“But, why didn’t Moeti go to the police himself?” asked Mma Makutsi. “It’s up to him if he wants to make it a police matter. He didn’t—he came to you. So in fact it is not for you to go to the police, Mma. No.”
“Perhaps not,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Well then,” said Mma Makutsi, in a certain tone of satisfaction. “Well then, that solves that, doesn’t it? QED—as we were taught to say at the Botswana Secretarial College.”
“QED?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “What does that stand for?”
Mma Makutsi looked uncomfortable. “QED? I’m not one hundred per cent sure. I think it might mean There you are, or maybe I told you so …”
Mma Ramotswe came to her rescue; she understood Mma Makutsi’s sensitivity, and she did not want to show her up. “You may not be one hundred per cent sure,” she said. “But I imagine that you’ll be at least ninety-seven per cent sure!”
It was a very good joke, and it enabled them both to leave the issue of the Moeti attack and start thinking of something else. But Mma Ramotswe remained less than satisfied. She felt vaguely guilty, as if she had embarked upon a plan to conceal a major crime. And that, she suddenly realised, was what she had almost done; it was not for her to decide whether or not to disclose what had happened. A crime had been committed, even if it was a crime by a child—something that should normally be dealt with by a stern talking-to and promises by parents. No, she would have to go and see the boy’s mother and hand the affair over to her. She would plead for the boy, but she could not protect him, nor his mother, completely; the world was not as she would like it to be, but there was very little she could do to change that. Withholding the truth from Mr. Moeti was wrong, but it was also wrong to break a promise to a small, vulnerable child, who would never forget that an adult he trusted had let him down. So here she was faced with two evils, and the lesser one, she was sure, was unquestionably the one to choose.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHARLIE COMES TO ZEBRA DRIVE, BY NIGHT
THAT EVENING Charlie came to the house on Zebra Drive. He came quietly, appearing at the back door like a wraith, startling Mma Ramotswe, who was washing up after dinner. She had been standing at the sink, her hands immersed in soapy water, when she noticed the movement outside, half in the darkness, half in the square of light thrown out from the window.
“Charlie!”
He did not hear her; he was staring in through the window now, as if searching the room. She waved a hand, signalling to him, and he glanced at her.
“I’ll let you in,” she mouthed.
He did not look as if he wanted to come in, as he now seemed to retreat back into the shadows.
“Wait. Don’t go away.”
She dried her hands perfunctorily before opening the door that led from the kitchen to the yard outside. The open door cast an oblong of light in the yard outside, revealing the figure of Charlie, standing awkwardly by one of the struggling shrubs that Mma Ramotswe had planted in that difficult, rather sandy part of her garden.
She made an effort to appear natural, as if the arrival by night of an unannounced visitor lurking in the darkness was nothing unusual.
“So, Fanwell passed on my message,” she said. “I’m glad that you’ve come.”
He mumbled something that she did not catch.
“Why don’t you come into the kitchen?” she asked. “I can give you something to eat, if you like.”
He shook his head. “I’m not hungry. And I don’t want to see the boss.”
She made a gesture of acceptance. “You don’t have to see him. We can talk out here.” She moved towards him, taking his hand. “I often like to come out into the garden at night, you know. It’s a good time to smell the plants. They smell different at night, you see. They—”
“I cannot stay long,” he said.
“You don’t have to. You can go any time. But it would be better, don’t you think, to talk about this.”
She drew him towards the side of the house, to two old iron chairs they kept outside and rarely sat in, but he resisted.
“It is my business,” he said sullenly. “I am not a child.”
She squeezed his hand. “Of course it’s your business, Charlie. Of course it is.”
“Then why does she shout at me, that woman? Why does she—”
“Mma Makutsi?”
He sniffed. “She is like a cow. She is always talking like a cow.”
Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “You two don’t see eye to eye, do you?” It was, she felt, putting it mildly; Mma Makutsi and Charlie had sparred for as long as they had known each other—a personality thing, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had said. Petrol and diesel, he had added; they don’t mix.
“She cannot tell me what to do,” continued Charlie. “Those babies …”
Mma Ramotswe waited for him to finish the sentence, but he fell silent. “Those babies,” she said gently. “Your children.”
“I did not tell her to have them,” he said. “It is her fault. She is a stupid girl.”
Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. Mma Makutsi, she felt, might have a point; she kept her voice from rising. “Nobody has to marry somebody they don’t want to marry,” she said evenly. “It is not a good idea to make people do that—they will only feel unhappy.”
“I don’t want to get married yet,” said Charlie.
“Then don’t,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And she may not want you to, anyway. Have you spoken to her about it?”
He had not, he said. He had not seen Prudence since she had told him that she was pregnant.
Mma Ramotswe was still trying to be gentle, but her question slipped out. “Why? Why did you do something like that, Charlie?”
She saw the effect of her question: there was pain in his expression; she could see that, even in the faint light from the window.
“What could I do, Mma? I cannot look after her children.”
