long last the elder Mr. Radiphuti and the late Mrs. Radiphuti have pleasure in inviting you to the wedding of their beloved Phuti Edgar Radiphuti, to Grace Makutsi, Dip. Sec. RSVP."

He had corrected himself immediately. "It doesn't actually say at long last, at long last, Mma Ramotswe. That was me. It just says Mma Ramotswe. That was me. It just says The elder Mr. Radiphuti, The elder Mr. Radiphuti, and so on." and so on."

Mma Ramotswe smiled. "I see that the invitation is also from the late mother," she said. "I'm not sure whether that wording is quite right, but that does not matter. The important thing is, as you say, that at long last those two are getting married." She also had some doubt about putting RSVP so close to Dip. Sec. as some people-perhaps some of the older country guests-might interpret RSVP as a qualification and wonder what it was.

These were little things, though, as Mma Ramotswe pointed out. What counted was that on that particular Sat.u.r.day, Mma Makutsi was to become Mrs. Phuti Radiphuti; that the weather was behaving itself, with no unexpected storm to disrupt proceedings ; that the bus bringing the Makutsi guests down from Bobonong had made the journey with no greater disaster than a flat tyre just outside Mahalapye; and that all the arrangements for the wedding feast had gone as smoothly as could possibly be hoped for.

This last achievement was partly to the credit of Mma Potokwane, who had interpreted Mma Makutsi's acceptance of help with the pots and with cake as a green light to take over control of all aspects of the feast. n.o.body had objected to this, not even Mma Makutsi, who, although she had in the past been irritated by Mma Potokwane's controlling tendencies, found them a great rea.s.surance now.

"She is like a hurricane," Mma Makutsi whispered to Mma Ramotswe on Friday morning when Mma Ramotswe phoned her to check that all was well. "She is in the next room right now, and there is a lot of banging of pots and some big thumping sounds that I cannot make out."

"Cakes," suggested Mma Ramotswe. "That is the sound of her cakes being taken out of their tins."

"Maybe, Mma. Now I think they are chopping something, but I do not know what it is."

"She will make sure that everything is all right," said Mma Ramotswe. "I remember what she did at my own wedding. She got all the house-mothers at the orphan farm to do the cooking. She was like a general telling the Botswana Defence Force what to do. March this way, march that way-that sort of thing."

"I don't think she will let anything go wrong," said Mma Makutsi, not without relief.