Mma Ramotswe replied that this was understandable, but her mind was elsewhere. She wanted to talk to this woman; would that be possible?
‘We can go and see her,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘The housemothers are usually in the houses doing some cooking or keeping the place tidy. If she isn’t there, she won’t be far away.’
They finished their tea. The cake, Mma Ramotswe pronounced, was very much better for the additional sultanas and she ventured to suggest that even more might be added to good effect. Mma Potokwani considered this possibility and said that she would try. ‘There will be a limit, though,’ she pointed out. ‘A fruitcake must have some other fruit, not just sultanas, otherwise it becomes a sultana cake.’
They left the office and walked a short distance to one of the ten small houses that made up the children’s home. These houses were dotted about under the shade of large jacaranda trees from the limbs of which here and there hung a child’s swing. The lower boughs, bending under their own weight towards the ground, were clearly accustomed to being climbed upon by children, their bark scuffed here, polished there, by the limbs of young climbers. I used to climb trees, thought Mma Ramotswe. I used to climb trees and sit there for hours, watching. She smiled as the memory came back of the tree behind the school that they had all climbed until somebody fell out and broke a leg and the practice was banned. They had moved to other trees.
Mma Potokwani called out as they approached the small, well-swept veranda of the house: ‘Ko, ko! Ko, ko!’
The main door of the house was invitingly open; inside, another door slammed and the housemother emerged, a kitchen cloth in her hand. She greeted the matron respectfully before turning to Mma Ramotswe and greeting her too.
‘This is Mmamodise,’ said Mma Potokwani. ‘She is the housemother I told you about.’
Mmamodise gestured for them to go inside. ‘I have been cooking for the children,’ she said. ‘But everything is in the oven now.’
‘It smells very good,’ said Mma Ramotswe. And she suddenly remembered the sausages for Mr J. L. B. Matekoni. She must buy those on the way home.
‘The children in this house eat well,’ said Mma Potokwani with a smile. ‘They do not know how lucky they are, having one of the best cooks in Botswana as their housemother. They are all… well-built children.’
Mmamodise turned to Mma Ramotswe. ‘They are always hungry, Mma. Children, and men too, are always hungry.’
‘That is true,’ said Mma Ramotswe, looking about the room into which Mmamodise had led them. She noticed the red concrete floor, so highly polished that it shone; she noticed the yellow curtains that looked as if they had been ironed; she saw the framed portrait high on the wall (almost too high, she thought, for the children to see it), of a young President Khama with the coat of arms of Botswana, that lovely emblem with its zebra supporter, reminding one of what it meant to be part of this country they all loved so much – a country that had tried to lead a good life and, she thought, had succeeded.
The picture gave her an idea. ‘You used to work with the Molapo family, I hear, Mma,’ she began. She looked up at the picture. ‘I believe that the old man, the father of Rra Edgar, worked in the government with Seretse Khama.’
Mmamodise nodded. ‘That is so, Mma. He was a good friend of Seretse Khama. I saw him come to the house many times. They would talk and talk.’
Mma Ramotswe encouraged her. ‘I saw him too – in Mochudi. My father did not know him, but he met him once and he talked to him about cattle.’
At first, Mmamodise had nothing to add to this, but then, appearing to realise that some comment was required from her, she said, ‘Those days are in the past now, Mma.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘We live in the present day, but the past… the past is still there, I think, Mma.’ She paused. Mma Potokwani was staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. ‘You know that Rra Edgar is now late, Mma? You know that, I assume?’
Mmamodise did know that. ‘I was at the funeral, Mma. There were many, many people. He was well known throughout the country; maybe because of his father, but still well known.’
‘And now the sister is living on the farm,’ prompted Mma Ramotswe.
‘Yes, she has been there for some time. Rra Edgar built her a house. I don’t think that she liked it very much. She always said it was too hot.’
‘That might be the country, not the house.’
The two of them laughed. Mma Potokwani was still gazing at the ceiling, apparently lost in her own thoughts.
Mma Ramotswe clasped her hands together. ‘Now the farm is going to go to the nephew – to Liso.’
She watched Mmamodise as she spoke and saw immediately that what she said triggered a response. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there. A tiny electric wire, a filament, had touched a nerve and made a connection.
‘That is good,’ said Mmamodise. ‘I have not seen that boy for many years, but I remember him. He was a very good boy.’
‘He spent his holidays on the farm?’
‘Yes, he did. He was there a lot. He was very helpful with the farm work, and he used to help me, too. He was very keen on peeling potatoes. He had a penknife that he used for everything, including for peeling potatoes.’
‘So you’re pleased that he is getting the farm?’
There was a slight hesitation, so Mma Ramotswe decided to probe. ‘You feel a bit doubtful, Mma?’
Mmamodise reacted quickly and defensively. ‘I am not doubtful, Mma. He is a good boy – I told you that.’
Mma Ramotswe decided that if Mmamodise knew anything, she was not going to reveal it in the course of an informal conversation.
