Then Phuti said something that worried her.
‘There is plenty of help for her in the house, Mma. There is that girl who works in the kitchen – she is a very good cook. And she keeps things clean too. And then there is my aunt.’
‘Your aunt?’ Mma Ramotswe said sharply.
Phuti sighed. ‘She is coming to the house for six weeks,’ he said. ‘Grace’s mother is late now, and she says that there must be a senior female relative to help with the baby and all the things that need to be done. She says that it is her duty to come, since we will not let the baby go to her place. In fact…’
She waited for him to continue but he was having difficulty with the words. Mma Makutsi had told her that it was always like that – when Phuti was upset or nervous about something, the words would not come, or would come out in pieces, or sometimes in the wrong order.
‘Has she already come to the house?’ she asked.
‘Y… yes. She is there now.’
Mma Ramotswe was not sure what to say. Phuti’s aunt was a difficult woman, by any standards, and could try even the patience of Dr Moffat, the most patient of men, who would listen to people talking about their problems and their sorrows for any length of time and never urge them to hurry up, because our problems and our sorrows may be a story that is very long in the telling, and he understood that. And Professor Tlou had been the same – that wise man who knew more about the history of Botswana than anybody else, but who had always been prepared to listen to people telling their own story, even if he had heard similar things from many others before. He was late now, but he had not been forgotten and it was as if his wisdom and kindness were still there; which they were, in a way, because people still remembered and that made them a little bit wiser and kinder themselves.
The aunt was not in that company. She was, Mma Ramotswe feared, someone who would probably never improve very much, even if there were times that she appeared to be a little less difficult. But it was always worth trying; there were few people who were so unpleasant that you could not get through to them with courtesy or praise. That was often what such people really wanted – to be praised, to be loved – and that was what could change them.
‘I am sure that she will be a great help,’ she said. ‘It is important for a new mother to have support, and aunts are just the right people for that.’ But not that aunt, she thought. She did not say so, of course, though she sensed that Phuti himself felt it but was prevented by loyalty, of which he had a good measure, and decency, of which he had even more, from expressing doubt as to the helpfulness of his difficult relative.
Mma Ramotswe thought that Mma Makutsi had probably agreed to the arrangement in a moment of weakness, or possibly even in a state of drowsiness. You were never at your best in hospital, and after having given birth you might agree to all sorts of things. Mma Makutsi was saddled with the aunt for now, but perhaps would be capable of dealing with her when she became a bit stronger. Those six weeks that the aunt proposed to stay might, with a bit of skilful negotiation, become six days. That would be bearable, Mma Ramotswe thought.
On the day on which Mma Makutsi was due to return home, Mma Ramotswe closed the office early. It had been a slow day, with not a single client appointment, no mail to speak of, and few continuing investigations. It had, in fact, been a rather quiet period at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, which was not unusual, Mma Ramotswe had noted, in the weeks before the onset of the rains. It was always hot then, and it seemed as if people felt too lethargic to be aware of their problems, or, if they were aware, to be bothered to do anything about them. Once the rains came, it would be different. That was a time when life seemed to start all over again, and this meant that people who had something to worry about – some matter of doubt or uncertainty that required the services of Mma Ramotswe – would think about doing something about their problem. And she, of course, was just the person for that. As the motto of the agency proclaimed: Satisfaction Guaranteed.
She wrote out a note to leave on the door, in case a client should turn up. Closed, she wrote, but open again tomorrow morning as normal. Please return with your problem then. Having dashed off the note, she looked at it more closely. She was not sure whether it was enough to say that a business was closed. Somebody who had made a special trip to consult her might be forgiven for being annoyed at not receiving an explanation; might conclude, perhaps, that this was a business that could close for no reason at all – on a whim. There were businesses like that, she knew; their owners thought nothing of bringing down the shutters because they fancied an afternoon of shopping, or because they felt a little bit tired and wanted to go home to rest, or simply because they were fed up with working. So she felt that she should give some explanation, and perhaps also change the word problem to matter. She had found that people rather liked their problems being described as matters, a term that, she had observed, was much used by lawyers. It was more tactful, she thought.
She reached for a fresh piece of paper and wrote, in large, easy-to-read letters: We are closed today on account of the joyful arrival of the first-born son of Mma Makutsi (Associate Detective). We shall re-open for business matters tomorrow morning, same as usual. Signed, Precious Ramotswe, Owner, No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.
It was a good sign, one that would reassure even the most troubled of clients – and all the clients of detective agencies were troubled, no matter how much they might try to conceal it. If anybody could help them to become less troubled, then undoubtedly it was the signatory of that sign.