“Your children, Charlie.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him. “But let’s not speak about that, Charlie. Would you like me to talk to her?”
She saw his eyes open wide.
“You, Mma?”
She sighed. “Yes, Charlie. I can go. Sometimes it is easier if you get somebody to talk to somebody else for you. They can explain. They can tell the other person how you’re feeling. That makes it easier.”
She could tell that he was torn, and she pressed her advantage. “I could tell her that you feel you can’t get married, but that you would like to do something—even if it is not very much—to help with the babies. It’s not money, I think—not in this case. It’s maybe just enough for you to visit the babies so that as they grow up they have a father.”
He was listening, she thought.
“But what if she makes me marry her?”
“I don’t think she will. And I can tell her not to talk about that—if she’ll listen to me.”
Charlie was silent. “And Mma Makutsi?”
Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. “I’ll talk to her too. I don’t think she will say anything.” She hesitated. “Remember, I am her boss, after all. And I know that she can be a bit … a bit forceful at times.”
She had not anticipated it, but this remark seemed to change everything.
“You can tell her to shut up, Mma?” Charlie said. “That is very good. All the time I thought that everyone agreed with her. There were all these women. You. Her. Mma Potokwane too. All against me.”
“Well, I’m not against you, Charlie. I promise you that.” She paused. “And you’ll come back to work tomorrow? If you do, I’ll tell Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. He won’t say anything.”
“Nothing?”
“I’ll talk to him too. He’ll understand.”
Charlie considered this. “He’s a good man.”
“Of course he is, Charlie, and so are you, you know.”
Had it not been quite so dark, Mma Ramotswe would have seen the effect of her words. Charlie, who had been slouching, as if ex
pecting some sort of physical blow, seemed to grow in stature. The furtiveness with which he had acted disappeared, and he stepped forward, as if putting the shadows, real and otherwise, behind him. “Thank you, Mma. Thank you …” His voice became choked.
She looked at her watch. “It’s getting late, Charlie. Would you like me to run you home in my van?”
“I am at Fanwell’s place.”
“I can take you there. Go to the van. I’ll fetch the key.”
They drove across town to Old Naledi, where Fanwell lived with his grandmother. It was a poor neighbourhood—the poorest in town—and the lighting was non-existent. At one point they took a wrong turning and drove up an unfamiliar road. Charlie thought that they would be able to get back to where they wanted to be if they took the next road on the right, and told Mma Ramotswe to continue.
“You could get really lost in here,” she said. “Even in daytime.”
“There are too many houses,” said Charlie. “They shouldn’t let people put these things up.” He peered into the night. “Turn here, Mma. This road goes round the back there.”
Mma Ramotswe swung the wheel of the van. The beam of the headlights moved across a makeshift fence and the walls of a house behind it, then back to illuminate the surface of a road that was not much more than an urban track, unpaved and bumpy. A struggling tree beside it and then a gate, another house, a bit larger this one and painted an indeterminate colour—in that light it was difficult to make out just what—and on the edge of the road a bit further along, half on the track, half off, parked carelessly as every vehicle seemed to be in this ramshackle place, a small van, and in this case there was no mistaking its colour, which was white.
She saw it a few seconds before Charlie did, and put her foot firmly on the brake.
“No,” he said. “This is the right way. Carry on.”
“Charlie,” she stuttered.
And then he saw it too. “Oh,” he said. “That looks like your old van, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe engaged gear and drove forward slowly, stopping just short of the other van. In the glare of the headlights, the white was bright, almost shiny. She switched off the engine, but left the lights on.
“It’s my van, Charlie. I know it.”
“There are many such vans, Mma. White is a popular colour.”
“This one is mine,” she said. “I’m going to check. There is a place where a post hit me.”
She got out of the van and was followed by Charlie. Bending down, floodlit in the darkness, she examined the place on the bodywork where she had encountered the errant post. It was there, in exactly the right place. She straightened up and moved towards the front, peering in the window on the driver’s side. Yes. It was there—the large scratch on the metal dashboard that Puso as a small boy had made with a knitting needle.
She turned to Charlie. The lights were shining directly into her eyes, two great suns in the darkness, and she could not make out his face. “It is definitely my van, Charlie. There is that dent, and the scratch that Puso made. This is my tiny white van.”
He had been persuaded. “Well,” he said, touching the bodywork affectionately. “So here it is, Mma. Our old friend. Still going.”
She looked about her. The house outside which the van was parked was slightly better than many around it—there was a well-kept yard with a small chicken coop, a lean-to latrine with a tap on the outer wall, a path on the side of which small stones had been lined. The house itself was in darkness, although lights were on in neighbouring homes.
“So, Mma,” said Charlie. “It is good to see this van still going. It must have cost a bit to fix up. Or maybe it was done by somebody with a lot of time on his hands.”
“Like me.”
They both spun round. The voice had come from behind them, from the roadside rather than the yard. A man was standing in the middle of the road, a shape in the darkness.