‘Mmamodise, I’ll tell you why I’m interested in this. It is because there is somebody – a lawyer – who thinks that Liso is not who he claims to be. She thinks he is another boy altogether.’
The effect of this showed even before Mma Ramotswe had finished speaking. Mmamodise clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh! So they know.’
Now it was Mma Ramotswe who hesitated. Let somebody think you know what you don’t know, Clovis Andersen had written. Then it will all come out. But should she apply that technique – that trick – to this good woman, this kind and conscientious housemother?
She did not have to answer her own question, as Mmamodise continued of her own accord. ‘I knew all about it, Mma. I knew because I was living in that house, and you hear things. But I never spoke to anybody about it – never.’
‘That is very good of you, Mma. But now…’
‘Now everybody is talking about it, you say.’
‘I didn’t say that, Mma. I said that a lawyer had asked me to look into it.’
Mmamodise was anguished. ‘It is not his fault. How can it be a child’s fault?’
‘It is never the child’s fault,’ said Mma Ramotswe, wondering what fault was being talked about. ‘It is always the fault of the adults.’
‘But sometimes it isn’t the mother’s fault,’ said Mmamodise.
‘No, that is true. The mother is not always to blame.’
‘She was very young.’
Mma Ramotswe wondered who: the aunt? ‘Rra Edgar’s sister?’
The answer Mmamodise gave was crucial, and it was a single word. ‘Yes.’
‘She is the mother of Liso.’
A nod of the head confirmed that. ‘When they discovered that she was pregnant,’ Mmamodise continued, ‘they sent her up to Francistown to get her as far away as possible. They did not want the child to be born on the farm.’
Mma Ramotswe thought quickly. ‘And then they sent the boy to Swaziland?’
Mmamodise shook her head. ‘No, he stayed in Botswana. He never went to Swaziland. There was a boy in Swaziland – he was the son of Rra Edgar’s brother, the one he had fought with. Nobody here ever met that boy. He was killed in the accident that killed his father, but nobody ever told Rra Edgar that. His sister kept it from him. He thought his nephew in Swaziland was still ali
ve.’
‘Of course.’
‘Later on, Rra Edgar’s sister told Rra Edgar that she had heard from the mother of that boy, their nephew, in Swaziland and he was coming to visit them. He was very pleased with that, and he was happy when a boy called Liso arrived. But it was not the son of his brother he was meeting. Although he did not know it, he was meeting the son of his sister.’
‘So where had this boy been?’
‘After the old man – the father of Rra Edgar and his sister – had sent the sister away, her little boy had been kept up north with some people the old man knew. He paid them to look after this boy, because he was so ashamed of him. He never saw his grandson – not once.’
Mma Ramotswe now felt that she understood. She imagined the situation: the old man – the one who had been in politics – discovered that his teenage daughter was pregnant. Feeling ashamed and angry, he sent her up to the north of the country to have the baby, and the baby remained there in the care of others. After the old man’s death, the daughter wanted to bring her little boy down to the farm but did not want, for whatever reason, to let her brother Edgar know that she had had a child; perhaps, once again, it was shame over the very early pregnancy. When she learned that the nephew in Swaziland, the second brother’s child and the real nephew of both siblings, had died, she saw her chance and brought her own son down from the north, passing him off as the nephew, Liso. Because Rra Edgar had never met his nephew in Swaziland, he had no reason to doubt the identity of this Liso who came to stay. As far as he was concerned, this was the son of his brother.
Mma Ramotswe looked at Mmamodise. ‘So this boy who is on the farm now – this Liso – came down to the farm because his mother was there? His real mother?’
‘Yes. And his father.’
Mma Ramotswe was silent. She knew nothing of the father, but said, ‘Of course.’
Mmamodise’s expression suddenly became one of distaste. ‘I am not saying that I approve of what happened. It was very bad. But you should not punish the boy.’
‘The father…’
‘Rra Edgar.’
Mma Ramotswe stared at her. ‘No, the father…’
‘Yes, that’s right: Rra Edgar, the father.’
Mma Ramotswe gasped. Mma Potokwani, who had stopped looking at the ceiling, was staring incredulously at the housemother.
‘His sister,’ muttered Mma Ramotswe.
‘It was very shameful,’ said Mmamodise. She frowned. ‘But you knew this, Mma. This lawyer you mentioned knows all this?’
‘We suspected something,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘I did not expect that.’
Mmamodise turned away. Her voice was trembling. ‘I am very ashamed of myself. I thought you knew. Now I have told you something that should be kept very secret, Mma. I have spoiled that.’
‘No, Mma,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘You did not do that deliberately. And I promise you, I shall not speak of this to anybody.’ She turned to Mma Potokwani. ‘And you will say the same, won’t you, Mma Potokwani?’
Mma Potokwani nodded. ‘I shall not speak of this either.’