She parked her van near the coffee shop at the edge of Riverwalk and made her way past the cluster of traders’ stalls. These stalls were a fruitful source of presents, but not, she decided, ones for a new baby. There were leather belts, and jewellery, and animals made out of polished soapstone, but her real destination was a shop near the large supermarket. This was Mother and Baby, a small shop sandwiched between a men’s clothing store – Kalahari Fashions – and an electronics store – Loud Sounds. She had noticed the store before, having been attracted by the colourful displays mounted in its window, but had never gone inside. It belonged, she had heard, to a woman whose husband was the proprietor of an unsuccessful – but determined – football team unkindly referred to by nearly everybody as the Gaborone All-time Losers. Mma Ramotswe had met this man on one or two occasions as he brought his car to Mr J. L. B. Matekoni for servicing. For the proprietor of a lost cause, he always seemed very cheerful, and she had heard that his wife had a similar approach to life.
She did not look in the window but went straight inside, where one or two other customers were examining a selection of lace bonnets of the sort that people liked to put on babies’ heads. Some of these were attractive enough, in Mma Ramotswe’s view, but others were unduly fussy and only succeeded in making the baby look absurd.
The woman who owned the shop was busy with the bonnets, but smiled in Mma Ramotswe’s direction and gave her a look that seemed to say, These people are being very slow to make up their minds, but I shall be with you before long. It was quite a lengthy message for a single look to convey, but it did so clearly enough.
You could not buy a boy baby a bonnet like that, thought Mma Ramotswe. A cap, perhaps – one of those woollen caps that could be pulled down over the baby’s ears in cold weather. That would be a good present, though inappropriate in this heat. So one might get the baby one of the stuffed toys that were arranged along a section of shelving towards the back of the store. There was every imaginable creature: lions, chickens, even a stuffed anteater. She moved towards the shelf and reached for a lion. It was rather large for a stuffed toy – almost the size of a real lion cub – and it occurred to Mma Ramotswe that a baby might get something of a fright if given such an object.
She replaced the lion and picked up in its stead a long green crocodile, complete with teeth represented by short tabs of white felt. What would a baby make of a crocodile? And was it a good idea to give a baby such a creature to love
when real crocodiles were so completely unlovable? Should you not tell very small children to keep well away from crocodiles, rather than give them the message that crocodiles were suitable companions in the nursery?
She looked at the crocodile. As it stared back at her with its carefully stitched brown eyes, she remembered that a long time ago, at the very beginning of her career as a private detective, she had been obliged to deal with a crocodile that had eaten somebody during a baptism ceremony in a river. It had been such an ill-advised thing to do – to immerse the new believers in a river known for its crocodiles. What did people expect? That the crocodiles would stay away out of respect? She shook her head. People forgot about obvious dangers and then were reminded sharply that Africa could be a dangerous place, for all the sunlight and the music. Yet everywhere was dangerous. The Tlokweng Road was dangerous if you tried to cross it in the face of a careering minibus or a truck. All roads were like that, wherever you went in the world, and if there were crocodiles in rivers in Botswana, then there were sharks in the sea off Durban, and Australia had even more poisonous snakes than Africa. She had read, too, that there were pirates in the Indian Ocean, and so it went on. You had to be aware of all the dangers, but you should not worry about them too much or you would end up sitting in your room afraid to go outside in case something bad happened.
‘Mma Ramotswe?’
It was the owner of the store, who had now finished with her other customers.
Mma Ramotswe struggled to remember the name of the woman.
‘Mma…’ she began.
‘I am Mmakosi. Your husband looks after my husband’s car, I think. He has seen you there, going into your office next to the garage.’
Mma Ramotswe put down the stuffed crocodile and returned the owner’s greeting. She noticed that she used the naming practice that a woman might use in Botswana: Mmakosi, meaning that she was the mother of Kosi, who would be her first-born.
‘I have come about a present,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘It is a present for a new baby.’
Mmakosi nodded and smiled. ‘It’s Mma Makutsi?’
Mma Ramotswe was taken aback. Gaborone was a large town, but there were many occasions on which it behaved like a village – and a small village too. This was an example of exactly that: not only did Mmakosi know who she was, but she was also aware of the birth of the young Radiphuti.
Mmakosi noticed her customer’s surprise. ‘Do not be too astonished, Mma. We hear these things. It is useful information for a shop like this.’
Mma Ramotswe recovered her composure. ‘I should take lessons from you, Mma. I am a detective but so, it seems, are you.’
‘Informants, Mma – that’s the secret. Make sure that you have informants in the right places.’
‘Such as maternity wards?’
Mmakosi’s eyes sparkled. ‘But you must always remember never to reveal your sources,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that you know all about that in your profession.’
‘I understand that,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘And if ever you need a new job, Mma, perhaps you could call me on the telephone…’
They both laughed. Then Mmakosi said, ‘I hear it’s a boy.’
‘That is so, Mma. That’s good news for Phuti Radiphuti – he is the husband – but I always feel it must secretly be a bit disappointing for the mother. You can’t dress boy babies up in the same way as you can dress up girls.’
‘That’s changing, Mma. It used to be the case, but these days there are clothes that suit both sorts of baby.’
‘They’re putting lace on boys?’
‘Not quite,’ said Mmakosi. ‘But that may come. Men are wearing more feminine clothes these days, haven’t you noticed?’