“That is my van,” he said, addressing himself to Charlie. “What are you doing, Rra? Why are you looking at my van?”
Mma Ramotswe answered. “We are not doing anything wrong, Rra,” she said. “I used to own this van. We were driving past and I saw it. That is all.”
The man came closer; now they could see him properly in the headlights. He was of stocky build, somewhere in his thirties, wearing neat khaki trousers and a white shirt. As he looked at them, they saw him relax.
“I put some work into it,” he said. “But most of it was done by the man up north who bought it before me. He didn’t have the time to finish, and so I did the rest.”
“You are a mechanic, Rra?” asked Charlie.
“No,” said the man. “I am not a mechanic. Not a proper one.”
“I am,” said Charlie. “Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors.”
“I know the place,” said the man. “That woman detective place.”
“And that is me,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am that woman.”
The man nodded at her. “You drove the van, Mma?”
She reached out to touch it. “For many years, Rra. Many years.”
“And now? Now this nice new vehicle here?” He gestured towards the blue van. “Lucky you.”
Mma Ramotswe agreed that the new van was comfortable, indeed smart. But she still loved the old van, she confessed. It had been a friend.
“I know what you mean,” said the man. “You get used to a car, I think. It is like an old pair of shoes.”
“It grows to fit you,” said Mma Ramotswe.
The man nodded. “Well …”
Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. There were moments in life when something had to be said, or be left unsaid forever. It was ridiculous—she knew it was—but she had to speak.
“Tell me, Rra, would you consider selling this van if you were given a good price—and I mean a really good price?”
Charlie glanced at her and frowned. She touched him on the wrist—a gesture to tell him to leave it to her.
“A really good price?”
“Yes, Rra. What if somebody paid you enough for you to buy a newer van? Not a really new one, of course, but one that had much less mileage. Much less.”
The man did not hesitate. “I would say yes,” he said. “Anybody with any sense would say yes if such a person came along.”
“I am that person,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly.
Charlie tried to intervene. “Mma, what would Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni say?”
Mma Ramotswe answered curtly. “It is my money, Charlie. Mine. And if I wish to spend it on a van, then—”
“All right,” said Charlie. “But let me ask what has been done to the van.”
Mma Ramotswe turned to the man. “You have already answered that, Rra, haven’t you?”
The man now appeared to scent an opportunity. “Everything has been done, Mma! Everything. New this, new that, new the other thing. Yes, everything.”
“There,” said Mma Ramotswe to Charlie. “You heard him.”
Charlie shook his head. “What is a this? What is a that? Those are not mechanical terms, Mma.”
The man defended himself. “She is a lady, Rra. You do not want to burden ladies with talk about big-ends and rebores. You should know that—as a mechanic.”
“That is right,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There is no point in making ladies unhappy with mechanical details.” She touched the car again. “Can we talk tomorrow, Rra?”
The man nodded eagerly. “I work at that electrical store at Riverwalk. You know the one?”
“I do,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Can I come to see you some time soon to discuss the price?”
“Yes,” agreed the man. “When you get there, you ask for Daniel. That is me. I am not always in the front, and they may have to fetch me from the back office. I am assistant manager, you see.”
“Then that is what I shall do, Daniel,” said Mma Ramotswe.
They said goodnight and returned to the blue van. As they drove away, Daniel waved cheerfully before opening his gate and disappearing up the
path lined with stones.
“I do not think this is a good idea, Mma,” said Charlie. “This van is very good. It was very expensive. What are you going to do?”
“I am going to sell it, Charlie.”
He whistled. “You can’t. You can’t sell this good van and buy back your old van. You can’t do that sort of thing, Mma.”
“Can’t I?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Why not? Can you tell me why not?”
SHE DROPPED CHARLIE at Fanwell’s house, which was in darkness. He had become silent again, but she did not have the impression that he had changed his mind about returning. She took his hand briefly before he got out of the car and squeezed it. “You can sleep well tonight, Charlie,” she said. “No need to worry.”
On the way back home, she thought about what she had done. She had acted impulsively—she recognised that—but there were times when that was what you had to do. And did it matter, did it really matter that she would probably lose money in the sale of this blue van? Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had bought it for her, but he had used the money in their joint bank account to do so, and she had put that money there from the profits of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. She and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shared everything and normally did not even think about who earned what, but if he were to call her to account for the sale of the blue van, she could always point out that she had effectively paid for it.
Would he understand why she felt she had to have her tiny white van back? She did not think that he would: men didn’t love things in the same way as women did. They were fond of some things, of course, but she did not think that they loved things in that way. The heart of a man was different—every woman knew that.
That was what she thought, but then, as she drove round the roundabout near the Anglican cathedral she thought of her father, the late Obed Ramotswe, and of how he had loved his battered old hat. That was where it came from, perhaps—her love of the white van was love of exactly the same sort that her father had had for his hat. So maybe she was wrong about men; maybe they did love things in the same way as women; maybe they had just as many tears to shed for the things they had lost.