Mmamodise seemed reassured. ‘It was a terrible thing. I know about it because I was there when it happened. I was in the house and I heard the voices and all the crying. The old man was still alive and he said that this would kill him. I think it made his death come earlier.’
‘Does the boy know?’ asked Mma Ramotswe.
‘He does not know. He thinks that his father is a man who worked on the farm and then left.’
There was another question for Mma Ramotswe to ask. ‘And Rra Edgar? He knew?’
Mmamodise shook her head. She spoke with some embarrassment now and Mma Ramotswe understood; people like Mmamodise did not like talking about such matters. And she would not press her. Why should people not have their realms of privacy and reticence?
‘When it happened, the old man did not want his son Edgar to know that he was becoming a father. It was too shameful. You see, Mma, what I heard was this: the girl confessed to her father that she had shared a blanket with the brother just once. That was all. I don’t think that Rra Edgar ever knew that the consequence of what he had done was the sister’s pregnancy. You see, Mma, I don’t think any of them could face it.’
Mma Ramotswe nodded. She noticed that Mmamodise had used the old-fashioned expression – to share a blanket. It was how people spoke of these things.
‘I see,’ she said. She knew now. It was shame, and an understandable shame at that.
They sat in silence for a while; nobody seemed to want to say anything. The disclosure had been so powerful that Mma Ramotswe and Mma Potokwani were shocked into speechlessness. And for her part, Mmamodise was wrestling with guilt over having revealed the painful secret. Mma Ramotswe could tell that, and she reached over and touched the housemother on the arm.
‘Do not be upset, Mma,’ she whispered. ‘What has happened has happened. The boy is not to blame. And now he will be getting something that will make up for it. That can happen in life, Mma, can’t it? Things start badly – very badly – and then they change for the better and those who have nothing, or who are unhappy, or who live in fear, suddenly find that these things that were bad for them have gone.’
‘It’s like rain,’ said Mma Potokwani, who had not said much but had clearly been affected by the story. ‘The rains come and they wash everything away. The dryness, the thirst, the dust on your skin – these are washed away, Mma, all washed away.’
Chapter Seventeen
The Best Woman in Botswana
W
hen he arrived in his carrycot at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency the following morning, Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti was wearing a red baby outfit with a jaunty matching cap. Charlie wriggled out from under a car to greet him.
‘I see you, my brother!’ he shouted. ‘I see you, Itumelang Cl…’ He turned to Mma Makutsi. ‘What’s the rest of it, Mma?’
‘Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti,’ said Mma Makutsi obligingly. She usually addressed Charlie with a note of irritation in her voice, but now that he was showing such attachment to her son her tone was more forgiving.
‘Itumelang Clovis Radiphuti,’ repeated Charlie, reaching out to stroke him. ‘A big, important name for a big, important young man!’
‘Don’t touch him, Charlie,’ said Mma Makutsi, pointing at his hands. ‘You’re covered in grease.’
Charlie looked down at his hands, as if he would be surprised at the suggestion of grease. ‘I have been thinking about him, Mma,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking that he could be a mechanic when he grows up. He could be my apprentice.’
Mma Makutsi’s eyes widened. ‘Your apprentice? But…’ She did not finish her sentence. She had been about to say that Charlie might not have finished his own apprenticeship in sixteen years’ time. But she decided not to.
‘Lovely boy,’ Charlie crooned, looking admiringly at the baby. ‘Who’s the most handsome baby in Gaborone – in all Botswana? You are! Yes, you!’
Mma Makutsi smiled as she went into the office to put Itumelang into his office cot. This enthusiasm for babies on Charlie’s part was most unexpected but very welcome. Of course, if it got out that Charlie was looking for a wife and was prepared to have a baby and stay, then there would be no shortage of suitable young women. Charlie might be trampled in the rush and go to the altar covered in sticking plasters where the girls had tried to grab hold of him. She smiled at the thought.
‘Something funny, Mma Makutsi?’
Mma Ramotswe was already behind her desk, the day’s newspaper spread out in front of her.
‘I was thinking of Charlie,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘He is very keen on Itumelang. I was thinking of how quickly Charlie would be snapped up if the girls heard that he was interested in marriage.’
‘Very quickly, I’d say,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘For all his faults, Charlie is a very good-looking young man. And he’s good fun to be with.’
‘Within reason,’ said Mma Makutsi.
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Once Itumelang was settled, Mma Makutsi took her place at her desk and looked over the room towards Mma Ramotswe. They had business to discuss, and they launched straight into it. Mma Ramotswe, somewhat breathlessly, told Mma Makutsi about the events of the previous day and the unexpected breakthrough in the Molapo enquiry. She was shocked, just as Mma Ramotswe and Mma Potokwani had been, but saw how the whole thing now made sense.
‘That is a dreadful story,’ she said at the end of Mma Ramotswe’s account. ‘To think that such things happen.’
‘Everything happens,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Sooner or later, just about everything happens.’