Mma Ramotswe was not sure whether she had noticed this or not. What were Charlie and Fanwell wearing these days? They were young men of fashion, but all she ever saw them in was mechanic’s overalls. For an absurd moment she saw the two of them in greasy overalls with lace cuffs and necks. And Mr J. L. B. Matekoni also in overalls with a delicate lace trim along the edge, perhaps with only a trace of grease here and there…
‘You’re smiling, Mma?’
The ridiculous image faded. ‘I was thinking. My husband’s a mechanic, as you know, and his clothes are… Well, they are the sort of thing that men wear. They don’t like fussy clothes, as a general rule.’
‘Of course, Mma,’ said Mmakosi. ‘I understand that very well. My own husband is like that. His head is full of football, and there is no room for clothes.’ She paused. ‘Mind you, Mma, there is a course, you know. They have a course for men called the Modern Husband course. Have you heard of it?’
‘I have not, Mma. It sounds interesting.’
‘It is very good. I hear they teach men how to cook, or at least to think about cooking.’
Mma Ramotswe’s attention was immediately engaged. ‘That sounds very useful.’
‘And then they have lectures on clothes and how to look smart. Then – and this is very important – there is part of the course called “How to make your wife feel special”. They teach them about buying presents for ladies and how to remember your wife’s birthday.’
Mma Ramotswe laughed. ‘Men could write the date on a piece of paper and put it on the wall. Or they could have a book that had dates like that – birthdays, wedding anniversaries, and so on.’
‘They could do all of that,’ agreed Mmakosi. ‘But do they, Mma? Would men remember their wedding anniversary if we didn’t tell them? I do not think they would.’
It was true, thought Mma Ramotswe. There were many things that men did not do, or only did because there were women there to remind them to do it. Some men, she believed, were almost entirely dependent on their wives and had to be reminded, perhaps, to breathe… ‘Remember to breathe,’ the wife might say as the husband left the house in the morning. ‘In, out. In, out. That’s it.’
‘This course, Mma? Where is it?’
‘I read about it in the newspaper, Mma. I forget where they said it would be. They were hoping to hold it again because it had been a great success the first time round.’
‘I shall look out for it,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘But now, Mma, there is the more pressing question of what to get for this new baby of Mma Makutsi’s.’
‘Come this way,’ said Mmakosi.
Mma Ramotswe left Mmakosi’s shop with a parcel that was far too small to contain a soft toy – a stuffed lion, or elephant, or even a stuffed anteater. It was a neat rectangular package in which, wrapped in coloured tissue paper, nestled a pair of child’s shoes, size zero. These were made of soft leather, dyed red, with bright blue laces, and had been chosen by Mmakosi herself, who had convinced Mma Ramotswe that they were an ideal present for the young Radiphuti.
‘That assistant of yours – your Mma Makutsi – is a lady who likes shoes, I believe,’ said Mmakosi. ‘And if the mother likes shoes, then you can be pretty sure that the baby is going to like shoes too.’
Mma Ramotswe was astonished that Mmakosi should have known this detail of Mma Makutsi’s life, and expressed her surprise.
‘But I have seen her,’ exclaimed Mmakosi. ‘I have seen her going into the Pick and Pay. You can tell that she is a woman who appreciates shoes. You just have to look at her feet.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘She has some nice pairs of shoes now that she is married to Phuti Radiphuti. But even when she was single – and did not have much money – she was careful with her shoes.’
‘She is very wise,’ said Mmakosi. ‘If you look after your shoes…’ She left the unfinished aphorism hanging in the air, imparting to it a slight air of warning. And what, wondered Mma Ramotswe, would be the consequences of not looking after your shoes?
‘Then your shoes will last a long time,’ Mmakosi concluded.
Mma Ramotswe savoured this piece of wisdom. ‘That is certainly true, Mma,’ she said at last. ‘As long as the shoes are well made in the beginning. That is the important thing.’
&nbs
p; Mmakosi was in complete agreement. ‘You get what you pay for,’ she said. ‘You don’t get what you deserve.’
This, Mma Ramotswe felt, was dubious. Mmakosi’s observations about shoes might be true enough, but she was not sure that this proposition about life in general was entirely supportable. ‘That may be so sometimes, Mma,’ she pointed out. ‘But there are many cases, I think, in which people get exactly what they deserve. And that may not be what they think they should get.’
She was thinking of Violet Sephotho as she said this. Violet, who seemed to have dedicated herself to being Mma Makutsi’s nemesis – on the grounds of jealousy going way back to their days in the Botswana Secretarial College – had got her just deserts in that her ploys had consistently failed. She had been dramatically exposed when she worked for a short time as an assistant at the Double Comfort Shop, her short-lived political career had been nipped in the bud, and her attempts to secure a wealthy husband had similarly met with no success. She had brought all of this on herself, and so she had, in a sense, got what she deserved. But even so, Mma Ramotswe reminded herself, she had a soul like everybody else and one should not crow over the defeat even of those who richly deserve to be defeated. That was dangerous because then you yourself might get what you deserve for revelling in the misfortunes of another. It was safer, perhaps, not to think of Violet at all…